When a devil has your body he knots it, makes ropes, pulls it together, ties it up, braids it, circles you, makes you strangle yourself with your own neck muscles, cut yourself with your own tissues, burst your own organs apart.
The muscles are the devil's ropes. The Christians don't know that, but it's true.
She made him lie on the mattress on the floor in the middle of the circle of candles.
Rain was falling on the roof, ever so gently. She warmed coconut oil. He lay on his stomach on his erection. When she returned with the oil he tried to kiss her but she pushed him away. Not yet. He was grasping and his eyes still showed a dulled, ash-covered sort of anger, like the snakes you find, still alive, in the forest after fire.
Honey Barbara scented the coconut oil with a few drops of lemon.
She wished she had real words for a ritual, but she had only her hands. She sat beside him, both of them naked, and rubbed some warm oil into his back. Then she set to rattle-out the devil. She put the palm of her hand on his spine and hammered up and down. She knuckle rapped, bang, bang, bang, along his spine, and then she used the edges of her hands to hack up and down. A drum-roll. She broke up the words that came from his mouth and let them float away.
She pressed into the skin of his back with thumb and fore-finger and gently squeezed the flesh together. Then released it. A hundred small pinches in a light pattern over his back and the back of his legs.
When she turned him over he looked a little better.
She fast-stroked his knees, drained his thighs, her lips pressed determinedly together and Harry Joy exuded, like one giving up evil spirits, a gentle sigh.
She stretched his neck, and lifted his head. A beatific smile came over his face.
She lifted his arms and felt them – loose muscles.
She circled his nipple with her tongue. She rolled him over and ran that pink wet tongue along his spine, down the skin and bit him, gently, on the back of the knee. She brushed his back with her small firm breasts.
And then, kissed him.
And then, in one smooth acrobatic motion that seemed to take ten slow, oiled, minutes to achieve, like two snakes entwining, she took his penis into her and smiled as he shut his eyes and gasped softly. She nestled her lips into his ear as he entered her (lips into a shell, lips into a rose), and as the slow long strokes began she talked her spell.
The rain was on the roof.
She told him it was another roof, not this roof, Harry, my roof at home, the rain is much louder, really loud, you're with me, and there is plenty of dry wood and you can hear the creek, Harry, and the goats are in their shed and they're very quiet and the big tallow woods up the hill are bending in the wind and if you have your arms around them you can feel their power, and even the old carpet snake has stopped hunting for hen eggs, Harry I love you, and you're really happy.
'I love you,' she moaned, 'I don't know why I love you but when I take you home they'll think I'm crazy. Will you come home with me?'
'Yes,' he said, 'Oh yes, yes, yes.'
The words came in waves ( 'And be my lover, Harry' ) like rain ( 'Yes, yes, yes' ) and he was where she said he was, far away, in a tin-roofed hut with candles flickering in their safe magic circle and up the hill the tallow woods bent in the southerly wind and the water ran down to the creek which would show itself a clay yellow tomorrow and the hens and the goats and perhaps even the carpet snake lay still and in the morning the trees would glisten clean in the morning sun and the steam would rise off Bog Onion Road.
For the rest of his life he would remember the night when Honey Barbara drove out his devil. Then he thought it was gone for good and she was the rain on the roof, the trees he had never seen, the river he had never tasted.
Later, washed by candle light, she said, 'Now we can drink wine.'
They sat on the mattress. She put on the white silk gown she had bought in the Op Shop. It was embroidered with two large golden flowers and one small bee. She had bought it because of the bee, which was executed in the most faithful detail.
They sniffed their Cheval Blanc and entwined their legs together.
'Will you really come home with me when we get out?'
'Of course,' he said.
'Why?'
'I love you. I've missed you. I've got nowhere else to go.'
'When do you get the money?'
'Tomorrow.'
'On your credit card?'
'She won't take credit cards. She wants cash.'
'Have you got that much cash?'
'My wife's bringing it.'
He felt her stiffen.
'Does that upset you?'
'No,' she said, 'that's fine.'
But when he looked at her she was frowning.
'It's alright,' he said, 'really.'
'What does she want?'
'Nothing.'
'Did you tell her about me?'
'Yes.'
'What did she say?'
'Nothing. She's bringing the money.'
'And she knows about me?'
'Yes,' he kissed her ear. 'Yes, yes, yes.'
He was shocked to see Bettina: her face was puffy, her cheeks collapsed, her eyes rimmed, her skin a bad colour. When they kissed, her lips were tight and hard. A peck, quite literally. She smelt of stale tobacco.
'Christ,' she said, 'you look terrible.'
And it was true that he had a scab above his eyes and pimples on his nose and that there was, in his eyes, a quiet glow of anger that had not been properly extinguished by Honey Barbara's magic, and was lying there, waiting for the first little touch of wind to set it sparking again.
Yet he felt wonderful. All night long he had stayed awake, tossing and turning with the sheer excitement of his life, re-living his fight with Nurse, the rain on Honey Barbara's roof, the future on Bog Onion Road. He was a child on the day before school holidays begin.
They sat in the small sunless room in the building called 'The Foyer,' although it was a detached building and used for nothing but admissions.
'Well,' she said.
'Well,' he said.
She wore black: a jacket, skirt. She had always distrusted pretty colours although they suited her very well. In black she could look at once severe and beautiful, but today she merely looked severe and unattractive and if you'd seen her in the street you might have thought her newly widowed.
She sat on an ugly red chair and fidgeted with her hands. He sat opposite on a couch upholstered so tightly it had no inclination to receive his body.
I don't apologize for what I did,' she said, 'so don't try and punish me.'
He hadn't expected this tone. On the telephone she had been different.
'I wasn't trying to punish you.'
She pointed a finger. 'Not silently, not in words, not with distance, not any way. I won't be punished. Do you understand me?'
'Yes,' he said nastily. 'I understand you, Bettina. I won't punish you.' He imagined, vividly, slapping her hard across the face.
'And not that either.'
