A Terrible Beauty

scalpel from his instrument case and incised a vertical line down the front of her thigh to join the two together. This time, she felt the point sliding all the way down her bone, and she screamed so long and so loud that he stopped for a moment and watched her with a patient frown until she had finished.

'Are you all right?' he asked her. 'This won't take very long, I promise.'

'I can't-you can't-I can't bear it, I can't bear it.'

'I can stop if you like. Only for a while, though. The bones have to be stripped before the light of day.'

'Please, please, I can't bear it anymore, please.'

'I'm sorry?why don't you try to think of something else?'

'I can't take any more! I can't take any more!'

She threw her head back on the bedsprings and hit it again and again, screaming and weeping, as if she wanted to knock herself unconscious. He stood with his scalpel in his hand, the ruby-colored blood congealing on the blade, and frowned at her as if she were nothing more than a toddler who was throwing a tantrum.

At last she stopped screaming and banging her head, and lay back with her eyes rolling wildly from side to side, breathing in high, harsh yelps.

He bent over her again, and continued to cut the rectus femoris muscle all the way down to the knee. Then he laid down his scalpel, and with the thumbs of both hands, spread the incision wide apart, until the bone was visible. The flesh glistened in the bright light of the Anglepoise lamp, as scarlet as freshly butchered beef.

'There,' he said, 'the very substance of you, coming to light.'

He picked up a small boning knife, and carefully began to cut the flesh away from the femur. Fiona lay still now, her face gray, her hands gripping the bed head, her whole body totally rigid and glistening with sweat. Apart from the scrunging of the bedsprings, all she could hear was the sound of wet flesh, like somebody quietly and persistently licking their lips.

She passed beyond agony into a place where she could see nothing but blinding whiteness and feel nothing but utter cold. The North Pole of pain. And still he worried the flesh away from the bone, scraping it meticulously clean.

After a quarter of an hour he gave a last scrape, and eased away the muscle of her entire upper leg, in one bloody piece, like a plumber easing the pink foam lagging off a hot-water pipe. He wiped his forehead with the back of his shirtsleeve, and then he carried the flesh into the kitchen and flopped it into the sink. He rinsed his hands and dried them on a ragged tea towel, and then he leaned his head under the faucet and took a long, noisy drink.

When he returned to the bedroom, Fiona was unconscious. Better that way, he thought to himself. The next part was taking the flesh off the knee, and that was especially agonizing.

He held out both hands, palm upward, and then he turned them over. Not a tremble. He picked up the boning knife again, and went to work.

15

Katie was woken up by the sound of the front door slamming and somebody falling heavily against the coat stand in the hall. Then she heard Sergeant barking, and a voice saying, 'Shush, shush, you maniac.'

'Paul?' she called, sitting up in bed.

'Sawrigh,' Paul blurted back. 'Everything sawrigh.'

She swung her legs out of bed and found her bed jacket on the back of the chair. 'Paul, what the hell's going on down there? Are you drunk?'

'Don't come down,' he told her, in a clogged up voice. 'I'll stay down here for tonight. Just don't come down.'

She switched on the landing light and went down the stairs. Sergeant was running in and out of the living room door, panting excitedly. She went into the living room and switched on the chandeliers. Paul was lying facedown on the sofa, one arm dangling on the floor. His navy-blue coat was split all the way up the back, revealing the torn white lining. One of his loafers was missing and his curly hair was matted with blood.

'Holy Mother of God,' said Katie, and knelt down beside him.

He opened one eye and blinked at her. There was a deep semicircular cut around his eyebrow that was already crusted with dried blood, and his cheekbones were crimson.

'What happened to you, Paul? Let me look at you.'

'Sawrigh. Everything's grand.'

'Paul, for Christ's sake look at the state of you! What's happened?'

He lifted his head and it was only then that she could see how badly he was hurt. Both nostrils were clotted with blood and it looked as if his nose had been broken. His lips were swollen and split, and he was obviously missing some teeth. A long string of bloody saliva connected his mouth to the cushion.

'Who did this to you, Paul? Was it Dave MacSweeny?'

'It doesn't matter, pet. I just need some shlee, that's all. Some shleep.'

'Paul, I want to know who attacked you.'

'Forget it. You'll only make a bother. The only female detective superintendent in Ireland ?she can't have anyone beating up her husband, now can she?'

'Sit up, Paul. Let me take a good look at you. You'll be after needing a doctor. Look at that cut. That's going to take stitches.'

'Will you stop-fussing,for Christ's sake. It's only a couple of knocks. My father used to beat me up much worse than this when I was a kid.'