Carn by Patrick McCabe Page B

blame and anger within her eased and she felt nothing as she repeated the words again and again. After
spilling clay on the little hands and the little toes, there was nothing more to lose.

    The clock ticked on the mantelpiece. Inky clouds drifted desultorily across the anaemic face of the moon. Josie waited until the second gentle tap came before she got up. The
man in the doorway looked about him uneasily, clutching his cap. She did not speak, and when he did, terrified by the silence, the words blurted out of him. “I heard . . . a man you know told
me . . .”
    Josie smiled and said, “Come in.”
    She took his cap from him and led him inside. She poured a drink and handed it to him.
    “You’re very quiet,” she said to him. The glass was unsteady in his hand.
    “So you heard about me?”
    She moved closer to him. “You’re shy,” she said in a soft voice.
    The man nodded and turned away.
    “Oh now, don’t be like that.”
    She put her arms around his neck and kissed him on the nose. He reddened and she laughed. His fingers strayed on his cheek.
    “What do you think of my house?” she said, in a deeper huskier voice.
    “It’s . . . it’s a fine wee place . . .”
    “And my wallpaper? Do you like that? I put it up all by myself.” She looked deep into his eyes. “All by my little self. And the pictures. Look—Venice By Night.
Venice—what would the likes of us know about Venice?”
    She laughed mockingly and he sighed with relief. Josie went on, “We’d look well rowing up the river in one of them gon-doh-lahs, eh? Look, here’s a picture more in our line.
The Sacred Heart. Names here for all the family and a big space at the top for mammy and daddy. That’d be more for us now and never mind them swanky foreign places. Eh?”
    She stared at him. He frowned and his eyes fell. Then all he could see were the red shadows of the Sacred Heart lamp as she breathed on his cheek. For a long time Josie did nothing, just stood
there stroking the side of his face with her long red fingernail. His lips tightened, he tried to fight it off but each stroke whittled away his resistance. He wanted to collapse before her power.
There was nothing he could do to stop her when she began removing his clothes, prolonging each movement as if to torment him. She ran her tongue along her bottom lip. The red shadows floated around
her. He stood in the centre of the room like a pale sheared sheep. Josie stood back from him and stared. He whimpered. She stroked his shoulders gently, kneading the flesh. He began to cry.
    “If my wife . . . you wouldn’t tell? Would you?”
    “Ssh.” Josie put a finger to her lips.
    She led him into the bedroom. She lay him on the bed and stood over him. The sound of her breathing filled the room. She began to remove her own clothing. Her dress swished to the floor. Her
breasts fell. She straddled his body and began to massage the parchment of his back. Small quivers ran down his spine. She bent down and whispered into his ear. “What’s your name? Mmm?
Have you got a little name for me?”
    “Pat,” he stammered. “It’s Pat . . . Pat Lacey—for the love of God tell no one . . .”
    “I knew I’d seen you before. I saw you in the paper.”
    She ran her soothing fingers through his hair, occasionally giving it sharp little tugs. She could feel his heartbeart racing.
    “Is this what he told you about? This is what you expected—isn’t it?”
    “For the love of God, don’t breathe a word to anyone, I’ll pay you anything you want . . .”
    She saw the tears trickling from his eyes.
    “I’m sorry—I don’t mean to be like this.”
    He took out a handkerchief and wiped them. She ran her fingers through his hair.
    “I’m not a bad man, Josie,” he said. “I try to fight it. I know it’s wrong. I have everything. A good family, a lovely daughter. There’s nothing I want for.
There’s people in this town would die for me. But it isn’t like they think it is.