their mothers.
Jacob had no interest in mercy; neither in its dispensing nor its receiving. He was set against the sentimental
world as any pure force must be, entertaining neither kindness nor cruelty in his dealings. He scorned the
comfort of prayer, and the distractions of fancy; he mocked grief, he mocked hope. He mocked despair also.
The only quality he revered was patience, bought with the knowledge that all things pass. The sun would drop
out of sight soon enough, and the weakness in his limbs melt into strength. All he had to do was wait.
From inside, the sound of motion. And then, Rosa's sighing voice: 'I've been remembering,' she said.
'You have not,' he told her. Sometimes the pains of this hour made her delirious.
'I have. I swear,' she said. 'An island comes to mind. Do you remember an island? With wide, white shores? No
trees. I've looked for trees and there are none. Oh...' Her words became groans again, and the groans turned
into sobs. 'Oh, I would die now, gladly.'
'No, you wouldn't.'
'Come and comfort me.'
'I have no wish-'
'You must, Jacob. Oh ... oh, Lord in heaven ... why do we suffer so?'
Much as he wanted to stay out of her range, her sobs were too poignant to be ignored. He turned his back on the
dying day, and strode down the corridor to the Courtroom itself. Mrs McGee was lying on the ground in the
midst of her veils. She had lit a host of candles around her, as though their light might ameliorate the cruelty of
the hour.
'Lie with me,' she said, looking up at him.
'It will do us no good.'
'We may get a child.'
'And that will do us no good, either,' he replied, 'as well you know.'
'Then lie with me for the comfort of it,' she said, her gaze fond. 'It is such agony to be separated from you,
Jacob.'
'I'm here,' he said, curbing his former harshness.
'Not close enough,' she said with a tiny smile.
He walked towards her. Stood at her feet.
'Still ... not close enough,' she said to him. 'I feel so weak, Jacob.'
'It will pass. You know it will.'
'At times like this I know nothing,' she said, 'except how much I need you.' She reached down and plucked at
her skirt, watching his face all the while. 'With me,' she murmured. 'In me.'
He made no reply. 'Are you too weak, Jacob?' she said, still pulling up her skirt. 'Is the mystery too much for
you?'
'It's no mystery,' he replied. 'Not after all these years.'
Now she smiled, and tugged the skirt to the middle of her thighs. She had fine legs; solid, meaty legs, her skin
pearly in the candlelight. Sighing, she slipped her hand beneath her dress, and fingered herself, her hips rising to
meet her touch.
'It's deep, love,' she said. 'And dark. And all wet for you.' She pulled her skirt up to her waist. 'Look,' she said.
She had spread herself, to give him a look at her. 'Don't tell me that isn't a pretty thing. A perfect little cunny,
that.' Her gaze went from his face to his groin. 'And you like the look of it, and don't you pretend you don't.'
She was right, of course. As soon as she'd started to raise her skirt his dunderheaded member had started to
swell, demanding its due. As if his limbs weren't weak enough, without having to lose blood to its ambition.
'I'm tight, Mr Steep.'
'I'm sure you are.'
'Like a virgin on her wedding night I am. Look, I can barely fit my littlest finger in there. You'll have to do me
some violence, I suspect.'
She knew what effect this kind of talk had upon him. A little shudder of anticipation passed through him, and he
proceeded to take off his coat.
'Unbutton yourself,' Mrs McGee said, her voice bruised. 'Let me see what you have there.'
He cast his coat away and fumbled with the buttons of his mud-spattered trousers. She watched him, smiling, as
he brought his member out.
'Oh now look at that,' she said, not unappreciatively. 'I think it wants a dip in my cunny.'
'It wants more than a dip.'
'Does it indeed?'
He knelt between her legs, and, reaching out, removed her hand from her
Jacob had no interest in mercy; neither in its dispensing nor its receiving. He was set against the sentimental
world as any pure force must be, entertaining neither kindness nor cruelty in his dealings. He scorned the
comfort of prayer, and the distractions of fancy; he mocked grief, he mocked hope. He mocked despair also.
The only quality he revered was patience, bought with the knowledge that all things pass. The sun would drop
out of sight soon enough, and the weakness in his limbs melt into strength. All he had to do was wait.
From inside, the sound of motion. And then, Rosa's sighing voice: 'I've been remembering,' she said.
'You have not,' he told her. Sometimes the pains of this hour made her delirious.
'I have. I swear,' she said. 'An island comes to mind. Do you remember an island? With wide, white shores? No
trees. I've looked for trees and there are none. Oh...' Her words became groans again, and the groans turned
into sobs. 'Oh, I would die now, gladly.'
'No, you wouldn't.'
'Come and comfort me.'
'I have no wish-'
'You must, Jacob. Oh ... oh, Lord in heaven ... why do we suffer so?'
Much as he wanted to stay out of her range, her sobs were too poignant to be ignored. He turned his back on the
dying day, and strode down the corridor to the Courtroom itself. Mrs McGee was lying on the ground in the
midst of her veils. She had lit a host of candles around her, as though their light might ameliorate the cruelty of
the hour.
'Lie with me,' she said, looking up at him.
'It will do us no good.'
'We may get a child.'
'And that will do us no good, either,' he replied, 'as well you know.'
'Then lie with me for the comfort of it,' she said, her gaze fond. 'It is such agony to be separated from you,
Jacob.'
'I'm here,' he said, curbing his former harshness.
'Not close enough,' she said with a tiny smile.
He walked towards her. Stood at her feet.
'Still ... not close enough,' she said to him. 'I feel so weak, Jacob.'
'It will pass. You know it will.'
'At times like this I know nothing,' she said, 'except how much I need you.' She reached down and plucked at
her skirt, watching his face all the while. 'With me,' she murmured. 'In me.'
He made no reply. 'Are you too weak, Jacob?' she said, still pulling up her skirt. 'Is the mystery too much for
you?'
'It's no mystery,' he replied. 'Not after all these years.'
Now she smiled, and tugged the skirt to the middle of her thighs. She had fine legs; solid, meaty legs, her skin
pearly in the candlelight. Sighing, she slipped her hand beneath her dress, and fingered herself, her hips rising to
meet her touch.
'It's deep, love,' she said. 'And dark. And all wet for you.' She pulled her skirt up to her waist. 'Look,' she said.
She had spread herself, to give him a look at her. 'Don't tell me that isn't a pretty thing. A perfect little cunny,
that.' Her gaze went from his face to his groin. 'And you like the look of it, and don't you pretend you don't.'
She was right, of course. As soon as she'd started to raise her skirt his dunderheaded member had started to
swell, demanding its due. As if his limbs weren't weak enough, without having to lose blood to its ambition.
'I'm tight, Mr Steep.'
'I'm sure you are.'
'Like a virgin on her wedding night I am. Look, I can barely fit my littlest finger in there. You'll have to do me
some violence, I suspect.'
She knew what effect this kind of talk had upon him. A little shudder of anticipation passed through him, and he
proceeded to take off his coat.
'Unbutton yourself,' Mrs McGee said, her voice bruised. 'Let me see what you have there.'
He cast his coat away and fumbled with the buttons of his mud-spattered trousers. She watched him, smiling, as
he brought his member out.
'Oh now look at that,' she said, not unappreciatively. 'I think it wants a dip in my cunny.'
'It wants more than a dip.'
'Does it indeed?'
He knelt between her legs, and, reaching out, removed her hand from her
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