about?’
‘Nothing,’ said Poll.
‘It’s not nothing. Why so guilty? What are you afraid of?’
‘Not you, anyway.’
‘Then tell me, wool-for-brains.’
‘You deserve to be told.’ Poll looked away at the sleeping Sister Wray, still snoring like a two-year-old. A pause. Making up her mind. Then Poll looked back at Cale with all the kindness, it seemed to the boy, in the eyes of a weasel he had once come across while it was eating a rabbit. It had raised its head and looked at him for a moment, utterly indifferent, and then gone back to its meal.
‘I heard her talking to the Director when she thought I was asleep.’
‘I thought you two knew everything about each other – little heart-pals.’
‘You don’t see anything about the two of us. You think you do but you don’t.’
‘Get on with it. I can feel my left leg going to sleep.’
‘You asked for it.’
‘Now I can feel my other leg wants forty winks.’
‘Soul murder is the worst thing that can happen to you.’
‘Worse than death? Worse than five hours dying with your giblets hanging out of your tum? Your liver dribbling out of your bread basket?’ Cale was laying it on thick but not thicker than it was.
‘Soul murder,’ said Poll, ‘is living death.’
‘Get on with it, I’ve got fish to fry.’
But the truth was he didn’t much like the sound of it, nor, even if Poll did have wool between the ears, the look in her eyes.
‘Soul murder is what happens to children who take more than forty blows to the heart.’
‘Do blows to the head count? Never had one to the heart.’
‘They killed your joy – that’s what she said.’
‘You wouldn’t be lying at all? I was wrong about the wool – that nasty tongue of yours sounds like it’s made from the arse hairs of a sheep-shagger – most likely I should think that was a considerable possibility.’
‘I don’t think your joy is dead.’
‘I don’t care what you think.’
‘Your joy is all in laying waste to things – blight and desolation is what makes your soul glad.’
‘That’s a bloody lie – you were here when I told Wray …’
‘
Sister
Wray!’
‘… when I told her about the girl I saved in the Sanctuary. I didn’t even know her.’
‘And you’ve regretted it ever since.’
‘I was joking.’
‘Nobody’s laughing – nobody does when you’re around, not for long.’
‘I got rid of Kevin Meatyard.’
‘Says you.’
‘I saved Arbell Materazzi.’
‘It wasn’t your soul doing the thinking, was it? It was your prick.’
‘And I saved her brother.’
‘That’s true,’ said Poll. ‘I agree that you did good there.’
‘So you’re wrong – you said it yourself,’ said Cale suspiciously.
‘I didn’t say your heart was dead, lots of soul-dead people have a heart, a good heart. I bet you were a lovely little boy. I bet you would have grown up a real goody-goody. But the Redeemers got you and murdered your soul and that was that. Not everybody can be saved. Some wounds go too deep’
‘Drop dead.’ He was rattled.
‘It’s not your fault,’ said a delighted Poll. ‘You can’t helpyourself. You weren’t born bad but you’re bad all the same. Nothing can be done. Poor Cale. Nothing can be done.’
‘That’s not what
she
believes,’ he said, looking at Sister Wray.
‘Yes, it is.’
‘She never said that.’
‘She didn’t have to. I know what she thinks even before she thinks it. You’re going to make her suffer, aren’t you?’
‘Sister Wray?’
‘Not Sister Wray, you idiot – that treacherous slut you’re always whingeing about.’
‘I never hurt her.’
‘Not yet, you haven’t. But you will. And when you cross that river we’re all going to suffer – because once she’s dead there’ll be nothing to stop you. You know the river I’m talking about, don’t you?’
‘There’s that buzzing sound in my ears again.’
‘It’s the river of no return – THE WATERS OF DEATH – and over that
‘Nothing,’ said Poll.
‘It’s not nothing. Why so guilty? What are you afraid of?’
‘Not you, anyway.’
‘Then tell me, wool-for-brains.’
‘You deserve to be told.’ Poll looked away at the sleeping Sister Wray, still snoring like a two-year-old. A pause. Making up her mind. Then Poll looked back at Cale with all the kindness, it seemed to the boy, in the eyes of a weasel he had once come across while it was eating a rabbit. It had raised its head and looked at him for a moment, utterly indifferent, and then gone back to its meal.
‘I heard her talking to the Director when she thought I was asleep.’
‘I thought you two knew everything about each other – little heart-pals.’
‘You don’t see anything about the two of us. You think you do but you don’t.’
‘Get on with it. I can feel my left leg going to sleep.’
‘You asked for it.’
‘Now I can feel my other leg wants forty winks.’
‘Soul murder is the worst thing that can happen to you.’
‘Worse than death? Worse than five hours dying with your giblets hanging out of your tum? Your liver dribbling out of your bread basket?’ Cale was laying it on thick but not thicker than it was.
‘Soul murder,’ said Poll, ‘is living death.’
‘Get on with it, I’ve got fish to fry.’
But the truth was he didn’t much like the sound of it, nor, even if Poll did have wool between the ears, the look in her eyes.
‘Soul murder is what happens to children who take more than forty blows to the heart.’
‘Do blows to the head count? Never had one to the heart.’
‘They killed your joy – that’s what she said.’
‘You wouldn’t be lying at all? I was wrong about the wool – that nasty tongue of yours sounds like it’s made from the arse hairs of a sheep-shagger – most likely I should think that was a considerable possibility.’
‘I don’t think your joy is dead.’
‘I don’t care what you think.’
‘Your joy is all in laying waste to things – blight and desolation is what makes your soul glad.’
‘That’s a bloody lie – you were here when I told Wray …’
‘
Sister
Wray!’
‘… when I told her about the girl I saved in the Sanctuary. I didn’t even know her.’
‘And you’ve regretted it ever since.’
‘I was joking.’
‘Nobody’s laughing – nobody does when you’re around, not for long.’
‘I got rid of Kevin Meatyard.’
‘Says you.’
‘I saved Arbell Materazzi.’
‘It wasn’t your soul doing the thinking, was it? It was your prick.’
‘And I saved her brother.’
‘That’s true,’ said Poll. ‘I agree that you did good there.’
‘So you’re wrong – you said it yourself,’ said Cale suspiciously.
‘I didn’t say your heart was dead, lots of soul-dead people have a heart, a good heart. I bet you were a lovely little boy. I bet you would have grown up a real goody-goody. But the Redeemers got you and murdered your soul and that was that. Not everybody can be saved. Some wounds go too deep’
‘Drop dead.’ He was rattled.
‘It’s not your fault,’ said a delighted Poll. ‘You can’t helpyourself. You weren’t born bad but you’re bad all the same. Nothing can be done. Poor Cale. Nothing can be done.’
‘That’s not what
she
believes,’ he said, looking at Sister Wray.
‘Yes, it is.’
‘She never said that.’
‘She didn’t have to. I know what she thinks even before she thinks it. You’re going to make her suffer, aren’t you?’
‘Sister Wray?’
‘Not Sister Wray, you idiot – that treacherous slut you’re always whingeing about.’
‘I never hurt her.’
‘Not yet, you haven’t. But you will. And when you cross that river we’re all going to suffer – because once she’s dead there’ll be nothing to stop you. You know the river I’m talking about, don’t you?’
‘There’s that buzzing sound in my ears again.’
‘It’s the river of no return – THE WATERS OF DEATH – and over that
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