Sin by Josephine Hart Page B

you can?”
    â€œI intend to try,” he said firmly.
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œI have surprised, in myself, a desire—”
    â€œIndeed.”
    â€œA desire to do what is right. However hard.”
    â€œâ€˜A passion for what is difficult.’”
    â€œPerhaps.”
    I won’t accept this. Don’t say that. Stay calm.
    â€œCharles, you’re my only chance of … goodness.”
    â€œRuth!”
    â€œYes. I’ve never betrayed you.”
    â€œTo Elizabeth?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œYou would never do that.”
    An order. Obey it.
    â€œOf course not.”
    Watch carefully. Search for … a degree of weakness. In his resolution.
    â€œCharles. Within our world I have tried … I think I have been … true.”
    True to what? To what we’ve done. True to you. True to the things you hide.
    He looked away. I knew his secret soul. It hid in his body. What would he do when he must kill it? Could he? He is dangerous, to me. He is strong. He may kill it. A death for me. A gift to Elizabeth. Another. Why not? No, I will triumph, in this. I must. Consider tears. No, liquid lies. He’d lacerate me.
    He turned back to me.
    â€œDominick. Has he decided against the studio?”
    â€œYes. We were going to use it as a study for me. But it’s unnecessary. I can easily work at home.”
    Try for normality, Ruth. Delay him.
    â€œWork? At what?”
    â€œI’m going to prepare an anthology … Rejections.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œOh, I’ll research rejections great authors have suffered. An interesting idea, don’t you think?”
    â€œGood title.”
    â€œYes. Excellent.”
    He smiles a little. Good. Good, Ruth.
    â€œAnd Dominick?”
    â€œDominick is … content.”
    â€œI think he knows.”
    â€œKnows? No, Charles.”
    â€œBut something in the way he looks at me.”
    No. No knowledge. Of you, Charles.
    He is relaxing. He knows it. He wants to say fatal words. Stop him. He must steel himself. To mean them. Stop him.
    â€œI have … a rage, Charles.”
    â€œA rage?”
    â€œI rage for you.”
    And the fire jumped suddenly between us. He was engulfed. I fanned the fire with hair and breasts and thighs. And then rolled him, shuddering, into quiet darkness.
    And when it was over, there was anger. His awful anger. A different rage. Internal. Against himself. Then against me. I saw it in his eyes. In the bitter mouth. He moved, older looking somehow, towards the door.
    He started to speak. But did not turn round.
    â€œThere is only one way, Ruth. I won’t ever be alone with you again. Ever. If the chance occurs, I will walk out immediately. I must. You are …”
    He passed his hand across his mouth. To stop the words.
    â€œAn occasion of sin?”
    The hand fell away. Became a fist.
    â€œI will do this, Ruth. I will do this.”
    Damn you! Damn you, Charles! Don’t say anything, Ruth.
    You’re going to try. Aren’t you? I can see that now. But I won’t help you. Not at all. I won’t help you. I will try to undermine you in every way. And remember. I am here. Waiting. Watching. Always ready.
    He leaned against the door. He was so large … he covered it. As he so abundantly covered me. Oh, God. Then he was gone.
    Silently, I screamed around the room. Dominick’s room. I brushed against the globe. Spherical, completed, stomach-like thing … and beat my own stomach. Onto the warm honey of my skin came a darker mark—a blueness. Cold colour. I started to shiver. To feel the cold. I wound a woollen shawl of red around me. Blood-coloured. To warm me. I paced for hours round my prison. Then I remembered some pact that still existed, with a reality I had created. And, I feared, had to maintain.
    I went to the bathroom to prepare for my husband’s return.
    That night and the next morning I gave no sign.
    Appearance—a