The Beating of His Wings by Paul Hoffman

their sessions began at the same time every day. Poll was on Sister Wray’s lap but leaning all the way back on the arm of the chair and drooping over the side to signal her utter boredom and indifference to Cale’s presence.
    ‘He helped me in the desert and in Memphis when we were in prison.’
    ‘In what way?’
    ‘He told me how things were. He told me not to trust him or anybody else – not because people are liars, though a lot of them are, but because their interests are not your interests, and that to expect other people not to put what matters to them ahead of what matters to you is stupid.’
    ‘Some people would say that was cynical.’
    ‘I don’t know what cynical means.’
    ‘It means believing others are motivated only by self-interest.’
    Cale thought about this for a moment. ‘Yes,’ he said at last.
    ‘Yes, what?’
    ‘Yes, I understand what cynical means.’
    ‘Now you’re just trying to provoke me.’
    ‘No, I’m not. IdrisPukke warned me when he didn’t have to that I should remember that sometimes what mattered to me and what mattered to him would be different and that even if he might bend a little in my favour other peoplemostly wouldn’t – when push came to shove they’d be forced to choose what was best for them. And only the biggest dunce would believe that other people should put you ahead of themselves.’
    ‘So, no one sacrifices their own interests for others?’
    ‘The Redeemers do. But if that’s self-sacrifice you can shove it up your arse.’
    Poll slowly raised her head from behind the sofa, looked at him then collapsed backwards with a groan of contempt as if the effort had been utterly worthless.
    ‘And yet you’re very angry with Arbell Materazzi. You think she betrayed you.’
    ‘She did betray me.’
    ‘But wasn’t she just consulting her own interest? Aren’t you being a hypocrite for hating her?’
    ‘What’s a hypocrite?’
    ‘Someone who criticizes other people for the same kind of things they do themselves.’
    ‘It’s not the same.’
    ‘Yes, it is,’ said Poll from behind the arm of the chair.
    ‘Be quiet, Poll.’
    ‘No, it isn’t the same,’ he said, looking straight at Sister Wray. ‘Twice I saved her life, the first time against all reason or odds – and nearly died for it.’
    ‘Did she ask you to?’
    ‘I don’t remember her asking to be thrown back – which is what I should’ve done.’
    ‘But isn’t love putting the other person first, no matter what?’
    ‘That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard. Why would anyone do that?’
    ‘He’s right,’ said Poll, still with her head obscured by the arm of the chair.
    ‘I won’t tell you again,’ said Sister Wray.
    ‘Laugh if you like – I was ready to die for her.’
    ‘I’m not laughing.’
    ‘I am,’ said Poll.
    ‘She told me she loved me. I didn’t make her do it. She told me and made me think it was true. She didn’t have to but she did. Then she sold me to Bosco to save her own skin.’
    ‘And the rest of Memphis – her father, everyone? What do you think she should have done?’
    ‘She should have known I would have found a way. She should have done what she did and then thrown herself into the sea. She should have said that nothing on earth, not the whole world, could make her hand over someone she loved to be burnt alive. Though before they’d set fire to me they’d have cut my balls off and cooked them in front of me. You think I’m making that up?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Whatever she did it should have been impossible to bear. But she put up with it well enough.’
    There was a long silence in which Sister Wray, experienced as she was in the anger of the mad, wondered why the very walls of the room did not catch fire so dazzling was his rage. The silence went on – she was no fool and it was Cale who ended it.
    ‘Why do you have a coffin in your bedroom?’
    ‘May I ask how you know?’
    ‘Me? I’ve got eyes in the front of my head.’
    ‘Would