The King
Page 31
“I joined La Legion.”
“I never considered you the military type. Although in retrospect, I should have. You were certainly good at taking orders.”
“My commanding officers had nothing on you. You should have been in the army.”
“And follow in my father’s footsteps? No, thank you.” Søren’s voice was cold and bitter. “Why did you join the military?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it was the next best thing to suicide.” Kingsley laughed, although he wasn’t joking. “Anyway, it was good not to have to think for myself for a while. I needed that.”
“Believe it or not, I understand,” Søren said. “The discipline of a religious order has the same comfort of routine. My own thoughts scared me after everything happened, after you were gone. It was better to let someone else direct my existence for a few years.”
“I was too good at taking orders. And too good at hitting targets. And too good at speaking English without an accent. Someone in the government thought I’d be more useful working in a less official capacity.”
“What did you do?” Søren’s voice was even and calm, but Kingsley heard the smallest note of suspicion hiding under the surface of the words.
“Everything they ordered me to. I hunted who they told me to hunt. Spied on who they told me to spy on. Killed who they told me to kill. And then someone caught me. I was a prisoner for a month. See? I still have scars from the shackles.”
He held up his wrists. Two matching swaths of scar tissue marred the skin on the sides of his wrists. They rubbed against the bone, the shackles had. Like a trapped wolf, he’d wanted to gnaw off his own hands.
“I was a prisoner,” he continued. “I was tortured. And...”
“And what?” Søren’s voice was gentle now, probing, but not demanding.
“It wasn’t just torture.”
He gazed up at Søren and met his eyes for one second before lowering them again in humiliation.
“Oh, God, Kingsley.”
“I was unconscious,” Kingsley said. “I guess you’d call it a blessing that I don’t remember it happening. I only remember waking up and knowing it had happened.”
“Kingsley...”
Kingsley raised his hands to his face, pressed his palms against his eyes. He couldn’t bear to hear the pity and the sorrow in Søren’s voice.
“It’s funny.” Kingsley’s eyes burned. He wanted to blame the chlorine. “I loved Lawrence of Arabia as a boy. He was my hero. I read all the books I could about him. Now I can say Lawrence of Arabia and I have something in common.”
“Two things in common.”
“Two?”
“T. E. Lawrence loved a good flogging.”
Kingsley opened his eyes but couldn’t look at Søren.
“Is he dead?” Søren asked as Kingsley watched the water. “The man who hurt you?”
“Very dead,” Kingsley said.
“Good.”
“Good? Aren’t you supposed to love your enemies?”
“Put me alone in a room with him, and I could conveniently forget that command.”
“He’s in hell now,” Kingsley said. “Then again, so am I.”
Søren took a long deep breath. Meanwhile Kingsley considered falling asleep. Falling asleep and never waking up. The dead don’t dream.
“Can I touch you?” Søren finally asked.
“Toujours,” Kingsley said, laughing again. Always.
Søren reached out and cupped the side of his face. Water ran down Kingsley’s cheek. He hoped it was water from the pool and nothing more.
“It shouldn’t have happened to you. You didn’t deserve it.”
Kingsley smiled. “You’re good at this. They should make you pope.”
“A Jesuit pope? It’ll never happen.”
Kingsley closed his eyes again, cupped water into his mouth and spit it out. He couldn’t remember when he’d been this tired, and yet he never wanted to sleep again.
“There’s something I never told you,” Søren said. “Something I wanted to tell you, but never found the words or the reason to tell you.”
Kingsley opened his eyes.
“What?” he asked.
“The semester before you started St. Ignatius, a visiting priest came to teach church history. I was in his class. He was a young priest, thirty-five. Charming, Irish, handsome. He taught me Gaelic in his free time.”
Søren fell silent. Kingsley let the silence stand.
“Three weeks before Christmas we were alone in his office working on a translation of the Fiannaidheacht. In the middle of a sentence, Father Sean simply stopped talking. And he shut the door to his office and locked it. He knelt in front of me on the floor and begged me in the most hushed and desperate whispers to take him. He said ‘Anything... You can do anything to me, Marcus. Anything you want. Anything at all.’ He tried to touch me.”
Kingsley had no words. His mouth was dry, and he couldn’t swallow.
“I was almost seventeen then. It was growing more difficult all the time to control myself. I ran miles every day, worked myself into exhaustion, cut myself in secret trying to cool the fever in my blood. And I could have had everything I wanted right then and there with Father Sean. I could see in his eyes he would have let me destroy him right there on his office floor.”
“I never considered you the military type. Although in retrospect, I should have. You were certainly good at taking orders.”
“My commanding officers had nothing on you. You should have been in the army.”
“And follow in my father’s footsteps? No, thank you.” Søren’s voice was cold and bitter. “Why did you join the military?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it was the next best thing to suicide.” Kingsley laughed, although he wasn’t joking. “Anyway, it was good not to have to think for myself for a while. I needed that.”
“Believe it or not, I understand,” Søren said. “The discipline of a religious order has the same comfort of routine. My own thoughts scared me after everything happened, after you were gone. It was better to let someone else direct my existence for a few years.”
“I was too good at taking orders. And too good at hitting targets. And too good at speaking English without an accent. Someone in the government thought I’d be more useful working in a less official capacity.”
“What did you do?” Søren’s voice was even and calm, but Kingsley heard the smallest note of suspicion hiding under the surface of the words.
“Everything they ordered me to. I hunted who they told me to hunt. Spied on who they told me to spy on. Killed who they told me to kill. And then someone caught me. I was a prisoner for a month. See? I still have scars from the shackles.”
He held up his wrists. Two matching swaths of scar tissue marred the skin on the sides of his wrists. They rubbed against the bone, the shackles had. Like a trapped wolf, he’d wanted to gnaw off his own hands.
“I was a prisoner,” he continued. “I was tortured. And...”
“And what?” Søren’s voice was gentle now, probing, but not demanding.
“It wasn’t just torture.”
He gazed up at Søren and met his eyes for one second before lowering them again in humiliation.
“Oh, God, Kingsley.”
“I was unconscious,” Kingsley said. “I guess you’d call it a blessing that I don’t remember it happening. I only remember waking up and knowing it had happened.”
“Kingsley...”
Kingsley raised his hands to his face, pressed his palms against his eyes. He couldn’t bear to hear the pity and the sorrow in Søren’s voice.
“It’s funny.” Kingsley’s eyes burned. He wanted to blame the chlorine. “I loved Lawrence of Arabia as a boy. He was my hero. I read all the books I could about him. Now I can say Lawrence of Arabia and I have something in common.”
“Two things in common.”
“Two?”
“T. E. Lawrence loved a good flogging.”
Kingsley opened his eyes but couldn’t look at Søren.
“Is he dead?” Søren asked as Kingsley watched the water. “The man who hurt you?”
“Very dead,” Kingsley said.
“Good.”
“Good? Aren’t you supposed to love your enemies?”
“Put me alone in a room with him, and I could conveniently forget that command.”
“He’s in hell now,” Kingsley said. “Then again, so am I.”
Søren took a long deep breath. Meanwhile Kingsley considered falling asleep. Falling asleep and never waking up. The dead don’t dream.
“Can I touch you?” Søren finally asked.
“Toujours,” Kingsley said, laughing again. Always.
Søren reached out and cupped the side of his face. Water ran down Kingsley’s cheek. He hoped it was water from the pool and nothing more.
“It shouldn’t have happened to you. You didn’t deserve it.”
Kingsley smiled. “You’re good at this. They should make you pope.”
“A Jesuit pope? It’ll never happen.”
Kingsley closed his eyes again, cupped water into his mouth and spit it out. He couldn’t remember when he’d been this tired, and yet he never wanted to sleep again.
“There’s something I never told you,” Søren said. “Something I wanted to tell you, but never found the words or the reason to tell you.”
Kingsley opened his eyes.
“What?” he asked.
“The semester before you started St. Ignatius, a visiting priest came to teach church history. I was in his class. He was a young priest, thirty-five. Charming, Irish, handsome. He taught me Gaelic in his free time.”
Søren fell silent. Kingsley let the silence stand.
“Three weeks before Christmas we were alone in his office working on a translation of the Fiannaidheacht. In the middle of a sentence, Father Sean simply stopped talking. And he shut the door to his office and locked it. He knelt in front of me on the floor and begged me in the most hushed and desperate whispers to take him. He said ‘Anything... You can do anything to me, Marcus. Anything you want. Anything at all.’ He tried to touch me.”
Kingsley had no words. His mouth was dry, and he couldn’t swallow.
“I was almost seventeen then. It was growing more difficult all the time to control myself. I ran miles every day, worked myself into exhaustion, cut myself in secret trying to cool the fever in my blood. And I could have had everything I wanted right then and there with Father Sean. I could see in his eyes he would have let me destroy him right there on his office floor.”
