The Wound

Christopher Southworth was silent. He took Alice’s hands and kissed them. ‘I met you at Salmsbury Hall when I was a boy. What was I? Eighteen? I fell in love with you. I became a priest. I remained in love with you. Whatever you are, I will always love you.’

Alice touched his chest. He pulled his shirt over his head. His chest was stamped with scars from the branding iron and the red-hot wires. She stroked his scars. She did not flinch.

He kissed her forehead. ‘I will always love you but I can’t be your lover.’

‘God will forgive you.’

‘I have nothing for Him to forgive.’

He unbuttoned his breeches and taking Alice’s hand laid it against his groin.

They had taken the Jesuit Christopher Southworth to a cell without windows. In the cell was a rack, a winch, a furnace, a set of branding irons, a pot for melting wax, nails of different lengths. A thumbscrew, a pair of flesh-tongs, heavy tweezers, a set of surgical instruments, a series of small metal trays, ropes, wire, preparations of quicklime, a hood and a blindfold.

They did not rack him but they used the rack as a bench. They tied his arms above his head, legs apart. They made a small neat cut in his side and drained a quart of blood to weaken him. Then they forced him to drink a pint of salt water.

They did not break his fingers joint by joint or pull out his teeth one by one. They were relaxed. They drew pictures on his chest with their delicate knives, carefully cleaning the blood away. They pinned back his eyelids with metal clips and dripped hot wax into his eyeballs. When he screamed they debated whether or not to take out his tongue. But they wanted his tongue for his confession.

He did not confess. He gave them no names. The only name they heard was Jesus.

He was naked. They stroked his penis and his balls. To his shame his penis hardened. He felt nothing but he hardened. The men were excited by him. They turned him over and buggered him. They turned him back and prepared a small fire in a tin. Then while one of the men held his penis the other cut it off. Then they cut off his balls. He had fainted but they threw water over him and roused him. They burned his testicles in the small tin. He couldn’t see anything but he could smell himself. The stench of himself. Burning alive. Then they left him alone.

He said, ‘There is a ship that sails from Dover in fifteen days. Be on it. Be on it with me.’

‘What about my house? My land?’

‘What about your life?’

‘My life is not in danger. Yours is.’

‘I no longer care about my life. I died when they tortured me – or so it feels.’

She undressed him. She kissed him. Gently he divided her legs with his hands and moved down the bed so that his tongue could reach her.

They both fell asleep.