The Seal of Confession
Michele McGrath
The Seal of Confession
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” she whispered. He leant forward to hear her above the carol playing softly in the background.
“It’s been a long time since my last confession,” she continued, hesitation in every word, as she repeated the childish formula.
“But you are here now,” he answered, trying to make his tone welcoming. Another sinner returning for Christmas. “God will listen to you and absolve you from all your sins.”
“You don’t understand. I don’t want absolution,” she said clearly, shattering the ritual. “I have something important to tell you and I don’t have much time.”
“I’m listening.” He leaned back; sure she would tell him about cheating on her husband. He’d heard the tale so many times before. Once, he’d been shocked but not now. Confessions bored him with their long lists of trivial sins.
“You must tell no one about this.”
“Everything you tell me is under the seal of confession.” He forced his tone to be reassuring, with the ease of long practice.
“But this is different. I need to be certain. My life depends on your silence.”
Another one with a turn for the dramatic, he thought. “I have never broken the seal of confession and I never will,” he said, sure he spoke the truth. Later on, he realised this one of his vows had never yet been tested. “What do you want to tell me?”
“You are in great danger.”
“What?” His whole body went rigid.
“They are going to kill you.” The quiet conviction in her tone terrified him.
“Who are? Why?” His voice went shrill.
“You saw too much.”
What had he seen? He did not remember anything unusual.
“I’ve got to go now,” she said. “They’ll miss me if I’m away any longer. I shouldn’t have come. Please, take care and remember you can’t tell anyone. If you do, they’ll know I warned you and kill me too.” Her skirt rustled as she rose from her knees. She allowed herself a smile, knowing he couldn’t see her.
“Wait!” He leapt to his feet, as the door closed after her, and twitched back the curtain. It was too late. By the time he got out of the confessional, no one was in the church. Desperately, he ran into the street. A cold grey drizzle fell, drenching his head and shoulders. He peered both ways through the gloom, but she had gone and he had no idea who she was. Shakily, he made his way back into the church. The door closed behind him with a hollow boom. He jumped.
Suddenly the church seemed unfriendly. Deep shadows lay between each of the pillars. Could someone be hiding, waiting for him? The church had always been his refuge. When he was young, he used to hide away from the other children who made his life miserable. Now, he worked there. Tonight, for the first time in his life, the building looked alien. He hurried down the aisle and through the passageway into his house. He slammed the door behind him and locked it. He leaned against the polished wood, his heart thumping.
“Is that you, Father Peter?”
“It’s me, Mrs Connor.” His voice came out as a strangled whisper.
“I’ve got your supper ready.” She walked out of the kitchen, drying her hands on a tea towel and looked at him sharply. “Are you all right? You’re awfully pale.”
He pushed himself upright and walked towards her.
“Just a bit dizzy, that’s all.”
“Come and sit down. I’ll get you a glass of water. You’ve been doing too much, just as you always do at Christmas. I’ve told you before that it will catch up with you some day.”
For once, her fussing did not irritate him. He drank the water and made himself talk to her, something he rarely did. Usually he found her uninteresting and let her conversation wash over him without answering, but, tonight, he did not want her to leave. He chattered on about parish matters, until he noticed her looking at him with a strange expression on her face. His voice died away. She picked up her coat and handbag.
“Are you sure you’re all right? Do you want me to phone for the doctor?”
“No, no. Tom’s busy with all this ‘flu about. I don’t want to bother him for just a bit of dizziness.”
“He wouldn’t mind. Or I could stay with you. I needn’t go to the Legion meeting.”
“I’m fine now, truly. I’m tired, just as you said. Don’t miss the Legion on my account. I’ll go to bed early and be right as rain in the morning.”
She left, thinking she would phone him later; he had been acting so strangely.
When she’d gone, he went round the house, bolting all the doors and the windows. Then he sat down at the table and tried to eat his supper. Mrs Connor was an excellent cook and she had made his favourite steak pie, but he found that he had no appetite. The first mouthful sickened him. He pushed his plate aside and went over to the sideboard, where he kept a modest half bottle of whisky for his guests. He rarely drank, so the first gulp caught him at the back of his throat and made him gasp, but the spirit warmed him. His brain cleared for a moment.
“What I need is a plan” he thought feverishly. “If I wasn’t a priest, I’d go straight to the police but I can’t do that. They’d ask me about her and I couldn’t tell them, even if I knew.” He thought about her. She’d spoken with a strong local accent, no different from the majority of the other people in his parish. He’d no idea what she looked like, only a shadowy form, kneeling behind the curtain. He would never be able to identify her.
“She said I’d seen something.” He racked his brain but he hadn’t been anywhere unusual or done anything out of the ordinary. He picked up his diary and turned the pages, recalling the people and the places he had visited. Nothing gave him a clue.
“Perhaps there’s something in the newspaper” he thought, grasping at straws. Today’s paper was folded neatly by his armchair, waiting for him. He seized it and practically tore the pages apart. Nothing. The old papers lay in a pile by the door, waiting for the collection. He dragged them all into the sitting room and read them through. By the end of an hour, He’d covered the floor with torn pieces of paper. His fingers were covered with ink and he had a splitting headache. Nothing in the news meant anything to him.
Suddenly, he wondered how they would kill him. A knife or a bullet? Poison? A car accident? He imagined the pain and trembled. He’d always hoped, when he died, he would just lose consciousness and fall asleep. One minute he would be alive, the next dead, safe in the arms of Our Blessed Lord.
He moaned as the thought struck him. He always told others to pray when they brought him their problems, but he hadn’t thought of it for himself. He’d forgotten his God! He fell onto his knees.
“Dear Lord, don’t let me be killed. Please don’t let this be real. Let it be a lie, a misunderstanding. Don’t let me be killed for something I don’t even know about!” His voice rang out imploringly. He prayed like the frightened child, who once needed to escape from the bullies. He’d only had bruises to fear then; now he feared death itself. His eyes locked onto the crucified figure on the wall. How had the Saviour been able to bear the pain of his crucifixion? How did the martyrs find enough conviction to die for their faith? He knew he could not.
His voice echoed in the stillness and he shivered. No one answered him. No flash of belief pierced his terror. He remained cold and frightened. He’d expected to be comforted by his prayers but he wasn’t. He realised that he, who preached endlessly about the Kingdom of Heaven, didn’t want to go there himself. He desperately wanted to live. He recalled some of the people who told him they faced death, either their own or their loved ones’. He always told them to pray, as if that was the answer to everythi
ng! How deeply unsatisfying his words must have been.
He especially remembered one woman...her distraught face flashed into his mind. What was her name? Such a long time ago but she’d been in such distress. Her problem seemed uninteresting to him, as most of them were. Funny, he did not even remember what it was. She had been very young; one of the congregation in his first parish. He had moved several times since then. What made him think of her now?
He shook himself. His mother always told him to sleep on a problem and he would find an answer. Perhaps that might work. He’d almost dropped off when the telephone shrilled. Damn Mrs Connor! He mumbled an answer, trying not to snap at her. She must have heard the annoyance in his voice, because she hung up rather quickly. After that, he tossed and turned. It was dawn before he finally dropped into a fitful doze.
The alarm woke him. He felt groggy, aware that something dreadful had happened, but unable to remember what it was. When his memory came back, so did his fear. Yet his mother’s solution had partially worked.
“I’ll go to see the Bishop. Present the issue as a theoretical question. See what he thinks.”
He picked up the telephone and made an appointment. The Bishop listened to him quietly. Father Peter tried to disguise the origin of his difficulty, so he told his tale in a long, rambling way. The Bishop seemed to follow him, though, too closely for his comfort.
“As I see the problem,” the Bishop said, when he finished, “this theoretical parishioner may have lied. She may have misunderstood or misinterpreted what she overheard. The people she told you about might have been joking or just speculating. There is a great difference between speech and action, as you well know. Most people don’t commit murder lightly or for no reason; they fear the consequences too much. I think it’s unlikely that the priest would be in any real danger.”
“But, if this issue was real, what should the priest do?” he persisted.
The Bishop peered at him. “The priest can and should do...absolutely nothing. He can’t go to the police. The only evidence is under the seal of confession. Indeed, if this case was real and not hypothetical, for us to discuss it would break the obligation which we both share. I wouldn’t like to think that any priest would do such a thing, especially not a priest from my diocese. Wouldn’t you agree?”
The Bishop’s tone was sharp and he tried not to flinch. When the Bishop offered to hear his Christmas confession, he hastily said he had already made it. Now he had an urgent visit to make in the parish. He thanked the Bishop for his time and his help, even though het had been no help at all. Peter went home unsatisfied.
It was Christmas Eve. The parishioners were already in the church, decorating the altar but he avoided them and went straight to his house. Today’s paper lay on the mat. He was reading it when the doorbell went. Instead of going to open it, as he usually did, he looked through the net curtains to see who was there. He sighed with relief. Sergeant Wilson, not one of his favourite people but safe, an unlikely murderer.
“Morning Father.”
“Morning Sergeant.” The policeman gave him a funny look. Had he smelled the whisky on his breath?
“I’ve brought the raffle collection for the church roof...” The damned thing was leaking again. Yesterday the roof had been his most pressing problem. He offered the sergeant tea and they sat for a while chatting about trivia, especially the local youths. Father Peter tried hard to put his problem out of his mind. It was on the tip of his tongue and he had to force himself to concentrate on the conversation and say nothing. When the Sergeant turned to walk down the path, his resolve broke.
“Sergeant!” he called after him. The policeman stopped.
“Yes, Father?”
“I...” He hesitated. He had been about to say “...need help.” But he couldn’t. He would not be able present a theoretical problem this time. Sergeant Wilson was shrewd and even the Bishop had been sceptical, he knew that. The whole thing would come out and he had broken his vows once today already as well as telling lies. He forced himself to stop.
“I forgot to say ‘Merry Christmas’.”
“A Merry Christmas to you too, Father.”
His chance walked away down the street. Peter felt numb and aching. Perhaps it was lack of sleep. He wanted a nap, but there was so much still to do before Midnight Mass. How would he get through it all? He felt dazed and had a pain in his chest.
“If I keep thinking about it, I won’t be able to do anything more today. I’ll think tomorrow, when I’ve time. There must be something I can do then.”
Fortunately, he was so busy that he had to concentrate on other things. The Children’s Mass was a riot of colour, awkwardness and forgotten words. One little boy stood out in his mind. The lad sang two solos in a fine soprano voice. Father Peter couldn’t recall his name. The boy had just moved into the parish to live with his grandmother.
The Carol Service was as good as could be expected with the parish choir, which sang enthusiastically but rarely in tune. He was lucky that he did not have a good ear for music, although the boy’s singing had pleased him. Midnight Mass started at long last. As he held the host high, he asked God to help him, to take away his problem and to let him find peace once again.
Susan stood in the shadows at the back of the church and watched him. He had dark circles round his eyes and his hands trembled as he raised them up to the Lord. Good. She smiled. Her plan was working. It had taken her long enough to think of it. She’d had to trace him from parish to parish. Jack was nearly ten now and he had been less than three when his father killed his mother. Julie, her precious baby sister, had been so afraid of her husband, but the priest did not believe her. He told her it was her duty to make her marriage work and if she prayed, everything would be well.
Revenge tasted very sweet and this priest deserved to suffer. Julie might have been saved, if she had taken her child and run away. Susan hoped his suffering wouldn’t end too soon. She’d make sure it didn’t. When he looked better, she’d go to confession again and make up another part of the story, something even more terrifying. She left quickly, while all the eyes were still on the altar. As she walked down the path, the first firework of Christmas exploded into the night sky over the gasworks.
Inside the church, Father Peter staggered. A terrible pain, worse than he’d ever felt before, lanced through his chest. He fell to his knees. Oh, dear God, they’d shot him just as they promised. Instinctively, he clutched himself where the bullet struck, trying to hold back his blood. But there was no blood. His doctor stopped praying and raced up the aisle. He felt for a pulse and thumped hard on the priest’s chest.
“What’s happened to him?” The deacon asked in a shocked voice.
“Heart attack, I think.”
Sergeant Wilson knelt beside the body. “I didn’t think he looked well when I saw him earlier today. Something was on his mind.”
“To die in the middle of Midnight Mass...”
“Thank God it wasn’t earlier, with all the children.”
“It’s the way he’d have wanted to go, no suffering, a happy death. Now, he’s safe in the arms of Jesus. May his good soul rest in peace.”
Copyright © Michele McGrath 2012
All rights reserved
No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the author.
All characters and events in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
My books are fiction set in history.
Written in English (UK)
Published by Riverscourt Publishing
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About Michèle McGrath
Award wi
nning author, Michele McGrath, was born on the beautiful Isle of Man in the middle of the Irish Sea. She has lived in California, Liverpool, France and Lancashire before returning home. Living in Paris and Grenoble taught her to make a mean ratatouille and she learned the hula in Hawaii.
Michele is a qualified swimming teacher and manager, writing self help books on these subjects. Although she writes in many genres, her real loves are historical romance and fantasy. She has won numerous writing competitions, had second places and been short-listed many times. She has had tens of thousands of sales and downloads.
**Visit her blog at http://www.michelemcgrath.co.uk/blog
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“Set in post-revolutionary France, Duval and the Infernal Machine captures the atmosphere of suspicion and intrigue that reigned in Paris at the time. The author does a splendid job of immersing the reader into the darker corners of the city." Simon on Kindle reviewing Duval and the Infernal Machine.
“I have been terrified of the water ever since nearly drowning in Lake Michigan. My wife has tried to teach me to float - with no success - for 40 years. The techniques outlined in this book are easy to follow. Maybe finally, after all these years, I'll be able to swim and NOT be afraid of the water. Thanks Michele, wish you lived in the States so I could get private lessons." Steven on Kindle reviewing Learn to Swim, even if you are terrified."
“An intriguing and haunting short story, which the author says is based upon a real wartime experience. The fitting and satisfying ending will stay with me for a long time. An excellent story."
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