She gave Patrick a sideways Who’s been a naughty schoolboy? look. “Well, how do you think she is? A little mad at you.”
“Does she want to see me again?”
“You know, somehow I thought there was a chance, even after what you said to her.” She shook her head slowly, grimacing. “But after this…”
Patrick paused, waited for an explanation that Deedee obviously thought unnecessary.
“After what?” he said.
“You were, weren’t you?”
Patrick shrugged. “I was what?”
“You were hitting on me just now.”
“Hitting on you?”
“It certainly felt like it.”
“But you came up to me.” He gave a disbelieving laugh. “Look, can you just tell her I was asking after her?”
“Oh, I’ll have a word with her, don’t worry about that.”
“Look, you tell her what you want,” Patrick said. “I need another beer.” He turned to step away from her, but felt a tap on his shoulder and turned back.
“You don’t need another beer, mister,” Deedee whispered. “What you need is a confession.” She frowned at him then turned away sharply and sashayed over to her friends.
Patrick ordered another beer and sat back down at the bar.
But he wasn’t taking in the banter crossing back and forth in front of him. All he was doing was hugging his bottle of beer. That and thinking.
He’d just been given the answer to his prayers, and couldn’t help but wonder why he hadn’t thought of it before.
“Hey, you haven’t touched that,” the bartender said, nodding to the full bottle of beer Patrick placed on the counter.
“Sorry,” Patrick said. “Change of plans.”
He left the bar, and only when the fresh air hit his lungs did he feel drunk.
15
Patrick had lived in Chicago long enough to know about St. Godric’s Church, in Old Town, but never actually been in it.
The story of the Great Chicago Fire of 1871 had also been mentioned to him more times than he thought strictly necessary, but only now did he appreciate one of the few buildings to survive the fire, and how out of place it looked in its otherwise modern neighbourhood, the result of many redevelopment schemes in the intervening century and a half.
As edgy and apprehensive as he was, Patrick stood in awe of this edifice as he walked up the steps and entered. The inside was no less impressive, and Patrick looked up and around. It looked like every flat surface displayed a mural and every arch and column was adorned with finely sculptured details. It was also as cold, damp and ill-lit as a cave.
He saw a small group of elderly people, silently waiting halfway along on the left, next to the large cubicle with two doors that opened onto the bare stone aisle. He walked over with his head bowed slightly and sat near them.
Twenty minutes later they were all gone, the last one exiting the confessional box and scurrying out of the church. Patrick wondered what the old lady had done that was so awful she felt she had to tell another man.
And as he watched the lady leave he made eye contact with a middle-aged woman who had entered after him. He pointed to her, then to the confessional. She shook her head and pointed back at him. There was no getting out of it now. Patrick nodded a thank you, stood up, and approached the dark wooden cubicle. He paused before entering, telling himself he didn’t have to do this, that there was an alternative. Perhaps he could wait another few days, to see if the extreme and violent nature of his nightmares started to change to something more manageable.
A loud and impatient cough from the confessional forced his hand. He stepped inside, closed the door, and looked around. It was dimly lit, but there was very little to see anyway. On the side was a small square of gold and green cloth, on the floor was a kneeler, with handles to help the elderly sinners and a plain cushion to save everyone’s knees.
Patrick knelt down and saw a shadow flicker against the square of cloth from the other side. He cleared his throat and said, “Hello Father.”
“Hello, my son,” the shadow replied. Then there was mumbling, as though the priest was reading aloud – reading very quickly. “Carry on,” the voice then said in clearer tones.
But how to start? Do you just say it, or ask for forgiveness first? Do you have to introduce yourself?
“Please go on,” said the rough, cigarette-soaked rasp.
Patrick drew breath a few times but said nothing.
“Sure, you don’t know what to say, do you?” the voice said.
“Erm… No, Father.”
“Are you a Catholic?”
“My grandparents were.”
“You’ve obviously heard we’re not so choosy,” the priest said, with a chuckle that took Patrick aback.
Patrick stood up. “Look, I’m sorry. Perhaps I shouldn’t have come here.”
“Calm down, calm down,” the priest said, effortlessly eradicating all traces of humour from his voice. “This is a house of God. Everyone is welcome.”
Patrick knelt back down and sighed.
“You’re after making a lot of effort to come here. You must have something important to say to me.”
“Yes.” Patrick took a long pause. The problem hadn’t gone away; the problem being where to start and how much to say. But this was a priest, and the serene atmosphere did indeed make Patrick calm down a little.
“Thank you, Father. My name’s Patrick. Patrick Leary.”
“Now, ’tisn’t really right and proper for you to tell me your name.”
“Sorry.”
“But since you have, that’s a very Irish sounding name.”
“My father’s parents dropped the ‘O’ from O’Leary when they came over to England.”
“You know from where?”
“County Meath.”
“Ah, yes. Sure, I’m a Wicklow man myself, ’tisn’t too far away. I still miss the old country, I even hope to go back one day.” He gave a short cough. “And by the sound of you, your grandaddy settled around Manchester I’d wager.”
Patrick smiled in the darkness. “It’s nice to meet someone here who recognizes my accent. Do you know the place?”
“I did me training down the road in Liverpool. Remember seeing The Beatles live in the Cavern. I’m after telling so many people that, I’m not sure any of them are believing me.”
“I believe you,” Patrick said.
“Thank you.” The priest coughed again, this time a more asthmatic, prolonged outburst, before settling again. “Well, now we’re after getting to know each other, perhaps you feel a little more relaxed?”
“Yes. Yes, I do. Thank you.”
“So perhaps you’d like to tell me why you’re here, what you’re after doing that’s so bad?”
“It’s… it’s difficult.” Patrick took a deep breath, and smelt a combination of wood-oil and incense.
“Have you committed a serious crime?” the priest said.
“No, but I have these dreams.”
“Go on, my son.”
“I have dreams – well, nightmares really – where I do terrible things.”
The priest’s shadow moved a little closer to the square of material. “Things like what?”
“Armed robbery, terrorist bombings, knifing and shooting people.”
“Oh. Sure that isn’t nice.”
Patrick felt a trickle of cold sweat run down the side of his torso, and shivered in the still coldness.
“But I can’t control what I do, Father. When I’m in the dreams I can think as myself, but I can’t control my actions.”
“But these terrible things are all just in your dreams, are they not?”
“Yes. But the dreams aren’t like normal dreams – or what I think of as normal dreams – they seem so… realistic.”
“Let’s get this clear. You haven’t actually committed any of these terrible crimes, have you?”
Patrick shifted his knees on the cushion. “No, no. No wa
y.”
“It’s purely that you feel guilty about them. Is that it?”
“That’s exactly it, Father. It’s churning me up inside. Its killing me, and I can’t talk to anyone about it.”
“Well, you have now, Patrick, you have now. And you have my sympathy.”
“But can you do anything for me?”
“I’m a priest, not a psychiatrist.”
“Yes. Yes, of course, Father.”
“What I can say is this. Everyone has evil thoughts from time to time, absolutely everyone on this planet. It’s part of the human condition. The thing that matters is whether you give in to them. If you don’t act on those thoughts you shouldn’t feel bad.”
“But I do. I feel terrible.”
“In that case I can absolve you of any guilt. You’re just having nightmares, Patrick, that’s all. Nobody’s getting hurt, remember that. Nobody’s getting hurt.”
Patrick sat in silence for a few minutes, letting the words sink in.
“Does that help?” the priest said eventually.
“A little.”
“Good. Now, say two Hail Marys and four Our Fathers for your penance.”
“Yes, of course.”
“You don’t know what that means, do you?” the priest said.
Patrick looked up and back to the door. Now his eyes had become a little accustomed to the dark he could see the only other features in the confessional: a few very long vertical cracks in the timber door. “No, Father,” he said.
He heard the priest sigh. “Well, just kneel awhile outside and make it look like you do know.”
“Okay. I will.”
“And Patrick?”
“Yes, Father?”
“Remember, if things get worse, you can always come back to see me.”
“Thank you.”
“But in the meantime…” The voice turned into a whisper. “Won’t ye just bugger off and give room for some proper Catholics?”
Patrick heard a warm snigger as he stood up to leave.
“Yes, Father,” he said.
16
It might have been because of his confession to the priest, or it might not, but that night Patrick’s comforting dreams pushed the evil ones to a faraway place. His sleeping mind witnessed a glass shattering on a bedside table, the water from it fizzing to nothingness in the heat, then the table turning into a crooked charcoal mess, and also Dad’s newspaper shrinking to a delicate black ghost moments before the single light bulb hanging from above shattered in the heat.
The following day he had another productive day at work. There was very little chat with Paulo, and a lot of coding and testing of lines of program late into the day. He had a quiet evening in and for the second night in a row the only dreams he had were the comforting ones that drove him deeper into undisturbed slumber.
And again, the next day he was firing on all cylinders, working hard at OrSum, making ever more progress on the Zombie Stomper project, and gaining credit in Beth’s good books – or at least giving himself hope of wiping out his overdraft.
At the end of that day he stopped late at work again and intended to do much the same with his evening.
Until he heard the voice behind him:
“Okay, okay. I give in.”
Patrick finished the line he was typing and turned his swivel chair. “Hi, Beth.”
“You do realize how many hours you’ve put in these last two days, Patrick?”
“Just trying to get this module finished, like I said I would.”
Beth stood with her hands on her hips and surveyed the darkened office, banks of PCs all switched off except for one. “So, are you done for today?”
“Almost.”
“Come on, Patrick. You got your gold star.” She sat on the corner of his desk. “Look, I’m stopping off at Rudy’s Blues Bar on my way home, you’re welcome to join me.”
“What? Now?” Patrick pointed to the screen. “I was nearly there, just debugging the font display.”
Beth gave him a sideways stare. “Is that a ‘no’?”
Patrick stretched and yawned, then drew his fingertips down his tired face.
What the hell? What was there to lose? And perhaps there might be something to gain. And the invite was as pleasant as it was unexpected.
Rudy’s Blues Bar was tucked away in the less fashionable end of the riverside area, and inside it still somehow managed to have that authentic, smoky atmosphere long after smoking inside had been prohibited.
Beth insisted on buying the drinks. Patrick didn’t argue, and they settled down at a table near the band. Within minutes they had to applaud as the number finished and the singer announced a short interval.
Beth hopped her eyes upwards. “Good timing, huh?”
Patrick agreed with the sentiment, but said nothing. Without music the evening could be one long pregnant pause. What could he talk about with Beth? She was essentially his boss, so he could be giving notice to quit if he said the wrong thing. And what would be the wrong thing – trying something on with her or not trying something on?
So he said nothing. He was uncomfortable in the silence, and conscious that Beth wasn’t. In fact, she didn’t seem the type to be uncomfortable in any situation. They both glanced around the bar for a minute before she spoke without looking at him.
“I guess I owe you an apology,” she said.
“What for?”
Only then did she turn to him. “I came on to you a bit hard the other day.”
Patrick shrugged. “I was sleeping on the job, I guess you had to say something.”
“But you thought I was a bitch, right?”
Damn right he did. A full-on four-legged hairy thing on heat.
“God, no,” he said, then hid his expression in the gulp of beer.
“Well, I apologize, anyway. It was tactless of me. It must be difficult settling in a foreign country on your own.”
Patrick wanted to say that this wasn’t the issue, that the dreams were still there in the back of his mind, nagging him even when they weren’t happening, and that left no room in his mind for thoughts of family. But he wanted to downplay his nightmares; after all, that was going to be the only way to escape from their curse, to lock those thoughts away. So he said nothing.
“I know I should be a little more understanding,” Beth said. “My mom keeps telling me off for that, says I’ll never find a man if I behave like one.”
“Ouch!” Patrick said. “Your mother said that?”
Beth let out a throaty laugh. “She’s like that, the governess of the school of hard knocks.” She gave a pensive glance into space. “Still, I’m glad I have my mom. I appreciate that.”
And Patrick surveyed Beth just as she had him. Perhaps she wasn’t so bad after all. Just your average hard-working career girl. A bit too much resolve for his tastes and as starched-up as a shirt-collar, but essentially an okay girl when off-duty, albeit a girl he wouldn’t want to hit on in a hundred years.
There was another long pause. Patrick again felt an awkwardness in the air, and again, Beth seemed content. The guitarist came back on stage and started to leaf through his book of music. Patrick willed him to start playing. He walked back off without even picking up the instrument.
“Does your mother live around here?” Patrick said eventually.
Beth laughed. “No way. I’m from Tennessee.”
Why did she laugh at that? Was that such a big mistake to make?
“What does she do?” he said.
“Not much. Ponders on a life of regrets, mostly.”
“And your father?”
“Not capable of pondering.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Patrick said.
“No, no. He’s not dead.” Beth laughed again. “Just incapable of pondering.”
A confused frown stopped Patrick speaking.
“I mean, he left my mom.”
“You see him?”
“We… we fell out a long time ago.”
; “I’m sorry about that,” Patrick said.
“Don’t be. I couldn’t give a shit about the useless bum.” She took a long drink, then said, “You know the expression ‘best years of my life’?”
Patrick nodded.
“My mom could have been anything. She’s a smart woman. She could have gone places. But she stopped going anywhere when she fell for my dad. All I remember from when I was young is them arguing, first about her going out to work instead of looking after me and the house, then later on arguing about money, specifically how much of his money she was spending. On both cases the arguing only stopped when Mom gave in. I think – no, I know – she gave in for my sake, to stop the bickering. But after a few years there was no more give left in her, she just did as she was told. And you know how he repaid her?”
Beth emptied her glass and slammed it down on the table.
“If it’s upsetting you to talk about it,” Patrick said.
Beth lowered her gaze and took a deep breath. “Yeah, sorry. Sounds like I’m taking it out on you.” She looked up. “I’m not, honestly.” She pointed to Patrick’s glass. “One more?”
Patrick nodded then stood up.
“Sit down,” she said. “I know how little you get paid, remember.”
Soon Beth came back with two fresh drinks. “So you want to know what Ol’ Pa did?”
“Only if you’re sure you don’t mind talking about it.”
“Sure, I don’t mind.” She took a swig and drew breath.
“I was fourteen, Mom and Dad were mid-forties, I guess. According to Mom that’s the time a woman starts getting too old to be attractive, and a man starts becoming rich enough to be attractive whatever he looks like. They can fuck that rule for me, I can tell you. Anyway, that was the first time Dad left her.”
“The first time?”
“He moved in with a twenty-six year old he worked with, and so did his pay check. Left Mom with nothing. Didn’t last, of course.”
“And she took him back?”
“Had no choice. Next was about six months later. A twenty-two-year old this time. A waitress. She lasted longer, almost four months. But he left her and came back again, and Mom let him again.”
“That must have been awful, I mean—”
Slow Burning Lies - A Dark Psychological Thriller Page 7
