“No.”
“I see,” Regan said, and took on this new information and nodded gravely. “Sure Tommy. I'll ask if there is anyone that knows anything.”
“No need to raise a panic though father!” Tommy said and raised his hands in the air as if to prevent the situation from escalating higher.
“No, of course not.”
“It's probably nothing anyway. Probably got lucky last night and waking up as we speak with a serious hangover. Anyways, I think we’re best to put the word out, just in case.”
Docherty stepped around the altar boys and slipped quietly through the door which he had come. He skirted around the side of the building to return through the front entrance. As the priest with his trail of altar boys entered to the peal of bells, Regan observed the man already walking up the outer aisle where he would join his parents on the front bench.
Easier to have just exited and walked across the face of the altar to the seat, thought Regan. But for all his calm and confidence on a hurling pitch with thousands of expectant supporters observing his every move, the man still felt humbled in the Church, not comfortable drawing unnecessary attention, mindful of whose house he was in.
The congregation stood. All the benches were occupied but not bunched tightly, plenty of space for everyone to sit. The familiar faces of those who stood at the back did so not because of a perceived lack of space, but because their hangovers demanded a quick exit after communion.
Regan saw the youths chatting at the back, sniggering under cupped hands not even realising that the Mass had started. Stretching out his hands and gently closing his eyes he took a deep breath and opened them.
“Let us Pray.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
Despite the fact the bed was hers alone now, the decade of hugging its edge continued as if the delicate memory of her husband had taken occupancy there. Her body curved away from the open space as always, knees tucked up closer to her pregnancy bump with sheets, still unwashed and scented from her lover’s body. The sweet strawberry fragrance seemed to breathe from his pores, hard skin scrubbed harder, freeing the accumulating sweat, dirt and fumes of another day on the building site.
Even though her husband had an almost manic obsession with scrubbing his skin clean, to the point that the pinkness had blushed red in places, his smell still carried the unmistakable odour of physical exertion and hard labour. Pulling the sheets tighter, Louise Tighe continued to breathe it in, the last molecules from his body joining her own in a union that made her mind swim in search of memories of his touch. The gentle yet assured grip of his hand around her waist as he found her slim frame in the darkness of night. It crept gently under the sheets followed by his own shape curling around hers. She felt the heat on her cheeks now as their breaths harmonised, bodies bobbing together under the sea of sheets like two ocean buoys.
“You OK?”
The line that connected her to that memory snapped suddenly. The voice had made her start from the shallow sleep that had just begun to take her. Slightly disorientated, she looked across the room to see the bald man switch off the ensuite light which cast the room in darkness again.
“Yeah. Just drifted off there.”
“You were talking in your sleep again,” said the man, tiptoeing his way around the bed, crawling inside and snuggling up to her.
The arm which reached around to fondle her breast was long and thinner than Lewis', missing the sharpened muscle tone sculpted from labour. The hardness of his expanding chest against her back, and the firm outstretched arm seemed devoid of any physical strength but there was a command and assurance in the touch that quickened her pulse and made her feel alive again.
“I'll have to go shortly,” the man whispered into her ear, although his body suggested differently.
His hips thrust forward until the woman was pushed forward precariously to the edge of the bed. She felt it press and prod the small of her back with growing urgency, hand navigating from her chest downward over her growing bump and deeper still.
“You're right,” she said and reaching for his fumbling hand, plucked it from the depths of the sheets and held it in her own. “The kids will be up soon and... you know?”
She turned to look into his face for understanding and found it. The weak light was visible under the heavy cloak of the curtains and she could feel him unhook his slight body from her and smile.
“Of course.”
He hopped off the bed again and moved to the chair where his clothes lay. Louise watched him pull out a glasses case, gently unfolding them and perching on his nose before dressing quickly in the mirrored door. Voyeuristically, she observed him slip on each item until finally, fully garbed he studied his appearance up close, stretching the cheeks and smiling widely – a somewhat weak morning facial routine. She broke into a series of sneezes. He smiled and looked at the reflection of her face over his shoulder.
“Sure you’re OK?”
“Yeah,” she said. “Bit of a cold.”
“You should maybe take something for it.”
“Already am. Your stuff?”
The man looked around, a little disappointed to see that the woman had draped the sheet up over her chest. She was holding out his mobile phone which he took and pocketed. He shovelled the coins and car key from the bedside dresser into the other jean pocket.
Louise reached for his wallet lying on the dresser and flicked it open. She slipped out one of the plastic cards and studied it in the darkness. The man smiled and watched her struggle and held out his hand for her to return it.
“University of Linkton. I didn't know you were a college graduate.”
A smile flickered on the woman's face and he couldn't help but return one of his own. It would have been stronger but he was still staring at the wallet as if worried what she would find there.
“Very funny. My student days finished a long time ago. If you look hard enough, you'll see that it's not a student card but one for alumni. I do a little bit of teaching there from time to time.”
“What do you teach?” she asked, returning the bulky wallet to him but keeping the card, strumming it on her fingers.
The man stopped short of confessing the real subject matter given the fact that the recently widowed would still be in some period of mourning and was likely to be for a long time. The wallet filled out the breast pocket and he glanced to see that he hadn't forgotten anything else.
“Forensic Pathology and Cultural Symbology.”
“Wow. That's a mouthful.”
“Which we know you can take.”
He grinned and bent down to kiss her full on the lips, groping a final time the tight sheet which was stretched over her chest. She shook her head at the crude joke and handed him the card, before reaching over a shoulder and pulling more of the sheet around her.
“I'll see you, maybe tomorrow?” he asked and was pleased to see her head nod.
He tread softly on the carpet floor and reaching the door opened it gently. The house was still asleep and he turned and gave a little wave to the woman who smiled back.
“See you.”
“See you.... Beverley,” she said and burst into a sudden fit of giggles.
Embarrassed, he shot her a pretend look of scorn and raised his finger to his lips to stop her laughter. His finger automatically moved to the corner of his mouth as he watched her smother the giggles with a pillow. His smile became weaker the longer she continued and felt the familiar wiggle line that curved up toward his cheek, a scourge of his childhood.
He hoped she wouldn’t start rhyming it like they had done and closed the door in case she could read his thoughts. The voice in his head reminded again how it went.
Beverley Cleverley, cut like a jelly key.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Rare though it was, there was always the possibility that the Sacrament of Penance would fail to attract anyone to the confessional box. Roast dinners, midday kick-offs, smaller attendances, a younger generation with growi
ng antipathy toward the Church, the list continued to grow year on year, challenging the Church and her customs, requiring changes to thrive and stay alive in a modern world where time and attention was in short supply. Not today.
Fr Regan sat behind the small boxed screen, edging this way and that, battling the discomfort of holding a position for an extended time.
Patiently listening to each parishioner who had taken the time to queue and wait their turn, one by one, Regan absolved them of their various sins, prescribing a suitable penance for each. Each person entered the small chamber in darkness, awning light from the doorway signalling their path to the soft step where they would kneel and talk into the mesh wooden screen.
Regan was always mindful of hearing the click as they closed the door, and carefully advised those who hadn't closed it properly to do so. The solemnity and silence of the adjoining main room sometimes carried with it the sound of confessionals, if the unfortunate penitent hadn't closed the door. Cue obvious embarrassment or hilarity to those present, nervous coughs stifled by husbands and wives, children smothering laughs in their hands, the stalwarts looking around with sour faces, confused at the sudden level of noise.
The steady flow of parishioners continued. Their sins, slight variations on predecessors but carrying the same theme; family squabbles, cursing, fighting, name calling, drinking too much. The voices were, of course, recognisable, sharing the exact same sentiments as previous months. The same checklist read again, hoping for absolution but all the while keeping the juiciest secrets locked up, hoping that Regan or God couldn’t read between the lines. There was very little opportunity to discuss the detail with each troubled mind, but he offered what advice he could in the hope that they find a deeper meaning in the scripture or in the recital of their penance.
Regan didn't believe that a penance necessarily had to be in prayer form. Some confessionals had parallels with certain saints that he had studied, and on occasion, he suggested as penance that the person read about their lives. Others needed some real world advice. Sex addiction, especially porn was one that not many people confessed to, but when they did Regan in no uncertain terms suggested disconnecting from the internet would be a good start.
He tried to customise a penance that would speak to each person individually but it was increasingly hard to get people to open up. In the majority of the cases, their confessional sheet was the same one that they'd used for over a decade, not considering for a moment the idea of updating their sin catalogue.
The task was tiring. Not least because he had heard a couple of dozen by that point in the day, but also because none of the confessors were able to provide any information about the whereabouts of Bernie Cameron. He felt the need to add the footnote at the bottom, as the person was leaving, but received silence in response.
During the thirty-second interlude between each penitent, he adjusted position trying to find a spot on the seat that didn't bother his lower back. Sometimes the full confessionals on a busy day, like before the Easter period, would last up to three hours. Other times, he could be finished within thirty minutes. Each block he treated like a meditation, which in many ways was what prayer was –eyes closed, seated peacefully but folded at the waist in deep contemplation, tuned to the present moment. Athletes called it being in the zone. Time would flitter by and without realising, he would awaken with a start from the silent state, the church empty, the last penitent long since gone.
He couldn’t find that state today. His tiredness and anxiety offered little respite, so it was with a great sigh of relief that no one else entered the antechamber.
Regan yawned and rubbed his face, allowing a few more minutes to pass lest there should be some latecomers. The luminous hands of his watch showed that it was 12.15. For over two hours he had been hunched and felt the resistance in his back when he straightened it inch by inch.
But the door opened once again and Regan heard the audible click as the person closed it behind. The room was cool and the air carried no breeze which made the laboured breathing of the person much sharper. In the darkness, Regan didn't hear any shuffling of feet or any movement for that matter and found the origin of the sound still near the door. Senses pricked, and in spite of his physical discomfort, his body suddenly pulsed adrenaline aware of the heaviness in the air and an uninvited unpleasant smell that accompanied the entrant.
“Father?”
The sound might as well have been a shotgun blast. Something in the deep, pained voice suggesting caution in the priest's actions.
“Are you there father?”
The voice was distinctive but he couldn't place it. A voice that seemed stretchy and coarse. Regan couldn't tie an image to it, which slowed his response until he heard the man groping against the wall slapping at its surface.
“Yes. I'm here,” he replied. “Please come and kneel down and tell me your sins.”
Regan could hear the man's fruitless search for a light stop, and still standing near the doorway slowly approached the confessional box and knelt.
“I don't know how to do this. Is this OK?”
“That's perfectly fine,” Regan said, feeling the wooden house vibrate as the man knelt at the pew.
Barely inches separated both men through the screen which hid their faces, but Regan could smell the alcohol and body odour strengthen as the voice moved closer to him.
“It's my first time. I never been to a confession before,” he laughed. It was a nervous one as if he was on the witness box.
“That's OK. You've made a start and that's the main thing. What would you like to confess my son?”
“Plenty of stuff,” the man said. Regan waited for a checklist of misdemeanours to be rhymed off but they never came.
“Let's start with the ones that you're guiltiest about.”
“Like what? Fighting and stuff?”
“If you regret it, yes.”
“I ain't done nothing I don't regret father. I only defended myself. I never started 'em.”
“OK. Is there anything that you'd like to be forgiven for?” Regan ignored all sign of the dull pain in his back. The anxiety which had greeted the man and sharpened the priests discomfort had abated.
“I know stuff father. Bad stuff. I seen stuff. Is that a sin?”
“Secrets aren't bad, but if keeping them to yourself instead of telling someone could do more harm than good, then yes, that would be a sin.”
The man seemed to take his time processing these words. Regan let the silence sit between them for a few moments.
“What if what I know could get me in trouble?” said the man.
“That's something you need to let your conscience decide. If the greater good is worth your own personal sacrifice. Jesus suffered and died for us. The ultimate act of selflessness so we could learn from and follow his teaching.”
The man’s breathing had steadied, quietening with the comfort of the priest.
“I'm scared.”
“That's OK Son. It's OK to be scared. I'm here and you have God on your shoulder at all times to guide you.”
The sound of gentle sobbing from across the screen suggested to Regan that he allow the man time to regather his composure. Sharp inhalations of breath seemed to hoover up the tears until a little laugh prompted the priest to continue.
“Sorry father. It's hard sometimes when you got no one and no one cares for you.”
“I understand,” Regan said. “You're loved and He cares for you. Don't forget that.”
“Thanks.”
An unconventional confessional with no structured beginning and therefore no conclusion was always difficult to wrap up. On those occasions, Regan typically took the reins and offered a suitable penance, but something suggested otherwise here and he continued to wait it out.
“I want to confess father,” whispered the man, voice still shaky but under control.
“Go ahead, my Son.”
“Bad things are happening. Evil things.”
Regan s
at up so quickly that he nearly banged his head against the low boxed ceiling. The sharp pain in his lumbar region didn't help, a little yelp escaping from the pained mouth.
“You OK father?”
“Yes. Please go ahead.”
“I ... I don't know if I can name names. Is that OK?”
“That's quite alright. Whatever you confess to me is in confidence. No one will know.”
The man let out a long sigh which sounded like relief.
“There's something in the meat.”
The statement hung in the air open to dissection and review. Regan asked the man to repeat what he had said, which he did. Regan was still confused by the strangeness of the statement until the silence was broken when the man asked him if he had heard what he had said. Regan said that he had and that the man should continue.
“I... gets very cold sometimes at night and I do what I can with my sleeping. Whenever and wherever I can. Few weeks back, maybe about a month I decide to sleep in one of the big barns up past the school. I think it belongs to the Boyd’s?” Regan found himself suddenly hanging on the words from the darkness opposite. “I know I shouldn't have trespassed but desperate times father, you know?”
Regan nodded, before remembering that the man couldn't see through the screen and followed it with a sympathetic note.
“Well anyways. I got beat up before for being out in the open. Bunch of kids messing, so figured I might as well chance my arm ‘cos it was bitter out. I’m in one of them big barns they got there, the door was unlocked. Anyways, I go in and its full of animals but I find a quiet enough corner and get a couple bales of hay down and lie there. I wouldn't cause no damage, father! I just wanted a place to sleep out of the bitter cold.”
Regan had visualised the interior of the barn many times since the body of Lewis Tighe had been found hanging from one of the beams. He painted the new image of the man he now realised was Larry Doe reclining in a far corner on a straw bed.
“I understand,” Regan said to Doe. “Please, go on.”
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