I Have Sinned

by Caimh McDonnell

  “What is that?”

  “Poteen.”

  “It smells like gasoline.”

  “Now let’s not be insulting to a national treasure. That’s made out of sugar beet and malted barley, and aged in virgin Irish oak.”

  “Well, no drinking on church grounds.”

  Bunny shook his head in disgust. “Is that a new commandment? Because I’ve drunk on church grounds several times in the past.”

  “And what did the priests think of that?”

  “Who d’ye think I was drinking with?”

  Gabriel put the flask into the pocket of his robes. “It is not a Church rule, but it is a rule in this church.”

  Bunny took a gulp of cocoa. “I don’t suppose you’d consider letting me use a drop of it to liven up this cocoa?”

  “No.”

  Bunny mumbled over the mug, which he cupped in two hands. “Hospitality ain’t what it once was.”

  “You are not a guest. You are an imposed inconvenience.”

  “I will quote that in my TripAdvisor review. You can expect a harsh rating.”

  Gabriel pointed over at the corner. “There are a few mattresses over there, from when we provided shelter from the 2016 blizzard, and there’s bedding in the closet.” He indicated the door at the far end of the room. “Through there are my private quarters, with the emphasis on private. Please respect that.”

  “Sure – I won’t touch any of your stuff. Did I mention the EU has given poteen geographically indicative status?”

  Gabriel looked down at him and puffed out his cheeks. “I don’t know what any of the words you just said mean.”

  “It’s like champagne. Something can only be called that if it comes from the right region. It also means that taking it off an Irishman is basically a hate crime.”

  “Do you think you might have a problem with alcohol, Mr McGarry?”

  “Well, I do now.” Bunny slurped at his cocoa. “And seeing as we’ll be spending a lot of time together, you might as well start calling me Bunny.”

  “No, I won’t be doing that. In fact, seeing as you are so insistent on staying, you will be Brother McGarry, a visiting Franciscan monk.”

  Bunny looked up in surprise. “How in the fecking hell am I going to pull that off?”

  “Firstly, by not speaking like that. There will be no swearing. I have spare robes that will probably fit you from when Brother Dominic stayed.”

  “Let me guess, did he have a heart attack too?”

  “No. A stroke.”

  “Oh.”

  “They did say it was brought about by his weight issues.”

  Bunny nodded. “I had to ask.”

  “In fact, let me lay out the rules specifically. While you are ‘staying’ here, you will keep a low profile. There will be no drinking, no swearing, no smoking—”

  Bunny looked offended. “Who said I smoked?”

  “I just assumed you had all the bad habits. There will also be no womanising.”

  “Shame. I thought the robe and sandals would really help me pull the chicks.”

  “No sarcasm.”

  “You show me the bit in the Bible that bans sarcasm? The good Lord gave us freedom of expression. Sarcasm is a legitimate form of communication. You can’t take that away from me.”

  Gabriel shrugged. He was aware he was just being childish now. “OK. But the other things, those are sacrosanct. I have worked too hard to establish myself here. I want you to be respectful of where you are and the work we do.”

  “Not a problem at all. I am happy to help any way I can.”

  “Yes… And most importantly of all – no violence.”

  “I’m not a violent man.”

  Gabriel took a half step back, slightly surprised by the ferocity of his tone.

  Bunny looked down into his near empty cup of cocoa as if embarrassed by his own response. “I only ever use it when the situation requires it.”

  “Do you remember the chat we had when we first met?”

  Bunny glared up at Gabriel. “I forget the rules – are priests normally allowed to throw confessions back into somebody’s face?”

  Gabriel bit his lip and looked up at the ceiling. Then he took a deep breath and returned his gaze to Bunny. “I apologise, that was inappropriate of me. It will not happen again.”

  Bunny nodded, looking at least mollified. “Fair enough.”

  “I will take your coat.”

  “You’re not throwing that coat away,” snapped Bunny.

  “No. But I will wash it.”

  “Oh. Right. Thanks.”

  Bunny stretched his back out and rolled his head from side to side. “So, when are we going to talk about the other thing?”

  “What other thing?”

  “Who is after you and why?”

  “That’s none of your affair.”

  “’Tis literally the reason I’m here.”

  “No, no, it isn’t. You are here because you refused to leave, and I could not let your stubbornness result in you freezing to death on the steps of my church. Now come on, follow me. We’re going to the gym.”

  Bunny put his mug down and clapped his hands together. “Alright. Now you’re talking. If I win, I get my poteen back.”

  “We are not going to box, Brother McGarry. But you will be taking a much-needed shower.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Bunny put the mop back into the bucket and looked down at the floor. He was pretty sure this was the first time in a long time, possibly ever, that the storeroom of St Theresa’s had been mopped. The basement had a permanent smell of damp that, instead of being removed by the disinfectant, now seemed to form a heady cocktail with it. Over in the corner, the boiler made all manner of clicking and whirring noises and then occasionally juddered in a disturbing manner. There were oil stains on the floor, but despite his best efforts, Bunny could not find one that resembled the face of Jesus. He’d really hoped to proclaim a miracle and take the rest of the day off.

  His limbs ached, but other than that, Bunny was showing no ill effects from having spent a large part of the previous night on the church steps. That morning, Father Gabriel had brought him a bowl of warm porridge, and once he had established that Bunny was fully fit, had set him to work. Bunny was aware he was being punished, but he was fine with it. He had to keep an eye on Father Gabriel, and once the padre had promised not to leave the church grounds without him, Bunny was more than happy to take his punishment.

  Bunny had known a fair few priests in his time – even been friendly with some of them. Gabriel, however, was something different. There was a touch of the zealot about him, even for the Franciscans, who were traditionally at the more ardent end of the scale. Gabriel had been up at 5am and working. Bunny knew his type – the fella had the relentless motor of a little guy who could spend the first fifteen minutes of a game getting run over by his opponent only to grind the guy down by the end. Bunny could respect that. However, Gabriel also seemed to have the sense of humour of a bulldog who’d been booted in the knackers. Bunny had tried to lighten him up a bit with a splash of verbal jousting, but there was simply no craic to the man. No swearing, no drinking, no violence – what kind of rules were they? Did he think Bunny was some primal animal who couldn’t control himself? Having said that, he’d fecking kill someone for a decent pint right about now.

  The one upside of his new religious rebirth as “Brother McGarry” was that he enjoyed the robes. Sure, based as they were on brown sackcloth, they may not set pulses racing at New York Fashion Week, but they were very freeing. Bunny enjoyed the airflow downstairs immensely. He wondered, when exactly did trousers become the one and only option for men? It felt like they were really missing a trick here. He was less keen on the sandals, not least as it’d meant having to cut his toenails, but the robe definitely had something.

  He had tried to engage Gabriel in a discussion on the propriety of going commando, but the prissy little sod had just given him a stern “no” an
d walked out. While Bunny was none the wiser as to who was after the priest, or why, he was beginning to wonder if it was somehow related to his deficient interpersonal skills. He’d had a nose around Gabriel’s room – although the word “cell” seemed more appropriate. He had a bed with the hardest mattress known to man, a chest of drawers containing a spare set of robes, some underwear, one set of street clothes and two Bibles. There was a total lack of any personal mementos. The man didn’t seem to have been born. It was like they’d made him by melting down some old priests and pouring them into a younger man’s body.

  “Brother McGarry!”

  Bunny nearly dropped the mop as he turned to find Gabriel standing behind him. “Shitting hell!”

  “Language!”

  “Sorry, Padre.”

  “What exactly happened between you and Los Diablos Rojos?”

  “Ah, nothing much. We had a discussion about copyright infringement. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

  “Really?” said Gabriel. “Because their leader and two of his goons are outside my church, demanding to speak to you.”

  Bunny propped the mop up against the wall. “Don’t worry, I’ll sort it.”

  Gabriel stepped in front of him, placing his hand on Bunny’s chest. “No, you will not. Remember our agreement, Brother McGarry – no violence.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Gabriel stood inside the large double doors of the church and looked at Bunny. “Whatever happens, stay here.”

  “But—”

  “No buts. I will handle this.” Gabriel pointed over to the rack of yellow beeswax prayer candles to the right of the door. “If you want to do something useful, you can grab a scraper and take the wax from those up off the floor.”

  “You’re going out to handle three gang members and I will be scraping wax? This feels like we’re not using our resources to maximum efficiency, Padre.”

  Gabriel grabbed Bunny’s arm and guided him towards the candles. “Let us be honest, Brother – you have not proven yourself to be a resource. You are currently more of a liability. If you step outside this door, our deal is over. Are we clear?”

  Bunny turned his eyes to heaven and then begrudgingly nodded. “Fine.”

  Gabriel paused with his hand on the door handle. He had to remain calm. Calm could defuse most situations; one of the books he read had said that. He couldn’t remember which one.

  Gabriel took a deep breath and then opened the door.

  “Hello, how may I help you?”

  Three men stood there, looking impatient. To the left stood a man wearing a coat that identified him as the one who had watched them from across the street the night before. To the right stood a bigger guy with the hood of his coat up. Gabriel recognised neither of them, but he knew the man in the centre, more by reputation than through any other means. He wore a designer suit under an expensive-looking coat, and shoes you could probably see your reflection in. While the others scowled, he wore a bright smile and a relaxed demeanour. “Father, we are sorry to disturb you. My name is Alfonso Santana.”

  “I know who you are. You run Los Diablos Rojos.”

  Santana nodded. “Good. I am glad to see my PR team are doing their job.” He gave Gabriel a large smile, which was not returned. “My two associates here are Marcus and Sergio. It appears they had an… unfortunate run-in with a gentleman last week. They inform me this individual entered your church last night and has yet to leave.”

  “What does this man look like?”

  Santana turned his head towards the man standing to the left, who he had identified as Sergio. “He was an older guy, big dude – had a beard.”

  “Yeah,” chimed in Marcus, “and he had a fucked-up eye.”

  Santana turned his head sharply in the other direction, giving an admonishing look.

  “Sorry, but he does.”

  Father Gabriel nodded. “I see. I believe you are referring to Brother McGarry.”

  “Excuse me?” said Santana, surprised. “This gentleman is a priest?”

  “No, not all Franciscans are priests. I am, but he is a brother in our order, having taken a vow of poverty, chastity and obedience.”

  Santana looked at each of his colleagues in turn. Both men squirmed with embarrassment under his glare.

  “He wasn’t dressed like no priest!”

  “Yes,” said Gabriel. “Occasionally when we travel, we have to wear civilian clothes.” This was not the case, but Gabriel was confident these men would not be au fait with the intricacies of Franciscan travel practices.

  Santana shook his head in disbelief and turned back to Gabriel. “Well, it appears your brother got into a violent altercation with my two associates here.”

  “That is regrettable.”

  “It is.”

  “Yes,” said Gabriel. “It is a sad indictment of the lawlessness of Coopersville that a man of God cannot walk the streets without being set upon.”

  “They claim it happened the other way around.”

  Gabriel looked at each of the men in turn. “Really? They claim a Franciscan brother, an older gentleman who has taken religious vows, attacked them unprovoked? Does that strike you as likely, Mr Santana?”

  “Well, why don’t you send him out and we can discuss it?”

  “No,” said Gabriel, “I will not be doing that. Brother McGarry was very shaken up by the experience.”

  “Really?” said Santana. “Because, leaving aside what started this sorry affair, it seems your associate acquired a quantity of money from these two, and a… package.”

  Father Gabriel nodded. “I know nothing about that, although we did receive a large anonymous donation to the church’s roof repair fund recently. Perhaps somebody found this money you mention on the street?”

  Santana’s smile cracked. “It’s still my money.”

  “I’m afraid we have no way of knowing that.”

  “And the… other matter?”

  “As a prominent local businessman, Mr Santana, I am sure you are all too well aware of the scourge drugs are to our community. I know that, personally, if I found such substances, if that is what this was, I would immediately destroy it, or hand it in to the police.”

  Santana moved forward and lowered his voice. “I’m done playing, Father. Send the man out or we go in and get him.”

  Gabriel took a deep breath. “I am aware of what you deal in, Mr Santana. I don’t pretend to understand how such matters work, but I do have one question for you: how will it look if it gets around that two of your men not only attacked but were bested by a frail old Franciscan brother?”

  “Frail!” started Marcus, but a slight turn of Santana’s head silenced him.

  “I would imagine something like that would involve a great loss of face,” said Gabriel, “which would be bad for business, would it not?”

  “Are you threatening me, Father?”

  Gabriel forced himself to maintain eye contact. “No, Mr Santana. I believe you were threatening me.”

  Sergio tapped Santana on the shoulder and pointed at the police patrol car that had just pulled up across the street. Gabriel was relieved; he had told Rosario to call them.

  “And,” Gabriel continued, “if anything were to happen to Brother McGarry or this church, imagine how badly that would play in the press?”

  “Who gives a fuck?” said Marcus.

  Gabriel looked directly at him. “Mr Santana does, because some things get big headlines, and big headlines mean that even the city fathers, who we all know are shamefully content to ignore the crime epidemic in Coopersville, will not ignore that. There would be demands for action, task forces, crackdowns. I would imagine such a state of affairs would be very bad for business. But I could be wrong. I have the number of the journalist who gave us a big write-up in The New York Times recently; I could ring and ask her, if you like?”

  The two patrolmen had now exited their car and were crossing the street, their hands nervously resting on the handles of their holstered
service revolvers.

  Santana gave a big smile and laughed. “I like you, Father. You’re quite a man.”

  “I can’t say the same.”

  “Your friend, though – he can’t stay in there forever, and hey, accidents happen.”

  “Father,” said one of the patrolmen, “is everything alright?”

  Santana turned, his hands held mockingly in the air. “Everything is fine, officers. I was just enquiring about making an ostentatious contribution to the church, but thankfully it seems my money is not needed.”

  Santana and his two men walked down the steps, Santana keeping his eyes fixed on Gabriel the whole time. “We’ll be seeing you real soon, Father.”

  Father Gabriel made the sign of the cross. “I hope the good Lord shows you the error of your ways.”

  Santana turned away, “Likewise, Father. Likewise.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Trey heard the key turn in the lock and was out of bed before the front door opened. He stood in his bedroom doorway and watched as the figure tried to sneak in unheard.

  “Hey, Pocket.”

  Pocket flinched and then relaxed, favouring his brother with a smile. “What’s up, little bro? You should be asleep.”

  “Yeah, I was,” lied Trey. “You know me – always a light sleeper.”

  “True dat.” Pocket came over and gave him a hug. Trey returned it, holding it a second longer than perhaps his brother had wanted. He could smell something sweet and sickly on Pocket’s breath.

  They disengaged.

  “You want something to eat?” asked Trey. “We got plenty of meals in the refrigerator. Mrs Barnes keeps bringing ’em.”

  “Yeah, I’ll grab something.”

  “Let me get it.” Trey pushed by him. “It’s no trouble. You don’t know which is which. Let me…”

  Trey hurried into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. “Let me see: we got linguine, we got rice and beans with some kind of fish thing or we got some of them chicken enchiladas with roasted tomatillo chilli salsa.”

  Trey looked back into the living room where Pocket was now sitting on the couch, looking for the TV remote. “Yeah, whatever’s easy.”