“Forgive me father, for I have sinned. It’s been . . . years since my last confession. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”
“That’s alright, son. The Lord welcomes you with forgiving arms, never forget that. It’s nice to see you back.” Father Pat clasped his hands together, hoping his words rang true. After this confession, a break. A nice cup of coffee laced with a drop of whiskey would get him through the day.
“Really, father, I’m sorry. I’ve fucked up, fucked up big time.” The priest heard the anxiety in the young man’s voice and groaned inwardly. Not another one.
“Not to worry, penance will fix everything.” The priest tried to tell him but the man wouldn’t listen. They never did. Not anymore.
“I killed him, father. In cold blood. It was me or him, I swear to you!”
Father Pat rolled his eyes. These youngsters, always so dramatic, with their sex and their rap music and all that shoving powder up their nose. It was better in the old days, when the biggest problems in his confession box were the drink and a few battered wives who wouldn’t dare talk about it anywhere else.
Once upon a time, the youngsters came to his confession box in their droves telling him how they cheeked their mammy or stole a pound from their Da’s wallet. Now? Nobody came to the church, only the old ladies looking for gossip and the devout foreigners. The foreigners were keeping the church going – shivering together in the depths of winter when there wasn’t enough money to turn on the radiators.
The young lad was panting, Father Pat could hear him. “Are you alright there, son?”
“Father, did you not hear me? I killed a man.”
“Ah, well, I’m sure you’re sorry.” The priest’s stomach growled. A nice pub dinner might be in order.
The confessor banged his hands against the grate. “Why does nobody care? It’s a big fucking deal! He’s dead, he’s dead, I told you!”
“Language, boyo. This is God’s house.” No respect. None at all.
The lad wept next to him. The sound of sorrow made Father Pat uncomfortable. I’m too old for this.
“Now, now, it’s time to move on. What’s done is done. Jesus loves all his children. Quick now, go home and do your penance and all will be well. Hurry, it’s someone else’s turn.”
“There’s nobody else out there, you doddery old fool! Fuck you and your penance!” The lad kicked the door open and stalked away. Father Pat blessed himself.
Muttering under his breath and holding his hands together to stop them shaking, he decided a pub dinner was definitely in order.
He drove carefully to the pub that served the most generous portions. His eyesight was going so he had no choice but to drive slowly. The pub was a nice warm relief from the cold outside, the cold in the church, the cold that sank into his skin in the confessional box, the cold that warned him God was ready to take him home. But the priest was not ready for that.
“Ah, Father Pat, the usual?” The priest’s heart sank when he saw the ugly server approach him.
“I suppose so. A nice big piece of steak and extra gravy on the mash.”
“Would you like a drink, father?”
“Maybe a little one.”
Father Pat savoured every mouthful of his meal. The meat was barely cooked, pink and moist and delicious. He sank down two pints with his food and felt his body warm up slightly. Apart from that niggling chill deep inside, the one that irked at his conscience.
After the meal, Father Pat lingered at the counter, hoping someone would offer to pay for it. Nobody did. He reluctantly headed to the exit when a large hand slapped him on the back, making him choke out a cough.
“Alright, Father Pat! Here, I’ll buy you a pint, sit down next to us.”
The priest sat in the middle of a group of young men and tried to figure out who owned them all. When they put a pint in front of him, he stopped caring.
One of them, Graeme, he called himself, kept a full glass in front of the priest for the next few hours. They laughed and joked and made sleazy remarks that made Father Pat snort into his pint. But his thoughts kept going back to the confession box. How could he enjoy his pint when there were so many crazed youths running around the parish?
In the bathroom, he hurried to unzip himself before he had an accident.
“Old age,” he said, smiling apologetically to the lad at the urinal next to him.
“Fuck you, Father,” the young man said with venom in his eyes. Father Pat started, urine dripping onto the leg of his trousers as he realised it was the same lad who had confessed to him. Fury in the boy’s eyes burned Father Pat to the core, melting the chill. He hurriedly fixed himself and left the pub, slipping on his way to his car.
“Drank more than I thought,” he said to himself, shaking with nerves. The lad stood at the door of the pub, just staring at him.
That’s why the priest reversed his car in such a hurry and why he broke the speed limit on the way home.
The fact he couldn’t control his car when it swerved onto the other side of the road and smashed into another car, wiping out a family, was probably down to the alcohol.
The fact he died instantly and didn’t have to live with his conscience was a gift from God.