10

‘Bless me Father, for I have sinned.’

‘Paula, there’s no need for you to come to the confessional box.’ She heard the smile in Father Joe’s voice. ‘I’ll do you a home visit.’

‘I’ll have to get one of them voice modifier things so you don’t recognise me next time.’ Then, because this was a regular thing between them, ‘And, anyway, I’m not sure I’d ever get used to confessing to you face to face.’

‘Voice modifier? You’ll sound like that scientist fella, Stephen Hawkeye.’

‘Hawking.’

‘Who’s the Hawkeye guy then?’

‘Isn’t he in those Marvel movies?’

‘Is his first name Stephen?’

Paula smiled despite herself. She knew he was joking. Knew this was Joe trying to help her – to tell her they could still play, that they didn’t have to change their relationship because Thomas was gone. But it all felt like a huge effort to her.

She felt her knees ache on the hard wood of the knee stool. Trust the Catholic Church to make confession physically, as well as mentally, uncomfortable, she thought. She shifted slightly and leaned back to look at the crucifix on the wall above the meshed window through which she and Father Joe were talking.

The silence lengthened between them as Paula wondered what to say. How to say it. She replayed the knowing look on Cara’s face – the one that said, You know something was wrong back then, don’t you? And should she tell him about the phone calls and the computer-hacking incident? She discounted doing that. He had enough on his plate.

‘Too soon?’ Father Joe asked, his voice heavy with sympathy. From his tone, it was as if he wanted nothing more than to move across to her side of the cubicle, rest his chin on the top of her head, allow her to burrow into his chest and share a soothing hug.

‘For humour?’ answered Paula. ‘That was always how you Gadd boys said you loved each other. A round of comedy and cutting insults. I might not be strong enough right now to keep up with the jokes, Joe, but if I ever lose my funny bone, please just put me in a box and tip it into a big hole.’

‘Want anything in the box with you?’

‘A bottle of that fine gin you brought over the other day, and a straw.’

‘The straw will come in handy, you know, when the oxygen starts to be depleted.’

Paula started to cry. Leaned forwards and pressed her forehead against the knuckles of her clasped hands. Through the mesh she heard Joe join her.

‘It’s tough, eh?’ she managed to say.

A sniff. A cough. And then through a tight throat, Joe managed to say, ‘Aye.’ One syllable that wore several octaves.

‘Is it bad that I hate him, Joe? Is it awful that I’m so bloody tired of crying all the time?’

‘Do you hate him, or are you angry with him?’

‘A little of both,’ Paula said without thinking. ‘I’m furious at him for dying. For leaving me here. How silly is that? But there’s something else … something I could hate him for … I heard something today that makes me think my marriage might have been, well, not what I thought it was.’ And Paula was back in the kitchen with Cara, listening to the girl speak, unwilling to take it all in, but nevertheless hearing the truth in the girl’s tone and seeing it in the cast of her eyes, the shape her body made as she spoke. Quick words. Clipped. Each with the power to wound.

‘My husband wasn’t a saint.’ Paula had said to Cara. ‘But that doesn’t make him a gangster.’

‘No, that’s where the intimidation and murder come in.’

Paula read it in the young woman’s eyes: Thomas had killed her brother; she was convinced of it.

‘Don’t listen to gossip, Paula.’ Joe’s voice interrupted her thoughts. ‘That way madness lies.’

‘Maybe I have to get through the madness before I can deal with all of this,’ she replied.

‘Do you want a side of Hail Marys to go with the insanity thing?’

‘Throw in a couple of Our Fathers and it’s a deal.’

And they were both back on a temporary even keel.

Paula stood up and the stool protested at the movement.

‘Hey,’ said Joe. ‘I’ve got a very large frozen pizza that I need to share with someone. Want to join me? Or are you rushing off?’

‘Thanks, Joe, sounds like an offer a lady shouldn’t refuse, but there’s something I need to do.’ She needed to be on her own to consider Cara’s words, and work out if there was any truth in them. The young woman believed them. That certainty was stamped through everything she said. And she hadn’t been accusatory, attacking or bitter. She had been firm and controlled. Genuine. It had moved Paula in a way that vicious words wouldn’t have.

She left the cubicle and walked to the church foyer, her footsteps ringing in the hallowed air like an announcement. Here she comes. Here she comes. Refusing to face the truth.

Other footsteps joined the echo of hers. More rapid. Heavier.

Joe reached her at the door and placed a hand on her arm.

‘Is that it?’ His eyes searched hers. ‘You came all this way to confess you’re angry with Tommy?’

Paula managed to meet his gaze, and thought, you’re far too clever for your own good, Joe Gadd. She debated telling him what she’d learned, but he looked like he needed a few days under his duvet. Or a few weeks. His skin was grey; his eyes looked as if just opening them caused them to ache.

Instead of saying anything more she reached up onto her tiptoes. He read her movement and leaned down, she pressed her lips against the scratch of his cheek.

‘You give yourself a day off, Father Joe,’ she said. Then she shrugged his hand off, pulled the main door open and walked outside to the chill air, blare of traffic and the ache and low drone of her conscience.

He followed her out. ‘Paula,’ he shouted, and caught her before she reached her car. ‘Hey,’ he said, ‘talk to me.’

She rubbed her eyes. ‘If you knew Thomas had been up to no good would you tell me?’

He took a step back towards the church, buried his hands deep in the pockets of his black trousers.

‘Joe?’ she demanded.

‘What?’ he forced himself to look at her.

‘Would you tell me?’

‘I loved my brother, Paula, but I’d be lying if I said he was a saint.’