“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.
Knick-Knack
“I don’t want to.”
“Ah, go on. It’s your turn. I’ll keep sketch, I swear.”
“But Joey, it’s really, really dark.”
Joey looked down on his little sister and folded his arms. “I’m the biggest, I say it’s your turn. Or I’m telling Da it was you who broke his crappy CD.”
“It wasn’t me! It was you!” Tears filled Natalie’s eyes but Joey remained unmoved.
“Who cares? Da always believes me. Go on, it’ll be funny.” He pushed his sister forward and hoped Mam wouldn’t catch him. She hated when he got Natalie in trouble. Natalie looked so scared, it was worth the risk.
Natalie gazed up at the dark building and wondered who she was afraid of most, the old woman who lived there or her big brother Joey. She looked at him once more but he was determined, she recognised the cruelness in his eyes. She had her answer.
Natalie took a deep breath and stepped closer to the gate. Daddy always said the old woman who lived in the creepy house at the end of the cul-de-sac was a witch but Mammy said she was a harmless lady who deserved to be left alone. Joey never left her alone, he was always persuading the kids to play knick knack on the woman’s door or throw things at her windows at night.
Joey’s antics made Daddy laugh but Natalie felt bad whenever he did those things. Almost as bad as she felt when he cut her kitten’s ear or burned the tail of his friend’s dog. Joey was mean but he had a knack for getting away with everything. Mammy said he would grow out of it but Natalie looked at her father and wasn’t so sure.
Natalie pushed open the gate and winced as it creaked loudly. A cold breeze whipped through her curls and felt like ice cold fingertips. Her tiny fingers gripped her jacket. She couldn’t turn back or Joey would laugh at her forever. She crept up to the door, pushed herself onto her tippy toes and lifted her hand towards the door bell.
“No, Natalie!” Joey’s sudden shout made Natalie jump, lose her balance and fall against the door with a great thud. Paralysed with fear, she heard Joey running away, and to her horror, the door opened, revealing the old woman who lived there. Shrouded in light, Natalie noticed the woman’s hair was held back with combs that could have been made from bone. She had to be at least a hundred years old and her eyes looked black as she peered down at Natalie.
“What do you want?”
Still frozen, Natalie stared up at the woman, her mouth opening and closing without a sound. The woman looked out beyond her gate, her eyes as sharp as a bird. She sighed, gripped Natalie’s shoulder and pulled her inside, shutting the door behind them.
Natalie gave a little scared squeal which made the woman chuckle. “Don’t worry, child. I’m just giving your brother a little scare. I suppose he tried to make you play knick-knack on my door.”
Natalie nodded, transfixed by the woman’s house. She had a real fire in her living room and no television. Shelves stacked with books lined the walls instead. A cat curled up in front of the fire, its tail visibly scarred with an old scorch wound.
“What happened the kitty?” She couldn’t help asking, despite her fear.
“A bad little boy hurt her once.” The old woman sucked her false teeth and reminded Natalie of her grandfather. That made her feel a little more at ease.
“I’m sorry,” she said, meaning it.
The old woman stared at her then nodded. “Sit down next to my cat for a bit and we’ll scare your brother good and proper. He’ll think I’ve eaten you for dinner
.” The woman winked at Natalie, making her giggle. The idea of scaring Joey held a certain delicious appeal.
“Would you like something to eat, Natalie?”
Natalie sat down next to the sleeping cat and wasn’t surprised the old woman knew her name. She was sure the woman knew lots of things. “Yes, please.”
“Chocolate fudge, maybe?”
“That’s my favourite!”
The old woman smiled. She brought Natalie a plate of bite-sized chunks of chocolate fudge and a glass of sparkling lemonade.
“How come you don’t have a telly?” Natalie asked, feeling braver now she was sure the old woman wasn’t going to hurt her.
“Those things are no good at all. Besides, I have lots of books to read.” The old woman picked up her knitting and click clacked until Natalie felt positively drowsy.
“What are they about?”
The click clacking stopped and the old woman leaned toward Natalie, lowering her voice to a whisper. “Magic.”
Natalie laughed. “My Daddy says there’s no such thing as magic.”
The old woman smiled at Natalie and carried on knitting. “Ah, but he’s wrong. I bet he’s wrong about a lot of things, isn’t he, Natalie?”
Natalie thought about the times her Daddy told her Mammy she was ugly and cold. Natalie’s Mammy was the most beautiful mother in the world and her snuggles were extra warm. Daddy always called Natalie a stupid girl but her teacher said she was the smartest girl in the class. The old woman was right, Daddy really was wrong about a lot of things. She nodded her agreement.
“Well, maybe we can sort that out,” the old woman said. “Did you know, that when your Daddy was small, he was just like your brother?”
Natalie shook her head. Her Dad was mean like Joey so it made sense.
“He used to persuade all of the little children to throw stones at my windows, and he was the one who burned my cat’s tail. He pushed the smaller kids around and liked to hurt animals when nobody was looking. He sounds a lot like Joey, doesn’t he?”
“I suppose so.” Natalie’s pulse quickened. She felt a little guilty, talking about her family. Daddy always said good girls kept secrets.
“Imagine if Joey grew up to be just like your father.”
Natalie gulped. He already did act like Daddy. She was afraid of them both. Grown up Joey would be unbearable. Her face paled as she looked back at the old woman.
“Perhaps if your father wasn’t around, Joey would learn to be a good boy.”
Natalie thought about it. Maybe. If Daddy didn’t push Mammy around then maybe Joey would stop pushing Natalie around. Natalie nodded again and took a sip of her drink.
“Perhaps you would like to make a wish. Just for fun. Think of how life would be if your Daddy wasn’t around to hurt people. And now think of a pet, something you would love.”
Natalie laughed. “A white puppy with brown spots!” Inside her head, she wished her Daddy would go away and leave her mother alone. Maybe Mammy wouldn’t look so sad all the time, maybe Joey would learn that being mean was wrong if Daddy wasn’t there to laugh and egg him on. She sipped her sparkling lemonade and wished and wished and wished.
The old woman took Natalie home after a while. She wasn’t surprised to see a white puppy with brown spots on Natalie’s doorstep. Nor was she surprised when Natalie’s father seemed to vanish off the face of the planet. After a few months, Natalie’s mother stopped looking so pale and the small children stopped playing knick-knack on the old woman’s door.
Joey was good, for a time, and Natalie visited the old woman more often. She ate chocolate fudge, drank sparkling lemonade and read some of the many books while curled up in front of the fire with the old woman’s cat. Sometimes she made wishes and sometimes the wishes came true. Natalie didn’t believe in magic, not really, but whenever anyone hurt her, she went to the old woman’s house to eat chocolate fudge and drink sparkling lemonade.
When Joey turned sixteen, the memory of his father had faded and his mean streak revealed itself again. Natalie sported bruises and her cheeks were pale with fear while Joey now urged the younger kids to drink beer and throw empty cans at the creepy old house down the end of the cul-de-sac.
The old woman wasn’t surprised when Natalie came to her house to eat chocolate fudge and drink sparkling lemonade once again. Nor was she surprised when Joey disappeared and a tiny calico kitten appeared on Natalie’s doorstep. Karma was a witch.
Procession
Selena Davis had a face like stone as she led her father’s funeral procession. Her mother could barely walk, shamed her, she did.
Selena could feel sorry for her little brother, Eamon, but not her mother. Not when she had spent every day nagging at the man. Nagging for money, nagging whenever he went to the pub; she even nagged when he was caught dealing. As if he wasn’t doing it for her, for money, for the family, to stop her nagging in the first place.
Her mother was the one who pushed him into it; and the one who turned her back when he needed her. Now he was dead, dumped naked and bloody in the Grand Canal. All. Her. Fault.
Selena sneered while her mother wailed, frowned while the priest sang the praises of a man he never even knew. “A good man, a father and a husband.” Like that was the most important thing in life. To be a husband.
The worst part was knowing the people who murdered him were probably in the church, looking pious. Knowing they were untouchable.
The people who knew her own father was dead before she did sat in the front rows. Scurrying rats, they fought to be the first to tell her all about it. Human locusts, they fed on the pain of others, feasted upon the look on her face when she found out her father was dead. She could only imagine the high they had gotten when Eamon had to be sedated.
The poor kid hadn’t slept properly since. He had to have the lights on all night and even then he woke, screaming from night terrors. Looking at his pale little face, she couldn’t believe he would ever be the same happy-go-lucky kid again.
She couldn’t comfort him, not when the emptiness inside her kept growing, eating away at anything that made her happy. The world had been a whole spectrum of colour. Now it was a dreary shade of grey. The sky was overcast and the incessant drizzle served to make her even more miserable. It was like the earth itself had given up hope.
The world deserved to be punished. Her father deserved justice. But neither would happen and she was just a kid. A nobody. And her mother didn’t care. Not really. She played up the tears knowing the neighbours would send around an envelope, maybe bring some food. Nobody cared, they wanted an excuse to gossip and get the dirt and, by God, her mother was only itching to spread it.
At the wake, Selena grabbed a naggin of vodka and hid in her room with Janice, her best friend. She couldn’t feel happiness, didn’t want to feel sadness so she would aim for comfortably numb. Janice took tiny sips of the alcohol but Selena discovered that knocking back mouthfuls didn’t taste quite as poisonous. The heat turned into a nice warm sensation that shrouded her from the pain. The bitterness still penetrated her soul, no amount of vodka could wash away those feelings.
“Maybe we should go back down, get something to eat,” Janice said.
Selena shrugged. The room was a little hazier and maybe she was a bit hungry now. Maybe it would piss her mother off if she could tell Selena had been drinking. It would be a miracle if she even noticed.
They went downstairs, Selena giggling loudly on the way. Nothing was funny but it got her noticed. A few of the neighbours pursed up their lips, making the lines around their mouths more pronounced. Others whispered together and pointed which made Selena feel all the more rebellious. Grown up.
She flounced over to her mother and felt the blood run from her face. Her little brother was in bed, sick with grief; yet her mother, twisted with drink, was all over Graeme Moore. Her fingers stroked his thigh and her bra was showing. Selena’s stomach turned. Her Dad only dead and already her Ma was acting like a total slapper. Two c
an play at that game.
Selena wanted . . . something. Graeme Moore was hideous but he was loaded. All of his gang were. If her mother wanted him, Selena would take him first. Out of spite. Anything to soothe the acid, to fill the empty space, to do something that meant she wouldn’t have to think about her Da in a box under the dirt and her Ma pissing on his memory.
She had always told herself she was saving her virginity for someone special, for love, for the right time. Who gave a fuck about any of that now? Those days were over and if letting some randomer inside her could distract her for a while then it was worth it. Anything was worth it. Anything that blocked out emotion was fine by her.
Selena rolled up the waist of her skirt and yanked down her top until more of her small cleavage showed. She ignored Janice and made her move, standing in front of her mother with a cocked hip.
“Shouldn’t you go check on Eamon?” Selena said, loud enough for everyone to hear. Her mother’s cheeks and nose were flushed red, a little mascara ran under her eyes. The woman looked around to see who was paying attention. Everyone. She couldn’t neglect her son now. Selena knew how to play the game well.
“I was just about to,” her mother said, glaring back at Selena. The widow rose out of her seat, her movements slow and awkward. As soon as she moved away, Selena took her seat and held Graeme’s gaze. He looked back with interest, slipping his arm around the back of her chair.
“Little Selena, all growed up,” he said, his breath stale with drink and cigarettes.
A smile froze on her face. “Bit boring here, isn’t it?”
He shrugged. “I’m heading to a house party in a few.”
“Not inviting me?” She tried to sound sultry but it came out different.
“Might be a bit too grown up for you love. Wouldn’t want you to run home crying.”
She snorted. “Yeah, right. Give us a lift then.”
“Who’s us?”
She jerked her head towards her friend. “Janice and me. Whatcha say?”
Sixty Seconds Page 2