by Lovell, LP
“Well, good.”
I frown. “Good?”
A small smile touches her lips, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “You look like shit, and you’ve been drunk for the last month.” She shrugs one shoulder. “You need something.” I chew my bottom lip, feeling like such a failure because she’s right — I’m a mess. “Hey, look, if the church helps…Millions of people turn to faith for guidance. They can’t all be wrong.”
It’s ridiculous because, for the first time since the morning when I heard Izzy was dead, I feel a sense of peace. The church did that for me. He did that for me, with his calming voice and his reverent presence.
“Thanks, Tiff. I’m going to try and sleep a little.”
I don’t manage to sleep, but my mind is a little clearer, and that tiny window through the fog gives me so much hope I could cry. The problem is, I’m terrified of the moment that it clouds again. So I google St. Mary’s Church, Hammersmith. It pulls up a website, and I look at the schedule.
A few hours later, I make a to-go coffee, minus the Bailey’s, and take the tube to uni. My head is pounding, and I’m not sure if it’s from the vodka last night or my sudden cold turkey withdrawal from alcohol after weeks of depending on it. I barely take in anything the lecturer says again, and I can feel myself getting anxious. It’s like there’s this horrible, dark, sludginess living in me, and it’s been temporarily pushed down, but it’s rising again. I don’t know what to do, but this seems like a reasonable path for now. Surely it has to get better? Just one day at a time. Get through it and move onto the next.
When class is over, I’m practically jogging to the Piccadilly tube station. I don’t even go home, just make my way straight to the church. As soon as I set foot inside that building, everything calms. Breathing becomes a little easier, and my heart rate levels out, becoming more regular and steady. There are a couple of people in the pews, their heads bowed in prayer. An older lady lights a candle in front of the statue of the Virgin, crossing herself as she mutters words under her breath.
Seeing the confessional, I make my way over, like a moth to a flame. That tiny little box suddenly feels like my only safe place. I looked on their website, so I know they take confessional between two and five in the afternoon. Stepping inside, I pull the curtain closed. It’s only a piece of material, but as soon as it’s drawn, the outside world disappears, and everything shrinks. To this wooden booth, to me, and the man on the other side of the partition, to that secret bond we share at this moment. I’m not a believer, but I feel the power in it.
I try to remember what the priest told me to do. Cross myself. “Forgive me, father, for I have sinned,” I breathe. “It’s been one day since my last confession.”
“Go on, child,” a rough northern voice says.
It’s not him, and gutting disappointment cuts me to my core. I swallow around the sudden lump in my throat, and I don’t think I realised just how much I needed this. Not necessarily the church, or even confession, but him. And I don’t understand that because he’s a stranger. We spoke for no more than half an hour, but he brought me calm. There was something in his eyes that I wholeheartedly believed. When he spoke, he could have been the voice of God himself.
If I confess to this man, will it be the same? I already know the answer. No. Why is that? He was just a priest, the same as the man on the other side of this partition.
“I…I need to go.”
Stumbling from the confessional, I walk out of the church without looking back. I leave without my fix, without the forgiveness that I so desperately need.
* * *
The next day, I stand just inside the doorway of the church, inhaling the thick spicy smell of the incense. I’m jittery and nervous, and I don’t know why. Sunlight spills through the stained-glass windows, lighting a path in front of me like a real holy apparition. It’s beautiful, enlightening, uplifting.
My heeled boots click over the uneven stone floor, and my steps falter as I glance at the confessional. It’s such an inconspicuous thing, the dark wood of the booth dwarfed by the colossal size of the building it sits in. The heavy green velvet fabric of the curtains has now faded almost to grey, years of sunlight stealing its vibrancy.
Taking a deep breath, I wait until an older lady leaves the booth, and I take her place. Once again, I immerse myself in the quiet, the seclusion, and the overwhelming sense of something other. My heart pounds in my chest, and I’m nervous, but I don’t know why.
I cross myself. “Forgive me, father, for I have sinned,” I whisper. “It has been two days since my last confession.”
“I will hear your confession.”
That deep melodic voice washes over my senses like a soothing balm, and I release a breath I hadn’t realised I was holding. I almost forget why I even came, as though my purpose was simply to hear his voice.
“I came here the other night, and…you made it better,” I say. “You probably don’t remember me,” I stutter.
“I remember, Delilah.” My heart thumps heavily, and I say nothing for long moments until the silence starts to feel oppressive.
“I came yesterday, to confess, but it wasn’t you, so...” I stumble awkwardly. “I left.”
“I’m glad I could help.” I hate that I can’t see him, can’t judge his reactions.
“You did.”
There’s a moment of silence and then a low laugh from him. “Are you going to confess?”
“Can I confess the same sin twice?”
“If you do not feel you are truly repentant or forgiven, then yes, you can confess as many times as you like.”
“Then I did a horrible thing, and I can’t forgive myself.”
“God forgives all, Delilah.”
I nod to myself and tears prickle against the backs of my eyes. “Even those who don’t believe in him?”
“He believes in you.” And in those words, I hear that he believes in me; the mysterious priest with the disarming smile and a strange calmness to him. For some reason, his belief has so much value.
“Thank you, father.”
I stand and open the curtain before leaving the church. I want to turn around and go back. I want to force the priest to tell me it’ll be okay because right now he seems to be the only person that can make me feel like it actually will be. Call it a coping mechanism, a fix, a band-aid, but, right now, it’s all I have. And this is how I know that I’m truly losing it because I’m turning to a man of a faith I don’t even have to help me.
7
Judas
“Forgive me, father, for I have sinned. It has been two days since my last confession.”
I smile, instantly recognising her voice, soft and well spoken, undoubtedly feminine.
“I will hear your confession,” I repeat the words I’ve probably spoken hundreds if not thousands of times. Mundane words meant as a service to God, but they feel wrong with her. Devoid. I lean forward, tilting my head slightly towards the partition because I don’t want to miss a word.
“I did a horrible thing, and I can’t forgive myself.”
Five days. She’s been in here for the last five days like clockwork. I’m not even supposed to be here this afternoon, but I came in. For this. For her. Because in such a short time, she’s become an obsession of sorts. She came the last time Father Daniels was taking confession, but she wouldn’t confess to him. Only me. And that does something to me. Five days and she always says the same thing. I did a horrible thing, and I can’t forgive myself. And every day, I give her the same bullshit response, waiting. Patiently waiting for the moment when she spills her dark secrets to me.
Until then, we’re both pretending, both playing a role. Maybe she needs that right now, to be the lost lamb, seeking her shepherd. Whatever eats away at her day after day, she never gives it voice, but she will. One day. And oh, how I’ve come to long for that moment.
Each time she comes here, I’m on edge, waiting, desperate to hear the truth fall from her lips. I want to know what
she did. I want to believe that this girl, the pretty girl with the sad eyes, is, in fact, corrupt. As corrupt as me, even? The thought shouldn’t be so thrilling.
I press my back to the solid wood behind me, forcing myself to remain there and not lean forward, not to catch just a glimpse of her face.
“God forgives those who truly repent, Delilah,” I say, like a broken record. At this point, she usually leaves, but not today.
“I do repent.”
No, she doesn’t. That’s what’s so intriguing about her. “Then why do you come here every day?”
“Because I don’t want to feel like this.”
“Then just stop.”
“I can’t!”
I smile. “Why do you think people confess, Delilah?”
“To make themselves feel better?”
“No, because if I tell them they’re forgiven then it allows them the freedom of a guilt-free conscience.”
“But what if I deserve the guilt?” There’s nothing I love more than someone who puts themselves on the cross.
“If you think that, then you will continue to carry it.”
“I don’t know how to change it,” she whispers.
“You simply step away from the whipping post, Delilah.”
There’s a beat of silence then her hand presses up against the divider, the intricate mesh pressing into the milky skin of her palm. The urge to touch her creeps up on me, whispering in my ear what a perfect little sinner she is, how beautiful, how sad.
“Thank you, father,” she says before her hand slides away and she leaves the booth.
* * *
“I’m off.” I glance up from the paperwork in front of me. Father Daniels is lingering in the doorway, a friendly smile on his rosy face. I suspect he hits the wine a little too hard. His greying hair is shaved close to his head, and his dog collar cuts into his pudgy neck. “Are you okay doing that?” He nods towards the papers.
I offer what I hope is a friendly smile. “I’m fine. Good night.”
“Night.” He shuffles away, and I go back to the papers, which would appear to be the churches work, but is in fact, my own.
This time it’s the funding of a school in Puerto Rico, which of course will never actually happen. Running money through a church is like taking candy from a baby as they say. Put money in one end as anonymous donations, it comes out the other as a charitable project with the money going to a blanket company’s off-shore account.
My phone rings, the shrill sound echoing around the church office.
“Yeah?”
“Judas, it’s Reno.” Reno runs one of the street gangs in South London. He moves a lot of product for me, a crucial link in the chain.
“Reno. How are you?” I keep my voice low, just in case.
“Look, I’ve got to be straight with you, The Italians offered me a deal,” he says in his coarse cockney accent. The fucking Moretti family are raping me on a daily basis at the moment.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, biting back a groan. “How much?”
“Ten percent less.”
“I’ll match it, but keep it quiet.”
“Alright.” He hangs up, and I slam my fist against the desk. Shit!
I’m getting screwed from multiple angles. First with Fire closing, and I have no idea when the authorities will cut the miles of red tape they’ve got me wrapped up in. There’s a police investigation. It’s a mess. The knock-on effect is that several clients then got windy and started buying from the Italians. And now, they’re trying to take the remaining clients that I have. There’s a reason my family has reigned this city for the last thirty years though. We’re strategic, and we’re powerful, and someone in the family always has a string they can pull. The problem is, a Kingsley never does something for nothing. Family or not.
Dragging both hands through my hair, I tilt my head back and release a long breath. There’s only one person I can ask for help with this, and luckily she owes me a favour.
I dial the number programmed on speed dial and place it to my ear, listening to it ring.
Someone picks up but says nothing. “It’s Judas Kingsley. I need to speak to Myrina,” I say. The line cuts off, and I wait.
My entire family is crazy and paranoid, but it’s what keeps them, us, at the top of the food chain.
Myrina Kingsley is, to the outside world, the woman everyone wants to either be or have: beautiful, charming, and wealthy. That side of the family own half of London: hotels, nightclubs, bars, restaurants, and property. Myrina even owns a fifty-one percent share in a pharmaceutical company, so she can provide cheap medicine to her charity, which aids third world countries. To everyone looking in, she’s the sweet heiress using her family’s money to make the world a better place. Little do they know…Myrina Kingsley is a force of nature disguised as a rainbow. A drug lord. The daughter of Richard Kingsley, former drug lord and now mayoral electorate. How times change. Either way, Myrina needs only make a phone call to Uncle Rick, and he’ll do whatever she wants. Including getting my club re-opened.
My burner rings with an unknown number, and I answer it.
“Hello?”
“Judas, it’s been a minute,” my cousin purrs, and I can imagine the sensual curve of her lips, and her twisting a piece of her long blonde hair around her finger as she speaks. She can’t help it, she’s been raised to use everything at her disposal to get what she wants, and she does. There’s the sudden sound of loud music before it cuts off again. It’s Friday night, so she’ll be at her nightclub in Soho: Suave. It’s one of the hottest clubs in the city of course. Nothing less would do.
“I need a favour, Myrina.”
She lets out a small laugh. “Of course you do.”
“I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t necessary.”
“It must be bad if you’re coming to me. You and Saint still not kissed and made up?”
“Saint doesn’t owe me a favour.”
There’s a beat of silence, the acknowledgement of our shared, dark secret. I have never asked Myrina for anything, and we both know she owes me ten times over.
“What do you need?” she asks, all traces of the joking girl disappearing, replaced by the ruthless businesswoman she really is, the daughter of a crime boss. A Kingsley.
“Fire; up and running as soon as possible. I know you can pull strings.”
“And what are you going to do for me?”
“I thought I just made that clear. You owe me. Five years to be exact.”
“I never asked you for a thing, Judas,” she snaps. No, she didn’t. I never intended to use this against her, but I know Myrina. She trades in blood and favours.
“Then call it a freebie to your favourite cousin.”
“Well, if I hand out favours to you, then I’ll have to do it for everyone. Then I look weak, and people ask questions.” There’s a pause. “You promised me, Judas.”
“I’m not breaking that promise. Just pull some strings.”
“Fine, but I am going to need something in return. You know I’ll have to go to Daddy, and he’ll ask.”
“What do you want?” I sigh, tiring of Myrina’s endless games.
She laughs, the tinkling high notes like wind chimes catching on the breeze. “Ten percent. He knows I only act in my own interest, so…ten percent of Fire.” She pauses, releasing a long breath. “Remember, I have a reputation to uphold.” A reputation as a stone-cold bitch. My baby cousin isn’t the fragile teenage girl she once was.
“Five.”
“Seven and a half. I’m letting you off lightly because it’s not in my nature to screw a man of God.”
“Five, and I won’t tell your father that you lost your virginity to your teacher.” When she was fifteen.
She gasps. “You wouldn’t.”
“Desperate times, Myrina.”
“Fine. Five.”
“Fine, and you’re not using it as a cleaner.”
She snorts. “I’ll settle for just taking your stuff,” sh
e drawls. The last thing she needs is more property. “Well, as always Judas, it’s a pleasure. Watch your back,” she drops as a final threat before hanging up.
8
Delilah
Tiff comes in and chucks her bag down next to the sofa before collapsing into the cushions. Her blonde hair is falling out of a ponytail, and she looks stressed.
“God, that was a horrible lecture.”
“Social sciences?”
She rolls her eyes. “Of course. I’m ordering pizza. Want some?”
“Sure.”
She takes out her phone and starts tapping away on the screen. I hear the front door click open and slam shut again, before Summer and a girl I don’t recognise walk in.
“This is Trisha,” Summer says, her voice stooped low. “Trisha, this is Tiffany and Delilah.” Trisha nervously shoves her glasses up her nose, hunching her shoulders. Dark corkscrew curls spill out of her head, and she’s wearing a t-shirt with Yoda on the front.
“Hey.” I offer her a small wave and Tiff smiles, but her eyes dart towards me. Then I notice Summer flashing me fleeting glances. There’s a tension in the air. “What’s going on?” I ask.
It’s Tiff who steps forward, rubbing her hand over the back of her neck. “Look, Lila, we’re struggling to make up the rent…”
Oh my god. “You’re replacing her,” I whisper.
They both visibly flinch. “It’s not like that,” Tiff pipes up.
“She was your cousin,” I snap at Summer. “How can you just…replace her?”
“You act like you’re the only one who cared about her, Delilah! Like we’re bad people for going on with our lives. Would you rather we just rack ourselves up in debt?”
“Summer,” Tiff tries to interrupt.
“Oh no, that’s right, you haven’t been paying the extra rent because you’ve been so busy getting drunk and falling apart.”
I glance from Tiff to Summer and finally to Trisha who looks mortified.
“Delilah.” Tiff places her hand on my arm.