I Confess

by Alex Barclay

  Mrs Lynch knelt in the confession box, her rosary beads wrapped around her clasped hands, her head bowed.

  ‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,’ she said. ‘I have a rage inside me my whole life. And I feel it like bones. And if it was taken out of me … like that, I’d be a heap on the floor. It keeps me upright. That’s what it does at this stage – keeps me upright.’

  She closed her eyes and breathed in air tinged with incense and furniture polish.

  ‘I hate him, Father. I hate him. I hate my own child.’ She looked up. ‘I hate the child that I screamed for nineteen hours to bring into this world.’

  She drifted in the silence that followed. She had been half-expecting to feel the shift in the air as Father Owens made the sign of the cross through the grille, the warmth of his breath as he delivered a penance to fit her sins. But there was no one on the other side of the grille. The other side wasn’t even open.

  She reached down and picked up the can of polish she had set on the kneeler and sprayed a fine mist of it on to the oak panel beside her. She removed a soft yellow cloth from the pocket of her apron and moved it in wide arcs across it, losing herself in the motion of making something shine in the dark place that swallowed up sins.

  49

  Edie stood in the middle of the bedroom, looking around, panicked.

  ‘If I’m going to go to get help,’ she said, ‘If I’m going to leave you, I can’t … leave you sitting here like—’

  ‘You don’t have time!’ said Helen. ‘We don’t have time.’

  ‘We do!’ said Edie. ‘We do. We can …’ She looked at Helen, panicked. ‘I don’t think I can do it. I don’t think I can make it over there. To Val. What am I going to say to her? Dylan is there! What am I going to do? Burst into them in the middle of the night, and say—’

  ‘Oh, God, Edie.’

  ‘What?’ said Edie. ‘But … how is that going to …’ She looked around the room. ‘OK, OK. Think. Think.’

  ‘I have thought!’ said Helen. ‘Go. For the love of God – go.’

  ‘I can’t bear it!’ said Edie. ‘I can’t bear the idea that he would come in here and do something to you! Because of me! And where are the others? Where are they? Why has no one come to …’

  Helen looked at her. ‘Because it’s you: you are the only person who can do this.’

  Patrick walked into the suite.

  ‘I can see by your grave faces, you were only … you were reading my notebook. I should have put those KEEP OUT! PRIVATE! stickers on it that used to come free with the cereal at the time.’

  Edie grabbed the notebook from the bed and ran to Patrick, pushing it against his chest. ‘Take it. Just take it. I don’t care. We didn’t read it. We’ve never seen it. Take it and go. I don’t care about Terry. We’ll deal with it.’

  ‘Who?’ said Patrick. ‘You and Johnny?’

  ‘Yes!’ said Edie. Her eyes sparked with fear. ‘Where—’

  ‘—is Johnny?’ said Patrick. ‘Taking steps to rehabilitate himself.’

  ‘What?’ said Edie. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Johnny’s fine,’ said Patrick. ‘Don’t worry about Johnny. But I’m a bit offended. Because I was under the impression that you didn’t care too much about Johnny.’

  ‘I never said that,’ said Edie.

  ‘The things we never say are often the real things, aren’t they?’ said Patrick. ‘They’re like little pools of water that can suddenly form into an ice cube, nice and solid, visible … at the right temperature. And you can pop them out and everyone can see them. Or … if the temperature is scorching … inside you … they can be mirages.’ He paused. ‘Do you care about me, Edie?’

  Edie stared at him. Helen stared at a hummingbird on her duvet cover.

  ‘I … yes,’ said Edie.

  ‘Really?’ said Patrick.

  She nodded. ‘Yes.’ She held out the notebook to him. ‘Take this,’ she said. ‘It was thirty years ago.’

  Patrick didn’t move.

  ‘Why won’t you take it?’ said Edie.

  Patrick didn’t reply.

  ‘Why are you doing this to me?’ said Edie. ‘Are you trying to … why don’t you take it?’

  Patrick was looking through her.

  ‘I’m losing my mind,’ said Edie. She stood up and turned to Helen. ‘I’m losing my fucking mind.’ She raised the notebook over her head and slammed it on to the floor. It bounced and landed open, pages down. The impact cracked the old glue and a rush of pages slid from between the covers, spreading out across the floor.

  ‘Did you find yourself in there?’ said Patrick, glancing down.

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ said Edie.

  ‘Is it “unpleasant”?’ said Patrick. ‘Did you find yourself? Have you been to … you?’ He smiled. ‘Fucking look at me!’ he roared.

  Edie’s head snapped up.

  ‘Thank you!’ said Patrick. ‘You usually don’t have a problem with that. Over your shoulder, from below …’

  ‘Don’t,’ said Edie.

  ‘Answer my question – did you find yourself?’

  Edie nodded.

  ‘Did you recognize yourself?’ said Patrick.

  Edie didn’t reply.

  Patrick turned to Helen. ‘She didn’t, did she? Did you break it to her?’

  ‘What’s the fucking point of all this?’ said Edie, standing up, turning to him. ‘What’s the point?’

  ‘Do you remember when you broke my arm?’ said Patrick.

  Edie frowned.

  Patrick turned to Helen and nodded. ‘She did.’

  ‘I didn’t break your arm,’ said Edie. ‘I—’

  ‘Pulled me by the leg when I was sitting in a tree, and I fell, and I broke my arm. And you made me not tell anyone, and I didn’t.’ He turned back to Helen. ‘And it never came up again! Not even recently! She has literally been lying naked inside an arm that she broke! Running her finger along the scar! And not a word! He looked at Edie. Did you think I’d forgotten? Seriously? Have you ever had your arm broken? It comes with a searing fucking time print branded on it. Especially when you’re eight years old! Especially when the pretty new girl in school does it! Jesus. I couldn’t have had any less friends, but imagine going in to school and announcing that Edie Kerr, this angel who has bestowed herself upon us, broke my arm—’

  ‘It was an accident,’ said Edie. ‘I was only—’

  ‘Pulling my leg?’ said Patrick. He smiled. ‘We do need a replacement Murph.’

  ‘What?’ said Helen. She locked eyes with Edie. ‘No!’

  They stared at Patrick, wide-eyed.

  ‘No!’ said Edie, storming over to him. ‘No!’ She shoved his chest hard. ‘No! Why? Why? Why? You fucking psychopath!’

  ‘Finally!’ said Patrick. ‘Finally! I’ll take it! I’ll fucking take “psychopath’! Jesus Christ, Edie. It was Hansel and Gretel. It was like laying down breadcrumbs and watching someone pick them up, eat them, and wander back to the fucking gingerbread house.’ He shook his head. ‘Despite all the red flags I raised. Actively raised. In fact, I didn’t just raise them. I stabbed you in the face with the flagpoles.’

  A breeze blew in from outside.

  Edie frowned. ‘Is that … smoke? Is that fire?’

  Helen slammed her hands on to the covers. ‘What’s that smell?’ she roared. ‘What’s that smell?’

  Patrick looked at her. ‘Do you want the Murph answer?’

  50

  Smoke was rising from behind the confession boxes. Murph ran over to the door to the left of the altar, into the porch, and pulled at it. ‘Locked,’ he said. ‘Fuck.’

  ‘Oh God,’ said Laura. ‘No. This can’t be happening.’

  ‘It’s not,’ said Murph.

  ‘It fucking is!’ said Laura. ‘It is!’

  ‘It’s not,’ said Murph. ‘Fuck – this is all my fault. This is all my fault.’

  ‘Stop,’ said Laura. ‘Shut up. Stop. It’s not.’ H
er lower lip started to quiver. Her eyes filled with tears. ‘We just need to get out. We have to get out.’

  Murph grabbed her arms. ‘I’m getting you out of here if it kills me. But it better fucking not.’ He handed her the torch. ‘Hold this.’ Then he grabbed her face with both hands. ‘I promise you. We’re getting out. This is not how we’re going to go. No way.’ He put his hands on his head and looked around the chapel. ‘Think. Think. If those fucking windows weren’t so high up.’

  ‘How come every other motherfucker seems to escape from the place?’ said Laura. She started to laugh through her tears. ‘Now I’m like you.’

  ‘What?’ said Murph.

  ‘Nothing … just … the lads from the industrial school. The Houdinis. Dad picking them up in town. I’m losing it.’

  ‘No, no, no,’ said Murph. ‘Hold on. Hold on. The Rathbrook guy. Wasn’t he talking about the land and his brother, appearing like some spectre or something, driving him demented? And before them – the pilgrims coming to the Mass rock. I was thinking – there was no way—’

  ‘Sorry, but is this a story—’

  ‘Shut up!’ said Murph, shaking her. ‘Listen to me! There was no way they were all climbing up the cliffs. The Rathbrook guy, and his brother appearing one side of the place one minute, the other side the next – and Dad used to tell me about the gun-running here during the War of Independence, how they had fake panels in the confession boxes where they stashed the rifles. And the industrial school lads – that’s how they got away into town!’

  ‘How?’ said Laura. ‘I don’t get it! We’re going to die. We’re going to—’

  ‘The little shits would say they were going to the chapel!’

  ‘We’re going to die—’

  ‘There’s a tunnel in here!’ said Murph. ‘There’s a fucking tunnel in here somewhere. It’s how the guns got in, it’s how the lads got out.’

  Laura’s eyes widened.

  ‘Yes,’ said Murph.

  They were suddenly illuminated as the flames caught hold of the confession box and the glow filled the chapel.

  51

  Edie ran for the French doors. Patrick lunged for her, but she side-stepped him, squeezing through the crack in the door, pulling the curtain out behind her, stalling him as he tried to follow. She started to run towards the chapel.

  ‘They’re gone!’ shouted Patrick, running after her.

  Edie stumbled, tears pouring down her face, righting herself, then staggering forward.

  ‘It’s too late!’ said Patrick ‘It’s too late again!’

  Edie’s shoulders slumped, her legs weakened, and she was falling again when Patrick grabbed for her and sent her down onto the soaked ground. He rolled her on to her back. ‘You’re not a saviour, Edie. You’re the save-ee. Have you not figured that out yet?’ He held her down by her wrists. She struggled against him.

  ‘How do you think you know everything about everyone?’ said Edie. ‘Since when do you—’

  ‘Since ALWAYS,’ said Patrick. ‘Jesus, Edie. Just because something is not out there, presented for all the world to see, then it doesn’t fucking exist for you.’ He nodded. ‘Yeah – I know that about you, don’t I? I wasn’t joining in with all your Spirituality Lite – your low-hanging fruit plucked from Helen’s Tree of Life – I wasn’t discussing your observations on the world with you (a) because I wanted you to shut the fuck up so I could fuck you and (b) not because I have no insight – but because I have all the insight. Do you know what happens when you’re on the outside? You look in. You look hard and you look close because you’re desperately trying to figure out what it is that these people have that you don’t. It turns out – it’s connection.’

  Edie frowned.

  ‘Oh, no – not to each other,’ said Patrick. ‘Not friendship. A connection with something … inside of you. Wires from minds and hearts and guts, all connected to this … motherboard. A word I hate: “mother”.’ He paused. ‘I don’t have a motherboard. Or it’s a fucked-up-motherboard. Look – maybe it’s got nothing to do with the woman. My father wasn’t great either.’

  ‘You haven’t a clue!’ said Edie, raising her head, the tendons on her neck popping.

  ‘Oh, Edie,’ said Patrick. ‘You’re as dim as you’ve always feared.’

  ‘You don’t know anything!’ said Edie. ‘You don’t know anything about any of us.’

  Patrick froze. ‘Don’t know anything about you?’ He looked at her, incredulous. ‘I AM you.’

  ‘What?’ said Edie. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I am you when the world sees the best of me,’ said Patrick. He tilted his head and flashed a brief smile. ‘I am Helen when I care enough not to kill you in front of her. I am Murph when I laugh through your pain. I am Laura when I tell you the brutal truth that lies behind it. I’d only be Johnny if I got caught for all this. And then I’d be Clare: deny, deny, deny.’

  He straddled her body, spreading his weight evenly, gripping her with his thighs. Then he wrapped his hands around her neck, and started to squeeze.

  Edie looked into the dark seas of Patrick Lynch’s eyes.

  Everything else had been a rehearsal. She had loved her tiny theatre and audience of one, the applause of two hands, the two hands that were now around her neck, and oh, how not to have played a role all this time, because who, among all her roles could save her now? The beautiful girl? The privileged daughter? The dutiful wife? The filthy mistress? Not the loving mother. She wanted to die. And none of the others had the strength.

  There was no one out of costume, walking out of a dark theatre at the end of the performance. They were all alive only on stage, under lights.

  Her eyes closed.

  Daddy, why, when I close my eyes, are there three things that anchor you to me: your wristwatch, your strong arms, the darker tan of your neck?

  And Daddy, why did we never drive past Pilgrim Point again after that summer?

  And why, Daddy, did we never fish in that pocket of sea again?

  And why did I choose to settle where your eyes no longer could?

  Why, Daddy, when you told me that you would never leave me if I wasn’t safe, there was a tiny arc of blood up along your neck, and darker blood in the bezel of your wristwatch, and a tiny whorl of a fingerprint in blood on the inside of your strong arms?

  A soul weighs 21 grams.

  Her eyes flickered.

  How much does a secret weigh?

  Edie looked into the dark seas of Patrick’s eyes.

  I am heavy with the weight of you. I am heavy with every secret of yours I kept, every secret of mine. As my soul flies, my secrets do too. I am light, but I have paid the price. I have paid the price to be light.

  Her eyes closed.

  52

  Laura glowed in the fresh burst of flames. ‘No,’ she said, her eyes wide. ‘No, no, no, no, no.’ She was holding the torch limp by her side.

  ‘Stay calm,’ said Murph, sliding it from her grip. ‘Stay calm. Not that creepily, though.’ He shone the beam around the floor, then up the walls to where two of the confession boxes used to be. ‘Jesus CHRIST!’ he said, pointing to the spray paint. ‘A bit fucking late.’ He kept looking around. ‘It had to have been accessed through one of the confession boxes – that’s why there were so many of them.’

  ‘What if it’s under the altar?’ said Laura.

  ‘We’re fucked,’ said Murph. ‘So it’s not.’ He arced the torch to the marks on the opposite wall. ‘It’s down there!’ he said. ‘It has to be!’ He pointed to a stack of beams underneath. ‘Quick, quick, quick. Tear them the fuck down.’

  Smoke was billowing up from the corner, rising into the roof, drifting across it.

  ‘Laura, get down that end. We’ll lift them. Go, go, go.’

  ‘Wait!’ said Laura. ‘Wait.’ She got into position. ‘OK … now go.’

  Murph started to heave them off.

  ‘Slow down!’ said Laura. ‘Slow down!’

  �
��Tough,’ said Murph. ‘The smoke’ll get us. Go, go, go.’

  They started again, but Laura stopped, bent over, coughing.

  ‘Get up t’fuck!’ said Murph. ‘We don’t have time. Keep going. Come on.’

  They started again. Behind them, the flames were spreading. Their eyes were red, and streaming.

  ‘Stand back,’ said Murph. ‘I’m toppling the lot.’ He crouched down to the bottom of the stack and yanked two beams towards him, stepping back as the beams above were sent clattering on to the floor. He bent down, and started sliding them forward.

  ‘We’ve got it, we’ve got it,’ he said. ‘Motherfucker.’

  The chapel was filling with smoke that was getting thicker and blacker, carrying a horrible stench with it. Murph looked at Laura standing at the other side of the fallen beams, bent over, coughing into the crook of her elbow.

  ‘Cross over to me!’ he said. ‘Careful.’ He started to cough. ‘We’re getting out of here, we’re getting out.’

  A burst of flames shot across the altar behind Laura, and sent her scrambling towards him, across the beams.

  ‘No!’ said Murph, standing up. ‘Don’t! They won’t stay—’

  Laura took two more steps, then looked up at Murph halfway through her third, her eyes bright with panic. Her foot fell between two beams that clamped it between them as she fell in the opposite direction, crying out as her ankle cracked, and again when she landed, her wrist smacking off a sharp edge. She lay on her back, moaning.

  Murph was about to scramble across to her, but he stopped himself. He crouched down and pushed apart the beams that trapped her ankle. ‘OK … Laura. I’m used to ignoring your moaning,’ he said as he walked away.’ I know you’re in agony, but I have to keep going here to get this fucking thing cleared, so I’m not even going to look at you, but you’re going to roll over and crawl over to me like it’s 1992 after a bottle of whatever that shite was and by the time I’ve got this thing open, you better be right befuckinghindme.’