'Are you su—'
Fergal clamped his lips to Father Mac's again before he got a chance to protest, and their hands moved lower. Fergal played with the thick hair on Father Mac's chest and brushed his nipples with the tip of his fingers, hearing him moan quietly. He moved his lips to Father Mac's neck and kissed his way gently towards his nipple. Father Mac massaged the back of his head, gently guiding it south.
Fergal was slightly nervous of going near his hardness, but he couldn't stop himself. He kept moving downwards, until he felt its length brush against his cheek. They both gasped a little, but Fergal was in too deep to stop now. He kissed and explored and finally opened his lips and took the smooth head into his mouth. It tasted like nothing he had ever known.
Father Mac lost his breath and then groaned deeply. Fergal began sucking more confidently, enjoying the new sensation. The rhythm picked up as they grew braver with each other, until Father Mac pulled Fergal up by the shoulders full of the confidence that only intimacy can bring, and kissed him full on the mouth. Then he began to explore Fergal's body. He kissed his face and playfully bit his chapped lips, before dropping down to smell his chest with deep, slow inhalations. He kissed the damp hair under his arms and then turned him around. He ran his tongue down Fergal's spine, stopping to kiss the cheeks of his backside.
Fergal had never been touched in such a loving way, and he was speechless. He could only gasp, 'Yes - yes...' Father Mac turned him around again with his hands on his waist, he wet his fingers to brush a bit of sand from Fergal's erection, then locked eyes with his new lover as he took its length down into the depths of his throat.
Fergal groaned out loud, thinking he would burst that very second. He pulled Father Mac back up, explaining shyly, 'I'm -getting near...' They kissed more wildly than ever and Fergal pulled Father Mac on top of him in a sudden fit of excitement. He spread his legs, aching to receive the full weight of this man on top of him. Father Mac moved slowly against his body and Fergal held him tight, locking his legs around his arching back. His arms clamped Father Mac's shoulders, gripping him till they were both past the point of no return. Instinctively they searched for each other's hardness, and together they held their final breath eyes wide open to watch their own private waves erupting and crashing against each other's shore.
They stayed in the same spent position till they got their breath back. Father Mac kissed Fergal lovingly on the lips and then on the forehead, murmuring, 'You're so lovely - what a treasure you are... I'm so glad you're here.' Fergal could only groan through a cloud of exhausted ecstasy. They drifted in and out of a drug-like sleep.
When their shyness returned, they checked the dark beach for unwanted company and found none - their union's only witness was the Atlantic Ocean. They took it in turns to go to the edge of the returning tide and wash the evidence away.
Fergal's trousers were still very damp, as were Father Mac's, but they neither noticed nor cared as they got dressed and headed back to the car. The short journey back was warm, silent bliss. They had no conversation left; their bodies had done all the talking.
18
Fergal didn't even remember falling asleep. He woke up early again amid the remnants of a distant but powerful dream. He'd been walking around Ormeau Park in Belfast admiring the flowers when he came to a playground full of empty swings. In the corner there was a man sitting alone. When Fergal got nearer he realised that it was Jesus Christ in a wheelchair. He went closer, but as soon as Jesus saw him he put his arm out and said, 'Come no further! I don't forgive you, for you do know what you do!'
Fergal was confused for a second. He looked at the wall that separated him from Father Mac and retraced their lovemaking. His eyes rested on the tiny crucifix with the almost-naked saviour hanging there for all the so-called sinners of the world, but he was too happy and tired to let guilt get the better of him. A wide yawn stretched his face, and he pulled the blankets back over his head.
The next thing he heard was the neighbouring sound of Father Mac shaking out his razor in the water-filled sink. Fergal felt his own chin, it was as rough as a cat's tongue. He jumped out of bed, pulled on his trousers from the radiator where they'd been hanging to dry, and shouted through the wall, 'Father, can I borrow one of your razors?'
'I'll bring you one in when I'm finished,' Father Mac shouted back.
'But, Father, I'm not great at using them yet - I was hoping you might... well...'
'What's that? What are you saying?'
Fergal left his room and knocked on Father Mac's door.
'Come on in, if you're coming.'
Father Mac was standing at the sink in his socks with his shirt untucked, straining to see himself in the tiny mirror.
'Morning, Father.'
'Morning, Fergal.' Father Mac closed a few buttons.
They broke the silence in unison, 'Did you sleep all right?'
They both laughed, and Fergal answered, 'Ah, not bad.'
'You look taller today.'
'Well, I have my shoes on and you don't. Maybe you're shrinking?'
'Maybe I am. Look - we're the same height now or thereabouts. You're going to be taller than me soon.'
'I had a funny dream.'
Father Mac closed the door. 'What about?'
When Fergal finished telling him, Father Mac looked a little worried. Fergal thought he seemed almost angry. 'Look, Mr Flynn, you mustn't worry your head about dreams too much. Sometimes they don't make any sense at all.' He finished shaving the hard-to-reach terrain under his nose in an uncomfortable silence.
Fergal mentally retraced the steps of his desire along Father Mac's chest. When the sink was free, he lathered up and brushed the soap into his patchy beard. Father Mac, patting his own face dry, saw Fergal struggling with his disposable razor. He opened a new one and said, 'Here, look - let me show you.'
In his hand the razor dragged a smooth path along the contours of Fergal's trusting face, like a snowplough removing winter from the roads. Fergal had never imagined shaving could be so sensual. He kept his eyes closed until Father Mac was almost finished, then he reached up, pushing the razor to one side, and tried to reward him with a kiss.
Father Mac pulled away. 'Don't, Fergal, please.'
'What? Dermot, what's the matter?'
He put his head in his hands and lowered his voice. 'Oh, Fergal. .. What's the matter? The matter is that I'm a priest, for a start - and you're ten years younger than me. I'm so sorry about last night. I lied when I said I slept OK, I couldn't sleep a wink and I must've smoked a hundred cigarettes. Oh, Fergal, I'm so sorry.'
'But what for? I don't understand.'
'I didn't plan on what happened last night. I know I should have said no, but I couldn't... All I want is for you to be happy. I don't want to hurt you or reject you, but... but this can't happen again.'
Fergal's eyes filled up, and that made Father Mac's join them in sympathy. Suddenly they heard the complaining wooden floors announce Brother Vincent's arrival. Father Mac quickly wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his black shirt, tucked the tails into his trousers and motioned for Fergal to continue shaving by himself, whereupon Fergal cut a lump out of his nostril and bled like a pig.
Brother Vincent went into Fergal's room first, just as Fergal called, 'I'm in here, Brother, borrowing a razor.'
Father Mac shouted, 'Come and join us!'
Brother Vincent informed them that the morning chant was about to begin and that the previous day's tapes were good enough to be sent off for a final mix. Father Mac - who was standing at the window, fully dressed and pretending to read a book - looked up to say, 'We'd love to join in the chant. We'll meet you down there in a second.' Brother Vincent left humming the theme tune to Mission Impossible and wondering why Father Mac seemed so distant.
When the burly monk was gone, Father Mac put his book down and straightened his jacket. 'Look, we'd better get downstairs or they'll be wondering where we are. We can't talk about this now. Dry your eyes on the towel ther
e, and put a bloody shirt on.'
Fergal nodded his head, and they gathered themselves up and headed towards the church, looking like any other priest and his soloist going for the first sing of the morning.
The monks sang as beautifully and as movingly as ever. Fergal was sorry to be leaving, but he knew there was a price to be paid for everything. Breakfast was slow. Fergal didn't have much of an appetite but Father Mac reminded him of their journey, so he managed some porridge before they went to pack their things.
Brother Vincent came up to Fergal's room to give him some headed notepaper with his details on it. 'Fergal, I'm so glad that we met and I would like it if we kept in touch. I'm sorry you weren't able to stay longer.'
Fergal didn't know where to look.
'Never forget you have a God-given talent that you must protect at all costs, my boy.'
It was all Fergal could do not to shout, 'I'm not your fucking boy!' but he knew it wasn't Brother Vincent's fault that Father Mac had done a complete U-turn.
Brother Vincent lowered his voice. 'I want you to know I have the feeling that great things are ahead for you.'
Then he handed Fergal some carefully wrapped portions of the previous night's rich honey cake, to bring home to his family. 'You'll be doing me a big favour, my glands are playing up more every year.' He patted his considerable bulk regretfully. 'A moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips!'
The monks lined the steps, waving, as Father Mac's car dug into the gravel and propelled him and Fergal away from a weekend they would never forget.
~
The weather wasn't great and they got stuck behind a load of sheep being herded from field to field. Every once in a while Father Mac would ask Fergal if he was OK. All Fergal could do was shake his head up and down. Once they were safely past the farms and over the border, Father Mac was able to cruise in fifth gear on the motorway. They listened to the radio and talked about anything but the beach. But as the number of miles to Belfast shrank before their eyes, so did their ability to avoid the inevitable. Father Mac turned off the radio.
He glanced at the hopeful green eyes and said firmly, 'Fergal, I shouldn't have let last night happen. There's danger everywhere. The last thing I want is for anyone, especially you, to get hurt. Do you understand what I mean?'
'But it's not like you... you know... forced yourself on me.'
'That's not the point. I could never, ever do that to you, because I care about you far too much - and that's exactly why we can't... you know... repeat last night.' Father Mac had begun to sweat badly.
Fergal had gone very pale. 'No - I don't believe you... Dermot, last night meant everything to me. Please don't take it away.'
'Ah, Jesus, do you not think I feel the same? But we just can't... Oh, God, what have I done?' Father Mac stared out the window, unable to look at Fergal's sad face. He thought of how long he'd spent ironing the worry out of it with touch after tender touch.
'Why can't we?' Fergal demanded.
'Fergal, I'm a priest—'
'I know! Why do you keep saying that? Don't you think I know?'
'—and you're only sixteen.'
There was a pause. 'I'm not sixteen any more. I was seventeen yesterday.'
'What? Oh, my God... Why on earth didn't you tell me?'
'I meant to. I was going to tell you on the beach, but then...'
Father Mac couldn't look at Fergal for a very long minute.
'Well, look - happy birthday. Seventeen, eh? I can't believe you didn't tell me.'
'Yeah, well, birthdays aren't really a big deal in our house. Da made a fuss when the twins turned eighteen but that's about it.'
'Do you think they'll have presents for you when we get back?'
Fergal looked at Father Mac as if he was mad. 'Well, if I was a betting man I'd say no, but... never say never, I suppose.'
'But your mother must have realised before you went that it was your birthday...?'
Another silence fell like a fog. After a few miles Fergal said, 'Dermot, it'll be legal in a couple of years.'
Father Mac blinked in semi-shock. 'Look, Fergal, what we did was... well, it was illegal as you've pointed out.'
'Sure, loads of things are illegal. I buy drink for Noreen every week and no one says a word.'
'That's not the same thing!' Father Mac shouted. He exhaled in frustration and lowered his voice. 'Promise me you'll never tell anyone what happened, will you?'
'Dermot, who would I tell?' Fergal's wet eyes gave him away again.
'Fergal, the last thing I wanted to do was upset you like this. You know I didn't plan it. I hate that I've made you cry. You've done enough of that already.'
They met a sharp corner too fast and Fergal rolled sideways against him as Father Mac turned the steering wheel hard. He suddenly stole a kiss from Father Mac's lips, then straightened up and looked out the window as if nothing had happened.
'Fergal!' Father Mac cleared his throat uncomfortably and steadied the car.
'What? It's a belated birthday kiss.'
~
Father Mac turned up the radio, and Fergal eventually dozed on the front seat, his mind crowded with visions of all the awful things that could have happened to Noreen. Finally they pulled off the motorway and drove along the Grosvenor Road, past Dunville Park. Someone had actually gone to the trouble of stealing a car, ramming the park railings and crashing it into the fountain before torching it. Father Mac wondered where the local kids were going to play now - that had been one of their last little havens.
'Fergal, do you want to go to your granny's or to Walker Street?'
He had to ask twice before Fergal finally woke up. 'I want to see Noreen more than anyone out of that line-up.'
They pulled up outside her house and Fergal was about to say goodbye when Father Mac got out of the car. Fergal had known the day would come when he and Noreen would meet, so he took a deep breath and put his key in the door. Father Mac smiled at her neighbours and ducked through the low door frame.
The fire was out and the room was freezing. Noreen barked a 'Who's that?' when she heard them come in. Fergal ran upstairs to see her and Father Mac followed, crashing into a load of damp sheets and huge knickers hanging on a pulley suspended not far enough above the landing.
Noreen was sitting up in bed with a little girl's slide in her old lady's hair, clutching her portable chemist to her chest ready for battle with whoever it was. She was glad to see Fergal and even more delighted to see the handsome priest who followed him in.
She wasted no time. 'Fergal, son, have you been away that long that you've got taller?'
'Ah, Granny, I have not.'
'See, I told you, Fergal! That's what I said too, Noreen - is it all right if I call you Noreen?'
'Jesus, love, you can call me anything you like.' She turned her attention back to her grandson. 'Will you go and get a wee message for your oul' granny while the lovely young Father here gives me confession in case I don't last the night? Sure, then my soul will be nice and clean for Our Lord. Isn't that right, Father?' She coughed roughly and pulled a crumpled tenner from the sleeve of her cardigan, upsetting about a month's supply of revolting snuff-stained hankies.
Fergal looked at Father Mac, who nodded agreement. 'I'll be back as soon as I can.' He pulled over the commode - which, with its brown plastic cover on, doubled as a chair - so Father Mac could sit nearer Noreen's bed. He prayed it had been emptied.
While Fergal darted through the Sunday streets towards the back of Maguire's pub, which sold anything at any time including large bottles of gin, Father Mac began hearing Noreen's confession. He found it hard not to be distracted by the state of the tiny room that Fergal had obviously been sharing, and that made him feel even worse.
Noreen grabbed his hand. 'Father, I'm nearly at the end of my time, but our Fergal is only at the start of his. I want you to promise me one thing, will you?'
'I will if I can, Noreen. What is it?'
'Our Fergal's not like
the rest of them, Father. They're all as hard as nails and as thick as planks. Promise me you'll look out for him, will you? Don't let him waste his wee life. Sure, you go to bed young and happy one day and wake up old and sick the next. You regret not being braver about the things that mattered and more careless about the things that didn't. Do you understand me, Father? Will you do that for me? Will you?'
She began to sob and looked for a clean bit on one of her hideous tissues. Father Mac gave her a new packet from his pocket, swallowed hard and promised that of course he would look out for Fergal. He told her how well her grandson had sung in Sligo, that she would be able to hear the record for herself, that even the Vatican might have a copy of it. This calmed her a bit.
'Noreen, did you know Fergal was seventeen yesterday?'
'Jesus, Mary and Joseph, he was not, was he? That means my Fergal is dead nearly eighteen years...' Her eyes flooded as she talked about her dead husband and how he'd loved singing too, at mass every Sunday, when he was a young fella. Father Mac wanted to ask her more about it, but she dried her eyes and lay back, suddenly distracted by the seclusion of some private film that was starting up in the cinema of her head.
While her eyes were closed, Father Mac took a good look at the neglected room. Fergal's little bed, which must have been far too small for him, stood in the other corner. His uniform was on a hanger hooked onto a nail in the wall, with his schoolbag and books under it. Father Mac suddenly understood why Fergal had never accepted a lift home before. Noreen began to snore lightly. He decided to make his way silently downstairs, to wait for Fergal to return.
~
The Flynn brothers were coming back from a hurling match, which they had lost badly to their rival school, when they spotted Fergal nervously weaving in and out of the church-goers with something hidden up his jumper.
'I bet that's my velvet jacket!' hissed John. 'Let's get the fucker!'
Paddy Jr and Ciaran, however, were starving and wanted to get home and eat themselves into a coma. They split up when they reached their turning and John broke into a sprint towards the school pitches that he knew Fergal would cross as a shortcut to Noreen's.
The Arrival of Fergal Flynn Page 16