Saints and Sinners

by Paul Cuddihy

  Should he surprise the intruder, feigning mock outrage at the sacrilege being committed in this house of God and hoping that his actions might generate a reward from a grateful clergy later on? That was an even more ridiculous thought than the one he had about there being a bounty of cash in the church in the first place. So he continued sitting perfectly still, the footsteps getting closer until he was aware that he’d stopped breathing to avoid potential detection.

  Then the door clicked and someone stepped into the other side of the confessional box, closing the door and shuffling noisily over to the grill which separated priest and sinner, a black veil draped across the wrought-iron giving a thin protection of identity for the person about to unburden their soul. Mick always believed the priest recognised his voice anyway, so he always felt he’d have been as well pulling back the veil, shaking the priest’s hand and saying, ‘Bless me, Father, it’s Mick Costello here. It’s been five weeks since my last confession and I’ve done a couple of dodgy things that I’d like you to forgive me for.’

  A man began speaking in nervous tone that was so quiet Mick had to press his ear close to the veil to hear.

  ‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It is one week since my last confession.’

  One week, thought Mick. How bad could you be in just one week? He thought at once of the sins he’d stacked up in the last twenty-four hours and grinned sheepishly. The man coughed. Mick stared through the veil. He could only make out the shadowy outline kneeling across from him and he knew he was just as concealed, yet he sensed the man was waiting for a response. He wracked his brain, trying to remember what the priest said to him when he had begun his own confession in a similar vein, but nothing came into his head. It had been a long, long time since his last confession. He grunted, slightly panicky, but the noise seemed to be enough for the man who began speaking again, quicker now and in a more agitated manner, like he was desperate to get everything out before he changed his mind or the offer of forgiveness was withdrawn.

  He was a Derry man, of that Mick was absolutely sure. He pictured a small figure, nervous, bullied by his wife, laughed at by his workmates, scorned by his children. There was an agitated need for forgiveness in his voice which seeped through towards Mick, who had to resist the urge to tell the man to pull himself together or stretch a hand through the cloth and slap his face; if he’d done that the man was liable to figure out he wasn’t really a priest.

  And what of the sin? The whiney voice explained that he’d found a shilling at the factory where he worked, just inside the doorway of the canteen area where they all gathered every day for lunch. He knew who had lost it.

  ‘I saw it drop out of Jack Gallagher’s trousers,’ he told Mick. ‘There must have been a hole in his pocket or something. But he didn’t notice – no one did except me. And I should have shouted him, but instead I stopped and put my boot on top of it. Just stood there and let a few people past before I bent down and pretended to tie my laces. And then the shilling was in my pocket. It still is, but I know what I did was wrong, Father. I know it’s stealing.’

  Mick grunted in agreement, only half listening. He’d been hoping for something a bit juicier, sexier. Maybe the man was riding his wife’s sister, or at least had been thinking about it. But this? Bloody hell, he’d have done the same thing in a second and he wouldn’t have ended up in the confessional box agonising about it.

  ‘So I don’t know what to do, Father. If I just go and give Jack the money, he’ll know I’m a thief … and we could really do with the money ourselves.’

  ‘Have you any more sins to confess, my son?’ Mick asked impatiently.

  ‘No, Father, that’s it.’

  ‘Well, you’ll have to make a good act of contrition.’

  ‘Yes, Father,’ the man said, murmuring the words of the prayer as Mick stifled a yawn.

  ‘And for your penance say two hundred Our Fathers, four hundred Hail Marys, a Glory Be to the Father and twenty decades of the Rosary.’

  There was silence from the other side of the grill and Mick had to hold his nose to stop any laughter escaping.

  ‘Sorry, Father. Can you say that again?’ a trembling voice eventually said.

  ‘Two hundred Our Fathers…’

  ‘Two hundred?’

  ‘Four hundred Hail Marys…’

  ‘But that’ll take forever.’

  ‘A Glory Be to the Father and twenty decades of the Rosary.’

  ‘I’m due back at work in fifteen minutes.’

  ‘Your penance is your penance.’

  ‘But four hundred Hail Marys? It’s never been more than twenty before.’

  ‘That’s the new limits, my son. The Holy Father himself set them … for all the worst sins.’

  ‘But I only stole a shilling.’

  ‘Only?’

  ‘I know what I did was wrong, Father, but that’s a lot of prayers.’

  There was a pause as Mick began coughing and giggling at the same time. As he tried to compose himself, an idea came into his head.

  ‘There is another method of repentance,’ Mick said, stumbling over the sentence as he struggled to remember the appropriate words.

  ‘What is it, Father?’

  ‘A shilling.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘The shilling you stole will buy you forgiveness for all your sins without having to do a penance.’

  ‘I’ve to pay for forgiveness?’

  ‘It is the will of the Holy Father. The penance should fit the sin. Would you question that?’

  ‘No, Father, but…’

  ‘Well, it’s either that or the two hundred Our Fathers, four hundred Hail Marys, Glory Be to the Father and…’

  A silver coin appeared in front of Mick, grudgingly pushed through the grill. A thick finger still pressed down it, layers of grime coating the skin, many days’ worth of earth nestling under the nail. Eventually it released its grip and retreated back across the divide.

  ‘God bless you, my son,’ Mick said.

  The door clicked open after a few seconds but slammed shut and Mick braced himself for a confrontation with the unknown man. Instead, he heard angry footsteps stomping towards the front door and he sat back with a smile. A few more sinners and he’d have enough money to start looking for Kate.

  6

  NEEDLE IN A HAYSTACK

  He walked into Haggerty’s, almost pushing his way through the clouds of tobacco smoke lingering in the air, much of it having refused to leave at closing time the night before. He’d already ordered a pint and a whiskey, lighting up his own cigarette and contributing to the hazy gloom, before he thought to glance round the pub. It had been an automatic reaction to get a drink and he had to remind himself why he was here.

  It had seemed like the obvious place to begin his search, the pub where he had met her just a few hours before. He shook his head as he remembered. It was hard to believe that it had only been such a short time since she’d challenged the truth of his tale. He knew, even as he pushed the door open, that she wasn’t going to be sitting there with a drink in one hand, a cigarette in the other and a smile on her face that said, ‘Where the hell have you been all this time?’

  His eyes scoured the room nevertheless, nodding at those who did so to him and studying those who didn’t. There was no sign of Kate. There were no women at all in the pub. There was no sign of a giant bald man either and Mick turned back to the drinks that had now appeared before him. Handing over a couple of confessional coins, he realised this wasn’t such a good idea. By the time he’d visited the half dozen pubs within a stone’s throw of Haggerty’s, he’d have run out of money and would be right back where he started and he’d had enough of Glasgow sinners for one day without having to hear any more confessions.

  The money was meant to buy information and he’d have to use it wisely. Gulping down the whiskey, which gilded his throat with a warm, comforting feeling, he nodded to the barman.

  ‘There was a girl in here last nigh
t,’ he said. ‘Donegal lass. Long black hair, eyes as brown as a nut.’

  ‘That sounds like half the women in Glasgow,’ the barman said.

  ‘You’re a Donegal man yourself?’ Mick said.

  ‘Indeed I am.’

  ‘A fine county.’

  ‘God’s very own.’

  ‘And here’s me thinking it was my beloved Galway.’ The barman smiled. ‘God shines on us all.’

  ‘Never a truer word said … Her name was Kate. That’s as much as I can tell you.’

  ‘I can’t help you and that’s the God’s honest truth. But if I were looking for a young lady who might frequent such a place as this, then I might be trying down nearer the docks.’

  The barman winked knowingly and Mick glared at him.

  ‘I’m not saying that’s where you’ll find her,’ the barman said quickly, holding his hands up. ‘It was just a thought.’

  Mick nodded and attacked his pint with impatience, eager now to escape from the pub. The barman had annoyed him, even though he was only saying what most other people would as well, and Mick didn’t want to give out any more details, certainly not about the man in black, not when there were six guineas waiting to be claimed by whoever delivered Mick into captivity. At any rate, it was a plan, of sorts at least, and a better idea than shuffling in and out of every pub he came to with only the vaguest set of questions to ask anyone. He knew little enough about Kate and he already knew her more than most around here, so it was unlikely he’d find any answers amongst the drunkards and degenerates he was currently rubbing shoulders with.

  Draining the final drops of liquid from his mug, he slammed it down on the counter and without a word or sign of acknowledgement to the barman he strode out of Haggerty’s and into the watery light of the December day. It would be about twelve o’clock now, he thought. Half the day already gone and he was no further forward in his search. He strode along the Gallowgate towards Glasgow Cross, listening out for the hungry cries of seagulls that would tell him when to turn and head towards the waterfront.

  Mick reached his destination with an uncharacteristic burst of determination but the sights and sounds that greeted him forced a halt to his progress. The noise of the birds which had drawn him to the river could no longer be heard above the roar from the mass of bodies which thronged along the water’s edge, even though hundreds of the creatures hovered in the sky, darting this way and that, occasionally swooping low whenever there was even a glimpse of food on the ground; they’d more often than not be beaten to the prize by a hungry hand on the dockside.

  He could do no more than light a cigarette. Taking deep draws on it, he blew puffs of smoke out in front of him, temporarily blurring the sight before him before drifting away, leaving him yet again with the stark scene before his eyes.

  It seemed like people were moving in every direction but not getting anywhere. Some shuffled away from the water, others scurried towards it, while bodies darted in and out of the throng. Their purpose was unclear, but Mick had several ideas and none of them were particularly pleasant. Part of him wanted to shout out a warning to those poor souls who had just arrived in this strange land. He could easily pick them out in the crowd. Whether on their own or in frail family groups, they shuffled aimlessly along the dockside, shoulders hunched, threadbare clothes pulled tight around skeletal frames, bony hands gripping battered luggage which held all their worldly possessions. Everything else had been left behind and lost forever in Ireland.

  Eyes were wide, vacant and brimming with hopelessness, still trying to recover from what they’d witnessed on the journey over the water. Yet pupils still darted frantically, searching desperately for a welcoming face or at least a helpful one that could offer advice or guidance on where to find food or shelter. It was enough to make Mick shake his head in despair. He knew there was little chance of these people finding what they were looking for. Instead, their luggage would be snatched, what little money they possessed would be taken by fair means or foul and they’d find themselves even worse off than when they’d first set foot on dry land, something they’d never thought possible.

  Relatives and friends may well have led the way just a few years before, the Great Hunger driving millions out of Ireland, many of whom landed in this city and on these docks, and memories of the famine still rumbled on in the stomach of every Irish man, woman and child who repeated the journey. The crossing from Ireland should have been bad enough. It was, as Mick knew himself, but everyone who crammed onto boats, jostling for an inch of space with the hundreds of other bodies who’d paid their pennies for passage across the Irish Sea, clung to the hope of a better life when they finally disembarked. How wrong could they be?

  Two girls were heading towards him though he wasn’t sure they realised they were on a collision course. They were both hunched over, probably with the cold, but it looked from a distance like they were carrying the weight of the world on their shoulders. All they did have were identical brown cases, no bigger than a folded newspaper. The cases clattered off their scrawny legs that, even though they were hidden from view by heavy, ankle-length skirts, Mick still knew existed. It was like the Holy Ghost, he thought with a smile and wondered whether something religious had rubbed off on him during his short spell in the confessional box.

  As the girls got closer, he could see they were sisters. They had the same red hair, its natural fieriness dampened down by the severity of their crossing to Glasgow but more than that, when they glanced up at him in perfect timing, like a puppet master was working them from above, they had the same look of despair painted on their pale faces. Four blue eyes held his gaze only briefly before both heads bowed down again and they shuffled on past him. His eyes followed them until they disappeared round the corner into the dark shadows, which he feared would soon devour them.

  It made him think of Kate again and he realised it would do no good to his search or his soul if he continued to stand witness to this pitiful scene that never seemed to change, no matter how many times he set eyes on it. He headed in the same direction as the red-haired sisters but when he rounded the corner, they were already gone and he knew better than to spend any time wondering as to their fate.

  He was grateful that he could make a retreat from the sea of bodies and not plunge headfirst into its murky waters. The women he needed to speak to were nearby, in the lanes just off the waterfront, but it seemed like another world as he slipped away, leaving behind the unfortunate people either arriving or leaving Glasgow; he could never make up his mind which was worse. He could still hear the noise of a thousand human voices, all mixed in together, though it was more of a lingering murmur than the deafening roar it had been just moments before.

  Within a couple of streets, it seemed like God had shut the trap door on the sunlight, pitiful though it generally was at this time of the year. Mick knew it was the tall, grimy buildings, jostling for space and stooping over oppressively which created the noontime gloom, but it set him on edge. This was a place where bad things could and did happen under the convenient cover of darkness. He wished for a moment that he was armed, but he had to be content with clenching his fists, which remained hidden inside jacket pockets.

  He was past the opening of the tenement when a cough stopped him in his tracks and drew him back. A body sat in the corner, almost out of sight. At a glance it could have been a bag of rags but it moved as he came into view and coughed again. A bony hand that looked as if it had slipped up through the ground from a grave appeared from within a black shawl and pointed towards the door.

  ‘Here. It’s all here.’

  It was a woman’s voice, probably, but it was impossible to figure out how old she was.

  ‘I know what you’re looking for,’ she said.

  Mick strained his ears but couldn’t figure out the accent. Years of drinking, smoking and God knows what else had robbed it of its identity and it was just a croak that escaped from the depths of her throat.

  ‘We’ve got young on
es here for you.’

  Mick didn’t reply but continued staring at the woman, though he threw occasional glances over either shoulder just to make sure he wasn’t being set up for an attack. That was the sort of trick a newcomer would fall for, but he knew better.

  ‘Straight off the boat, so they are. Worth every penny. Fresh.’ Her voice held onto the last sound like the sizzling of meat in a frying pan and Mick glared at her.

  She shrugged. ‘Maybe you like the old ones,’ she said, snatching the shawl from her head. Her cackle echoed out onto the street as she saw his reaction, his body recoiling at the sight; she was soon gripped by a coughing fit that Mick feared would take her for good. She was bald, except from a few tufts of hair that had stubbornly refused to fall out or were optimistically trying to grow back in. Her face was a mass of red lines, like someone had drawn all over her and her mouth, when it opened to fire its chilling laughter in his direction, was just a black hole. The toothless trap shut tightly again after a few seconds and the shawl resumed its vital task of hiding her from the world.

  ‘I’m looking for a girl,’ Mick mumbled. ‘Her name’s Kate.’

  The bag of rags nodded like it was being shaken by an invisible hand.

  ‘Is she your favourite?’

  ‘Long black hair. She’s from Donegal and her eyes are –’

  The hand reappeared and pushed weakly on the door, which opened a fraction and then shut back over again.

  ‘You’ll find what you’re looking for in there.’

  ‘She’s here?’ he asked, moving quickly towards the door. Five skeletal fingers halted his progress and then stretched out flat infront of him, hovering at his chest. He stared at the woman’s hand for a few seconds before he realised what he was meant to do and he scrambled in his pocket for a coin, finding the smallest one he could and dropping the ha’penny on her palm, which immediately disappeared back under the shawl. He could hear disappointed mutterings but she didn’t stop him when he stepped past her and pushed through the door.