The woman crouched now beside the bilge pump, dangerously close to Jed, tossing her hair seductively, and, as the boat was ejected over the waves, grabbing him and erupting with throaty laughter. She seemed to be the only one enjoying herself. The others were whimpering in fear. Ursula ground her teeth. The woman obviously had the cash to defy her age, but Ursula's eagle eyes saw they were contemporaries. She had a vaguely aristocratic face, jet black hair and bangs, and kohl mascara which shrouded shrew blue eyes. She clung to a rather formal handbag.
Ursula forced a mask of friendliness onto her face as she tempted fate and sloshed through the sewer-like seawater, arms like a tightrope walker, to shove herself between Jed and the tart. Ursula made a show of grappling Jed's shoulder for support, then grabbed his hand and fiddled with the wedding band held captive on the finger time had bloated. The woman folded one bared Sharon-Stone-esque leg against the bilge pump and played with the camera function of her iPhone. Ursula marveled at her being able to strike that pose, shunting to and fro as they all were.
“Marine biodiversity!” the tour guide squawked.
He pointed down in great excitement at what he insisted was a 'barred hogfish' and a 'sea spider.' Their cameras clicked what they could of the underwater creatures whizzing by through the filth of the glass under their sodden flip flops.
“Migratory species!” He pointed into the air. They clutched the rails and looked up. They focused their lenses on, apparently, a 'White-faced Storm Petrel,' a 'Yellow-Legged Gull' and a 'Berthelot's Pipit.' Ursula wondered briefly as she clicked away who she would show the photos of the Pipit to. Probably herself. She had always dreamed of pressing photos of a lifetime trip into an album and showing them off to those she loved most. But the Floods would never want to see them, not now, so what, really, was the point of going on trips in the first place?
She placed her sudden sadness, her anger at the cougar, and her fear of drowning to the side of her mind for the moment and focused on Providence. She crossed herself. She felt closer to the Lord now. Now that she had finally confessed.
After she had run out of the dining room a few hours earlier, still gasping huge sobs of shame from assaulting the buffet boy, she had made a beeline for the information booth. The woman there seemed to be imprisoned behind what looked like bullet-proof glass, with a slot at the bottom she had to poke her lips towards in order for what she said to be heard. One sign behind her said Beware of Pickpockets, another Our Staff Won't Tolerate Drunken Abuse, Threatened or Actual Violence, and a third Enjoy Your Trip.
“Can I help you?” she had asked, her voice from some godless ex-Soviet satellite and chirpy, though how Ursula couldn't understand, as she must have to lean over all shift long to be heard through the slot. Perhaps she took drugs; much of the staff seemed unsteady on their feet, and Ursula was beginning to suspect the flow of the ocean wasn't to blame.
“Have youse a church on board?”
The girl's lips tightened with disapproval.
“We have something,” she admitted with reluctance, eyes goggling the slot, “on Deck F, between dispensary and...Death Room.”
Ursula blinked.
“Death Room?”
“Yes. It happens, you know, on cruise. Hundred of passenger every year need Death Room. Not on this one ship, you must understand. In general.”
“And just for me own information, could ye tell me what goes on in there?”
“If you must know, there is body bag there and...refrigerated container? Erm, coffin? To store unlucky passenger until arrangement to meet up with funeral boat made. But now I tell you what you ask. We call it Faith Center.” She picked up a brochure and read uncertainly. “'A place of meditation, prayer and reflection for all faith tradition,' it say here.”
She made it clear she found this exchange distasteful.
“Ye mean, like a church-lite? A diet house of the Lord? Does there be a priest on duty there? I'm a Roman Catholic and need to confess me sins. Quickly.”
It was as if the girl behind the glass had paid too much attention during the liberal sensitivity training portion of her customer service course. On this secular cruise, all sins seemed to be tolerated, celebrated and perhaps even catered for; the only perversion seemed to be practicing an organized religion. She screwed up her face as she continued to read.
“There is part-time multi-demoninational minister who drops by occasionally. Maybe you lucky and see him.”
“A priest?”
“We call Faith Man.”
Ursula hurried off to Deck F. She didn't like the sound of the Faith Man, but short of one side of her brain confessing to the other, she would have to give him a chance. She found the dispensary, heard drunken roars of protest from inside, hoped it was from passengers admitted and not the nurses, and stared at the simple black door of what she guessed was the Death Room.
She opened the door to the Faith Center. There was no statue of the Virgin Mary, no stations of the cross, not even a cross, no incense, no holy water font, no kneelers on the pews, no pews, not a Bible in sight, certainly no Latin anywhere. But there were rainbows and balloons and even unicorns aplenty painted on the walls. She sensed patchouli and a faint whiff of marijuana. The Faith Man was sitting on a bean bag chair. He wore no familiar white square on a black collar, but he was wearing jeans, and torn ones at that, an Amy Grant 'Heart In Motion' World Tour 1991 t-shirt, had a beard and was strumming an acoustic guitar. He smiled at her.
Ursula inspected him with crossed arms. He had raced to a cosmetic dentist if his perfect white American teeth were anything to go by, but she was sure he hadn't gone through the theological training of the Holy Roman Catholic church, nor attended one of their many worldwide seminaries. He was someone, she thought, who obviously couldn't be bothered to make a vow of celibacy. She felt she was closer to God than this charlatan; she would be better off revealing her sins to herself. He approached her, guitar pick in hand.
“Hi, there. My name's Frank, and I'm here to help.”
She wondered why he were affecting an American accent. He was obviously British, teeth notwithstanding. She put that thought to the side, and realized she half-expected Frank the Faith Man to press a tambourine in her palm and lead her along in an impromptu rendition of “He's Got The Whole World In His Hands,” “I'd Like To Teach The World To Sing,” or a selection from Godspell. These non-traditional/folk services always seemed to be locked in the 1970s or even the 1960s, as if society hadn't progressed culturally since, and not the black-and-white, Swinging London 60s of mini-skirts, hoop earrings and knee length white patent leather boots, but the unbathed, scraggly haired, barefooted, LDS-infused, songs without choruses tail end of the decade. But there was kindness in Frank's eyes, and that's what Ursula needed at the moment.
“I'm a Roman Catholic, and I need to confess.”
He seemed genuinely pained.
“Oh, I'm so sorry,” he pressed a hand into her forearm, “but I don't have that special prerogative. What's your name, by the way? Let's get to know each other.”
“What are ye trying to say?”
“I don't do confessions.”
“Ye don't do confessions, or ye've not the training?”
“I can't do confessions.”
Ursula surprised herself by collapsing into him with huge, wracking sobs.
“Ye got to help me! Perhaps ye're not a man of God, but ye're a man of faith, sure! Ye're the Faith Man! Ye've to hear me confession! Please!”
Frank tried to soothe her bob, running fingers and the pick through the tangled purple strands.
“There, there,” he cooed. “I can listen. Like a confidant or a shrink. I can help you get whatever troubles you might have off your mind. But I'm not a trained professional of the priesthood. I can't absolve you of whatever sins you think you might have committed. I'm not a go-between for you and your Lord.”
“Ye must, Father! Ye must give me Penance so I can clear me soul of all me sins!”
She sobbed down the list of cities on Amy Grant's tour. The Faith Man unclamped her fingers from his shoulder blades and guided her to the beanbag chair.
“Can I ask you a question?”
“A-aye,” Ursula said, reaching into her purse and tugging out tissues she pressed to her nose.
“Why didn't you confess these sins at your local church before you came on the ship?” A sudden thought came to him, and his eyes seemed to flicker towards an emergency button which would call security to the Faith Room. “Or have you done something here on the ship?”
“Naw!” Ursula sobbed. “Most of the money, ye see, came from me own congregation, and that's why I kyanny confess there. Och, the sleepless nights I've had! Me brain's about to explode from the torture of it all. And now the coppers be's after me and all. That's why I'm on this cruise, to bide me time till the statue runs out on that limitations thing. Half me mind, but, thinks I deserve to be persecuted and crucified by the coppers. Strung up and made an example of for all to see, I should be!”
Frank's smile had long since disappeared.
“Would you like to tell me about it?”
“Are ye gonny abide by the confidentiality of the confessional, but?”
“If you've slaughtered someone,” he said it as if it happened often on the ship, “I—”
“Naw! That doesn’t be it.”
Frank had relaxed somewhat.
“In that case, I am a trained psychologist, and anything you tell me will be protected by patient confidentiality. That's almost as good as the confidentiality of the confessional, isn't it?”
Ursula nodded into her tissue. Her mind was made up. She would tell him everything.
“Could ye do me a wee favor, but?”
“Whatever you want. Get it all off your chest.”
“Could ye sit as if ye was the priest in the confessional? Sideways to me, like. And don't look at me.”
In the confessional, Ursula had always taken comfort in the mystery of eyes glinting beyond the grille, the disembodied voice soothing her in the hush of the darkened booth for her sins.
Frank shrugged.
“It's highly irregular, but...well, I am here to help. So, okay.”
He arranged himself as she had instructed on the beanbag opposite. Ursula grabbed a box of scented candles and knelt on it. She rummaged in her purse, retrieved her rosary beads and clutched them for support. She folded her hands in prayer and took a deep breath. She had a lot to confess.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It's been a year since me last confession.” She struggled to push her crime from her brain to her lips. “I know I told ye I haven't been to speak to me priest in Wisconsin, but I went on holiday to me hometown of Derry last year, and I went to confession while I was there. I couldn't tell Father Hogan about me dead terrible sins, but, as he knows the sound of me voice. So I've six-year-old sins to reveal to ye now. And six years ago it all started.
“I was living in Derry back then, and me husband had taken me to Wisconsin to finally meet his family. Louella, that's his sister-in-law, came to me one day and told me it was her turn to set up the annual charity bake sale for her church. She asked me to help her. I was uncomfortable, as she be’s one of them Lutherans. Better than pagans or heathens, I thought finally, but. Now, I'm useless in the kitchen, me, but yer woman, that's that sleekit wee sister-in-law of mine, told me it was to be for a special charity for a new orphanage and home for unwed mothers they was planning to set up on the edge of town. Me and Louella was to be the organizers of the bake sale, and though we got all the papers signed from all the churches together, Louella told me she would deal with the finances. All I had to do was bake. And bake I did. Och, I must tell ye now, I was raging at her, so I was. I know that's a sin, so I want to stick that one in and all, but please don't judge me, as ye've no idea the hours I put in, toiling and sweating over a hot oven. And Louella's always been tight-fisted with the money. Told me she hadn't the overheads for luxury cupcakes and brownies and whatnot, so we went to a discount store and bought eggs past their sell by date, so there I was, separating the yolks from the white, surrounded by fumes of sulfur, and me gagging all the while I whisked the expired eggs. I just threw in extra confectioner's sugar until the smell disappeared, but.
“Me and Jed, that's me husband, flew back to Derry two days after the bake sale. I heard, but, that many were almost on their deathbeds from wer bad eggs, with foul liquid spewing from both their holes, if ye know what I mean and—don’t look at me, I’ve already told ye!”
Frank’s head fell back down, so he was left staring back at his knees, which were clutched together.
“The sleepless nights it's caused me, Father, causing all that misery to so many. Mortified, I've been, about it. Anyroad, if ye leave that aside, the bake sale was a roaring success. Over $100,000 we raised, and I was proud to help the church and the orphanage out, and even the unwed mothers. $500 we got for one cupcake, and one woman, Mrs. Prattertine, was hoping to adopt the first orphan, so she paid $10,000 for me red velvet cake. And for that she had to spend two nights in hospital!
“Weeks passed, and I heard all the rest of this now from Louella. And from Detective Scarrey, the copper who's hell bent on locking us up. Yer woman who wanted the child, Mrs. Prattertine, wondered what was going on with the orphanage. Over in Derry, I wondered and all. With $100,000, I supposed they would build a nice one. I wanted to get me photo taken in front of it the next time I went to Wisconsin to visit, with me arms around one or two of the orphans. And perhaps I'd allow one of them unwed mothers to stand in the background and all.”
The Faith Man twisted before her on the beanbag chair as if he could feel the passage of time on his face and body as the confession went on.
“Anyroad, the weeks turned into months, and still yer woman Mrs. Pratterine—oach, how I kyanny stick even the sound of her name!—tried to Google the orphanage and its progress, but nothing ever came up on the Internet about it. I think she even drove out to where it was supposed to be built, but she saw nothing but grass. She finally phoned Louella, who gave her excuse after excuse, first there was problems with planning permission, then with the licensing, then construction problems as the price of lumber and concrete had gone up. The months turned into years, and finally yer woman, that Mrs. Prattertine, went to the coppers and asked them to investigate.
“I hadn't a clue of any of this. And, a year ago, me and Jed moved to Wisconsin, and I don't have the time here to tell ye why we moved from Ireland. Suffice it to say wer lotto win caused problems between me and me family and moving to Wisconsin was the best thing to do, though I'll let in on a wee secret and tell ye I'll go to me grave a happy woman if I never lock eyes on another snow plow or jar of salt.
“Anyroad, I saw the look of shock in Louella's eyes when we stepped into her house for the first time; we live down the road from themmuns, and me husband and his brother, Slim, that's Louella's man, started a shop together. I'm sure ye don't want to hear about that, but. Now I understand the look of shock. Louella thought I'd be out of the country forever. I was her lapdog, her dupe, so I was. One night a few months ago, we was watching the finals of Dancing With The Stars, we never miss it, and Louella was knocking the gin and tonics down her bake and I was indulging in a few glasses of rose and all, I don't mind admitting. She told me, with her eyes all goggled, there had been a knock on her door, and she had been hauled down to the police station by Detective Scarrey for questioning about the disappearing $100,000. Not only had Mrs. Prattertine complained but, ye see, it was supposed to be church funds for the church to do with as it saw fit, to whatever charity they chose. The church had a new accountant as the old one had finally died, and he went digging through the records and receipts and what have you. I think the old accountant must have been in cahoots with Louella. The new one contacted the coppers and all. A case was starting to form. But they didn't have enough evidence to arrest Louella. But she told me Detective Scarrey was looking at me and a
ll, and would soon be knocking on me door as well. Can you imagine me shock? I was her partner in crime, and I hadn't a clue! She told me I would get as much prison time as her, collison, I think it's called. It’s taken every ounce of me Christian compassion to forgive her, but I had to. Me family back in Ireland already kyanny stomach the sight of me, so I didn't want to get off on the wrong foot with me new family, start as we mean to go on sort of thing. Where did the money go, but, I wanted to know. She told me it was really for an operation for one of her oldest mates, someone called Daisy Flynster. She was dying of some disease of the lungs, something to do with asbestos poisoning, she said it was. M-M...?”
“Mesothelioma?”
“Aye, that's the one. Anyroad, if yer woman didn't get this operation, she would die. Why didn't ye just make her the subject of the charity? I asked Louella. And she told me a real charity be's wile difficult to set up, there be's loads of paperwork, and that that disease, that meso-whatever wasn't, and I'm quoting Louella, a sexy enough disease, and that nobody would be interested because of that. And mainly because nobody in the town could stomach the sight of Daisy except her. A sleekit nosy parker, by all accounts. I stole from the church, and what greater sin could there be, Father?” He winced every time she said it. “And not just from the Catholic church in wer parish, from all the churches in town. And I know all them other religions, the Lutherans and the Pentecostals and what not, they doesn’t be real religions, more like fancy fake ones made up by people who couldn’t be accepted into the real Holy Roman Catholic church, like, because they’ve lower moral standards, ye must know what I mean, having to deal with them yerself all the time, like, but I snatched the money outta their hands like food from their wane's mouths. And there ye have it, father, the sins I've committed.”
Ursula deflated. She was shaking, but she felt pounds lighter. Even without the promise of absolution. Frank was staring off into the distance. Ursula wasn't finished. She rattled off her Act of Contrition.
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