Next, he thanked God for the good people in his life, starting with his mum, but not Peter. Not yet. He’d see what Father O’Neill had to say first. He was thankful for Seamus, who had given him a roof over his head and a job. And he was thankful for Chancey, for making Seamus happy and for his wisdom. Because he was very wise. Still scary, though, Father. He thanked God for Dee, for…well, he couldn’t pin down exactly why, but she’d been there for him—for a long, long time, now he thought on. She’d known what he was going through and hadn’t betrayed his trust, even though she was usually rubbish at keeping secrets. And he thanked God for Tom, for being a wonderful friend—kind, thoughtful, generous and patient.
Lastly, Michael prayed for forgiveness, and for not really understanding why he needed it. And he prayed for the strength to resist temptation so he could fulfil his promise, not to Peter, but to his mum. Amen. Quietly, he rose and shuffled back onto the pew. Tom joined him a second later and glanced around the church.
“Where’s your mum this morning?”
“She’s not well.”
Tom nodded his understanding. As Michael had expected, he didn’t ask about Peter, because Peter hardly ever came to Mass, claiming he went to one in Cookstown, when he did nothing of the sort.
The pews around them were filling, with people offering them both a courteous nod. It was a nice feeling that Michael hadn’t had in a while. They weren’t judging him, because he was with Tom. Straight Tom. Maybe a life of celibacy wouldn’t be so bad after all. He leaned a little closer and murmured, “I’m going to talk to Father O’Neill after Mass.”
“You want me to come?”
Michael shook his head. “Thanks, but no. I’d rather do it on my own.” Only because he didn’t want Tom getting any of the backlash. Or more of the backlash, seeing as they were already attending Mass together, and it was a good Mass—mostly. Michael wished he could have muted the sermon—he didn’t even have the luxury of his usual tactic of tuning out through boredom, because it was the feast of the Holy Family, and it felt like every word was directed at him. The purpose of marriage is to establish a Christian family… Let us imitate the Holy Family… uphold our marriage bond which is under attack…
<<<>>>
As they were waiting in line to leave church, the priest raised his hand to catch Michael’s attention.
“All right, lads. I’ll be with you in just one moment.” He tilted his head to indicate they should step aside.
“What do you think he wants with us?” Michael whispered.
Tom shrugged. “Probably needs a hand with something.”
They watched the queue of people get shorter and shorter, until finally they were the only ones left. Father O’Neill shut the door and turned their way. He was smiling warmly. “Now then. I wanted to have a talk with you, Michael. Do either of you have any plans this afternoon?”
They looked at each other and shook their heads.
“Would you like to have dinner with me and Father McDowell?”
Michael wondered what Father O’Neill would do if he said no—not that he was intending to. This was the perfect opportunity to talk to him about his worries. It also meant that Tom would be there because the priest had invited him, and not because of Michael. Granted, it probably wouldn’t make much difference to Connor and the rest of them, but at least Michael felt he had an argument with which to defend himself.
“That’s grand, then,” Father O’Neill said, though neither of them had given any response. He led them back through the church and over to the house. “We’re having roast lamb today. Is that all right you both?”
Michael and Tom nodded dumbly, and Father O’Neill laughed.
“Goodness me. Loosen up, will ye?” He continued chortling as he showed them through to the sitting room, where Father McDowell was sitting with a laptop balanced on a cushion on his knee. He glanced over and gave Michael and Tom a courteous nod. Father McDowell was only a little older than Tom. He was English and quite a small man with a surprisingly loud, deep voice.
“You two not know how to bend in the middle?” Father O’Neill suddenly appeared in the doorway again. Michael was so fazed by the situation he had no idea what Father O’Neill meant. The priest tutted. “Sit yourselves down.”
Obediently, they sat.
“Good. Now then. Would you like a glass of wine? Something stronger?”
“Could I trouble you for a glass of water, please, Father?” Tom asked.
“No trouble. You’ve got the car with you?” Tom nodded. “It’s a great little car, the Astra. I was thinking of getting one myself. I might have to ask you a few questions.”
“Of course, Father.”
“We’ve orange juice, if you’d prefer?”
“Oh, that’d be great, thanks.”
“And Michael?”
“Same for me, please, Father.”
“All right. Two glasses of orange juice.” As Father O’Neill left, he said, “Jonah, will ye get the hell off Facebook?”
Father McDowell turned bright red and closed his laptop. Michael bit his lip, trying not to laugh, but then Tom snorted and set him off, too.
“I keep telling him, you know,” Father McDowell grumbled. “It’s the church’s future. His Holiness is on Twitter. Did you know that?”
“Um, no,” Michael said through his giggles.
“I did,” Tom bragged. Michael wasn’t sure which of the two of them—himself or Father McDowell—he was trying to impress. “He’s got loads of followers.”
“Has he?”
“Aye.”
“Eight million,” Father McDowell confirmed.
“Wow!” Michael was so surprised by the figure he stopped laughing in an instant. “He’s very popular, isn’t he?”
“Yep,” Tom said, although it was more of a high-pitched yap.
Michael shook his head in wonder. “Can you imagine how many followers Jesus would have?”
“Just the twelve, surely?”
Michael tutted. “He’d crash Twitter, so He would.”
“Aye, but look what He did with the loaves and fishes.”
“True enough,” Michael agreed. “It’d be weird retweeting Him. I’d feel like I was taking His name in vain.”
“Spreading the Gospel, Mike.”
“Oh, yeah. I suppose it would be.”
Tom nudged him with his elbow and leaned in close, as if he were imparting some great wisdom. “How about St. Paul’s letters, all in a hundred and forty characters or less?”
“It’d make him less of a windbag, for sure. And Instagram would be amazing for parables.”
“Holy Vines…” Tom rubbed his chin ponderously with his finger and thumb.
Father McDowell stood with his laptop under his arm. “I’m going, before you two get me into more trouble.”
Michael and Tom watched the young priest stride from the room. “He’s fun,” Michael observed.
“Yeah, he is. Do you think—” Tom didn’t get any further, as Father O’Neill returned with their glasses of orange juice, which he set down on the oval coffee table in the centre of the room, muttering under his breath as he bent over. He straightened again and hobbled across to the armchair.
The juice was well out of arm’s reach, and Michael was thirsty, but it somehow seemed impolite to fetch his drink for himself, so he sat in parched silence, waiting for either Tom to make the first move, or for Father O’Neill to realise what he’d done.
“Dinner’s almost ready now.” With a wince and a groan, Father O’Neill gingerly eased into the armchair. “I’ve slipped a disc,” he explained. “It doesn’t bother me unless I sit. Now, I hope it’s not too early for you boys, but if Father McDowell and I don’t have our roast now, we don’t get it until the middle of the week.”
“No, no. Not too early at all,” Tom said. “We usually have our Sunday roast around this time.”
Michael nodded in agreement, though he needn’t have bothered, with the noises his empty belly
was making. Judging by Father O’Neill’s chuckle, he’d heard them, too.
“Did you have a good Christmas?” he asked of them both.
Michael answered. “It was grand, Father. Tom took me up to Derry to meet his grandad.”
Father O’Neill nodded thoughtfully and rested his clasped hands on his stomach. “How is your grandfather, Tom? Is he recovering well?”
“He’s not doing so badly, thanks, Father. He’s having rehab to try to get some use back in his arm, and speech therapy.”
Father O’Neill smiled in sympathy. “Our prayers are with him and your family, Tom.”
“Thank you, Father.”
“What about your folks, Michael. I noticed your mum wasn’t at Mass this morning.”
“No, she’s sick, Father. She says it’s the flu.”
“Ah. Could well be. A few of our ladies have had a bad do with it. Do send her my regards.”
Michael gave a swift nod to confirm he would. He was trying to stay focused on the priest, but his eyes kept straying to the glasses on the table. Maybe it was a test, like the temptation of Christ. In which case, he should try to forget about the drinks. There is no orange juice. There is no…oh God. I’m going to die of thirst. All right, think, Michael. You could ask where the bathroom is, grab the orange juice on the way back. Or ‘oh, I’ll just have a wee sip of this smashing juice before I go’… No, too suspicious. Maybe if I edge a bit closer…
Before Michael got the chance to begin his subtle shuffle forward, Tom was up off the sofa.
“You want your drink?” he asked, stepping towards the table.
“Yes. Please.”
Tom turned his back and bent to retrieve the two glasses, and Michael tried so hard not stare…not to think about what he was staring at…not to imagine the strong thighs stretching Tom’s pants, nor the tight, round—
“Here you go.” Tom pressed the glass into Michael’s hand and gave him a questioning look, except the question wasn’t ‘what are you doing?’ It was ‘were you looking at my bottom?’ Michael’s cheeks began to warm.
“Th-thanks,” he said. Tom’s eyes still burned into him, locked with his while he stepped to his side and resumed his seat next to him on the sofa. There were a good few inches of space between them, but in the presence of the priest, and with the vision of Tom’s behind etched into his mind, Michael felt like he’d been stripped naked.
“Did you know we had trespassers in the church the other day?” Father O’Neill asked.
The question instantly wiped all naughty thoughts from Michael’s mind, and his heart started hammering. This was about Connor and his mates. “No?” It was a pointless lie, but he couldn’t stop it from leaving his mouth.
“Well, we did. No damage to the church, thank goodness. Of course, we’ve got the CCTV now.”
“CC…T…V?” He thought he might be sick.
“Oh, yes.” Father O’Neill smiled—a little smugly. “After we lost all the lead off the roof, we had an alarm system fitted, and the security firm convinced us to put in a couple of cameras. I know you youngsters don’t read the parish magazine—there was a notice in there. But anyway…” Father O’Neill’s smile disappeared, replaced by a concerned frown. “After Jonah and I saw the recording yesterday, we sent it to the police.”
“OK.” Michael was still foolishly hoping he could feign ignorance and get away with it. “That’s good.”
“They’ll probably want to ask you a few questions. Both of you.”
Throughout the conversation, Tom had kept his head down, but at Father O’Neill’s last words, he looked up sharply.
“Are you going to prosecute them?” he asked.
“There’s nothing we can prosecute them for. The doors were open, so they didn’t break in. Who’s to say they weren’t coming to confession?”
“Some of them are protestants.”
“I’m aware of that, Tom, but the church is a public building. However—” the priest smiled ruefully “—the chances are you’ll be charged.”
“I acted in defence, Father.”
“I know, son. I saw what happened.”
Michael was starting to panic. He didn’t want to go up against Connor in court. He’d end up in hell for swearing on the Bible and then lying out of fear. But they’d never touched him. What grounds were there to arrest or charge them? And what would happen once they knew they’d been caught? It could only get worse.
“Oh, God, I don’t know what to do.”
Michael squeezed his lips together, but it was too late. He’d said it out loud, and now Father O’Neill was watching him even more closely than before.
The priest drew in a long, slow breath and exhaled just as slowly. “You know, Michael, the Catholic Church has come a long way in the past couple of years. His Holiness even said God doesn’t condemn people because of who they fall in love with. Alas, there are many of the faithful who are way behind the times.”
“Like Peter?” Michael spat the name with more venom than he’d intended.
Father O’Neill’s eyebrows rose, but he said nothing. Michael hadn’t expected him to—he was a priest, after all—but it meant the only way he was going to get the advice he needed was by telling him what Peter was making him do.
“Father, do you believe homosexuals should remain celibate?”
“That is the Church’s stance.”
“But you don’t agree?”
“There is some disagreement about what His Holiness means by welcoming LGBT people into our communities.”
“Am I welcome here, Father?” It was a brave question when Michael was one bad answer away from tears.
“Always, Michael.” Father O’Neill’s tone was firm yet gentle.
“But I have to be on my own for rest of my life?”
The priest considered a moment. “What did you make of this morning’s sermon?”
“It was very interesting,” Michael said earnestly.
“That wasn’t what I was asking, Michael.” Father O’Neill leaned forward and drew breath through clenched teeth. “God, this back.” He adjusted his sitting position. “Marriage and family is only one of many ways that people come together.”
“So I’ll be all right as long as I never fall in love with someone and want to marry them. Is that what you’re saying?”
“As it stands, I’m afraid you’re right. But only God knows what the future holds.” With a lot of huffing and grunting, Father O’Neill started to rise from his chair. “Give me a hand, someone, please?”
Michael and Tom both dumped their drinks to hurry to their priest’s assistance, and he grabbed Michael’s arm. “Tom, can you push me up?”
Between the three of them, they got Father O’Neill to his feet, and he took a moment to straighten to his full height.
“That’s grand, lads. Thanks very much.” He squeezed Michael’s shoulder. “You’ve plenty to be thinking about. And you’ve good friends with your best interests at heart.” He looked to Tom, and then back at Michael. “OK, so… Let’s eat and talk about more fun stuff. I was wondering…” Father O’Neill stepped off, holding himself at an odd angle and doing a lot of oohing and hissing. He led them out of the room. “What do you think to putting a football team together? Or maybe running a movie night? I’m looking for ways to bring youngsters like yourselves back into the fold. I’d appreciate your thoughts, and your help, if you’ve the time, though I realise it’s a busy time of year for you both.”
Michael glanced at Tom and smiled—a real smile. Father O’Neill’s answers had been vague and a bit hopeless, but he wanted their help—Tom’s and Michael’s—and it sent a clear message to Michael: he was still welcome, still accepted. It might be a future known only to God, but it was a future. That was more than Michael had had twenty-four hours ago. “We’d love to, Father,” he said.
“Splendid.” Father O’Neill disappeared through a doorway directly ahead of them.
The door started to close, and Tom darted fo
rward to stop it, holding it open for Michael to enter first. Tom was frowning—the wheat-ear frown that did funny things to Michael’s insides he was trying his very hardest to ignore. Poor Tom. He looks so puzzled…and so handsome…but I’m not supposed to notice…
Chapter Twenty-Two:
Prospects
“Is that you, Tom?” his mum called from the kitchen.
“It is,” he confirmed. He hung his jacket on the hook in the hall and went through. She was washing the dishes; Tom took a tea towel from the drawer.
“Leave that,” she said. “Father O’Neill just called to say you’d left an angel behind.”
“Huh?” Tom had no idea what she was talking about.
“I don’t know, Tom. That’s all he said.”
“Right. Best go back, then.” He gave his mum a kiss on the cheek and left again.
<<<>>>
“Hello, Tom,” Father McDowell greeted him in bemusement—not surprising, as he and Michael had left the priests’ house not half an hour ago.
“Hi. I got a message about… Well, I don’t really know, to be honest, Father.”
“Ah.” A smile and a nod confirmed Father McDowell had cottoned on to whatever it was. “Come on in. He’s gone to give someone communion. He’ll be back soon.”
Tom followed him inside and through to the sitting room, where Father McDowell’s laptop—open on Facebook—was on the coffee table. The young priest gave Tom a coy grin.
Tom laughed. “Is there a holy law against it, or something?”
“No. Only a Father O’Neill law. There’re a lot of Catholic groups on Facebook—I wanted to show Michael one of them.” Father McDowell picked up his laptop, typed into the search bar, hit enter and then passed the laptop to Tom.
Tom scanned the information on-screen in amazement. A UK group for lesbian, gay and bisexual Catholics, and they had a lot of members. Tom clicked the link to their website. “This is brilliant, Father.”
“They’re a fantastic organisation. Sadly, they don’t have any groups in the North of Ireland, or the South. But anyone, anywhere can join.”
Tom nodded, only half-listening because he was reading about the group. This was exactly what Michael needed. Acceptance, and to see there were other people like him. “I’ll tell Michael about it next time I see him.”
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