I Have Sinned

by Caimh McDonnell

  “What?” said Bunny.

  “The library had it. It was a book written by this old Hollywood stuntman, Carl Wandinky.”

  “Let me get this straight,” said Smithy. “You cycled into the path of a moving vehicle because you thought you knew how to get hit in the right way so that it probably wouldn’t kill you because you read it in a book?”

  “Well, it sounds stupid when you say it like that.”

  Smithy was nearly beside himself. “It sounds stupid whichever way you say it! Jesus, Dill!”

  “It worked, didn’t it?”

  “I just… I can’t… I… I…”

  Father Gabriel turned to Diller. “Thank you for taking that chance to help me.”

  “No problem.”

  “Which brings me to the next thing I don’t understand,” said Smithy. “Why were those guys trying to kidnap you in the first place, Father?”

  “I’m afraid I have no idea.”

  “Really?” said Smithy, not trying to hide the disbelief from his voice. “You’ve no idea who’s so pissed that they sent a snatch team for you?”

  Father Gabriel shrugged. “No.”

  “And,” added Bunny, “how come the two guys in the back of the van were unconscious?”

  “Yeah,” said Smithy.

  “They were both standing up when the van came to a halt.” He turned to Diller. “I assume that was when you…”

  “Makes sense.” Diller nodded. “Yep.”

  “Then they both fell forward and hit their heads,” finished the priest.

  Smithy had stopped at a set of traffic lights, because he was now once again driving like a relatively sane person. This allowed him and Bunny to exchange a highly sceptical look.

  “Right,” said Bunny. “And you have no clue who they were?”

  “Well, in hindsight,” said Father Gabriel, “I think they’ve been following me for a couple of days. They were probably harder to spot because you were so obvious.”

  “You made us?” asked Diller.

  “I’m afraid so. Did you think a cab parked around the neighbourhood wouldn’t attract attention?”

  “Well…” said Smithy, feeling a little disappointed. He thought they’d been doing quite well.

  The priest turned to Diller. “If it’s any consolation, you were much better than they were.”

  Diller, diplomatically, didn’t comment on this.

  “By the way,” said the priest, “if you can get your bike back, I know someone who might be able to fix it for you.”

  “Nah,” said Smithy. “We ain’t going back. Bunny, you owe Diller a bike.”

  “Fair play.”

  “Not to mention all the repairs on the cab.”

  He shrugged. “Easy come, easy go.”

  “May I ask a question?” said Father Gabriel.

  “Yes.”

  “Where are we going?”

  Smithy wasn’t driving anywhere other than “away”. He looked across at Bunny.

  “I dunno. Back to the church, I s’pose?”

  “Thank you,” said Father Gabriel. “I appreciate it.”

  “So you’ve no idea who those men are?” asked Bunny.

  “As I told you – no. I’m just a simple priest.”

  “Yeah,” said Bunny. “Here’s the problem I have with that. A simple priest doesn’t a) get kidnapped and then b) get the hell out of there before the cops show up because he doesn’t want to answer questions. Come to think of it – c) doesn’t sit there calmly after he’s been kidnapped and then rescued. You should be freaking the fuck out! Look at you, you’re calm as can be.”

  “Perhaps I’m in shock?”

  Bunny turned in his seat and looked long and hard at Father Gabriel, who said nothing and just looked back.

  “Can I ask a question?” said Diller, who did not like tension.

  “What?” replied Smithy.

  “How come the cab’s covered in garbage?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Actually,” said Bunny, gleefully, “that was caused by Smithy’s violent driving.”

  “You can’t call it violent,” said Smithy.

  “I can think of several people who’d disagree.”

  “It was reckless. Reckless – I’ll give you that. But there’s no way it counts as an act of violence.”

  “Reckless counts.”

  “No, it doesn’t,” said Smithy. “Leaving your front door open or having unprotected sex or bluffing an ace – those things are reckless too, but none of them are violent. However, pulling a gun on somebody – now that’s a violent act.”

  “No, it fecking is not. I didn’t shoot the fella; I just threatened to shoot the fella.”

  “It still counts.”

  “It definitely does not.”

  Diller turned to the priest. “Do you understand this argument?”

  He shook his head.

  Bunny touched Smithy on the arm and pointed at a space. “Pull over a second.”

  Smithy did so.

  Bunny unclipped his seat belt and turned around. “Alright, let’s stop playing pretend. Whatever is going on here, Padre, if you don’t want to tell us, that’s up to you. Thing is, though, whether you like it or not, we saved you.”

  “I didn’t ask you to.”

  “No, but we did it anyway, because you seem like a good man.”

  The priest said nothing.

  “But a good man, when someone puts themselves at risk” – he pointed at Diller – “nearly gets themselves killed, in fact, all to help him – a good man would want to repay that kindness.”

  “While I am thankful for this man’s bravery in helping to save me, he did not do it for me. He’s never met me.”

  “That’s true,” said Diller. “I did it for Bunny, but ask yourself, would Smithy and I be putting ourselves through all this if he wasn’t somebody seriously worth helping?”

  Smithy nodded. “The guy literally threw himself in front of traffic.”

  Gabriel looked out the window for a long time before he spoke again. “They will not be happy with me for this. There are very strict rules.”

  Bunny held his breath.

  Father Gabriel rubbed his hands over his eyes and sighed heavily. “Fine. Head towards Brownsville in Brooklyn and I’ll direct you from there.”

  Bunny, his eyes wide with excitement, turned to Smithy.

  “Alright,” said Smithy, “but I’m starting the meter.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “Please?” said Bianca, giving Trey the same pleading tone and hands-clasped-together entreaty she’d been using on him since they were five.

  “No,” said Trey. “I’m not doing your homework for you.”

  They were taking their usual route home and they were late, at least as far as Emilio was concerned. Bianca’s dad didn’t care what time of day it was, beyond bar opening and closing times, and Trey was going home to an empty apartment. Still, they ran by Emilio’s clock. Most days, he fed the pigeons before school, but he still liked to check in on them every night before dinner. His grandma had strict rules on what time he was allowed to get home. More than anything, Emilio did not like to see her upset, so the trio effectively ran on a schedule dictated by an old lady and a coop full of potentially racist birds.

  It was getting dark, and the wind whipped around the buildings. No matter how long Trey lived here, it always caught him by surprise.

  “I’m not asking you to do it, Trey. I’m asking for your help with it.”

  Trey turned to Emilio. “You got your book report done?”

  Emilio nodded. “D… d… d… done and dusted.”

  “See, E got it done.”

  “Yeah, but he ain’t got my distractions to deal with.”

  “You don’t know that. Hey, E – you spending much time standing in your room shadow-boxing with a poster of Dwayne Johnson?”

  “Every night.”

  “Aw, come on, Trey.”

  “Mrs
Marshall knows my writing style, B. She’ll know you didn’t do it right away.”

  “You could dumb it down.”

  “Not that much!”

  Bianca shot a dirty look at Emilio, who quickly suppressed his snigger. “Besides,” she added, “you know Mrs M misses her favourite student. It’d be a nice trip down memory lane for her.”

  Mrs Marshall had been Trey’s English teacher. It was she who had put him forward for the scholarship to Waldorf. She’d started the ball rolling and then his older brother, John, who everyone – including their mom when she’d been alive – called Pocket, had picked it up and run with it. Trey hadn’t wanted to move schools, but his brother and Father Gabriel had sold it as his way out of Coopersville. His big chance. He’d gotten the tuition scholarship and Pocket had found the money for everything else. So every morning at 6:30am, Trey got on the first of two buses, changing into his Waldorf Academy school uniform in the toilets of a McDonalds on the way. He didn’t want to be seen in that damn stupid blazer in Coopersville. Then he attended classes where he felt incredibly out of place before returning home via the same route and routine. He liked Mrs Marshall, but he spent a lot of time wishing she hadn’t liked his writing so much.

  “Have you read the book?” asked Trey.

  Bianca fiddled with the hair behind her ear in the same way she did every time she was about to lie. “I am familiar with it. I have, y’know, read it, but I’m finding it hard to put my feelings about it into words.”

  “OK,” said Trey. “Well, just give me a real rough summation.”

  “If I could do that, I wouldn’t need your help.”

  “Just the basics. What is Of Mice and Men about?”

  “Well…” She paused and looked from Trey to Emilio and back again nervously. “There’s this mouse.”

  Bianca’s face scrunched up into its typical pout of pinched anger as Emilio and Trey howled with laughter. “There’s this mouse!” repeated Trey.

  “Both y’all better shut up. I can knock you both out, y’know?”

  Trey rubbed tears from his eyes as Emilio gasped for breath beside him. The angrier Bianca looked, the funnier it made it.

  “Man, fuck y’all. I don’t need you.”

  “Ain’t that the truth.”

  All three of them straightened up, and the laughter died as they turned to see the source of the voice. Three older kids were hanging out in a nearby doorway. Marlon Bryson was only a couple of years older than Trey and the others, but he stood at six foot five. He’d been on the school basketball team before he’d been expelled, and he still hung out on the half court outside their building most days. Trey recognised one of the others as Rico, but the third guy was a stranger to him. Marlon favoured Bianca with a smile.

  “You alright, champ?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine, thanks.”

  “These two bothering you, champ?” He emphasised the word champ playfully every time he said it.

  “Nothing I can’t handle.”

  “Well, you let me know, champ. Can’t have our local celebrities being bothered while they go ’bout their business,” he said, emphasising the Z in business.

  Bianca went to walk around and Marlon stepped into her path. “Whoa now, champ, what’s the hurry? Ain’t you gonna show us your belt?”

  “No, it – it was a trophy, and it’s over at the gym.”

  “That right?” Marlon ran his finger under his nose. “Y’know, you need anything – money, equipment – you let us know. The New Bloods are happy to provide.”

  “I’m good, thanks.”

  Bianca went to walk by again, but Marlon shifted his position, laughing. “Hold up, hold up now. Let me talk to you for a little bit. How about you and I go grab a slice?”

  “I gotta get home,” said Bianca.

  “You can spare a few moments now – I seen your pops heading down to Dasey’s, I reckon he’ll be propping up that bar for a while. We got time.”

  “She s… s… said no.”

  Marlon didn’t turn his eyes from Bianca as he spoke to Emilio. “Who the fuck’s asking you, retard?”

  “Don’t call him that,” said Bianca, a low growl in her voice.

  “OK,” said Trey, “we gotta get going, so we’ll see you.”

  “You can leave, but me and the lady are having ourselves a tête-à-tête.”

  Marlon reached out to grab Bianca’s arm, but Emilio slapped it away.

  Marlon shot a hand out, catching Emilio in the chest and sending him staggering backwards.

  Bianca pushed him back. “Fuck you.”

  Trey quickly placed himself between the two, extending his arms out to separate them. “Everybody chill. Just chill.”

  Marlon pushed Trey. “Get out of my way, fucking midget.”

  Rico, who had been watching on, stepped forward. “Yo, Marlon, that’s Pocket’s little brother, man.”

  “So?” said Marlon. “Don’t mean he can step to me.”

  Rico looked concerned. “I know – just relax. You know how he is.”

  “Shut up, Rico.” Marlon glowered at Trey. “Fine, you can go.”

  “We’re all leaving,” said Trey.

  “Fuck no. I ain’t having that retard disrespecting me.” He jabbed a finger in Emilio’s direction again.

  “He didn’t mean nothing by—”

  “Shit,” said Rico, taking a step back.

  Trey heard the screech of tyres as the SUV came to a halt beside them, having seemingly appeared out of nowhere. Pocket was out of the passenger-side door in one fluid movement. He’d always been a good athlete, short and stocky but blessed with an economy of movement. He was nineteen now and looked every inch a fully grown man. He had an air of certainty about him. Marlon stumbled as he backed up, stopping when his back reached the wall. Pocket stood inches away, calmly looking up into Marlon’s eyes as he spoke.

  “You OK, Trey?”

  “We just—” Marlon stopped talking when Pocket moved his head just a fraction.

  “I don’t recall speaking to you.”

  “I…” said Marlon, before leaving it at that.

  “Trey?”

  “We’re alright, bro, I’m just going home.”

  “Sure. Hold back a second – I need to talk to you. But first…” Pocket moved himself a little closer and looked into Marlon’s eyes. “I need to check my boy Marlon here’s clear on a few rules we have.”

  Seeing Marlon so terrified gave Trey no vicarious thrill of victory. Quite the opposite. Despite Pocket’s best efforts to keep it all away from him, Trey would have to be deaf and blind not to know who his big brother was – one of the shot-callers in the New Bloods. Pocket had worked his way up, with a reputation for being a cold-blooded killer. He was Ice Redmond’s number-one trigger man and he had made it very clear that his brother was untouchable. The New Bloods respected that and so did the other gangs, once it had been made known that non-compliance was a death sentence. There had been one time that someone from the C-Boys had come at Trey when he was younger. Pocket had exercised a policy of disproportionate response. After the ensuing tit-for-tat bloodshed, the other gangs had agreed to an unofficial understanding that anyone touching Pocket’s kid brother was bad for everybody’s business. Trey had heard about it all second-hand, mostly from Emilio. More than anything, he wished that it wasn’t like this. Pocket was a smart guy and a loving brother. When their mother had gone, he had taken a long, hard look at their lives and found the best way he could to protect his little brother. Love could be a truly terrible and terrifying thing.

  “I meant no disrespect, Pocket,” said Marlon. “I just… The retard was mouthing off.”

  Pocket put a finger under Marlon’s chin. “You don’t call him that.”

  “I just…”

  “Emilio and Bianca like family to us. You know how I feel about family.”

  “Sorry, I…”

  Pocket looked at Rico and the other guy. “And how do you two feel about this situation?”


  Rico held his hands up. “I tried to tell him, Pocket. Didn’t I try to tell him?”

  The other guy nodded furiously.

  Marlon looked desperate. “I was just, y’know… playing.”

  “Oh,” said Pocket. “Alright then. So you’re saying I’m overreacting?”

  Marlon stood there with his mouth open, overwhelmed by the deluge of wrong answers falling around his ears.

  Trey rubbed his hands together nervously. “We gotta go, Pocket. I’ll see you at home.”

  Pocket glanced over at him. “Yeah, sure, bro. One sec.” He turned back to Marlon. “We’ll finish this later.”

  Marlon nodded gratefully and then stood there looking at Pocket, frozen in place.

  “So, you can get out of here right the fuck now.”

  Pocket took a step back and Marlon and his friends hurried past, not making eye contact. The word “friends” might no longer be applicable, though. From the corner of his eye, Trey caught Rico throwing a hard slap at the back of Marlon’s head as they moved quickly away.

  The three of them removed, Pocket became Trey’s big brother again, that huge room-lighting smile returning to his face. “Sorry ’bout that. Hey, B, Emilio, what’s up?”

  “Nothing,” said Emilio.

  “We good,” said Bianca. “Thanks for, y’know…”

  Pocket waved her thanks away. “Don’t you three worry about those assholes. I’ll set ’em straight later.”

  “No, don’t…” Trey started, and then he stopped. Pocket wasn’t the easiest to talk to these days, and Trey knew that contradicting him in front of others would not be appreciated.

  Pocket placed a hand on Trey’s shoulder. “You OK, little bro?”

  “All good.”

  “Mrs Barnes dropping over dinner, OK?”

  “Yeah. I told her to skip a couple – we got lots. You back home tonight?”

  Pocket glanced at the SUV’s tinted windows. “I’m not sure. You got money?”

  Trey nodded.

  “You need anything?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “OK, Einstein,” he said, giving Trey’s hair a playful ruffle. “I’ll catch you later. You call me if you need anything.”

  “Sure.”

  “Alright then.”

  He turned and tossed a playful feint in Bianca’s direction. “And congrats, B. We all proud of you. Representing Coopersville.”