I Have Sinned

by Caimh McDonnell

  “Oh, right.”

  “I don’t think we can view my vocation in the same way as that of others. Most come because God calls them to Him. I came because I was desperately trying to wash my sins away.” Gabriel held his hands out, the blade lying flat on his right palm. “This is what is at the core of me. How many good works, how many days in the Lord’s service, what penance can ever be enough to wipe away those terrible, terrible sins? I have taken life.” Gabriel pointed his finger at the outside world. “Men like we met today – Ice, those above him, those who deal in the death he sells – am I any better than them? Can I ever be? When I meet my Lord on the Day of Judgement, what will matter most?” Gabriel’s voice cracked with emotion.

  Bunny didn’t know what to say. He scratched at his beard while Gabriel turned away, gathering himself.

  But Bunny still needed answers. “Why now?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Why has Abraham come looking for you now?”

  Gabriel turned and offered a sad smile. “My picture was in the paper. Somehow, they must have seen it. He thought I was dead. What are the chances?”

  “So he sent men to kill you?”

  “No,” said Gabriel. “That first team, the ones in the van, they were not the family. He used contractors. I think he just wanted to test me. Abraham has a very… particular way of thinking. He enjoys toying with people. It is hard to explain to someone who has not been around it. He is also a very patient man.”

  “And then, tonight, he sent that lad downstairs to kill you?”

  Gabriel shook his head again. “I mean, technically yes, but not really. You see, ‘initiations’ have one sacrosanct rule. You succeed or you die trying. Back in those Panama days, my friend Simon failed and returned to us. Abraham shot him in the garden.”

  “Jesus Christ!” said Bunny.

  “He is a man who is capable of anything. He didn’t want that boy to kill me. He wanted me to stop him because then…. because then I would know that I had effectively taken the boy’s life. Abraham doesn’t want to kill me for betraying him; he wants to turn me back into what I once was. He wants to make me into a killer again.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Bunny had very limited experience of one-night stands, but the next morning felt a lot like the aftermath of one of those. Father Gabriel had poured his heart out, and now there was a different kind of awkwardness between them. Bunny didn’t know what to think – it was hard to reconcile the cold-blooded killer Gabriel had described with the man he now was. He looked more like a librarian than a soldier, but then, he supposed that was the point. He would blend effortlessly into any background. Gabriel seemed unable to look Bunny in the eye, weighed down with the shame of who he had been.

  Bunny had always considered himself to be a reasonably moral person, but what Gabriel was and had been, and what it all meant, seemed too immense to untangle. Should he be in jail? Possibly. But how much could you blame the man for doing what the boy had been raised to do? The organisation seemed like a cult as much as anything. Even the name – “the family” – Charles Manson much? So now the killer had become a tortured soul looking for forgiveness and Bunny didn’t know which directions were right and wrong.

  Aside from all of that, the priest seemed trapped, with no way out. They had a trained assassin tied up in the basement and no idea what to do with him. If they released him, Gabriel assured Bunny that he would attempt to fulfil his mission and kill him. If they somehow sent him back, his failure was a death sentence. Gabriel had said they’d have to leave him tied up, and he would try to talk to him that evening when it was quiet. Bunny got the feeling the priest didn’t think he’d be able to deprogramme the kid but felt he had to try. From what Bunny could see, the best of the bad options open to him was for Gabriel to run, and to hope he could disappear somewhere that a band of highly skilled killers wouldn’t find him. That would also mean that the priest would have to pull himself away from all he had built here, which he seemed unwilling to do.

  Gabriel had tried to ring Trey throughout the morning without success. He had been tetchy with everybody, even Rosario. He’d contacted Emilio and Bianca at school, but they hadn’t heard from him either. According to the hospital, Pocket was out of surgery; they described his condition as critical. They were monitoring him closely to see if any internal bleeds would force them to operate again. He was being kept in a medically induced coma and the surgeon had told them that, honestly, it was touch and go. Father Gabriel had also spoken to the ward nurse, who had informed him that all the people waiting for news of Pocket had left, some escorted out by security. No one at the hospital had any idea where Trey was, but he wasn’t there. He wasn’t at school either, and Emilio said he had neither turned up to Emilio’s grandma’s apartment nor was he in his own. So, Gabriel paced around, made busywork and was in a foul temper for the whole day.

  At around 4pm, Rosario called Bunny out of the gym. Emilio stood outside the office, looking about as uncomfortable as it was possible for a human being to look. He was wearing a brown suit that was too short in the leg and slightly too big in the body. Bunny guessed his cousin came from the squatter end of their gene pool. He was also wearing his Dolphins cap.

  Rosario and Bianca stood on either side of the condemned man.

  “Tell him he looks good,” said Bianca.

  Bunny nodded enthusiastically. “Very sharp, Emilio, very sharp.”

  “He got his meeting about that job and he don’t want to wear the suit,” said Rosario.

  “Looks s… stupid,” said Emilio glumly.

  “Tell him to take off the hat,” said Rosario. “It isn’t professional.”

  Bunny looked from her to Bianca and back to Emilio, and got a handle on the situation. “I hear what you’re saying, Rosario, but the hat – the hat is like Emilio’s signature.”

  Emilio nodded.

  “It ain’t businesslike.”

  “No,” conceded Bunny, “but remember, this isn’t a typical job. They want to hire an artist.” Bunny waved a hand up and down the suit. “This says, ‘I’m all business. I’m a professional.’” Then he pointed at the hat. “This says, ‘But I’m an artist’ – which is exactly what they want.” Bunny patted Emilio encouragingly on the shoulder. “The lad has an incredible eye. I’d have you redesign my wardrobe. What do you reckon – does this brown sack thing I got going on bring out my eyes?”

  Emilio shook his head in response and gave the hint of a smirk.

  Rosario muttered something under her breath and her jowls vibrated with disapproval. “OK, fine – he looks great. You two need to get going.”

  “No Trey news?” said Bunny.

  “No,” said Bianca. “He’s still AWOL, so I’m gonna be E’s hype man instead. I’m good at talking and shit.”

  Bunny tried to hide his wince, which was more than Rosario even attempted.

  “That ain’t no way for a young lady to talk.”

  “Right,” said Bunny, clapping his hands together and then motioning Emilio and Bianca towards the door, keen to get them out before Rosario built up steam on the ladylike language talk. “Off you two pop. You’ll do great. We’ll all be telling our grandkids about this momentous day.”

  “You can’t have kids,” said Rosario.

  “Figure of speech,” said Bunny. He placed his hands on their shoulders as they moved down the aisle, lowering his voice. “She means well.”

  This was met with diplomatic silence.

  “Remember,” said Bunny, “these people came looking for you. It’s a done deal. Emilio, you just look at the wall and nod. B, don’t punch anybody and you’ll be fine.”

  “Remember how I knocked you out cold?” said Bianca.

  “No, loss of memory is one of the many advantages of being punched repeatedly in the head. Now off you go!”

  Bunny watched as the duo walked the rest of the way down the church. As they reached the doors, he raised his voice again. “Remember what I said abou
t punching people!”

  He was shushed aggressively by a Chinese woman he was pretty sure was called Mrs Wu, who he hadn’t noticed was kneeling in prayer in one of the far pews.

  “Sorry, I’m, y’know, ministering to the flock. Apologies for—”

  “BUNNY!”

  He turned to see Gabriel standing at the door of the office, waving for him. He gave an apologetic wave to Mrs Wu and hurried to meet him.

  “It’s Trey,” said Gabriel. “Jimmy Sands rang me. He said he met Trey coming out of a shop up on Bleacher about an hour ago. We have to find him.”

  “Alright,” said Bunny.

  “I’m going with Rosario. We need to split up. Ring your friend.”

  “OK, I…”

  Rosario rushed by in a state of panic. “C’mon, Father. Come on.”

  Gabriel nodded and went to follow her out the door before he stopped and turned back to Bunny. “Jimmy said he’d bought a can of spray paint and a knife.”

  “Ah, bollocks.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  “I’ll have to get gas soon,” said Smithy.

  “Right, yeah,” replied Bunny distractedly, scanning left and right. They had been searching for Trey for an hour and a half with no success. He’d checked regularly with Gabriel and Rosario in the other car, but they’d had no luck either.

  “Has this kid got any family?” said Smithy.

  Bunny shook his head. “Only the brother who’s in the St Martin’s ICU. They’ll ring us if he shows up there again.”

  Bunny felt his phone vibrate and answered it on the first ring. “Yes?”

  It was Gabriel. “We checked the graveyard where his mother is buried. Nothing.”

  “Damn.”

  “I’ve spoken to the police again and I insisted on talking to a captain this time. I pointed out that if they did nothing to find an at-risk teen and something happened… So they’re sending a couple of squad cars out.”

  “Right,” said Bunny. “Well, unless you’ve any better ideas, I guess we’ll start again and cover a ten-block radius around the church. It’s getting dark, maybe he’ll…” Bunny didn’t know what else to say. That the kid might see sense and turn away from whatever path he was on seemed like a forlorn hope. Bunny had some idea of what it was like to be young and full of rage. From Trey’s perspective, his whole world had collapsed around his ears – who knew where that would lead.

  “Yes,” said Gabriel. “You do that. I’m going to start ringing anyone I can think of. Somebody must have seen him.”

  Bunny and Smithy drove around for the best part of forty-five minutes more before stopping for gas. They were just on their way out of the gas station when the phone rang again. Gabriel. “Are you anywhere near the Philpott Projects?”

  “No,” said Bunny, “we’re on…”

  “Intersection of 142nd and Maybury,” said Smithy.

  “Intersection of 142nd and Maybury,” repeated Bunny.

  “Damn it,” said Gabriel. “I just heard. Trey is over there and he’s tagging.”

  “Right,” said Bunny. “That’s not so bad.”

  “Left! Left!” shouted Gabriel, presumably to Rosario, before returning to the call. “It is. That’s Los Diablos Rojos territory. It’s damn near suicide.”

  “Ah, shite! We’re on our way.”

  “There.”

  Gabriel was out of Rosario’s car before it stopped moving, running around the chain-link fence that enclosed the basketball court which sat at the centre of a ring of apartment blocks. He could see Trey on the far side. Some kids were on the court, but they weren’t playing. They were hurling abuse at the hooded figure with the spray can who was daubing a large “NB” insignia onto the wall of the apartment block. NB was the New Bloods.

  Gabriel hurried around the path of cracked concrete paving stones that enclosed the court.

  “Trey! Trey!” Gabriel tripped over a tree root that had broken through the concrete and stumbled messily to the ground, scraping his hands and knees. Damned sandals. Gabriel picked himself up and resumed running, turning the corner. Only then did Trey look up, his face frozen in a death mask of determination.

  “Get out of here, Father.”

  The jeering from the kids increased as Trey finally acknowledged someone else’s existence.

  Gabriel stopped, panting hard. He placed his hand on Trey’s shoulder. “Son. Stop this. Come back to the church with me. Rosario is over there in the car.”

  Trey shook Gabriel’s hand off angrily. “Leave me alone. I’m taking care of my business.”

  He moved a few feet down the wall and started a fresh NB logo.

  “Trey, listen to me: Pocket wouldn’t want this, son.”

  “Yeah, well, Pocket’s in a coma and he doesn’t get a say.”

  Gabriel noticed a change in the timbre of the jeering coming from the younger kids on the court. He turned to see a group of five men emerging from the door of the apartment block and heading towards them with a purpose.

  “Trey, we have to go now!”

  “I ain’t—”

  “Trey!”

  “What the fuck we have here?”

  Gabriel turned to face the five figures, placing himself between them and Trey. As they drew closer, he realised that he had met two of them before. It had been last week, and they had been flanking Santana on the steps of the church. Marcus and Sergio. Gabriel might not have been much good with people, but he could always remember names.

  “We’re leaving,” said Gabriel. “This boy isn’t in his right mind. We’re leaving.”

  “The fuck you are,” said Marcus, who, absent Santana’s presence, was carrying himself like the leader. “You disrespected us last week and this young ’un is doing it right now. Payback is a bitch.”

  “Yeah,” said Trey, “you want some payback? Come on then.”

  Gabriel could see Trey reaching for something in his back pocket. It must be the knife. He threw his arms around the boy and started trying to drag him away.

  “We’re leaving.”

  “Get off me,” said Trey, struggling to escape Gabriel’s bear hug.

  Marcus had his hand on the grip of the pistol stuck into his trousers. “Nah. You can leave; your boy’s staying.” He turned to the kids on the court. “You all get the fuck out of here.”

  Roused from their entranced watching of the unfolding drama, the group of kids moved away, one of the older boys pushing a couple of reticent ones who wanted to stay and watch.

  The words “no witnesses” burned in Gabriel’s mind.

  “Get off me, Father,” screamed Trey. “Get off me. I’m gonna handle this.”

  “No, you’re not,” said Gabriel, the desperation grabbing at his chest now. It took all his strength to hold the rabid animal that was Trey in check.

  “C’mon, asshole,” yelled Trey. “Let’s go.”

  “He’s Pocket’s brother,” said Gabriel, searching for anything that might avert the coming collision.

  “Yeah?” said one of the other gang members. “Last I heard, Pocket’s a dead man, and that hijo de puta shot my cousin.” He pulled out his gun and two of the others followed suit. “This kid ain’t protected by no one no more.”

  “I don’t need protecting,” screamed Trey, “I’ll take you all on.”

  “No,” hollered Gabriel, ducking his head to avoid Trey’s elbow as he continued to struggle in his grip. The boy was now raging in the face of several guns pointed right at them.

  “Please,” said Gabriel. “This boy isn’t involved. He’s not…”

  Marcus pointed at the logos on the wall. “He’s involved now. He’s gonna be a lesson. He’s—”

  “Howerya, lads!”

  They all turned. Bunny stood about a hundred yards behind the five gang members, waving his hands. “Remember me? I slapped the shite out of two of you, then I stole your money and your drugs. Made you look like a pair of fecking eejits.”

  The shout would have probably been enough, b
ut never one for half measures, Bunny pulled up the hem of his brown robes to reveal in no uncertain terms that Brother McGarry was travelling commando. “Or to put it in the Dublin vernacular, ye can ask me bollocks.”

  “Get him!” screamed Marcus.

  “But,” started one of the others, looking at Gabriel and Trey before running after the other four. Gabriel was dimly aware of Bunny disappearing around the corner of the building, but his attention was focused on Trey.

  “Let me go!” screamed Trey.

  “No,” said Gabriel, “no, I won’t. I’m not going to let you kill yourself.”

  “Let me go.”

  Desperate, Gabriel made a decision. He manoeuvred around Trey’s flailing arms to apply a chokehold. Ten seconds later, Trey’s eyes rolled back in his head and he was unconscious. Gabriel picked him up in a fireman’s lift and carried him back toward Rosario’s car.

  Smithy sat in the front seat of the taxi and drummed his fingers nervously on the steering wheel. Bunny had been very clear, instructing him to wait right here with the engine running. Smithy didn’t like waiting. He was double-parked around the back of an apartment block in the Philpott housing project, receiving admonishing honks from passing drivers, which he met with apologetic waves. A truck pulled up behind him and the driver lay on the horn hard. Smithy swore under his breath and lowered the window, waving at the driver to go around. There was room, but the guy seemed determined to get Smithy to move, which he wasn’t going to do. After thirty seconds of continued honking and a couple of choice hand gestures in either direction, Smithy saw, in the side mirror, the door of the truck’s cab opening.

  “Great,” muttered Smithy, “this is the last thing I need.”

  He watched the driver’s beer belly, followed by his sour expression, come marching towards him. Smithy turned and stuck his head out the window.

  “I gotta stay here.”

  “The fuck you do!”

  “Look,” said Smithy, waving at the road beside him, “I’m sorry for the inconvenience, but there’s plenty of room. Please go around.”