Luke Delaney - The Toy Taker

‘If anything ever happens to you,’ he whispered to the sleeping infants. ‘If anyone ever …’ He pushed the ugly, remorseless words back into the darkness they came from. They had no place here. He exhaled long and hard until his breathing was normal again. He adjusted his position until he was more comfortable, closed his eyes once more and allowed his head to fall forward.

Sean stood on the pavement looking up at the large ecclesiastical building on the opposite side of the road with its steeply angled roofs and tall stained-glass windows. A small bell in a painted white housing topped the apex on the front of the dark brick structure. He had vague memories of being dragged to St Thomas Moore Catholic church when he was a young boy, but little more. He’d certainly never been as a man, or to any other church, except for weddings and funerals. Even now, the thought of entering the church somehow filled him with dread, but try as he might he couldn’t stop feeling drawn to it. He squared his shoulders and crossed the road, dodging the traffic to reach the other side, looking into the grand entrance as if it was the mouth of a leviathan waiting to swallow him whole.

As he pushed the heavy wooden doors open, the smell of old wood and leather rushed at him, triggering memories buried deep in his olfactory system, memories from his childhood — memories of feeling safe, at least for a while. He remembered how his drunken father would refuse to join the rest of the family when they went to church on Sundays and special occasions, cursing the clergy and all they represented. His mother said he’d burn in hell for the things he’d said. He’s burning in hell, all right , Sean thought, but not for that .

He headed deeper inside, relieved to see the church was empty. Early morning on a weekday had kept the worshippers and grovellers away. Only the truly desperate came at this hour. As he walked down the central aisle he kept looking from side to side, more and more able to see himself as a young boy at his mother’s side, kneeling at one of the seemingly hundreds of altar tables as the priests chanted in a language he didn’t understand.

In the far corner of the church he could just about make out the old confessional boxes, almost hidden in the gloom of the lightless space, intimidating and foreboding. Yet somehow he felt himself drawn to them, walking through the rays of light that streamed in through the stained-glass windows, the sound of his leather-soled, metal-tipped shoes clicking loudly on the parquet floor. He stopped a few feet away from the boxes and waited for something to happen, although he didn’t know what. Suddenly he felt a presence behind him that made him spin around. His eyes struggled to cope with the brightness of the light that shone almost directly into them. He squinted until he could see well enough to make out a man in black, with a thin white collar around his neck.

‘Can I help you?’ the priest asked, stepping closer, making Sean step backwards.

Sean studied him before speaking, quickly processing the man’s description: six foot tall, slim but athletic, about thirty-three or — four, black collar-length hair and startling blue eyes. His accent was neutral, but with a hint of south-east London.

‘No,’ Sean answered. ‘I was just … I was just looking around.’

‘A trip down memory lane, perhaps?’

‘Something like that,’ Sean told him and unconsciously looked towards the exit, telegraphing his intentions.

‘Always my favourite time of day here,’ the young priest explained. ‘The calm before the storm, you might say.’

‘The storm? I’m surprised you ever get enough people in here to amount to a storm.’

‘Ah well, we do all right. I suppose we’re in a good spot. Location. location, location — isn’t that what they say?’

‘Yeah,’ Sean answered casually, still looking for an escape route, ‘that’s what they say. Still, I’ve wasted enough of your time. I’d better get back to work.’

‘Is there something you wanted to talk about? Something you wanted to get off your chest, maybe? Only I saw you heading for these confessional boxes. Perhaps you’d be more comfortable discussing whatever’s on your mind the old-fashioned way?’

‘You mean inside one of those boxes?’ Sean asked incredulously.

‘If it suits you. I’m Father Jones, by the way.’

‘Jones?’ Sean asked with a slight smile. ‘I assumed you’d have an Irish name.’

‘Everybody does,’ the priest smiles back. ‘Welsh father, English mother. Sorry to disappoint. When was your last time?’

‘Last time what?’

‘At confession?’

‘Jesus, I can’t remember.’

‘No blaspheming in church, please,’ the priest said, his smile broadening.’

‘Sorry … Father.’

‘Come on,’ Father Jones encouraged, his hand gesturing to the confessional box closest to them. ‘It might make you feel more at peace with yourself, and I could do with the practice.’ He walked past Sean and into the box, closing the door without waiting for Sean to follow, leaving him alone in the church, looking from the box to the exit, Kate’s words etched into his mind: Do something you haven’t done in a long time, or something you’ve never done .

‘Jesus Christ,’ he muttered quietly and headed for the box where Father Jones waited for him, closing the door as quietly as he could behind him and searching the cramped surroundings until he had his bearings. Eventually he pulled the small, purple, velvet curtain open and could feel Father Jones on the other side. ‘I can’t remember what I’m supposed to do,’ Sean admitted.

‘Well, I believe you’re supposed to say something like, Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.’

‘Fine … Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.’

‘How long since your last confession?’

‘Years. Never … never since I was a man.’

‘That’s a long time. So you’ve either been living like a monk or you’ll have a fair bit to get off your chest, I would imagine.’

‘I’m a cop,’ Sean told him, without knowing why.

‘I know,’ the priest answered with empathy.

‘How d’you know?’

‘I could tell. I suppose our jobs aren’t that dissimilar: we both see and hear things most people will be lucky enough never to have to think about. After you’ve done this job for a few years you get to be able to tell a lot about people very quickly — the same way you do, no doubt.’

‘I see,’ Sean agreed, still a little suspicious.

‘So, where would you like to begin?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Your confession.’

‘I don’t know where to begin.’

‘The beginning, perhaps.’

‘I’m not sure I know when the beginning was.’

‘Ah. All a little overwhelming, is it?’

‘What can I say? I’ve beaten men to get them to tell me the truth. I’ve lied under oath when that’s what I had to do to get the right man sent to prison. I’ve planted evidence. I’ve had terrible thoughts, and I’ve been unfaithful to my wife.’ He hadn’t intended to confess the final sin and it silenced him.

‘Well — you’ve got a lot on your plate there, but I sense it’s only the last thing you mentioned that you’re truly sorry for.’

‘Maybe.’

‘And when you say you were unfaithful , do you mean in the full biblical sense?’

‘No, but I wanted it. I wanted to.’

‘But you didn’t?’

‘Doesn’t the bible say thinking it is as bad as doing it?’

‘ I say unto you, that whosoever looketh on a woman to lust after her hath committed adultery with her already in his heart — to be exact, part of Jesus’s Sermon on the Mount. But I always thought that was a little harsh: we are flesh and blood at the end of the day. The important thing is that you didn’t sleep with this other woman — you resisted.’