Алекс Баркли - I Confess

Edie set the cake down in front of Helen. Murph started singing ‘Happy Birthday’ again, and everyone joined in. Johnny stood by the table, poised with a bottle of champagne.

‘Champagne too!’ said Helen, her eyes bright.

When they finished singing, she closed her eyes, and blew out her candles. Everyone cheered. Johnny popped the champagne, and filled everyone’s glasses.

Murph looked at Helen. ‘Did you even make a wish?’

‘Don’t turn into Laura,’ said Murph. ‘That’s my wish for you.’

Helen looked around the table. ‘Thank you so much, everyone. You are so good to have all come. Especially on a night like tonight. And thank you to Edie and Johnny—’

‘For plunging us into darkness,’ said Murph.

‘Terry’s here to sort it — relax,’ said Johnny.

‘Terry who?’ said Murph.

‘Terry Hyland,’ said Johnny.

‘What?’ said Murph. ‘What are you doing getting that prick in?’

‘I didn’t “get him in”,’ said Johnny. ‘He just showed up — he was driving by and he spotted the lights go. Plus — “that prick” is the likely source of whatever’s just gone wrong. He was out dicking around in the chapel earlier and he’s now saying the problem might be there.’

‘Well, don’t let me lay eyes on him,’ said Clare.

‘Why?’ said Johnny.

‘He did a job for Dad and overcharged him by about two grand, knowing the poor man has dementia. Dad was on his own in the house when he came and Mam didn’t find out for ages, and because it was cash, there was this big rigmarole.’

Patrick stood up, ‘Excuse me,’ he said.

‘Are you going to the jacks?’ said Murph.

Patrick paused.

‘Murph, for God’s sake — have some manners,’ said Clare.

‘What? I’ve loads of manners,’ said Murph.

Patrick laughed. ‘Yes, Murph — I am going to the... men’s room.’

‘He can’t even say it,’ said Murph. ‘Well — enjoy.’

Patrick walked out the door laughing.

‘Are you hammered or what?’ said Laura.

‘No,’ said Murph. ‘I don’t know where I was going with that. I think part of me was going to get him to grab me something from the bar... or maybe just hear my confession... and I chickened out then because he’s looking so snazzy. Like too snazzy to be serving me drinks.’

‘But me and Johnny can?’ said Edie. ‘Thanks.’ She was smiling at him.

‘He’s had the biggest makeover, maybe,’ said Murph. ‘Maybe he even has the tightest ass.’

‘You’re not well in the head,’ said Laura.

‘Can I tell my Terry Hyland story?’ said Helen.

‘You can,’ said Murph, ‘as long as you go along with the peer pressure thing. We’ve made our minds up he’s a bollocks. So... as long as your story fits in with that, fire away.’

‘Absolutely,’ said Helen, smiling. ‘Well, it’s as simple as this — when I was getting some modifications done to the house — he didn’t charge me a penny for labour.’

‘I knew it!’ said Murph. ‘He charged you millions, the bollocks.’

Helen laughed. ‘I couldn’t believe it. And he’d given me a quote and everything. And at the end of it all, he says, “I won’t take a penny from you, now, Helen, after all you did for the mother when she wasn’t well.” She was in the hospital for a few weeks, not even anything serious, and I treated her no different to anyone else. It brought a tear to my eye. And then he says, “Sorry for your troubles”, which I love.’ She laughed. ‘Death, MS—’

Murph sat back in his chair and stretched his hands behind his head. ‘Didn’t yer man Terry have a thing with Patrick’s mam, come to think of it? Maybe that’s why he fucked off.’

‘Terry and Mrs Lynch?’ said Laura. ‘Jesus.’

‘Mrs Lynch didn’t have things with anyone,’ said Clare.

‘Well, she obviously had a thing with at least one man,’ said Murph, ‘unless that fella I’ve been admiring all night is a hallucination.’

‘Where did you get that idea from — Mrs Lynch and Terry?’ said Helen.

‘I heard he’d be in and out of the house,’ said Murph, ‘and, sure, there was only so much she would have been getting done to it.’

‘And where was Patrick’s dad when this was going on?’ said Helen.

‘Long gone,’ said Murph. ‘Actually — dead at that stage. This was when we were in fifth or sixth year.’

‘Did Patrick ever say anything to you about it?’ said Laura.

‘Like what?’ said Murph. ‘You won’t believe who Mam’s—’

‘I meant about his dad,’ said Laura.

‘His dad died the same year as Mam,’ said Murph. ‘I remember Patrick coming up to me one day and asking me something or other about it. I don’t think his mother gave a fiddler’s the man had died.’

Castletownbere

12 January 1984

Patrick was sitting at the kitchen table doing his maths homework. The sink was full, and the tap was dripping. He didn’t know why his mother always did that — fill the sink, leave the dirty dishes in it. It made his stomach tighten. He wondered if she was leaving it there, like a threat hanging over him, like he wasn’t too old to be put through it again.

He heard a knock at the door. He paused, his pen hovering, then heard the flap of his mother’s slippers as she went down the stairs. She opened the door. ‘Sister Consolata. Come in.’

Patrick could hear her shoe catch on the threshold as she crossed it, then the click of the latch. After a short silence, he heard his mother: ‘What is it, Sister?’

Patrick’s heart started to pound. He wondered if he was in trouble. The voices outside dropped to a murmur and he stood up, glancing at the doorway, tempted to listen from there. Before he had a chance to move, they appeared in the kitchen.

‘Patrick,’ said Sister Consolata with her tight nod. She was holding a package that was wrapped in a plastic shopping bag.

‘Sit down, Sister,’ said Mrs Lynch. ‘Are you sure you won’t have a cup of tea?’

A flash of irritation sparked in Sister Consolata’s eyes as she lowered herself on to the chair opposite Patrick. ‘No, thank you.’ She paused. ‘I’m afraid I’m here with some bad news.’ She patted the package on her lap.

Patrick tried to figure out how bad news could have anything to do with what was in the shopping bag. His mother sat to his left, the three of them making a tight triangle. He could feel his mother’s head turned towards him as if she was expecting whatever this was to be his fault.

Sister Consolata looked at Mrs Lynch. ‘It’s about... Patrick’s father.’

A rush of panic swept over Patrick.

‘We don’t know the full circumstances of what happened,’ said Sister Consolata, ‘but your father’s body was found in Courtown harbour.’

Patrick stared at her, his mouth open, then turned to his mother. Her shoulders had straightened and her chest was high. Her eyes met his and his stomach turned at what he saw in them.

‘He didn’t leave a note,’ said Sister Consolata, looking at his mother.

Patrick frowned. ‘What do you mean? “Didn’t leave a note”?’

‘Your father killed himself,’ said Mrs Lynch, her voice flat.

‘What?’ said Patrick, ‘But—’

‘Your father lived a sinner, died a sinner,’ said his mother.

Patrick frowned.

‘You know it’s a mortal sin to kill yourself,’ she said.

‘Daddy wasn’t a sinner,’ said Patrick. ‘He was—’

‘Is it not a sin to drink the food off a child’s plate?’ said his mother. ‘Or to hand over his school uniform to a stranger at the races and pray for a horse and the man up on his back? They were the prayers your father prayed! Not a single one for his own son, not a single one for his own soul. He prayed for the money for the stout he could drink while he cheered on whatever four-legged animal he hoped would pay for the next round.’