Алекс Баркли - I Confess

Patrick looked at Sister Consolata. She had her head bowed. ‘Will there be a funeral, Sister?’ he said.

She looked up at him. ‘I’m afraid that by the time the news came to me, he had already been laid to rest.’

Patrick’s eyes widened.

His mother hopped up and banged her fist on the kitchen table. ‘In a pauper’s grave! A sinner’s grave! That’s what you get when you kill yourself — a grave with not a mark on it! Do you not get it all? Lived a pauper, died a pauper. Lived a sinner, died a sinner! Did you want to go to the grave with him? Is that it? Are you sorry you’re here? And not cold in the grave beside him? Are you?’

Patrick shook his head. ‘I’m not sorry, no.’ He looked over at Sister Consolata. ‘But... can I go to his grave? I want to. I want—’

‘You’ll go nowhere near it!’ said his mother.

‘But—’

‘Your mother’s right,’ said Sister Consolata.

Tears welled in Patrick’s eyes.

‘He has a new woman, now,’ said Sister Consolata. ‘Down in Courtown. And he has a new son. And it wouldn’t be right.’

Patrick felt like she had reached into his chest and ripped his heart from it. He turned to his mother.

‘That’s the first I heard of it,’ she said. ‘And good luck to them!’

‘How old is he?’ said Patrick, wiping tears from his face, turning to Sister Consolata.

‘Who?’ said Sister Consolata.

‘The son,’ said Patrick.

Sister Consolata frowned. ‘Eight on his last birthday. I’m trying to picture the birthday cake. Your father sent me a photo.’

‘Eight?’ said Patrick. ‘But... Daddy only left... five years ago.’ He shook his head. ‘That can’t be right.’

‘Well, let’s just say, it wasn’t his first trip to Courtown,’ said his mother, a triumphant look on her face.

Sister Consolata rose from the chair, and took the package with her. ‘I’m sorry for your troubles,’ she said to Patrick. Mrs Lynch followed her into the hallway.

Patrick sat at the table, white-faced, staring down at his copybook and all the equations he could solve faster than anyone else in his class but he could not figure out how one minute you could be doing your maths homework and the next, someone could walk in, throw a grenade into your life and walk out and leave you behind and you have no father and half a brother and there’s nothing you can do about any of it. But it wasn’t even a grenade. It was too cold. It was like a handful of icicles.

He could hear Sister Consolata muttering in the hallway. He got up and slipped his feet out of his school shoes, and walked in his thick white socks to the door to look out. Sister Consolata was handing his mother the package.

‘I washed them as best I could,’ she was saying. ‘They were in no fit state.’ She paused. ‘But you might want nothing to do with them.’

‘Well, I’ll take them off your hands, anyway, Sister,’ said his mother. ‘Did the new woman not want them?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Sister Consolata. ‘I can help you with anything you might need to do... get whatever certs... for the widow’s pension—’

‘Oh, I’ve done all my waiting around for money from that man,’ said his mother. ‘I gave that up long ago.’

Patrick lay curled on top of his bed that night, still in his school uniform, sobbing into his pillow. Eventually, he drifted off to sleep, but woke in the middle of the night, his cheek hot and red against the damp pillow. He listened. There was no sound in the house. He got up and quietly made his way down the stairs. He pulled open the door to the cupboard underneath. Behind a stack of phone books was the package that Sister Consolata had left. He took it out and brought it to his bedroom. When he opened it, he smelled air tinged with laundry detergent and bleach. He slid out what was inside: his father’s black rain jacket, a pair of battered black lace-up boots, his father’s faded ID card, and a key with a metal keyring on it, shaped like a boat. He felt a stab of recognition. It was almost identical to the boat he had drawn for his perfect imaginary day with his perfect imaginary father.

Clare turned to Murph. ‘Were you serious about multiple women on the go? Are you ever going to marry a Whateverhernameis?’

‘Not a hope!’ said Laura. ‘It’s same old, same old. Remember — we’d be out in Cork, you’d arrive in with whatever Whateverhernameis—’

‘And the fact that’s what you called them,’ said Edie.

‘With love,’ said Murph. ‘Always with love. And behind their backs.’

‘You’d show up,’ said Laura, ‘drop her off with us, and we’d be the ones who ended up mad about her and devastated when it was all off. And you’d make sure every other woman in the place was taken care of — even if they were complete randomers.’

‘What is it with you?’ said Edie.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Murph, doing side-eyes.

Helen’s back straightened, her chin tilted upwards. ‘As soon as someone falls for Murph,’ she said, ‘he loses all respect for them.’

‘It’s the Groucho Marx thing,’ said Clare.

‘It’s a sign of weakness,’ said Murph. ‘I can smell it off them!’

‘You’re such a gobshite,’ said Laura.

‘Murph,’ said Edie, ‘that’s terrible.’

Murph spread his arms wide. ‘Ah, look at me, though. I’m hardly—’

‘“Poor me. Sure, who’d want me?”’ said Laura. ‘Get a grip. You’d make a lovely embarrassing husband and mortifying dad.’

‘And you’d make a shit therapist,’ said Murph.

‘Which is why I’m not a therapist,’ said Laura.

‘Which is why I’m not married,’ said Murph. He paused. ‘They’re not connected, but you get the gist.’

Edie, Laura, Helen, and Clare were all looking at him. ‘Oh, God,’ he said, ‘are you going to make me go for counselling now?’

‘Jesus, we don’t give that much of a fuck,’ said Laura.

Helen looked at him. ‘Some day, you might wake up and think, “what a waste of my heart”.’

‘Big heart,’ said Edie.

‘Yeah,’ said Murph, ‘that’s exactly the kind of shite I wake up thinking.’ He turned to Laura. ‘And are you happy? Signing up to one man for the rest of your life?’

‘Get lost,’ said Laura.

‘Imagine if there was Google Maps in the nineties,’ said Murph. ‘Every time they updated, there’d be a different guy on the path outside Laura’s place. In a blur, running in or out, depending on whether she was on the cider or not.’

Laura rolled her eyes.

Murph turned to Clare. ‘Yourself and Alan... you’re together how long?

‘Twenty-two years,’ said Clare.

‘Look at her — all starry-eyed,’ said Murph. ‘I do mention yourself and Alan the odd time to people.’ He looked at the others. ‘You know the way there’s always one couple that you go — now, they’re rock solid.’

Laura and Edie exchanged glances.

‘Thanks, Murph,’ said Edie. ‘And what are myself and Laura?’

‘Papering over the cracks,’ said Murph.

Edie laughed. ‘You are right about Alan and Clare, though.’

‘I’m a lucky woman,’ said Clare. ‘God, I wouldn’t fancy being on the singles scene at this hour of my life.’

‘Jesus,’ said Murph, looking at Patrick — ‘now it’s us getting attacked. It’s like a Lazy Susan of insults. Four of us taken out in ten seconds. Have we left anyone out? Do we need to spin it again?’

‘I’m still reeling from the fact you know what a Lazy Susan is,’ said Clare.

‘But here’s some advice for you, Clare — if you ever do end up on the “singles scene” — God forbid — calling it that would keep you on it for the rest of your life.’