Алекс Баркли - I Confess

Mrs Lynch knew the value of silence, knew how words could make a man turn on you. Terry’s eyes met hers and she caught the flicker of what some would see as nervousness, but she recognized it as the thrill of his sudden, opportunistic power and the sight of her and the silence of her proving to him that he could wield it without complaint.

Mrs Lynch knelt in the confession box, her rosary beads wrapped around her clasped hands, her head bowed.

‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,’ she said. ‘I have a rage inside me my whole life. And I feel it like bones. And if it was taken out of me... like that, I’d be a heap on the floor. It keeps me upright. That’s what it does at this stage — keeps me upright.’

She closed her eyes and breathed in air tinged with incense and furniture polish.

‘I hate him, Father. I hate him. I hate my own child.’ She looked up. ‘I hate the child that I screamed for nineteen hours to bring into this world.’

She drifted in the silence that followed. She had been half-expecting to feel the shift in the air as Father Owens made the sign of the cross through the grille, the warmth of his breath as he delivered a penance to fit her sins. But there was no one on the other side of the grille. The other side wasn’t even open.

She reached down and picked up the can of polish she had set on the kneeler and sprayed a fine mist of it on to the oak panel beside her. She removed a soft yellow cloth from the pocket of her apron and moved it in wide arcs across it, losing herself in the motion of making something shine in the dark place that swallowed up sins.

Edie stood in the middle of the bedroom, looking around, panicked.

‘If I’m going to go to get help,’ she said, ‘If I’m going to leave you, I can’t... leave you sitting here like—’

‘You don’t have time!’ said Helen. ‘We don’t have time.’

‘We do!’ said Edie. ‘We do. We can...’ She looked at Helen, panicked. ‘I don’t think I can do it. I don’t think I can make it over there. To Val. What am I going to say to her? Dylan is there! What am I going to do? Burst into them in the middle of the night, and say—’

‘Oh, God, Edie.’

‘What?’ said Edie. ‘But... how is that going to...’ She looked around the room. ‘OK, OK. Think. Think.’

‘I have thought!’ said Helen. ‘Go. For the love of God — go.’

‘I can’t bear it!’ said Edie. ‘I can’t bear the idea that he would come in here and do something to you! Because of me! And where are the others? Where are they? Why has no one come to...’

Helen looked at her. ‘Because it’s you: you are the only person who can do this.’

Patrick walked into the suite.

‘I can see by your grave faces, you were only... you were reading my notebook. I should have put those KEEP OUT! PRIVATE! stickers on it that used to come free with the cereal at the time.’

Edie grabbed the notebook from the bed and ran to Patrick, pushing it against his chest. ‘Take it. Just take it. I don’t care. We didn’t read it. We’ve never seen it. Take it and go. I don’t care about Terry. We’ll deal with it.’

‘Who?’ said Patrick. ‘You and Johnny?’

‘Yes!’ said Edie. Her eyes sparked with fear. ‘Where—’

‘—is Johnny?’ said Patrick. ‘Taking steps to rehabilitate himself.’

‘What?’ said Edie. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘Johnny’s fine,’ said Patrick. ‘Don’t worry about Johnny. But I’m a bit offended. Because I was under the impression that you didn’t care too much about Johnny.’

‘I never said that,’ said Edie.

‘The things we never say are often the real things, aren’t they?’ said Patrick. ‘They’re like little pools of water that can suddenly form into an ice cube, nice and solid, visible... at the right temperature. And you can pop them out and everyone can see them. Or... if the temperature is scorching... inside you... they can be mirages.’ He paused. ‘Do you care about me, Edie?’

Edie stared at him. Helen stared at a hummingbird on her duvet cover.

‘I... yes,’ said Edie.

‘Really?’ said Patrick.

She nodded. ‘Yes.’ She held out the notebook to him. ‘Take this,’ she said. ‘It was thirty years ago.’

Patrick didn’t move.

‘Why won’t you take it?’ said Edie.

Patrick didn’t reply.

‘Why are you doing this to me?’ said Edie. ‘Are you trying to... why don’t you take it?’

Patrick was looking through her.

‘I’m losing my mind,’ said Edie. She stood up and turned to Helen. ‘I’m losing my fucking mind.’ She raised the notebook over her head and slammed it on to the floor. It bounced and landed open, pages down. The impact cracked the old glue and a rush of pages slid from between the covers, spreading out across the floor.

‘Did you find yourself in there?’ said Patrick, glancing down.

‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ said Edie.

‘Is it “unpleasant”?’ said Patrick. ‘Did you find yourself? Have you been to... you?’ He smiled. ‘Fucking look at me!’ he roared.

Edie’s head snapped up.

‘Thank you!’ said Patrick. ‘You usually don’t have a problem with that. Over your shoulder, from below...’

‘Don’t,’ said Edie.

‘Answer my question — did you find yourself?’

Edie nodded.

‘Did you recognize yourself?’ said Patrick.

Edie didn’t reply.

Patrick turned to Helen. ‘She didn’t, did she? Did you break it to her?’

‘What’s the fucking point of all this?’ said Edie, standing up, turning to him. ‘What’s the point?’

‘Do you remember when you broke my arm?’ said Patrick.

Edie frowned.

Patrick turned to Helen and nodded. ‘She did.’

‘I didn’t break your arm,’ said Edie. ‘I—’

‘Pulled me by the leg when I was sitting in a tree, and I fell, and I broke my arm. And you made me not tell anyone, and I didn’t.’ He turned back to Helen. ‘And it never came up again! Not even recently! She has literally been lying naked inside an arm that she broke! Running her finger along the scar! And not a word! He looked at Edie. Did you think I’d forgotten? Seriously? Have you ever had your arm broken? It comes with a searing fucking time print branded on it. Especially when you’re eight years old! Especially when the pretty new girl in school does it! Jesus. I couldn’t have had any less friends, but imagine going in to school and announcing that Edie Kerr, this angel who has bestowed herself upon us, broke my arm—’

‘It was an accident,’ said Edie. ‘I was only—’

‘Pulling my leg?’ said Patrick. He smiled. ‘We do need a replacement Murph.’

‘What?’ said Helen. She locked eyes with Edie. ‘No!’

They stared at Patrick, wide-eyed.

‘No!’ said Edie, storming over to him. ‘No!’ She shoved his chest hard. ‘No! Why? Why? Why? You fucking psychopath!’

‘Finally!’ said Patrick. ‘Finally! I’ll take it! I’ll fucking take “psychopath’! Jesus Christ, Edie. It was Hansel and Gretel. It was like laying down breadcrumbs and watching someone pick them up, eat them, and wander back to the fucking gingerbread house.’ He shook his head. ‘Despite all the red flags I raised. Actively raised. In fact, I didn’t just raise them. I stabbed you in the face with the flagpoles.’

A breeze blew in from outside.

Edie frowned. ‘Is that... smoke? Is that fire?’

Helen slammed her hands on to the covers. ‘What’s that smell?’ she roared. ‘What’s that smell?’

Patrick looked at her. ‘Do you want the Murph answer?’

Smoke was rising from behind the confession boxes. Murph ran over to the door to the left of the altar, into the porch, and pulled at it. ‘Locked,’ he said. ‘Fuck.’