Алекс Баркли - I Confess

‘Oh God,’ said Laura. ‘No. This can’t be happening.’

‘It’s not,’ said Murph.

‘It fucking is!’ said Laura. ‘It is!’

‘It’s not,’ said Murph. ‘Fuck — this is all my fault. This is all my fault.’

‘Stop,’ said Laura. ‘Shut up. Stop. It’s not.’ Her lower lip started to quiver. Her eyes filled with tears. ‘We just need to get out. We have to get out.’

Murph grabbed her arms. ‘I’m getting you out of here if it kills me. But it better fucking not.’ He handed her the torch. ‘Hold this.’ Then he grabbed her face with both hands. ‘I promise you. We’re getting out. This is not how we’re going to go. No way.’ He put his hands on his head and looked around the chapel. ‘Think. Think. If those fucking windows weren’t so high up.’

‘How come every other motherfucker seems to escape from the place?’ said Laura. She started to laugh through her tears. ‘Now I’m like you.’

‘What?’ said Murph.

‘Nothing... just... the lads from the industrial school. The Houdinis. Dad picking them up in town. I’m losing it.’

‘No, no, no,’ said Murph. ‘Hold on. Hold on. The Rathbrook guy. Wasn’t he talking about the land and his brother, appearing like some spectre or something, driving him demented? And before them — the pilgrims coming to the Mass rock. I was thinking — there was no way—’

‘Sorry, but is this a story—’

‘Shut up!’ said Murph, shaking her. ‘Listen to me! There was no way they were all climbing up the cliffs. The Rathbrook guy, and his brother appearing one side of the place one minute, the other side the next — and Dad used to tell me about the gun-running here during the War of Independence, how they had fake panels in the confession boxes where they stashed the rifles. And the industrial school lads — that’s how they got away into town!’

‘How?’ said Laura. ‘I don’t get it! We’re going to die. We’re going to—’

‘The little shits would say they were going to the chapel!’

‘We’re going to die—’

‘There’s a tunnel in here!’ said Murph. ‘There’s a fucking tunnel in here somewhere. It’s how the guns got in, it’s how the lads got out.’

Laura’s eyes widened.

‘Yes,’ said Murph.

They were suddenly illuminated as the flames caught hold of the confession box and the glow filled the chapel.

Edie ran for the French doors. Patrick lunged for her, but she side-stepped him, squeezing through the crack in the door, pulling the curtain out behind her, stalling him as he tried to follow. She started to run towards the chapel.

‘They’re gone!’ shouted Patrick, running after her.

Edie stumbled, tears pouring down her face, righting herself, then staggering forward.

‘It’s too late!’ said Patrick ‘It’s too late again!’

Edie’s shoulders slumped, her legs weakened, and she was falling again when Patrick grabbed for her and sent her down onto the soaked ground. He rolled her on to her back. ‘You’re not a saviour, Edie. You’re the save-ee. Have you not figured that out yet?’ He held her down by her wrists. She struggled against him.

‘How do you think you know everything about everyone?’ said Edie. ‘Since when do you—’

‘Since ALWAYS,’ said Patrick. ‘Jesus, Edie. Just because something is not out there, presented for all the world to see, then it doesn’t fucking exist for you.’ He nodded. ‘Yeah — I know that about you, don’t I? I wasn’t joining in with all your Spirituality Lite — your low-hanging fruit plucked from Helen’s Tree of Life — I wasn’t discussing your observations on the world with you (a) because I wanted you to shut the fuck up so I could fuck you and (b) not because I have no insight — but because I have all the insight. Do you know what happens when you’re on the outside? You look in. You look hard and you look close because you’re desperately trying to figure out what it is that these people have that you don’t. It turns out — it’s connection.’

Edie frowned.

‘Oh, no — not to each other,’ said Patrick. ‘Not friendship. A connection with something... inside of you. Wires from minds and hearts and guts, all connected to this... motherboard. A word I hate: “mother”.’ He paused. ‘I don’t have a motherboard. Or it’s a fucked-up-motherboard. Look — maybe it’s got nothing to do with the woman. My father wasn’t great either.’

‘You haven’t a clue!’ said Edie, raising her head, the tendons on her neck popping.

‘Oh, Edie,’ said Patrick. ‘You’re as dim as you’ve always feared.’

‘You don’t know anything!’ said Edie. ‘You don’t know anything about any of us.’

Patrick froze. ‘Don’t know anything about you?’ He looked at her, incredulous. ‘I AM you.’

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

‘I am you when the world sees the best of me,’ said Patrick. He tilted his head and flashed a brief smile. ‘I am Helen when I care enough not to kill you in front of her. I am Murph when I laugh through your pain. I am Laura when I tell you the brutal truth that lies behind it. I’d only be Johnny if I got caught for all this. And then I’d be Clare: deny, deny, deny.’

He straddled her body, spreading his weight evenly, gripping her with his thighs. Then he wrapped his hands around her neck, and started to squeeze.

Edie looked into the dark seas of Patrick Lynch’s eyes.

Everything else had been a rehearsal. She had loved her tiny theatre and audience of one, the applause of two hands, the two hands that were now around her neck, and oh, how not to have played a role all this time, because who, among all her roles could save her now? The beautiful girl? The privileged daughter? The dutiful wife? The filthy mistress? Not the loving mother. She wanted to die. And none of the others had the strength.

There was no one out of costume, walking out of a dark theatre at the end of the performance. They were all alive only on stage, under lights.

Her eyes closed.

Daddy, why, when I close my eyes, are there three things that anchor you to me: your wristwatch, your strong arms, the darker tan of your neck?

And Daddy, why did we never drive past Pilgrim Point again after that summer?

And why, Daddy, did we never fish in that pocket of sea again?

And why did I choose to settle where your eyes no longer could?

Why, Daddy, when you told me that you would never leave me if I wasn’t safe, there was a tiny arc of blood up along your neck, and darker blood in the bezel of your wristwatch, and a tiny whorl of a fingerprint in blood on the inside of your strong arms?

A soul weighs 21 grams.

Her eyes flickered.

How much does a secret weigh?

Edie looked into the dark seas of Patrick’s eyes.

I am heavy with the weight of you. I am heavy with every secret of yours I kept, every secret of mine. As my soul flies, my secrets do too. I am light, but I have paid the price. I have paid the price to be light.

Her eyes closed.

Laura glowed in the fresh burst of flames. ‘No,’ she said, her eyes wide. ‘No, no, no, no, no.’ She was holding the torch limp by her side.

‘Stay calm,’ said Murph, sliding it from her grip. ‘Stay calm. Not that creepily, though.’ He shone the beam around the floor, then up the walls to where two of the confession boxes used to be. ‘Jesus CHRIST!’ he said, pointing to the spray paint. ‘A bit fucking late.’ He kept looking around. ‘It had to have been accessed through one of the confession boxes — that’s why there were so many of them.’

‘What if it’s under the altar?’ said Laura.