Алекс Баркли - I Confess

‘Oh, the things that woman told me,’ said Patrick. ‘All through my life. And beyond her own.’

Helen frowned.

‘You know I came to view Pilgrim Point as a favour to Edie, back in 2015. Well, that was interesting timing: it happened to be right after Father Owens died. Poor Father Owens was losing his marbles for years, no one realized. Leaving his diary about the place, sticking things in it that weren’t meant to be there, not doing what the sick and the dying were asking of him, like — in Consolata’s case — giving a letter to her solicitor to be given to Patrick Lynch on the occasion of her passing. So I was here for the viewing, and Father Owens’ housekeeper gets wind of that, and drops the letter into the estate agent for me, probably thinking it’s a “Dear Patrick, Thank you for mowing the lawn—” letter, and... fuck me. No. No, it was not.’

‘What was it?’ said Helen.

‘I call it,’ said Patrick, ‘a tale of four fathers. There was a very bad father. And then there were three... I was going to say good fathers?’ He paused. ‘Anyway, I don’t know, but... isn’t mourning in the eye of the beholder? What can any of us do but mourn the loss of the person we knew? Or avenge it? The person I lost may not be the same person you killed. The hole left behind in a life may be a different shape to what you tore away to make it.’

Patrick studied Helen’s face.

‘I know you want me to understand what you’re saying,’ said Helen, ‘and I want to, but—’

‘You can’t. I realize,’ said Patrick. ‘And I can’t. I... You know she killed Murph’s dog — Consolata. She killed Rosco. Hit him a few slaps of a shovel across the back of the head. I saw a little paw sticking out of a black rubbish bag in the shed in the convent one Saturday.’

‘Why would she do that?’ said Helen.

‘Rosco was nosing about where he shouldn’t have been,’ said Patrick. ‘Wouldn’t let it go.’

‘Wouldn’t let what go?’ said Helen.

‘Nothing — I don’t want to talk about Sister Consolata’s secrets any more,’ said Patrick. ‘The good news is that your secret is safe with me. And here’s why: there was carnage here tonight. There’s a fire raging in the chapel. The fire brigade are going to be here any minute because someone is going to see smoke. I don’t know how far I’m going to get. So we need a story. It can be Johnny went on a rampage. Paranoid, drunken, coked-up Johnny at his wits’ end, owing money everywhere, under pressure from Terry Hyland. But, then there’s Dylan. Your godson, left behind with that legacy. So, it looks like Terry went on a rampage. Desperate, broke, drunken Terry finally snaps at the luxury of it all — so near and yet so far. Edie can go into the sea, running from Terry. Johnny could have been the hero who tried to save her and died trying.

He paused.

‘Did Edie ever tell you about Jessie in the fire? That she wanted to die, that we watched her die? That she chose that. I was wondering if there wasn’t a small part of you that was relieved? That you wouldn’t have that sad, pretty face as a reminder every time you looked at her? I know. That’s a hard one. I’m sure that one reared its head for you a few times. You probably signed up for a new spirituality course every time.’

Tears slid down Helen’s face.

‘So,’ said Patrick, ‘you’re going to help me out here. All you need to do is tell the “Terry Is the Bad Guy” story. And who’s not going to believe Father Lynch? And definitely who’s not going to believe... Poor Helen?’

Patrick started to stand up. Behind him, Helen caught a movement at the French door. She kept her eyes steady on Patrick. She didn’t flicker. She reached out and grabbed his wrist. ‘Wait.’

He stared down at her hand, and looked up at her.

‘Can I read you something?’ she said. ‘It’s short. It’s about you.’

He frowned. ‘About me?’

Helen nodded. ‘The book is in my handbag.’

‘I’m not falling for that.’

The shadow passed at the door again.

‘You can take it out yourself,’ said Helen. ‘It’s at your feet. The page is bookmarked.’

‘Why do you want me to read it?’ said Patrick.

‘I want you to hear it,’ said Helen.

‘Why?’

She paused. ‘I could give you so many good answers to that, answers that a different kind of person would fall for. But to be honest? I want to see your eyes.’

‘I’m curious now.’ He glanced down at the handbag, in front of the bedside table.

Behind him, the curtain, half-ripped from the curtain rail was moving centimetre by centimetre across the opening.

Patrick shunted forward an inch on the bed. Without lowering his head, he shoved his foot under the handbag and slid it up the bedside table until he was within reach of the long strap. Patrick took the book out and handed it to Helen. She opened it at the bookmark, and glanced up at him.

Behind him, the curtain was almost free of the shattered doorway.

‘It’s getting cold in here,’ said Patrick, his body half-twisting towards it.

Helen grabbed his wrist again. ‘Listen,’ she said, pressing down on his hand, firm but gentle.

Patrick settled again.

Helen lowered her gaze to the book and read, drawing her finger across the page under every line. ‘It doesn’t matter, the nature of a child’s wounds or their number or size, or their visibility, or depth, whether their flesh was bruised, or burned, cut or torn, whether their faces were reddened by the back of a hand, or the heat of shame.’ She paused and looked up at Patrick, then down again at the book. ‘It doesn’t matter whether they were taken in ways that were never meant for a body so small. It doesn’t matter whether they were poisoned by words that bound them to silence, or convinced them they were nothing or that they were everything, or that they wanted to give willingly what another person wanted to steal from them.’ She paused and looked up at Patrick. Without lowering her gaze, and while her finger still moved under the lines across the page, she spoke the words, her eyes locked on to his. ‘Because it is not our wounds that unite us damaged girls and boys. It’s what came before — the perfection of a pure spirit. Yes, we were wounded, but first, we were as perfect as humans ever are. We still are — you know.’

Patrick let out a breath. ‘What did my eyes do?’

‘Nothing,’ said Helen. ‘Absolutely nothing.’

Behind him, the shadow was a solid black shape in the doorway, poised to step over the broken glass.

‘I’m sorry about Murph,’ said Patrick. ‘You know he was in love with you.’

A frown flickered on Helen’s face.

Behind Patrick, safely, quietly over the glass, stood Murph, his face blackened with smoke, shining with sweat.

Helen tilted her head. ‘He was in love with me?’

Behind Patrick, Murph nodded. He raised his hands in front of his chest and made a heart shape with his fingers.

Tears welled in Helen’s eyes.

‘Edie told me,’ said Patrick. ‘He was meeting you for a drink, dressed up to the nines, ready to confess everything. And poor Murph. All this love stretching between you for twenty years like an elastic band. And he thought it would snap when he finally plucked up the courage to tell you. But it snapped because you told him that you had MS.’

Helen’s lip started to quiver and tears spilled down her face.

‘He didn’t even realize why he pulled back,’ said Patrick. ‘He didn’t even realize that he chose not to love another woman who might leave this life too soon.’ He paused. ‘Poor Murph.’

Behind him, Murph nodded, tears sliding down his face, making pale trails in the smoky black.