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The Penitent Man

By Newton Webb

14 November 2012, Soho, London

The key stuck halfway in the lock. Father Joseph O’Sullivan muttered under his breath and worked it back and forth until the tumblers gave.

On a nearby bench in the churchyard, David, the local vagrant, sat with four cans of Kestrel lined up. Joseph tolerated him as long as he didn’t spend the night in the yard. After all, who hadn’t sinned?

He knew he shouldn’t drink whisky. It always left him feeling rough, but a wee dram was one of his weaknesses. Two wee drams had become three, then more, the previous night. Now his mouth tasted sour, his head throbbed and the cold had settled deep inside his bones. Joseph tried not to think about the lager.

Hair of the dog?

“Get ye behind me, Satan.” Joseph chuckled as the heavy church door groaned open. An early-morning gust of wind followed him inside, pushing crisp packets and dead leaves across the porch before he forced the door shut.

At seven in the morning, the church belonged to him. The nave was empty, its pillars rising into darkness beyond the reach of the wall lamps. The heating had only just come on. Somewhere beneath the floor, old pipes clanked and coughed, not that they were producing much in the way of warmth.

Joseph walked down the side aisle, switching on lights and preparing for the first Mass. His cassock swooshed against the pews. Each step sent a familiar ache through his left knee.

Damned arthritis.

He stopped before the altar, bowed his head and offered up a swift prayer. The first of his regulars would begin arriving soon. Until then, he had confessions to hear, although few people came at this hour. He might even be able to manage a nap before the first penitent appeared. He’d been blessed with such kindness before.

He adjusted his purple stole and sat heavily on the oak bench inside the Victorian-era confessional. The box smelled of furniture wax, old wood and damp. He switched on the dim light, leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

He offered another prayer, this one asking for twenty minutes of silence.

The heavy church doors groaned open.

Punishment for my sins.

A gust of freezing air rushed through the nave, whistling past the pillars.

Clop. Clop. Clop.

There would be no nap for him today. Instead, Joseph kept his eyes closed and listened. He knew he should respect the privacy of penitents, but trying to guess what manner of person was approaching had become a private game. It kept his mind sharp and distracted him from counting the hours until his next drink.

Hard leather soles on marble. A slow, deliberate pace. Not the hesitant shuffle of early-morning shame that usually accompanied fornicators and addicts. This sounded like the stride of a confident man.

A City worker? An early start at the office?

The footsteps stopped outside the lattice. The wood creaked as the man settled onto the kneeler.

“Good morning, Father.”

The voice was low, with an educated English accent. Joseph could imagine it booming across boardrooms.

“Good morning.”

“You sound tired.”

“And yet the spirit is willing.” Joseph rubbed his knee. “Are you here to confess, my son?”

“Yes, Father.” The man waited a moment before continuing. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been forty years since my last honest confession.”

“A long time. A very long time. God’s been waiting.”

“Oh, he’ll want to hear this one.”

The man’s quiet chuckle irritated him. “Are you ready to unburden your sins?”

“I betrayed my closest friend.”

Joseph perked up. “Go on.”

“I did it over the telephone. I was too much of a coward to do it face to face. I covered the receiver so no one would recognise my voice.”

Joseph shifted on the bench. The ache in his knee had sharpened. “It isn’t my role to judge you. Only the Lord can do that. Why did you betray him?”

“One of the seven, Father. Good old-fashioned envy. Practically biblical.”

“Envy has plagued mankind since the dawn of time. Even a priest is not immune.” Joseph raised his eyebrows. “But if your repentance is sincere, the Lord can forgive you.”

“Can He forgive a man after forty years?”

“God’s mercy is infinite.”

“Well, in that case.” The man took a slow breath. “I was eighteen when I picked up the phone, a different man. I went by the name Aidan Kerrigan.”

Joseph’s hand froze against his knee. A sudden pain stabbed through it. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“Aidan Kerrigan.” He paused. “Is everything all right, Father?”

“Fine, sorry, yes. I’m fine. I knew an Aidan, that’s all. It was a long time ago.”

“It’s a common name, Joseph.”

“You should address me as Father.”

“I’m sorry, Father. It’s the memories.”

Joseph grunted as the pain in his arthritic knee sharpened, lancing through it. He flexed his leg as it abated.

“My best mate, Finley, died.”

Joseph stopped rubbing his knee. He’d known a Finley. They’d been old friends who drank far too much Guinness and cut a swathe through the Belfast ladies. Finley had a cheeky smile and thick black curls. They’d tried to straighten them once with Brylcreem before going to the pub, but no matter how much they used, the curls had stubbornly remained and had risen until Finley’s hair looked like a solid loaf of rye bread.

“I reported him.”

“Why?” Joseph leaned forwards. “If he was your best friend?”

“I just said envy, but if I were to be more forgiving, I’d say it was love too.”

Joseph already knew the answer, but he still asked, “Who did you report Finley to?” The ache in his left knee exploded. Joseph gasped and clutched the joint.

“The Provos,” the man said. “Men from the Provisional IRA.”

The pain was no longer the dull grind of arthritis. It felt as though something hard was pressing against his kneecap. He rubbed at it with his hand, but it had no effect.

Joseph braced his hands against the bench and tried to stand. The pain drove him back down.

Whirr.

He screamed. The vibration travelled up his thigh and into his teeth. He felt his kneecap collapse as something tore into it.

“Why would you report Finley?” Joseph screamed. “He was innocent!”

“How would you know, Father? Perhaps I really did see him talking to a British patrol?”

His kneecap burned with agony. Joseph threw his head back and cried out.

“Finley would never do that!” Joseph screamed.

“Why do you think he was innocent, Father?”

“Because he gave one of the soldiers a light,” Joseph sobbed. “That’s all. He lit the man’s cursed cigarette.”

“If that’s true, then why would I lie?”

“He slept with Riona. He knew I liked her. He could’ve had any other girl.” Joseph smelled cooked flesh and burning bone. He rubbed desperately at his knee, but it offered no relief. “Instead, he took mine.”

“Riona was yours?” The man’s voice was quieter now.

“No. Not really. She looked at Finley as if he were the only man in Belfast. I was invisible to her and I hated him for it.”

Joseph felt a burning pressure against his other knee, followed by rending flesh and splintering bone.

Somewhere beyond the confessional, the heavy doors opened again. He heard startled voices and hurried footsteps, but they seemed impossibly distant.

“It must have been quite a delight to hear about the golden boy being tortured to death. They drilled through both kneecaps. Then they moved to his left elbow.”

Joseph squeezed his eyes shut. “It wasn’t. I hated myself,” he cried out.

Whirr.

Joseph screamed until his throat burned. The pain bored into his elbow now. It felt as though the joint were splintering. His scream rolled through the church. He heard someone crying outside the confessional. Another voice was speaking urgently into a telephone.

“How long did Finley take to die, Joseph?”

“I... I don’t know. I wasn’t there.”

The man’s voice was almost a whisper. “It was three hours, Joseph.”

Tears of pain filled Joseph’s eyes. “I didn’t think. I didn’t care. I was blinded.”

“So was he at the end.” The man clicked his tongue. “What was your birth name, Joseph?”

“Please don’t.” His nose was running. Both knees and his left elbow burned. His vision disappeared as something thrust into his eyes. His eyes burst. Jelly dribbled down his face.

“Joseph, tell me your birth name.”

“Aidan!” the priest yelled. “Aidan Kerrigan. I lied to the Provos.” His voice broke. “Riona still wouldn’t look at me. I had my best friend killed for nothing. So I fled Ireland and took a new name.”

“Father… did you ever confess what you had done?”

“No.” The priest spoke through clenched teeth. “No, not honestly.” He banged at the lattice between them. “Who are you?”

“Finley prayed, Father. He prayed so hard. But I was the only one who listened.”

The pain vanished.

Joseph opened his eyes. The lattice swam into focus. He ran his hands over his face and found only tears. He rubbed both knees, then his elbow. There were no wounds. He crossed himself.

The curtain rings rattled.

Clop. Clop. Clop.

The footsteps moved away, echoing down the marble aisle.

Joseph pulled himself upright. Only his throat still hurt. He flung open the curtain, stumbled into the nave and fell to his knees. “Wait!”

Two parishioners stood over him, one of them he recognised as Mrs Hadia. They both looked horrified.

The centre aisle was empty.

“The man in the booth,” Joseph whispered. “Where did he go?”

Mr Collins stood beside the nearest pew, speaking into his mobile. David remained beside the western doors, his can of Kestrel in one hand.

Joseph tore back the curtain to the penitent’s compartment.

The kneeler was empty.

“Where did he go?” Joseph demanded.

No one answered.

“The man. Where did he go?”

They shook their heads. Mrs Hadia spoke carefully. “Father, there wasn’t another man. We would have seen him.”

Joseph stared at her. “You heard him in the booth.”

“Only you, Father.” David lowered his can. “I’ve been standing beside these doors since we came in. No one left.”

Mr Collins spoke into his mobile. “Yes, he’s conscious. No, I can’t see any injuries. But he has just confessed to having a man murdered.” He looked at Joseph. “His real name is Aidan Kerrigan.”

THE END

Author’s Note:

I HATE this story because, for the life of me, I cannot pronounce Penitent. When giving my twice weekly updates to my paid subscribers, I’ve called it every potential variation of the name, and it’s led to what I can only describe as intense rage.

I was so relieved to be sending out this email because I’ll never have to say its name again now.

Except.

I’ve now bloody gone and agreed to do audiobooks for my stories, haven’t I?

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The Penitent Man by Newton Webb