Slow Burning Lies (7 page)

But amongst the uncertainties there was one thing Patrick was sure about after that day. He now understood pretty much what working for Beth was going to entail, and where her reputation came from.

14

Patrick was on his fourth beer. He was surrounded by guys he occasionally met in the same bar but didn’t know well enough to call friends (and, in truth, didn’t want to). The conversation was of football and soccer, new movie releases, the trouble with women, and – so it felt to Patrick – the entire history of rock music.

It was all light-hearted, easy going conversation, a balm to heal Patrick’s mental wounds. It was exactly what he wanted and felt comfortable with at this time.

And it was in that ‘relaxed’ state that Patrick considered the nuclear option – telling his small crowd what he’d revealed to Beth. Telling her had done him the world of good – even if he hadn’t gone into the shameful detail. So perhaps if more people knew it would give him more peace of mind. He could steer the conversation round to it somehow:

– Start with an ostentatious yawn.

– Are we boring you, Patrick?

– Hey, I’m sorry, not sleeping too well, lately.

– Why’s that? Too much action of the horizontal variety last night?

– No, actually I’ve been having these terrible nightmares.

But it was much easier thought than said. In your mind’s eye people don’t laugh at your problems; in real life they often do. As Patrick dissolved into the background, the bartender poked fun at Tom the realtor yet again, this time for keeping his CD collection in alphabetical order:

‘I mean, what’s the goddam point? You only listen to the goddam things on your ipod and they’re in aphabeticalized order
anyway
once they’re on that goddam contraption.’

‘
“Alphabeticalized”
?’ Tom said. ‘I mean, is that even a word?’

The bartender leaned an elbow languidly on the bar and stared straight at Patrick. ‘See what I mean?’

And then Patrick knew he would never do it. There was too much danger, too much chance of being bombarded with advice that might euphemistically be termed ‘less than wholly constructive’.

So he listened, and he went to the toilet, and he listened, and he ordered another beer. And he listened.

And then the conversation stopped, and all eyes looked to a point just above Patrick’s shoulder.

He turned to see what was so distracting.

‘Deedee?’

‘Patrick isn’t it? I remember you. You’re Joni’s friend.’

‘Yeah. Tell me, how is she?’

Deedee paused just long enough for some of Patrick’s non-friends to interject.

‘Aren’t you going to introduce us?’ Ed, the used car salesman, said to Patrick, not taking his eyes off Deedee.

The bartender snorted. ‘Why the hell would he want to introduce the likes of you and me to a beautiful girl like Deedee?’

‘Oh,
“Deedee”
is it?’ Calvin, the newspaper sub-editor, said. ‘So you’re already on first name terms? Some of us wait to be introduced before we dive in all presumptuous like your good creepy self.’

Patrick stood. ‘Just ignore them,’ he said to Deedee. ‘Let’s go somewhere else and talk.’

Deedee frowned. ‘Talk?’

Patrick flicked a look to his bar buddies. ‘Somewhere a bit quieter.’

Patrick moved away from them, placing a gentle hand on Deedee’s elbow to bring her along with him.

‘Say,’ she said. ‘You’re not trying to…?’

‘To what?’

‘I mean, I’m already with some friends.’ She pointed to a small group on the other side of the room.

‘Oh.’

‘I just wanted to say hi. I didn’t want you to think I was ignoring you.’

‘No worries. I was going to ask how Joni was, that’s all.’

She gave Patrick a sideways
Who’s been a naughty schoolboy?
look. ‘Well, how do you think she is? A little mad at you.’

‘Does she want to see me again?’

‘You know, somehow I thought there was a chance, even after what you said to her.’ She shook her head slowly, grimacing. ‘But after this…’

Patrick paused, waited for an explanation that Deedee obviously thought unnecessary.

‘After what?’ he said.

‘You were, weren’t you?’

Patrick shrugged. ‘I was what?’

‘You were hitting on me just now.’

‘
Hitting
on you?’

‘It certainly felt like it.’

‘But
you
came up to
me
.’ He gave a disbelieving laugh. ‘Look, can you just tell her I was asking after her?’

‘Oh, I’ll have a word with her, don’t worry about that.’

‘Look, you tell her what you want,’ Patrick said. ‘I need another beer.’ He turned to step away from her, but felt a tap on his shoulder and turned back.

‘You don’t need another beer, mister,’ Deedee whispered. ‘What you need is a
confession
.’ She frowned at him then turned away sharply and sashayed over to her friends.

Patrick ordered another beer and sat back down at the bar.

But he wasn’t taking in the banter crossing back and forth in front of him. All he was doing was hugging his bottle of beer. That and thinking.

He’d just been given the answer to his prayers, and couldn’t help but wonder why he hadn’t thought of it before.

‘Hey, you haven’t touched that,’ the bartender said, nodding to the full bottle of beer Patrick placed on the counter.

‘Sorry,’ Patrick said. ‘Change of plans.’

He left the bar, and only when the fresh air hit his lungs did he feel drunk.

15

Patrick had lived in Chicago long enough to know about St. Godric’s Church, in Old Town, but never actually been in it.

The story of the Great Chicago Fire of 1871 had also been mentioned to him more times than he thought strictly necessary, but only now did he appreciate one of the few buildings to survive the fire, and how out of place it looked in its otherwise modern neighbourhood, the result of many redevelopment schemes in the intervening century and a half.

As edgy and apprehensive as he was, Patrick stood in awe of this edifice as he walked up the steps and entered. The inside was no less impressive, and Patrick looked up and around. It looked like every flat surface displayed a mural and every arch and column was adorned with finely sculptured details. It was also as cold, damp and ill-lit as a cave.

He saw a small group of elderly people, silently waiting halfway along on the left, next to the large cubicle with two doors that opened onto the bare stone aisle. He walked over with his head bowed slightly and sat near them.

Twenty minutes later they were all gone, the last one exiting the confessional box and scurrying out of the church. Patrick wondered what the old lady had done that was so awful she felt she had to tell another man.

And as he watched the lady leave he made eye contact with a middle-aged woman who had entered after him. He pointed to her, then to the confessional. She shook her head and pointed back at him. There was no getting out of it now. Patrick nodded a thank you, stood up, and approached the dark wooden cubicle. He paused before entering, telling himself he didn’t have to do this, that there was an alternative. Perhaps he could wait another few days, to see if the extreme and violent nature of his nightmares started to change to something more manageable.

A loud and impatient cough from the confessional forced his hand. He stepped inside, closed the door, and looked around. It was dimly lit, but there was very little to see anyway. On the side was a small square of gold and green cloth, on the floor was a kneeler, with handles to help the elderly sinners and a plain cushion to save everyone’s knees.

Patrick knelt down and saw a shadow flicker against the square of cloth from the other side. He cleared his throat and said, ‘Hello Father.’

‘Hello, my son,’ the shadow replied. Then there was mumbling, as though the priest was reading aloud – reading very quickly. ‘Carry on,’ the voice then said in clearer tones.

But how to start?
Do you just say it, or ask for forgiveness first? Do you have to introduce yourself?

‘Please go on,’ said the rough, cigarette soaked rasp.

Patrick drew breath a few times but said nothing.

‘Sure, you don’t know what to say, do you?’ the voice said.

‘Erm… No, Father.’

‘Are you a catholic?’

‘My grandparents were.’

‘You’ve obviously heard we’re not so choosy,’ the priest said, with a chuckle that took Patrick aback.

Patrick stood up. ‘Look, I’m sorry. Perhaps I shouldn’t have come here.’

‘Calm down, calm down,’ the priest said, effortlessly eradicating all traces of humour from his voice. ‘This is a house of God.
Everyone
is welcome.’

Patrick knelt back down and sighed.

‘You’re after making a lot of effort to come here. You must have something important to say to me.’

‘Yes.’ Patrick took a long pause. The problem hadn’t gone away; the problem being where to start and how much to say. But this was a priest, and the serene atmosphere did indeed make Patrick
calm down
a little.

‘Thank you, Father. My name’s Patrick. Patrick Leary.’

‘Now, ‘tisn’t really right and proper for you to tell me your name.’

‘Sorry.’

‘But since you have, that’s a very Irish sounding name.’

‘My father’s parents dropped the “O” from O’Leary when they came over to England.’

‘You know from where?’

‘County Meath.’

‘Ah, yes. Sure, I’m a Wicklow man myself, ‘tisn’t too far away. I still miss the old country, I even hope to go back one day.’ He gave a short cough. ‘And by the sound of you your grandaddy settled around Manchester I’d wager.’

Patrick smiled in the darkness. ‘It’s nice to meet someone here who recognizes my accent. Do you know the place?’

‘I did me training down the road in Liverpool. Remember seeing The Beatles live in the Cavern. I’m after telling so many people that, I’m not sure any of them are believing me.’

‘I believe you,’ Patrick said.

‘Thank you.’ The priest coughed again, this time a more asthmatic, prolonged outburst, before settling again. ‘Well, now we’re after getting to know each other, perhaps you feel a little more relaxed?’

‘Yes. Yes, I do. Thank you.’

‘So perhaps you’d like to tell me why you’re here, what you’re after doing that’s so bad?’

‘It’s… it’s difficult.’ Patrick took a deep breath, and smelt a combination of wood-oil and incense.

‘Have you committed a serious crime?’ the priest said.

‘No, but I have these dreams.’

‘Go on, my son.’

‘I have dreams – well, nightmares really – where I do terrible things.’

The priest’s shadow moved a little closer to the square of material. ‘Things like what?’

‘Armed robbery, terrorist bombings, knifing and shooting people.’

‘Oh. Sure that isn’t nice.’

Patrick felt a trickle of cold sweat run down the side of his torso, and shivered in the still coldness.

‘But I can’t control what I do, Father. When I’m in the dreams I can think as myself, but I can’t control my actions.’

‘But these terrible things are all just in your dreams, are they not?’

‘Yes. But the dreams aren’t like normal dreams – or what I think of as normal dreams – they seem so… realistic.’

‘Let’s get this clear. You haven’t
actually committed
any of these terrible crimes, have you?’

Patrick shifted his knees on the cushion. ‘No, no. No way.’

‘It’s purely that you feel guilty about them. Is that it?’

‘That’s exactly it, Father. It’s churning me up inside. Its killing me, and I can’t talk to anyone about it.’

‘Well, you have now, Patrick, you have now. And you have my sympathy.’

‘But can you do anything for me?’

‘I’m a priest, not a psychiatrist.’

‘Yes. Yes, of course, Father.’

‘What I can say is this. Everyone has evil thoughts from time to time, absolutely everyone on this planet. It’s part of the human condition. The thing that matters is whether you give in to them. If you don’t act on those thoughts you shouldn’t feel bad.’

‘But I
do
. I feel terrible.’

‘In that case I can absolve you of any guilt. You’re just having nightmares, Patrick, that’s all. Nobody’s getting hurt, remember that. Nobody’s getting hurt.’

Patrick sat in silence for a few minutes, letting the words sink in.

‘Does that help?’ the priest said eventually.

‘A little.’

‘Good. Now, say two Hail Marys and four Our Fathers for your penance.’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘You don’t know what that means, do you?’ the priest said.

Patrick looked up and back to the door. Now his eyes had become a little accustomed to the dark he could see the only other features in the confessional: a few very long vertical cracks in the timber door. ‘No, Father,’ he said.

He heard the priest sigh. ‘Well, just kneel awhile outside and make it look like you do know.’

‘Okay. I will.’

‘And Patrick?’

‘Yes, Father?’

‘Remember, if things get worse, you can always come back to see me.’

‘Thank you.’

‘But in the meantime…’ The voice turned into a whisper. ‘Won’t ye just bugger off and give room for some proper Catholics?’

Patrick heard a warm snigger as he stood up to leave.

‘Yes, Father,’ he said.