Free Slow Burning Lies by Ray Kingfisher Page B

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