Free The Evil And The Pure by Darren Dash

again — the priest could be a profitable ally, ripe for exploitation. So Gawl fostered a friendship with the straying servant of God. Sober, Parry tried to avoid the brutal Scot, banned Gawl from his church, threatened him with hellfire if he didn’t steer clear. Gawl just laughed and kept sniffing round, waiting for Parry to fall prey to his weakness again, ready to lead him to another brothel, fix him up with heroin, protect him, escort him home.
    They had it sweet in Leeds. Not long before Parry was dancing to Gawl’s tune, doing his bidding, slipping him names and addresses. Always repentant, floods of regretful tears, begging God for strength. But weak, unable to resist temptation, pleading with Gawl to lead him further into his ugly but scintillating world. Super fucking sweet until Parry was caught molesting a choirgirl. The priest was spirited away by his superiors, the scandal hushed up. Gawl thought his goldmine had run dry, that Fr Sebastian would be locked away in an isolated friary. He should have known better — the church always loathe to castigate one of their own, eager to forgive and offer stray sheep a fresh start.
    Six years after Leeds, two months after his return to London (Gawl had lived here when he was younger, when he first left Glasgow), he heard a rumour about a crooked priest who was willing to act as a fence, a priest who accepted goods as payment, goods being female, young and willing to oblige.
    Gawl thought it was too good to be true — it couldn’t be Fr Sebastian. Then he remembered one of the Christian tenets he’d had drilled into him as a bairn — God moves in mysterious ways . But Gawl didn’t. He moved directly, no fucking around. He tracked Parry down to Sacred Martyrs, worked his way back into the priest’s life, dangled drugs, women and adventure in front of him. Parry was reluctant (he already had a dealer and some seedy contacts) but he couldn’t resist. Gawl had been prepared to blackmail the priest but it never came to that. Parry was soon lapping like the junkie whorehound dog he was. Gawl triumphant. Yes, you fucker!
    Rising, shuffling his way to the end of the pew, slipping up the side of the church to the confessional. Six-two, lean, tightly muscled, ginger hair turning grey, freckles, face scarred and marked by more blows than he could count, top half of his left ear missing, gnarly at the edges, chewed off in a fight many years ago. He was in his mid-fifties but had the build, stride and passions of a younger man. Chequered work shirt, dirty black jeans, heavy boots. It looked like he’d come from a building site, though he hadn’t worked on the sites since pairing up with Parry — richer pickings to be made in church.
    Tucking into the confessional, closing the door, air musty, Parry ’s face distorted by the thick gauze separating the priest from his sinners. “Forgi’e me, Father, for I have sinned,” Gawl chuckled. “It’s been fuck-knows how long since my last confession.”
    “Don’t blaspheme,” Parry hissed. “This is sacred ground. Respect it or get out.”
    “Don’t play high and mighty wi’ me, Father,” Gawl growled. “I don’t gi’e a fuck where we are. I’ll speak as I please, right?”
    “Have you no fear of God?” Parry sighed.
    “Away wi’ yer fucking god,” Gawl snorted. “Have ye a name for me? I’m low on cash.”
    “I gave you money last week.”
    “How the fuck long d’ ye think I could survive on what ye squirrel away?” Gawl laughed crudely. “Ye’d be a great man if ye was rich, Father, but as it stands ye’re only good for a few nights on the piss. I need a name.”
    “But it’s only been three weeks since the last job,” the priest objected. “We agreed you wouldn’t hit too often, in case –”
    “I know what we agreed,” Gawl interrupted sharply. “I also know I’m down t’ my last fiver and’ve been living within my means for the last fortnight, which is fuck all fun. My new motto —