move until his vision stopped blurring, then he headed for St. Brendan’s. Before he did, he paid a visit to Patrick Kelly’s car.
In for a penny. In for a pound, he thought.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” Liam began, “It’s been three months since my last confession.”
“More like six,” Father Murray said. “But who’s counting? Well, outside of your mother.”
“Got that impression did you?”
On the other side of the shadowy screen Father Murray shook his head. “I’m thinking I’ll need a strong cup of tea for this one. You too. Come on. Mrs. Finney will have left the parochial house by now. We can talk in private.”
“Thought I was here for confession?”
“Tell you what—you still feel like confessing afterward we can always come back.”
When Liam met Father Murray outside the confessional, the priest glanced at the laundry bag. “Tsk. It’s that bad, is it?”
“She’s sending me to Gran’s for a few days.”
“Ah. I see.” Father Murray leaned closer. “In that case, we’ll have the whiskey. You’ll have need of it before you face the old witch. Of course, don’t tell anyone I said so.”
Father Murray was one of the new ones, from a seminary in Dublin. His short hair was dark brown, and he wore a close-trimmed beard and black horn-rimmed glasses. Liam followed him out of the church, uncertain.
“Your mother says you’re seventeen now.”
“Tomorrow. Yes.”
Father Murray gave him a long look. “Happy Birthday.” In his soft Dublin accent it sounded like an apology.
“Right. Thanks.”
They reached the parochial house, and Father Murray let him inside, heading for the kitchen. Liam suspected his stepfather’s entire flat could fit inside the front room. It smelled of furniture polish and antiques. Dark wood paneling gleamed in the afternoon light, and a green carpet runner muffled the sounds of their feet.
“Father Denton is at the civil rights meeting. Won’t be back for a few hours yet.” Father Murray opened a cabinet and brought out two bar glasses. “You had your supper?”
“No, Father.”
Father Murray paused. “Strong drink on an empty stomach is not a good idea. Mrs. Finney made stew. Care to join me?”
Liam nodded. He had been unable to eat. In the Kesh, all he could think about was Mary Kate and food. Now that he was finally out, it seemed he could only manage to eat a few bites at each meal. “Thank you, Father.”
They settled at the kitchen table with two steaming bowls of lamb stew and half a loaf of fresh bread. Father Murray prayed over it and then dug in. Liam picked up his spoon and checked the contents of the bowl for things that didn’t belong.
“Is something wrong?”
“No, Father.” Liam forced himself to put a spoonful in his mouth. It tasted lovely, but once swallowed it sank in his stomach like a paving stone.
“You were in Long Kesh.”
Liam set the spoon back down, and held up his head but kept his eyes to the table. His throat closed shut.
“Sixteen is a bit young for that.”
Listening to his heart pound in his ears, Liam waited.
“You don’t have to say anything if you’d rather not, but you can if you’d like.”
The table was scarred from years of use. Liam studied the polished swirling patterns of the wooden surface. Three of them together formed a face. It was screaming.
“I’ve a brother on the Maidstone , did you know?”
The prison ship , Liam thought. Shaking his head, he swallowed. He felt hollow except for that one mouthful of stew which gathered more weight until it anchored him to the chair.
“Marion Francis volunteered for the IRA when he was eighteen. Stayed with the Officials after the split. We’re different, he and I. I don’t believe violence solves problems. It creates them. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have sympathy for the cause.”
“Didn’t.” Suddenly, Liam couldn’t breathe. The memory of a boot on his back was overpowering.
Father Murray stared.
Jean-Claude Izzo, Howard Curtis