[15] Bless Me Father

The church was suitably remote. The modern, brightly painted building was somehow too square and uninspiring, sitting almost apologetically at the end of a neat avenue, lined on either side by elegant fir trees.

“This will have to do,” said Steven to himself.

For more than an hour he had driven aimlessly round the quiet countryside, countless miles of heart-searching and self-reproach. As he walked towards the church, words and images flooded his tortured mind. Words of warning, chastisement and pleading. Images of tear-stained faces, sympathetic stares and knowing glances. Something deep inside his being urged him on and on inexorably towards the refuge of the chapel. But refuge from what? As he entered the cold, dark interior he was quite unsure of what he was looking for. He rubbed his tired eyes and allowed them to become accustomed to the darkness. Shadows appeared in every corner. Shapes and images formed at random, apparently shifting to avoid his probing.

Steven moved cautiously into the main body of the church. Strange noises, exaggerated by the eerie gloom, teased him as he passed row after row of empty pews. Instinctively he dropped to his knees onto the cold floor and bowed his head, gritting his teeth in an effort to hold back the tears. He felt uncomfortable but somehow this helped to ease his mental anguish. He wanted to feel the pain and longed to be punished for his crimes. He craved the release of absolution and knew that his penance must be total. Tears welled in his eyes as he tried to analyse his feelings. Was his guilt just another manifestation of his own selfishness? Could he live with himself if he failed to grasp this opportunity of unburdening himself of the destructive force within him?

He glanced up at the figure of Christ and marvelled at His suffering. The crown of thorns, spear-slashed side, mutilated hands and feet. Yet despite such torture, he detected a look of warmth and pity emanating from the face of the statue. Steven wondered whether or not this was merely what he wanted to see and still he could not trust his own emotions. Nevertheless, he could not take his eyes off the image, dared not lose the hope he now felt and instantly he heard the words form in his mind. His lips did not move but the sound of his own voice filled his consciousness as he began his confession.

I do not know what is wrong with me. They say it’s an illness but I’m not so sure. Could it be that I am in some way possessed by an evil spirit? I’ve read that everyone has a good and a bad side, but who is to blame if the bad side dominates? Is it simply the luck of the draw or does it have to be earned? I used to comfort myself by pretending that I was a good person when I did not submit to my perverse love of money. Yes, therein lies truly the root of all evil. My evil. I used to believe that money would make me happy. In truth, the more I had, the more I desired. My sickness wasn’t due to frustration borne out of poverty, but rather the achievement of gain and possession.

The first time I stole I was only eight years old. How could I have known then just what it would lead to? Strange as it seems it took place in a church such as this. I was no common thief. My thrill comes out of the art of confidence trickery. I had just sat through ten o’clock mass and waited for the congregation to disperse. As soon as Father Bartholemew emerged from the vestry I switched on my act and the tears flowed easily. The good father, as I recall, was a very gentle and soft spoken man who devoted a lot of his time to the children of the parish, a fact that was not lost on me.

“Now what are the tears about young man?”

I can still remember his words. He put a consoling arm around my shoulder and placed a finger under my chin, forcing my head up so that I looked into his eyes. The tears rolled down my cheeks and he took out a white handkerchief and gently wiped my face.

“Now why don’t you tell me what’s troubling you and we’ll see what can be done?”

Once I force myself to cry I find it difficult to stop but that only made my task much simpler.

“It’s my dad,” I said between heaves caused by my weeping. “He gave me fifty pence to buy the newspapers and I put it in the collection plate by mistake.”

“That’s not so terrible is it? I’m sure your father will understand if you explain.”

“No he won’t,” I panicked as I imagined my plan going awry. “He’ll belt me. I won’t ever go home again.”

I raised my emotions towards hysteria and, just in time, I hit the jackpot.

“Now, now son. Don’t upset yourself.”

He reached into his tunic and produced a shiny new fifty pence coin.

“Take this and don’t say a word to a living soul. I won’t tell your father if you don’t. Now run along before he comes looking for you.”

I pushed the coin into my pocket and ran from the church. I had to run because as soon as I took the money I felt a terrible fear and wanted to escape from my own guilt. I can’t remember what I did with the money but I had it in my pocket and I felt like a king. That’s the problem you see. It’s not what I do with the money. It’s the power and the confidence that comes with it.

Some weeks later I turned on the waterworks outside the local pub. Before long a suitably inebriated gentleman stopped and enquired as to my plight. I told him I’d dropped a pound coin down the drain by the side of the road. My state of despair and his own conviviality was enough to convince him of his duty. I skipped along the street one pound richer and I knew that my apprenticeship was coming along leaps and bounds.

As I got older I grew in confidence and daring and my ability to relieve unsuspecting victims of their hard-earned cash became more elaborate. I have a gift of the talk and can spin a yarn that would bring tears to the eyes of a hardened criminal.

Soon I resorted to charming lonely ladies out of their life savings. I convinced one widow that she should invest her capital in a fictitious property business. She parted with over twelve thousand pounds after I had presented her with a fake diamond engagement ring. I never saw her or the ring again.

A retired Colonel made improper advances to me after I had tricked my way into his large house on some pretext or other. I feigned horror and revulsion and threatened him with the police. For almost a year I received monthly cash payments from him until he suddenly sold up and moved out of the area.

Before long I took to gambling. I thought I knew it all and decided I was going to be a millionaire. What a laugh. In no time I was penniless. I even stooped to petty theft to satisfy my craving. Eventually I had sold everything I owned. I lost my friends, my family and finally my job.

Then I pulled off the most vile, despicable prank imaginable. I went into a Catholic church and forced myself to cry like a baby. The padre duly arrived and gave me a sympathetic shoulder to cry on. I told him I’d borrowed two hundred pounds from the safe in my office.

“I planned to put it back out of my salary,” I assured him. “But the auditors are in checking the books. I’ve never stolen a thing in my life. Now I’ll lose my job and go to prison.”

Naturally the priest was very touched and before long he handed over the cash in exchange for a stolen driving licence which I was to collect on repayment out of my salary. Five hours later I left the dog track and had to walk the ten miles home as I couldn’t afford the bus fare.

I was raised in a devout Catholic home and I felt genuine disgust at what I had done. I began to despise myself and searched for a way out. My remorse did not stop me seeking out another priest who listened to my tearful account of how I and my three children were about to be evicted for rent arrears. He gave me five hundred pounds after noting down the registration of the car I had stolen hours earlier. I went straight to the races and won three thousand pounds. That same evening I blew the lot at the roulette wheel.

I started to have nightmares. Before long I couldn’t sleep at all. My mind was in turmoil as I contemplated what I had become. I simply had to talk, to clear my tortured soul of this terrible guilt. Dare I beg forgiveness? Can I save my soul before it is too late?

Steven wept uncontrollably. His tears for once were not contrived as he felt the pain envelope his whole being. He fell to the floor and clasped his hands. His loathing of himself built up to a crescendo as hysterical sobs echoed round the darkened church. There was something else. Defiance fought against guilt. His thoughts now hovered between shame and hatred. Hatred for the world around him. Shame in his own predicament.

He jumped and let out a muffled cry as a hand touched his shoulder. He turned his tear-stained face and looked up at the pained expression of an old priest who guided him gently into a sitting position.

“Come now young man. What is it that troubles you so?”

Steven wiped his face with the sleeve of his jacket and looked up into the old man’s eyes. He recognised the same warm, sympathetic look he had encountered many times before.

“It’s my brother.”

He stopped crying now as he let his mind race.

“He’s a drug addict down in London. I want to bring him back but I can’t afford the fares. He’ll die down there and there’s not a thing I can do to help him.”

He started sobbing bitterly once again.

“Take it easy young man. Take it easy.”

The father sat on the floor beside Steven and placed an arm round his shoulder.

“I’m sure that with the Lord’s help we can find a way of saving your brother.”