I rubbed my chin as I took a seat inside the confessional. It was cold in here, and I realized I’d forgotten my coat— my first penance because the Arctic was warmer than St Patrick’s on some days. Soon, I’d be on my knees, but I wasn’t waiting on Doyle’s rheumatic pace to kneel. When he arrived, I’d take up the stance. It didn’t take long. I heard the slip-slip of his soft shoes against the stone flagons and when the confessional door opened, I flowed down to the floor, finding the movement strangely cathartic. The window in the booth opened, and Doyle recounted the usual prayer. After he’d finished, I bowed my head and whispered, “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been fourteen days since my last confession, and I accuse myself of the following sins…” My voice petered out there, and I had to shudder to concentrate. See, my trouble was that I didn’t feel like I’d sinned. I’d killed a man. I didn’t repent it. I’d do it again. And again. Anything to save Aoife. To keep her safe in the future. So, what did I feel guilty about? The fact that she’d been hurt when I deserved the bullet? That I hadn’t kept her from danger? They weren’t sins. Not in the eyes of the Church. Just in my heart. When I fell silent, uncertain of what to say, Doyle queried, “Finn, my boy?” It came as no surprise that he knew it was me. Going two weeks without confession broke one of the Five Points’ cardinal rules. “Yes, Father?”
Issuu converts static files into: digital portfolios, online yearbooks, online catalogs, digital photo albums and more. Sign up and create your flipbook.