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It wasn’t like we could talk to a goddamn counselor about the shit we did and saw. Father Doyle was that to us, and Aoife was right, I needed to confess my sins.
Because it was a busy confessional, there was a bell on the door. You rang it and it sounded in Doyle’s seventies chic office. If he hadn’t appeared in ten minutes, you assumed the drunken old coot had passed out, and went and sought his ass out.
The man wasn’t as pious as he liked to preach, but Aidan said that no man was a saint and seemed to think it made him a more honest priest because he wasn’t perfect. My brothers and I usually rolled our eyes at that—Aidan could spew a lot of crap.
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?”
“You killed a man, didn’t you?”
My throat closed up. “I did.”
Not that it was on record. Still, that wasn’t how the soul worked, was it?
“And do you repent?”
“No.” I released a shaky breath as I realized how fucking good that felt to admit.
“It’s a mortal sin that you’ve committed, child,” Doyle stated, but I heard no judgment in his words. I didn’t even want to know how often he heard this type of confession on a weekly basis.
“They almost killed my wife.”
“Indeed, they did, and they had no Last Rites to cleanse their soul. The Devil has them now. They are his to punish.”
It was very Old Testament, but I found that pleased me.
“I’ve had lecherous thoughts.” Okay, so it was a cop out, but I had to start somewhere.
Doyle snickered. “That doesn’t surprise me.”
