Confessions - Pt.II

It took almost a minute of silence, as Father Joyce dealt with the shock of what he had just heard. He couldn’t believe that a Thompson, such a respectable family, had a homosexual in its midst. He was desperate to tell Miles’ parents, and knew that they must know, so that they could do something about it, talk Miles round from what was clearly a very confusing phase. Again, Father Joyce broke from convention, and interfered within the walls of the confession box, as he felt it was his duty to point Miles in the right direction. ‘This is just a phase, my child, do not worry – it will pass.’

‘A phase?’ Miles retorted, slightly angry. ‘This isn’t just a brief thing, I know I’m gay and I have been for so long, and it hurts me every single day to wake up and know that I can’t go downstairs and tell my own parents who I really am.’

‘Yes, yes. But have you considered a way of getting rid of these feelings?’ He interrupted, batting away the dramatic feelings which Miles claimed to have. Father Joyce was delighted that he could help Miles in this situation, but knew that his parents would have to know soon. He would see them that Sunday, and would take advantage of their always being early to speak with them about potential cures for Miles’ affliction.

‘Getting rid of them? I’m happy with it – it’s who I am. I just want to be able to live my life, with my parents there, as a supportive rock rather than two people who would rather die than society know that their child isn’t a carbon copy of everyone else.’ He was clear in his feelings now, angry that Father Joyce seemed to disregard his problems as though they weren’t really there. ‘Father I need the Lord’s guidance here.’ Miles pleaded with him.

The priest let out a little laugh at Miles’ mention of the Lord’s name in the same bracket as homosexuality. He shifted in his seat, trying to find a comfortable position which didn’t hurt his back as much, the potent odour of cheese still battling with Miles’ aftershave to take control of the box’s smell. ‘The Lord? He must never be involved in matters such as these. He has no words of advice for those who betray the natural order which he set out, or for those who believe that it is of a moral nature to go outside such boundaries.’ He found himself speaking in the same abrupt tone with which he had spoken to Mrs. Henrys just a week ago. He maintained a straight and serious face, never smiling.

Miles understood that he shouldn’t question the belief or views of a man so committed to the church, and chose not to challenge or offend the Priest on the other side of the curtain in the way that he had to him. ‘I must live my life, but I want my parents to be there. I don’t think they can accept me for who I am, and I don’t know how to carry on from here.’ Miles broke down, crying quietly like a young child, his head in his hands and his body shivering still with the cold – this was a man who had so tortured himself that he dreaded each day coming, knowing that again he would have to act. All the world is certainly a stage, though some have the most strenuous roles.

Father Joyce hated it when people cried in confession. It made things so awkward for him, and he never knew how to respond. He found social situations such as these to be painfully difficult, and he searched his brain for the way to handle it, coming back with nothing. He reasoned that the best course of action was probably to leave Miles to himself, and so he opened the curtain, and left the confession box with Miles alone inside.  

The nights grew worse for Father Joyce, as yet again he struggled to sleep for more than three hours, waking in a deep sweat following dreams which he dared not repeat the contents of. Some were violent, some he saw bizarre images of himself as a prison guard, wandering the corridors and looking in on the cells of those who he watched over. The cells were always empty but for little diaries positioned on the cell floor, all of which had a name written on the front. One of them belonged to Miles Thompson, and another he also saw belonged to Amanda Henrys. Some were much larger than others, especially Miles’.

One Saturday night, as Father Joyce drank the cold water which he kept on his bedside table, he again felt a crushing blow of guilt over his actions relating to the Henrys. He shook with the anxiety over what might become of them, and had far reaching thoughts and worries over whether anything might happen which could incur him in a police inquiry, such was the severity of the incident. It was a burden he must bear as a Priest who heard confessions, though he could never speak a word of what he was told. It was an unbreakable vow, and he knew that the decision he had made was the right one, despite the dilemma he found himself in.

The Sunday morning sun shone through the stunning stain-glass windows which adorned the side walls of St. James’ Church. Father Joyce stood at the front, looking at the church door, waiting for the first of the congregation to enter, hoping desperately that it was Mr and Mrs Thompson, to whom he desperately needed to speak. He couldn’t stop thinking about the Henrys, and what might have become of Kevin since he had heard his wife’s confession, his palms sweating a little as he felt the weight of the dilemma, still crushing him even though he was resolute about his decision. The integrity of The Church must be guarded before anything else.

Mr Thompson was smartly dressed, in a blue suit with matching tie, whilst his wife was in an expensive purple dress, gold jewellery adoring both of her hands and neck. She was a short woman, not coming near to the height of her husband, who towered over her. They walked slowly, with something of a swagger, toward their front row, traditional seats. As they neared their rightful viewing point, they were met by the sweaty and unsure handshake of Father Joyce, who was dressed in his usual Sunday Morning wear. He spoke slowly, seeking to break the terrible news as gracefully as he could. He behaved as though he were revealing to Miles’ parents that he had died. To them, it would probably feel that way. He told them to sit down before he spoke about what Miles had told him, and after he had calmed them down from their initial shock, and pulled them both up from the position they had collapsed on the floor to, he discussed with them the best possible way forward in dealing with the problem. He chose to not lead that morning’s service, after their discussion went on for as long as it did, deep into the afternoon. They decided that they would talk to Miles, and see if he would re-consider what they saw as a decision – and a disrespectful one at that.  

Father Joyce smiled for the first time in a very long time that evening. He sat in his armchair, beside a crackling fire, his cheeks a faint red with the warmth of his small cottage, which was just two doors down from the Thompsons. He drank red wine, which stained his teeth, but relaxed him and removed his back pain, which seemed to have gotten worse in the last couple of weeks. He put it down to the increased stress he had felt as a result of all his decision-making. Reflecting back, he again felt sure that he had made the correct decisions, and decided it would only do him harm to worry about them any longer. He closed his eyes, and slept peacefully that night.

The next morning, Father Joyce milled around the church, doing any odd jobs which needed doing. He cleaned the pews, polished anything of any value, and ensured that his church looked as glorious as it had in his youth. He was often nostalgic, and that Monday morning was no different to the others – the start of the week, though for him it always prompted a glance back at his life within these four walls. The perfect isolation.

The silence which so pleased Father Joyce was suddenly broken with an abrupt crash, as the grand double doors to the church swung open, a young woman with frizzy hair bounding in through the entrance. She wore a zipped up hoody, jeans and a pair of trainers, with a scrunchie in her hair and an expression of the deepest anger on her face. Father Joyce took a step back as she came in, moving towards him with great pace, looking as if she were to attack him. She stopped herself from doing so, and moved towards him slower. She put her face right up against his, almost touching it, glaring into his eyes.

‘What sort of man are you?’ She questioned, furious. Her voice echoed around the church, bouncing off the walls as she screamed. ‘Come on, tell me. What exactly do you see yourself as? Do you even look at yourself?’ Her voice was raised even further. ‘I’m dying to know.’ She said through now gritted teeth, the smell of sweat which came from her hair a fowl scent. ‘My Brother is dead.’ She screamed, almost laughing as she did so, utterly disbelieving what she now said. ‘Come two weeks’ time I’ll be sat here for his funeral, and you’ll lead it no doubt, the murderer reading from the Bible as the coffin-‘ She stopped suddenly, again taking in what had happened, breathing deeply, but maintaining her glare into the eyes of Father Joyce.

He couldn’t speak. He knew exactly who she was – the sister of Kevin Henrys. The weight which supressed his body, and the pain of swallowing as the anxiety and fear which had plagued his life for the last two weeks returned, but it was in its full, cold-blooded form. His fear had come to life, and it reared its ugly head with a vicious passion.

She began to speak again. ‘I know everything. Amanda left a journal, and I’ve read every single word of it – everything you said, everything you didn’t do to stop it. She had a mental problem, and I don’t even hate her for what she’s done because I can understand why she did it, and I can see it from her point of view now. But you – I just don’t understand. It’s not that you can’t see immorality – you just have a totally different idea of what it means to be immoral. You have the most outdated idea of what right and wrong is. Well, Father Joyce, let me tell you now – and I hope you tell everyone else you know in this institution – being who you are is not immoral. If you could just understand for one second that life is not simply the traditions which you go by, then maybe you’ve got a chance of leading a life in which you can understand where true immorality lies. You chose above everything else to protect one stupid tradition. You chose to uphold the vow of confidentiality over helping someone who is scared they’re going to do something they don’t mean to do. She wasn’t a killer, she didn’t want to be, but she knew it was going to go too far – but you chose a made up concept and a fictional idea of integrity over helping her. It’s 2015 and you’re still living like it’s the Middle Ages and you’ve let tradition stop morality. Stop making those two ideas separate, because what was moral 400 years ago isn’t anymore. I beg you – change.’ She turned around, tears in her eyes as she walked back through the church, towards the exit, shaking her head aggressively, the doors swinging shut behind her.

She was wrong. The confidentiality of the confession box had to take priority, and he couldn’t be held responsible for the consequences. He was certain that the only time this should be broken was when immorality reached its most disgusting peak. He maintained that this was appropriate for the case of Miles Thompson. Father Joyce looked down at his watch, seeing that it was almost 12.30, and took out his cheese sandwiches, making sure that he said grace before he took a single bite.