—There’s no time for any of the what do you call preamble, father. I’ll get right to it: I killed a man.
—Jesus Christ.
—That’s right, Father.
—You killed a man?
—That’s right Father. Now would you let that sink in. Would you just let that sink in. I killed a man.
—You. You … Okay. Now let’s wait a moment. You killed a man, an actual man?
—That’s right, that’s for certain, Father.
—A man is dead, is that right?
—Surely is, Father. He’s as dead as anything.
—And his … his being dead … you’re the shall we say architect of that?
—Yes. I am the architect of his demise shall we say, Father.
—God almighty.
—That’s what I said, Father.
—So … So. So. What — what happened?
—Well, I committed a murder, Father.
—Yes, yes, we’ve established that. That’s pretty clear, I’d say. But what were the circumstances?
—Ah, that’s simple enough. Father?
—Yes?
—Does it not fill you full of dread?
—What does?
—To be sharing your confessional with a murderer. This wooden screen … it’s not much protection from me now is it, Father?
—Do I need protection?
—I suppose you’re going to say you’ve got Jesus and the Holy Spirit and all that, aren’t you? And that’s all the protection you need?
—I believe they will protect my eternal soul, yes. My body, who knows.
—Bodies are weak, aren’t they, Father?
—“The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.”
—That’s good.
—It’s from Matthew.
—Ah, who’s he?
—No, no. The Gospel of Matthew. Jesus is in the Garden of Gethsemane, and he asks his disciples to stay awake and pray, but they fall asleep. And that’s what he says to them. They’re sleeping while he suffers. And he suffers tremendously.
—Is that right.
—Yes. You see, even Jesus doesn’t want to die. “Take this cup away from me,” he says, meaning that he doesn’t want to have to suffer. The flesh is weak, you see, and he knew that. That’s why he gives us Confession. Because he knows we’re weak. And he wants to forgive us; he wants us to confront our weakness, no matter what it is.
—Hmm. Even if that weakness is murder, Father?
— … Yes.
—I thought murder was a what do you call it sin.
—A mortal sin?
—Yes. And you’re damned to Hell, like. That’s it. Murderers don’t go to heaven.
—It’s … complicated. Taking a life … deliberately … that’s a ‘sin that cries to heaven for vengeance.’
—I’m not going to heaven.
—It’s not as simple as that.
—It’s never simple.
—Right. This — what we do here, it’s all about mysteries, and accepting that there are mysteries we cannot fathom. That we simply can’t — that we simply don’t have the capacity to do so. Are you still there?
—Yes.
—And you, you say … you killed someone?
—Yes.
—You killed a man.
—Yes.
—How did you kill him?
—It’s complicated, Father.
—Tell me.
—I’m not sure you’ll believe me.
—Try me.
—Well, okay. You see, I prayed for his death, Father.
—What, you …
—Yes. And he died. After that. Quite literally after that.
—What?
—It’s my father.
—Your father is dead?
—Yes. My father is dead.
—Your father died after you prayed for his death?
—That’s right. We were in the kitchen. He’d come in. He wasn’t happy. House was a mess. House is always a mess. I don’t clean it, I’m idle. I clean it, I’ve done it wrong. He comes in, and I can always tell how drunk he is by how many things I hear him knock over. Well, this time, the whole telephone table goes over, the telephone makes a little ring as it crashes off, and then he hits the wall, and the picture of the Sacred Heart comes down, and then he sees me, down the hall, in the kitchen doorway, watching him. And he looks at me and he looks at the Sacred Heart on the floor — I think the glass has shattered — and when he looks back at me I can see he hates me. I have thought for a long time that he might hate me, but really I thought — I mean, I told myself — that really what he hated was himself, because of what happened with my mother, which he thought was his fault but wasn’t, couldn’t have been, not really … Anyway. He looked at me with hate, and he came towards me, unbuckling his belt, telling me I was going to get the metal end this time, mark him I would. And I looked at his eyes and I said a prayer. I said, God, Holy Jesus, please kill my father. Some of the words even escaped my lips. And his eyes went cold, and they flickered, and he fell down, right there in the hall, arms limp. His head cracked against the telephone table. There was blood. Lots of very very dark blood. From his head. It went all into the carpet. And the smell of it. But you know, Father? I went and I looked into my Father’s eyes and they looked different. Not just because he was dead, you see. No. He looked … grateful. Now perhaps I’m saying this to make me feel better. Perhaps. But I kissed his eyes and his head and I said, “I love you, Daddy.” Because I did, and I do. I shouldn’t … I shouldn’t have done it. I shouldn’t have killed my father. My daddy. There must have been another way. But Father … Father?
—Hmm?
—If God took him. Can God …
—It’s okay.
—Can … can God …
—It’s okay. Shh. It’s okay.
—Can God …
— … Nothing to fear …
— … Bring him back?