LITMIR.BIZ

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so young, Father, sixteen soon. Old enough to leave this Godforsaken place. When I go I’ll not be looking back.’

      ‘Wherever you go, child, try to go unencumbered.’ His eyes leave my face for a moment; when they return I can see they’ve changed. There’s something in them that had not been there before. I’m not sure what, but feel rather than see that he’s sad.

      ‘Our childhood baggage is merely pawned, to be retrieved or returned to us later in life, in one guise or another, so mark my words it will only weigh you down.’

      My expression mirrors my confusion, and he seems to understand.

      ‘Remember, Kate, wherever you go, you’ve always got God.’ He pauses. ‘Now I must be on my way.’

      The curate begins to walk down the centre aisle towards the door. I fall into step beside him, aware that he’s not pleased with this intrusion. ‘I have my doubts about God as well, Father,’ I say, walking briskly to keep up with his long strides. ‘I’ve had them for as long as I can remember. I feel like his name has been on my lips ever since I could talk. Did loving Jesus save the sweet Colleen Corrigan, as good a person who ever drew breath? Will a thousand Hail Marys stop Paul Flatley beating his long-suffering wife? Or will saying the Lord’s Prayer stop the badness spilling out of Mother Thomas’s mouth every minute of every day? If I worship God for all the days of my life, will it make any difference? Will it bring back my friend Theresa Doyle? Will it help me to –’

      We are at the door when he stops walking. ‘Hush, child, stop it at once. Don’t speak so.’ Father Steele seems genuinely concerned, an angry red spot appearing on each of his cheeks. ‘Have you confessed your doubts?’

      ‘No, Father. I don’t think Father O’Neill will listen to me.’

      The curate looks stern. ‘I’m sure he will, that’s what he’s there for.’

      ‘For the love of Jesus, there have been lots of times I’ve wanted to ask Father O’Neill why he, the Almighty I mean, lets terrible things happen to innocent people. You see, Father, it’s very confused I am. I don’t know what to believe any more.’

      I pause for breath: a quick glance to monitor his reaction confirms that it’s all going better than I’d hoped. I’ve got his attention, the next step is to grab his interest, enough to make him think me a special case. Poor little orphan girl, mixed up, disillusioned, in need of religious direction. I’m pleased to see a look of self-righteousness come over his face. Piety I can deal with, I’ve seen it enough times on the faces of the nuns.

      ‘You, Kate O’Sullivan, should find plenty to be penitent about.’ When I’d first heard the word I’d asked what it meant. ‘To repent your sins,’ Mother Paul had said with the same look on her face as Father Steele is wearing now.

      Throwing back my head I fix him with what I know is a probing stare. ‘So, Father, tell me: is it a sin to say what I think? Does it make me a good Catholic to be filled with guilt for doing the very things that come as naturally to me as sleeping and waking, eating and drinking? I laugh a lot, too loud for the sisters’ liking; I play practical jokes, but only to make others laugh. I’m rebellious, or so they tell me, strong-willed is another favourite term of theirs. I admit I tell lies but only sometimes, white ones usually – don’t we all? A couple of times I’ve pretended to be ill to miss Sunday Mass, but I’ve confessed. Are they such evil sins? I don’t feel bad or wicked inside. If there is a God, then surely he should be my judge?’

      I suspect I’ve gone too far this time. I’ve never talked like this before to anyone, except Bridget, who warned me not to tell a soul of my doubts, unless of course I wanted a good hiding. Yet here I am spewing it all out to a priest, and a priest I’d just met. Bridget, I know, accepts things the way they are; sometimes I wish I were more like her, because, I suspect, life would be simpler. I’ve got a queer feeling deep in my belly like I want to go to the toilet. I squeeze my buttocks tight and say, with that look on my face, the one Mother Paul always wants to wipe off: ‘I’ve had religion rammed down my throat since I was old enough to say Our Father, and I do, I really do have a most desperate desire to believe.’

      For what seems like a long time the curate fixes me with a steady gaze, then he takes a step closer to me. I can smell his breath: a sugary smell; I suspect he’s been eating a toffee or a chocolate bar. His expression has changed again; the ‘I know best, my child’ look has gone, and in its place I see genuine interest. Gotcha! I think as he begins to speak. ‘You and I should have a quiet talk, Kate O’Sullivan. Maybe I can give you some of the answers you’re seeking. Restore your faith. Come and see me soon. Early evening is a good time. But now I really must be off, I’ve got some house visits and I’m late. God be with you.’

      If he could have heard my heart singing he’d have been deafened by the racket. ‘And you, Father,’ I manage to mutter, stepping to one side to allow him to pass.

      The back of his hand touches mine; I want to hold it, if only for a brief moment. Rooted to the spot, my eyes glued to the back of his head, I watch him open the door. I look at my hands: they’re shaking, and now my heart instead of singing is beating very fast, hammering hard, like when big Frankie Donegal chases me.

      I’m in a kind of trance. It’s the only way I know of describing this feeling. The only other time I’ve felt remotely like this – and really there’s no comparison – was three weeks ago, when I’d had the strongest urge for Gabriel Ryan to kiss me. Gabriel is sixteen and the most handsome boy in Friday Wells – in the whole county, according to Mary Shanley. Mind you, I’d not taken much notice of her since she’d never set foot outside the parish. All the girls want him and he wants me. His father is a bank manager, and the Ryans live in a posh house with a long black drive and a white car parked in front of the house. Like me, Gabriel is in the local secondary school, and everyone says (including him) that he’s going up to Trinity College in Dublin to study law when he’s eighteen.

      Two weeks ago, behind the science lab, he kissed me. At first I tried to stop him, afraid one of the teachers would see us. He was strong though, too strong for me, and his body pinned mine against the wall. The whole thing was very uncomfortable: the corner of a brick digging into my right shoulder blade; his hardness pushing against my thigh; his mouth forcing mine open. Then he stuck his tongue down the back of my throat. I gagged, pushed him away, and ran back to the main yard. I couldn’t wait to tell Bridget and Mary about Gabriel. I told them his kiss had made me feel faint and I’d let him feel the top of my leg under my skirt, but only for a split second.

      A few years before, Bridget and I had made a pact; we’d tell each other about the sex thing if and when it happened. As if I wouldn’t have told Bridget – she’s my best friend. I tell her everything. She was fifteen when she let Dermot McGuire touch her left breast.

      Eagerly she’d demonstrated. ‘Round and round his hand circled, then he squeezed my nipple.’

      ‘Did it hurt?’ I’d asked.

      ‘A little,’ Bridget had admitted before continuing with enthusiasm: ‘Then he put his hand on my leg, it was hot – his hand, I mean – and shaking. I could feel it through my tights. I opened my legs a little, let him feel me on top of my panties. Then I shut my legs tight, clamping his hand inside my thighs.’

      I’d giggled at this and, curious, I’d asked, ‘Did you want to go all the way?’

      Bridget’s face had turned bright red. She’d crossed herself and said, ‘Temptation is a terrible sin. No more, I swear, until I’m married.’

      Unlike Bridget I hadn’t been tempted with Gabriel; well, not after the sour-tasting kiss. Anyway, I didn’t intend to get married and have babies, not for a long time – if at all.

      All sorted, or so I thought, that was, until Father Declan Steele, this film-star curate who looks to me more like God than any other living creature I’ve ever seen, had come to Friday Wells. Instinctively I know, with all the certainty that my hair is the colour of silver sand, my eyes are grey-blue, and I have a tiny birthmark on my left hip, don’t ask me

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