Sins of the Fathers

SINS OF THE FATHERS

CHAPTER 1

Wednesday 4th December – evening.

A coif frames my face, a virgin-white wimple covers my neck and chest, and a long, black veil drapes from the coif onto a dark tunic.

As a Religious Sister, I wear the habit only on hallowed occasions. Tonight will be a hallowed occasion. Tonight, I’m paying an unofficial, unsanctioned pastoral visit to former Father, Gerard Finnegan. Disgraced, defrocked, and imprisoned, Finnegan was freed under licence having served half of his three-year child molestation sentence. I’ve had two phone conversations with him and he’s agreed to meet me. He’ll be expecting sympathy and compassion.

The convent provides me with transport and I park my rusty Nissan Micra in a tree-sheltered driveway, survey the surroundings, and walk slowly up the path. I bang a hefty brass knocker and as the door swings open, I baulk on seeing a heavy-set, fiftyish man with bald head, yellowing beard, and moist red lips.

‘Sister Cordelia,’ he says. ‘Please, come in.’

He leads the way into a dark, dingy, living room and points to a seat.

‘I appreciate the visit,’ he says, ‘however, I’ve already been to confession and received absolution.’

Catholicism’s convenient scripture interpretation of bestowing sin-forgiving power to priests disgusts me; only our Lord has the power to forgive. As you’ll have guessed, I’m experiencing a crisis of faith, not in God, but in the duplicitous nature of organised religion.

‘Nevertheless,’ I say, ‘I’m sure you could use a little spiritual support.’

‘Any support is welcome these days,’ he says.

‘How do you spend your time?’ I ask.

‘Walking, reading, TV, computer; all devoid of human interaction.’

‘No family connections?’

Finnegan scowls. ‘Family, former friends, and the church; I encounter a leper’s treatment on all fronts.’

‘You expected a red carpet?’

‘Sister Cordelia,’ he says, eyeballing me. ‘You’re here to patronise?’

‘No offence intended,’ I lie. ‘Can I help in any practical way? Shopping or housework maybe?’

‘I prefer to fend for myself. Tell me about St. Joan’s.’

‘Your old parish is thriving. Some younger members stopped attending after the scandal but two youth groups are now flourishing.’

‘The joys of youth,’ he says dreamily. ‘And Father Cuthbert?’

‘The congregation love him. He’s a thoughtful priest and a good man.’

‘Yes, thoughtful and good. He and I are old acquaintances you know.’

I try deciphering Finnegan’s facial expression. Old acquaintances; he’s choosing his words carefully.

‘I help him with Sunday Mass preparations,’ I say.

‘I miss St Joan’s greatly; it was my life for so long.’

‘Why not move away? Why stay where you’re not wanted?’

‘I may be an outcast, but this is my home.’

‘Did you receive counselling?’

‘Counselling?’ he responds, puzzled.

‘Is your illness cured?’

‘Only the sick need cured.’

‘You still have carnal feelings for young boys?’

‘Maybe, dear Sister Cordelia, maybe young boys have carnal feelings for me.’

I shake my head in disgust. ‘Your absolution is meaningless.’

‘No morality lectures, please. I’m sick of listening to moral high-ground speeches, particularly when spewed from the mouths of hypocritical priests guilty of the same acts that put me behind bars.’

‘You’re aware of other paedophile priests?’

‘Ahh,’ he says, smirking. ‘You’ve at last managed to utter the ‘‘P’’ word.’

‘How else can your crime be defined?’ I ask.

‘Pastoral pleasure, a perk of the job, and only a crime in the eyes of the law.’

‘Pastoral pleasure?’ I say, aghast.

‘I’ve shocked you, Sister?’

‘Your unspeakable sin can never be forgiven.’

‘I’ll repent when the church repents. There’s a cover-up stretching to the highest echelons and yes, I’ve gathered a dossier on naughty clerics in our diocese, clerics who administer Mass to congregations ignorant of their pious pastor’s extra-curricular activity.’

‘Why the dossier?’

‘I plan to have Bishop Haggan restore my stipend; otherwise, a few sleazy ecclesiastical secrets will hit the headlines. I’ve got names, places, and dates going back years.’

‘The victims have remained silent?’

‘It’s what happens. The little boys are now adults with families and careers; they fear the stigma associated with exposure. Besides, most supposed victims probably enjoyed it.’

I feel nauseous, his depraved, callous, inhuman portrayal of child sex abuse causing my mind to spin.

‘Did you ever possess a genuine calling to the church?’ I ask. ‘Was your priesthood simply a gateway into preying on children?’

‘I was once God’s chosen and the church led me astray.’

‘No,’ I say, incensed. ‘Don’t blame the church. You chose to commit those evil, debaucherous acts; sins in the eyes of God.’

Finnegan hangs his head. Is it shame? Have I awakened some remaining shred of decency within him?

‘I could not control the craving,’ he says. ‘It was like a hunger that constantly needed satiating.’

‘You should have confided such shameful desires to the church authorities.’

‘I confessed to the Bishop years ago. He dismissed it and instructed me to keep my mouth well and truly shut.’

‘The Bishop condoned your despicable deeds? I find that hard to believe.’

‘His directive from higher up the ecclesiastical food chain was to bury such problems and ensure they don’t see the light of day.’

I glare at this religious charlatan for long moments before finding my voice. ‘How can you live with yourself?’

He stares at me, tears welling. ‘Of late, Sister Cordelia, I’ve been asking myself that very question.’

A heavy silence saturates the air as his words linger. I momentarily close my eyes and suddenly, the way forward is clear. Inside my head, any lingering doubt clouding my course of action dissipates; it’s as though I’m reading an e-mail instruction from God. Finnegan has debased religion. He is an abhorrence; a living, breathing, human malignancy and his contagion must be erased.

Our eyes lock and without words, something passes between us.

‘You still wish to pray for me?’ he asks.

‘On your knees,’ I say, swallowing hard.

He obeys, his kneeling side-profile a picture of penitence.

‘Close your eyes and consider your sin,’ I say.

Scanning the room, I spot a pair of long, pointed scissors on a side table. I widen the cutting edges, retrieve a cotton handkerchief from my tunic pocket, and wrap the fabric around one blade and the handle. A clock’s tick punctuates the passing seconds as I grip the makeshift weapon tightly and return to Finnegan’s side. He whimpers and mouths a silent prayer, a tremor running through his body.

‘Lord,’ I pray aloud, ‘this man is a sinner. You know the depth of his evil ways.’

The paedophile’s eyes remain closed, his hands clasped tightly against his chin. It’s as if he knows his fate.

‘As penance,’ I continue, my palms sweating, ‘he deserves to forfeit this earthly life and suffer the full extent of your wrath.’

‘Dear God’, Finnegan murmurs. ‘Please forgive me.’

I recite Nahum 1, verses 2 and 3. ‘The Lord is a jealous and avenging God; the Lord is avenging and wrathful; the Lord takes vengeance on his adversaries and keeps wrath for his enemies. The Lord is slow to anger and great in power, and the Lord will by no means clear the guilty. His way is in whirlwind and storm, and the clouds are the dust of his feet.’

I execute a back-handed swipe and the scissor blade arcs through the air, lacerating Finnegan’s neck, slicing muscle, sinew, and jugular vein. Spurting blood spatters walls and sprays furniture, the manifest effect of a ruptured, depressurised cardiovascular system.

Lying prostrate, he clutches his throat, the crimson liquid cascading between his fingers as the blood tide refuses to be stemmed. He locks his gaze on me, his lips forming a smile. I lean over him as he attempts to speak.

‘Th…thank you,’ he says.

‘You’re welcome,’ I say. ‘The pleasure was all mine.’

The pulse of escaping blood turns sluggish.

‘The evidence,’ he whispers.

‘Where is it?’ I ask.

He points feebly at a door. ‘Punish them.’

I nod. ‘It will be done.’

‘The last rites,’ he says.

‘Females are not granted the power to deliver rites.’

As his breathing becomes laboured, I concede a few contrite words.

‘The Lord have mercy on your soul,’ I say.

Soon, his eyes glaze and I sit for a long time, quietly contemplating the death of a defrocked priest, a paedophile who used his priesthood to groom and prey on the vulnerable and whose sexual depravity scarred the minds of countless children. I feel no remorse. Through me, God has exacted punishment.

Finnegan was convicted for his crimes, yet others are living a saintly pretence, conducting daily church duties with impunity whilst remaining at liberty to continually perpetrate abuse. Our church leaders have covered up the clergy’s sins, sins that must be exposed. I walk to Finnegan’s bedroom and find the dossier lying on a bedside cabinet. The contents will provide interesting night-time reading and supply vital intelligence, ammunition for my war on an ecclesiastical conspiracy, a conspiracy designed to conceal the truth.

At the priest’s feet, I light a candle, and using the A4 notepad on his desk, print a message in block capitals. It reads, ‘Retribution for Reagan’ and quotes Nahum 1, 2-3. Finally, I bend Finnegan’s arms across his chest, enfold his hands together in prayer, and using my phone, capture several posterity snapshots.

Casting a validating glance at the carnage scene, I remove my coif, wimple, and tunic, beneath which I’m wearing charity shop casual clothes, and bundle the soiled garments into a black plastic bin liner recovered from Finnegan’s kitchen. Closing the door behind me, I depart, driving back to the convent at a leisurely pace and timing my return to coincide with Compline, a period when all nuns attend chapel for evening prayer before retiring.

On Great Victoria Street, I pass the Europa Hotel and travel along Dublin Road onto Botanic Avenue. Belfast city centre buzzes with the night-time activity of clubs, restaurants, and overflowing bars that spill human contents onto pavements where smokers congregate for a nicotine fix. The vibrant party atmosphere is intoxicating. Unsolicited, a transient smidgeon of doubt invades my subconscious and I immediately dismiss it. I am a servant, and the Lord has instructed me to exterminate those guilty of denigrating both the church and the fundamentals of morality.

After a quick stop to purchase an anonymous prepaid mobile, I arrive at the convent, descend to the basement, and incinerate my blood-stained attire. Since I am not on any database, I’m unconcerned about crime scene fingerprints and DNA; there will be numerous suspects for Gerard Finnegan’s murder and a devout, holy order Religious Sister should be last on any list.

Inside my small apartment, I sit on a single, metal-framed bed and begin reading the hand-written dossier. A page on each offender documents names, addresses, incident dates, and background information on victims. I take frequent breaks to digest the heart-rending chronicle of debaucherous acts and am disappointed, disillusioned, and dismayed at the named and shamed transgressors. Among the five culprits is Father Damian Cuthbert.

At 2.00 a.m., I close the file and decide to report Finnegan’s punishment. Activating the burner phone, I dial Mike Madagan’s number. Ex-Detective Inspector Madagan was once Reagan’s police partner and is now a private investigator; it is fitting for him to be the first to know. The ringtone ceases and an irate voice speaks.

‘Who’s calling at this ungodly hour?’

‘Wakey, wakey, Inspector,’ I say.

‘I’m no longer a cop,’ he answers groggily. ‘Dial 999.’

‘This case requires your expertise.’

‘What case? And who the hell are you?’

‘I guarantee it’ll be more exciting than your present work schedule; snooping around corners and hiding in shop doorways to spot adulterers must be pretty mind-numbing. Surely you’d welcome a real investigation?’

‘Okay,’ he says, sighing. ‘A sick joke. Who put you up to it?’

‘A world full of evil is no joke, detective.’

‘You’ve read too many fantasy novels, lady. Go get a life.’

‘I’ve got one, and my vocation is retribution. Retribution for Reagan.’

‘Reagan Kelly?’ he asks., his curiosity now fully piqued.

‘She was the victim of a bible-thumping paedophile and it destroyed her. Tonight, I killed a former priest named Gerard Finnegan; he’s decomposing on the floor of his Antrim Road home. He was my first target and you’ll find his crimes on the sex offender’s register.’

‘This is not my business.’

‘I’m making it your business and you owe it to Reagan. The church is infested with Finnegan’s and a hypocritical religious hierarchy is attempting to airbrush it. We need to unmask these crimes, Madagan. We’ll get to know each other better next time and be assured, there will be a next time. I intend to communicate only with you.’

I switch off the phone, remove the sim card, and snuggle under the bed covers. Soon, I fall into a sound sleep, dreaming of the next clerical charlatan to face, by my heavenly hand, God’s wrath.