Lining up the items on a narrow table in the sacristy, John O’Malley mentally ticked off his checklist: hipflask of Irish whiskey, mobile with sports streaming and betting apps, earbud headphones, a matchbox, a miniature ashtray and a half empty packet of Marlboro. Or perhaps he should think of it as half full. He opted for half empty.
Slipping the cache into the pockets of his cassock, O’Malley glanced at the wall clock, drew in a deep breath, gave a soulful sigh and went into the body of the church.
Outside a cool drizzle was washing urine off the footpaths of Darlinghurst. Inside the air smelt of day-old incense with background notes of stale Virginian tobacco.
He counted the parishioners in the pews. Four. Let’s pray the rain keeps others away, he said to himself and the Almighty as he made a half genuflection before the altar and headed for the two-person confessional.
Leaving the booth’s rear door partly open to let out smoke, he fitted a single headphone bud into his right ear so it was hidden. He tapped the streaming app. Two-handed, the umpire was raising the ball high. A pull of whiskey, a puff on a cigarette and, sliding back the partition curtain, he sat waiting.
One by one they shuffled in seeking a sympathetic ear, a quick absolution and minimal penance. Amen to that, was his approach. After 20 minutes it was three down, one to go.
Number Four dropped rather than slid into the seat. O’Malley felt the slight thud and, annoyed, squinted through the partition. Having pimped up the screen with flywire, he could only make out the bulk of a tall man, either bald or shaven headed, with a beefy nose and prominent chin.
The rote recital beginning “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been …” lulled O’Malley into – if he’d been Buddhist – a meditative state. Then came: “Is it true?”
“True?” O’Malley repeated, startled. It was hard to concentrate on the football while being distracted by a question.
“That you can’t tell anyone what I confess to you?”
“Priests are duty bound by the seal of the confessional not to disclose anything they’ve been told. I’ve vowed not to break that seal.”
“And you’ll wipe away my sins.”
“That’s the general idea.” O’Malley tilted the flask to his lips and took a sip. A moment later, he inhaled deeply on his cigarette.
“I’m going to kill someone tonight. I won’t be visiting another priest, so consider this a confession-in-advance.”
O’Malley gave a spluttering cough. “First up, the sin involved is riding high on the Commandments’ Top 10 hits at Number Five: Thou shall not kill. Secondly, you can’t show contrition for a sin you haven’t yet committed.”
“I remember all that going-to-Hell for a mortal sin stuff from school. So I want you to hear my confession.”
Was this the time to discuss the minutiae of Catholic teachings? O’Malley decided on “no”. “I can’t absolve you of a sin and indeed a crime you haven’t carried out. If you want my …” A squint through the partition told him he was about to lecture an empty seat. The man was gone and so was O’Malley’s interest in the footy. Closing the app, he lit another cigarette.
Alone in the parish admin office, O’Malley played the surveillance tape from a CCTV camera positioned high above the front doors of St Mary Star of the Sea. The big man could be seen walking towards the church at 2pm, 10 minutes before the confessional opened and the game began. O’Malley printed off a screengrab capturing the man’s slightly upturned face. Later video showed a thick neck atop broad shoulders as he strode away. On a far corner, he went into a pub. The Green Man. Damn, thought O’Malley. The police phrase “… known to frequent the premises” would apply to O’Malley and that bar. He needed a partner.
Sister Kate was in mufti, sneakers up on a stool in the neighbouring convent’s TV room watching Oprah. O’Malley tapped on the doorframe.
“Johnny, boy,” she called out. “Come and watch a billionairess lie to poor people by telling them all their wishes will come true if they dream a bigger dream for themselves.”
“That’s a bit judgemental, even for you.” He was glad she was sitting down. Kate was about two centimetres taller than him with a tendency to stand a little too close when they talked so he could almost count the freckles on her upturned nose while noting the ice blue of her ey … no, no, concentrate. “Care to run a dangerous errand?”
Standing on a corner opposite The Green Man, O’Malley checked his watch. She’d been in there 30 minutes. Rocking on his feet, he was conscious of the weight of the self-loading 9-millimetre pistol in the pocket of his hoodie. He’d won the weapon off a drunken US sergeant six weeks earlier in a card game on a coalition military base in Tarin Kowt, southern Afghanistan. Who knew a young Australian Army chaplain was sharp at poker? Scheduled to fly home the following day, O’Malley had ignored the boasting blowhards around the small table. Within a week he’d be demobbed and changing a khaki uniform for a black one.
Wearing a puffer jacket and jeans, Kate came out of the pub with a skip in her step. Handing him back the printout image of the would-be killer, she said: “A stranger insisted on buying me a drink.”
O’Malley’s cheeks flushed. “Did anyone know our man?”
“I didn’t need to ask. He’s in there, sitting with two mates. I was thinking of badgering him about the money he owes you from that bet.”
It hadn’t been a well thought out lie, but it was plausible. “There goes our man and one of his pals,” said O’Malley, looking at the bar door. “Thanks, I must buy you a …” his voice petered out as he tried to turn.
She stopped him with a raised palm. “I’m coming with you.”
They continued to argue as she pulled him across the road and down a narrow footpath leading to a string of tarted up terraced houses. The men they were following parted at a freshly painted front door, with O’Malley’s penitent heading inside, the other walking off. The priest and nun stood outside. “What are you going to do, Johnny?” Kate asked.
The voice behind them was as cold as a
publicist’s handshake. “Yes, Johnny, just what are you planning?” Standing a
metre away, a smartie with a smirk had his right hand hidden in the pocket of his
long coat, pushing something hard towards them. O’Malley hoped it was just a
gun.
In a pin-neat living room, the big man from the church was sitting in a chair while opening and closing his mouth. Eventually a word tumbled out: “Unbelievable.”
“I tailed them from the pub,” said the smirker. “You have to admit Johnny has made it easier for us.”
Nodding, the big man reached for a snubnosed revolver on a side table and thumbed back the hammer. “Bless me, Father, for I’m about to kill you.”
“Why?”
“You’re too good at cards. You took that drunk Yank’s money, gun and dignity. That’s why he boasted he and the others would soon be rich despite your winning streak.”
O’Malley shrugged. “I’ve no idea what you mean. Ask my parishioners: I’m a bad listener.”
“Who ignores a tip off about plans later this year to smuggle Afghan heroin in returning army vehicles?”
Trying to picture the card game and the loudmouthed sergeant, O’Malley closed his eyes. Yes. He’d heard something about Bushmaster armoured vehicles having extra padding for the trip home. “No, can’t recall a word. But … I do remember you coming to confession. Again, why?”
“Delicious irony. You’d absolve me of my sin of killing you.”
O’Malley moved his hand to his pocket. Too slow. The smirker hit him hard behind the ear with something solid.
He felt he was falling in slow motion. The 9-millimetre appeared in his hand. Swinging in mid-air, he fired a shot which blew a lamp off a far table. Then his shoulder hit the floor. The pistol slid across the polished wooded boards like a hockey puck.
“Kill him,” ordered the big man.
O’Malley braced himself. Two shots came a second apart.
Like a felled ox, a body crashed down on him. Rolling onto his back, O’Malley pushed the body away. There was a neat, dark hole in the middle of the smirker’s forehead. The big man had a matching one.
Feet apart, gripping O’Malley’s pistol with both hands, Kate gazed down at him. “It’s always a mistake to ignore the woman in the room.”
“You were in the armed forces?”
“Farmer’s daughter.”
The dead mens’ eyes stared at O’Malley. In turn, he looked at Kate. “What’ll we do?”
“I’d suggest a vow of silence,” she
replied.
Copyright 2023 GREG FLYNN
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