Page 33 of Nasty
I’d never felt at home being a priest. I’d always railed against those rules, the expectations, and the responsibilities that had felt stifling to me. I’d wanted to free myself of that life a thousand times since I’d made my vows, but I’d given no thought to who I would be afterwards. I’d certainly never thought I’d be a fucking murderer. There were new rules to follow now, new responsibilities that had to be undertaken, and I couldn’t seem to wrap my head around any of it.
I tightened my jacket around me, trying to ward off the bitter cold that had all but numbed me to the core, and I continued on down the street.
One mile followed the other, followed the other. At some point, the pregnant, grey clouds overhead gave way and it started to snow, though I didn’t register when. It wasn’t until I looked up, realizing that I’d somehow found my way back to St. Luke’s, that I noticed the great stone lintel above the entranceway to the church was dusted with white flakes.
I stood and stared up the building, limned in silver, and I found that my feet suddenly didn’t know which way to go.
“Father?”
I followed the sound of the voice and found a familiar face looking up at me. Yvonne Prescott, who had been in confession with me the day I’d found Monica half dead in the rectory, bathed in a sea of her own blood. Yvonne was slim and pretty in her own way. Mousy. I’d always thought her eyes were too big for her face. She hadn’t been to church since the day Monica was attacked, and so I hadn’t seen her. I’d forgotten all about her until I found myself looking down at her now.
“Yvonne. Hi.” I didn’t know what else to say.
She looked at me, at my civilian clothes—the thick, grey felt jacket with the collar popped against the weather, and the black jeans, and the new shoes, and a frown wrinkled her brow. “I’d heard you’d left,” she said softly. “I didn’t believe it until yesterday. The new priest is a woman. The first in our district. Did you know that?”
My face felt like it was made out of Play-Doh, as I trained my features into what I hoped looked like pleasant surprise. “Oh? No. I didn’t know.”
I didn’t fucking care. The Pope himself could have replaced me at St. Luke’s and it wouldn’t have made the slightest bit of difference to me. I was still struggling to understand why I’d even found my way here in the first place. I hadn’t homed in on the church because it was a place of sanctuary to me, that was for sure.
“I—I’m sorry,” Yvonne mumbled, glancing down at her feet. “I’m sorry I didn’t come back while you were still here. I just…” She sighed, pursing her lips. “I was ashamed. Of how useless I was that day, when…”
She didn’t continue, and I didn’t need her to. She’d fallen apart when she’d seen Monica lying on the floor. Most people would have done the same. The fact that she hadn’t rallied and kept her head about her must have been making her feel guilty, though. “It’s okay,” I said. “Monica’s okay now. She’s doing much better.”
“Yeah. They said she’s out of hospital,” Yvonne said, her voice brightening. “She’ll be able to go back to Canada soon, right? Back to her family and her friends.”
I almost laughed out loud. Monica would be doing no such thing. She’d made it perfectly clear that she was staying in New York, legally or otherwise, until we’d found the bastard responsible for her attack, and we’d dealt with the situation.
“What about you?” Yvonne hiked her purse strap higher onto her shoulder. The end of her petite, up-turned nose had turned red from the cold. I couldn’t stop fucking staring at it. “What are you going to do, now that you’re not at St. Luke’s?” She made it sound like I’d merely worked at the church. I’d been there every day for years, barely leaving the confines of the building unless charity work or home visits had required it. I hadn’t just stopped working at St. Luke’s. I’d left behind an entire way of life.
What am I going to do, Yvonne? What the fuck am I going to do? I’m going to be a killer. I’ve been murdering people all over the fucking place, and I’m not going to stop any time soon.
I shot Yvonne a smile. A shitty, disingenuous smile that made my face hurt. “I’m not sure. Macramé? Maybe I’ll become a professional tennis player. I used to have a mean backhand in high school.”
The tentative smile on her face faltered. Her eyes fell back down to her shoes. “I’m sorry. That was a stupid question. I—”
I cut her off. “Come and get a drink with me.” It wasn’t a question. It was a command, and one Yvonne hadn’t been expecting, from the way her eyes bugged out of her head. Honestly, I’d surprised myself by saying it.
“A drink?”
“Yeah. My shout. What do you drink? Wine? Beer? Tequila?”
Yvonne’s head swiveled up and down the street, and then her gaze settled on the building in front of her, her cheeks flushing with color. It was as if God Himself had leaned over her shoulder and whispered into her ear, telling her not to do it. “It’s three p.m. on a Monday. I don’t think I’m meant to be drinking, Father.”
“Felix.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Felix. My name’s Felix. Does it really matter what day it is?”
“Uh…not…not really. I suppose,” she stammered.
“Good.” I grabbed hold of her, taking her hand. Five minutes later we were sitting at a bar and I was ordering two whiskeys.
“Have you stopped touching yourself, then?” I demanded, as she took her first sip. She almost spat the amber liquid all over the bar.
“I beg your pardon?!”
“You don’t need to beg for my pardon anymore. I can’t forgive you for shit.”
