Thicker Than Water

He took the whisky bottle from my hand. ‘I think you’ve probably had enough,’ he said gently.

I took it back and poured myself another large one. ‘Probably right there,’ I allowed.

‘Fix—’ Matt hardly ever used my nickname, so this was a sign of some preternatural unbending. ‘I know you could have done with having me around, the past few years. I just - felt that this was something I really needed to do. Something I was meant to do. They say if God wants you to be a priest he speaks inside you so you can’t mistake it.

And it was like that, it really was. Like something pulling me, that I couldn’t refuse. But it was terrible having to leave you and Dad. I’m going to try to think of ways to make it up to you.’

‘You are?’ I asked. ‘That’s cool, Matt. You’re a prince.’ He looked pained at the sarcasm, which encouraged me to go on. But I was drunk as a bastard by this time, and it took me a while to think of anything good. I was about to ask him what sort of penance he thought was suitable for sodding off for five years and leaving us all up the Swanee, but the word itself - penance - set off a chain of associations that led to a better idea.

‘Take my confession, Father Castor,’ I said.

Surprise and consternation crossed Matt’s face, but only for a moment. He shook his head. ‘If you’re serious about that, Fix, go to St Mary’s and talk to Father Stone. You don’t want absolution from me. I want it from you, but that’s beside the point.’

‘I am serious,’ I persisted. ‘There’s something that’s weighing on my mind.

It’s been troubling me for twelve years, and I can’t share it with anyone. Except you, Matt. Because you’re family and this is family business.’

I held him with my stare, like the Ancient Mariner. He wanted to leave - wanted not to have come in here in the first place - but I had him by the balls, from a clerical-pastoral-tragical-historical point of view. He couldn’t say no in case I meant it: and what with the booze and the baggage, that was a question that I couldn’t have answered myself.

Matt sat down on a barrel.

‘Go on,’ he said.

‘Do it properly,’ I slurred.

He took the hit with an impatient gesture. ‘Then stick to the script,’ he countered.

I spoke the familiar, disused words with a prickling sense of unreality. ‘Bless me, father, for I have sinned. It’s been eight years and some odd months since my last confession. I have one sin on my conscience.’

‘Just the one?’

‘Just the one, Matt. I don’t want to keep you from your adoring fans.