Confessions- Resoluton
He sat in the confessional, gripped his flask and carefully looked down at his watch. It was 12:51. His left hand still shivered as he read the time.
The hinge moved coarsely on the confessional door as someone entered. “Good morning, my name is Gabby Lange. I’m here to…”
“It is not necessary to share your name, my child.”
“Oh, it’s fine,” Gabby said. “I know that might be your procedure, but I like people knowing my name when they’re talking to me. It’s more personal father, wouldn’t you say?”
“If that makes you feel more comfortable, my child.”
“It does, it does. Thank you for your understanding, father.”
“Of course, of course.” Teger coughed. “Do you have something you’d like to confess?”
“Well, this is confession, is it not?” Her tone was friendly, rather than confrontational. He felt he heard a smile.
“That’s right. Please begin whenever you are comfortable, my child.”
“Gabby.”
“Right, right.”
“Well, I am deeply worried about my brother. You see, he’s been becoming more and more depressed for a long time now.”
“What is the source of this depression?”
“Well, he used to be such a happy child. You know, pranks, running around, making jokes, that sort of thing.”
“Please go on.”
“Then it seems to have started ever since he was twelve or thirteen.”
Teger sipped at his tea. “You think the start of adolescence might have had something to do with it?”
Gabby’s answer was gentle but emphatic. “No. He’s in his twenties now and it’s continued to worsen.”
“Oh, I see. So do you have any idea what might have started the issues?”
She nodded as she spoke. “Yes, he joined a football team at that age. He was quite a promising player. Over the year or so after that happened, it started and then just gradually spiraled.”
Teger supped at his tea again, before placing the flask on the floor. “Do you know any more about the football team?”
“It was based at and sponsored by a church.”
There was a long moment of muteness. “How did your brother spiral after that time?”
“At first, just moodiness coming home late. Then drinking. Then drugs. But Harry was just using them to cope, you know? He’s not a bad person.”
“What do you think he was trying to cope with?”
“I’m not sure. But something must have happened. With that football team.”
There was an unbroken silence as Gabby waited for the father’s response. But he was concentrating, hard. Concentrating on controlling the trembles in his hands.
“Your surname… it’s Lange?”
“Yes, father.”
He had clasped his hands together once more, in a futile attempt to control them. “And his first name is Harry?”
“Yes, father.”
Teger dug his nails deeply into each fist in an effort to stop his hands from shaking, then ran the hard bones of his knuckles across his forehead. He accidentally kicked over his flask and the clang echoed through the confessional. He repeated the gesture with his knuckles and the dull ache refocused him enough to speak. “I remember him.”
“Yes, father.”
He forced his joints still further into his forehead. “It was this church where he joined the football team?”
“That’s right father. What do you remember about him?”
“I… wasn’t the one who ran the football team, at the time.”
“Yes father, but what do you remember?”
“He was the best player on the team.”
“Is that all?”
“And Father O'Heifearnain…”
“Yes father?”
He was now pressing his shaking hands so hard into his head, they were leaving an indentation. “Father O'Heifearnain said he was…”
“Yes father.”
“Special. He said he was special.”
“Are you aware of the parable of the Good Samaritan father?”
There were large gasps of air followed by a long pause. “Yes. Yes. My child.”
“What does the priest do in that story?”
More gasps of air now, as Teger covered his face with his hands. “A priest sees a man stripped and beaten…”
“Yes father.”
Gasps. Teger realised his hands were soaking wet. “… he chooses to..”
“Chooses to what father?”
“To pass by…”
“Pass by where?”
“On the other side of the road.”
“Yes father. He saw what was happening and did nothing.”
Teger now had his head in his hands, palms covering his eyes. “I listened to him… I trusted him…”
Gabby, in a clear, kindly voice, said, “And what did the Samaritan do?”
From behind his hands, Teger said in a low voice, “He…acted. He helped.”
“Yes, father. So, the question is, are you still the priest or are you the Samaritan?”
*
Teger washed the salt and blood from his hands. They were still shaking. He put his flask down, turning his head to look at the photo next to him. His eyes went from one man to the other, then back. With an unsteady left hand, he held the photograph for a second more and then turned it face down. Teger walked over to the far wall of the kitchen and picked up the old rotary phone. He dialled two nines with his right forefinger, then hesitated. Crossing himself with his left hand, Teger dialled the final nine. “Police, please.”
