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stuntie_jedI put the paper down, may hands shaking, my heart thumping uncomfortably in my chest. I can't bloody well breathe and I wonder if I'm stroking or my ticker's finally had enough and giving up. I put my head in my hands.
Five more homeless men have been found dead, exhibiting the same symptoms as those in previous incidents. The police continue to offer no solutions, but this reporter was able to detect that the men had all been staying at the Ghuznee Street shelter and soup kitchen.
I helped Pete at that kitchen, not three days ago. Nobody said a squirt about it then, so it must've happened after I was there. I shudder, suddenly fucking sooked.
How the fuck is this happening to me? Why does death seem to follow me around?
It's hard to ignore it this time. Dylan did himself, that estate agent had some weird disease, but these homeless blokes? It's still fucking summertime.
I have casual contact with someone, and then they die. Maybe I didn't need a doctor after all, maybe I need another kind of help. I've done so much cursing God since my life fell apart . . .
. . . maybe He heard and is returning the favor. Fuck.
That's absurd, fucking absurd. God doesn't give a shit. I swallow my bitterness with effort, trying to think through it. Okay, I might've slipped it, gone looey and gone back there and killed those blokes and I'm just pretending I'm sane, blocking it out.
But I didn't kill Dylan, that's fucking clear. Those plods woulda sussed that right away. And that woman, the doctors crawled all over me, trying to figure out what was wrong with her. If I'd something to do with her, they'd know it.
Comes back to the curse idea. It's been since my wedding that I've been inside a church, more than twenty years now. I've never understood my mum's unquestioning faith, it's never made sense to me . . . how she can hold steady in the face of so much shit. Fuck. But those wanker priests are trained for this, yeah?
I still feel weak, like I've got the dread lurgy, but I go to the car and drive to Holy Cross, closest to my home. I park and walk inside. The nave is quiet and still in the early afternoon. I sit in a pew, not knowing what the hell I'm doing here.
Father Wu: I straighten my collar one final time before entering the sanctuary. The nave is empty save for Mrs. Murphy, who upon seeing me makes a beeline for the confessional door, and another man I've never seen before. Few strangers wander in here, it's usually only the regular parishioners I see, but if an outsider ventures in it's most likely for a very good reason. The man catches my eye as I pass and I don't miss the desperation haunting his face. If ever someone looked like they needed solace ...
I hope the peace here will hold him here until Mrs. Murphy says her piece. Settling into the cramped box, I slide open the window. Without a moment's hesitation she begins. "Bless me Father for I have sinned ..." Her confession, straightforward and sincere, is over in no time. After she slips out with her penance I wait quietly, wondering whether the stranger who has made his way this far will take the next step. I'm rewarded a few minutes later when I hear the door on the other side squeak open. I slide the window to the side and spy through the dark mesh the same troubled face.
I wait.
I wait longer.
When no sound is forthcoming from the other side of the wall, I lean forward towards the window and ask as gently as I can, "Have you come here to confess?"
Jed: I sit and sit, hoping some answer will come to me, but as usual nothing does. The priest bloke comes in and I debate some more. Fuck, I came here to talk to someone, looks like the confessional is the place. Bloody well hate those things, always have.
I step in but I'm frozen again, don't know what to say, now I'm here. The question from the other side of the grill nearly provokes the usual response from childhood, a tally of minor offenses, like thinking impure thoughts about Mary Alice next door. I must've bored the priests to death as a teen.
But now, I'm don't see my anger as a sin, I've got every right to it. Just, what if . . . fuck.
"I'm not sure. I was more looking for information."
Father Wu: My eyebrow lifts at his words. Usually this question comes from much younger parishioners, questioning whether impure thoughts will consign them to hell. It's not common to hear it from someone of this age, and I'm intrigued. "The Lord can provide answers, if we seek them in earnest. What sort of information are you looking for?"
Jed: Now we come to it. I’m not sure what I’m looking for. The only thing I know is that there seems to be something wrong with me. The doctor couldn’t help me, all those tests she ran showed nothing. I’m in great health and she said to see a mental doctor. Maybe. But I think that this is something else. Between my blackouts and people dying around me, I think it’s something much worse.
“About evil, maybe. About how it comes about.”
That’s as close as I can get, trying to put my vague unease into the lingo of the Church.
Father Wu: There's a hardness in his voice that convinces me that the answers I give to confirmation classes aren't going to be enough here. "Well, there are many different ideas about that. Some believe evil is necessarily inherent in our existence, independent of our Divine Father and in some sense opposed to Him. Man is given the gift of free will, but he brings about evil when he disobeys the law of God. Others," I continue after a brief pause, when I hear nothing but breathing beyond the window, "others believe that there is a Divine reason for evil. God says ‘I form the light, and create darkness, I make peace, and create evil: I the Lord that do all these things.’ Perhaps we cannot conceive the reason that something we see as evil exists, but with faith we can accept that it is part of a Divine plan."
Jed: I have to think about that. So I disobeyed one of the Commandments, I’m hardly the first wanker to do that, especially not that one. Some rooting outside matrimony doesn’t bring on black outs, not that I’ve heard.
Divine plans can kiss my arse. I can’t feature me as part of some Divine plan. What’s the fucking point of that? And this is too airy for me anyhow and what’s made me avoid Church since I was old enough to make up my own mind.
“I was thinking more in practical terms.” I know I’m not being clear, but I’m not really sure this guy is the kind that would be able to deal with me telling him that I think I’m cursed.
Father Wu: "Practical terms?" And yes, it makes sense that he would be the kind to want to cut right to the chase. But his terse replies make it surprisingly difficult to give him the answers he wants. I'll have to draw him out more. "Are you struggling against a particular form of evil? Or are you..." I draw myself up suddenly, before suggesting that he might himself be perpetrating evil. "Are you being harmed?" I ask instead.
Jed: Am I being harmed? I hadn't thought about it that way . . . but if I've been cursed somehow then maybe it is harm to me. I try to think about that but it's too twisty in my mind. Fucking hell, that's why I'm here . . . for someone that can think better that I can.
"I don't know, not sure what the hell . . . er, sorry. Bugger, I'm not sure what's going on." I hesitate again, now that it comes to saying the things that've been giving me the jib-jabs.
"Some people around me have carked it. Suicide one, disease, other things. All right after I've been near 'em."
Father Wu: "I'm ... I'm sorry, son." No wonder he's looking for answers. Any one of those things could drive someone to despair, but together ... But to question his responsibility in it -- well, my heart goes out to him. "The Lord's ways are often mysterious. What we call coincidence or bad luck is all part of his plan. He tends the sparrows, after all, so I can't believe he wouldn't have a hand in these larger things. But as for your part -- aren't you taking a lot of responsibility for things beyond your control? Suicide, disease ... simply being in proximity to them hardly makes you the agent of their deaths. It almost sounds like you think you're cursed." I suddenly wish I could see this man's face, gauge his reactions instead of being held at arm's length by wood and metal mesh. "Can I ask ... do you consider yourself a man of strong faith?"
Jed: I’m about to laugh that one off, but I stop for a moment. I woulda said “no” to the question until today, but . . . fuck, here I am. “Sorry, padre, not since I sprouted up enough to start asking questions. This is the first time I’ve been in a church in twenty years.”
That’s the truth as far as it goes. I did my time in Sunday School though and I remember a story . . . fuck, about a test. “Wasn’t there some bloke who’s whole family got killed or something . . . to settle a bet? “ That doesn’t sound right. I scratch around through my memory, but I’ve got nothing else, can’t remember why God would do something so outlandish.
Father Wu: "Ah, yes, you mean Job." I try to hold back my sigh. One of the faith's more perplexing mysteries -- and not, I'm certain, what this man wants to hear. "Job was a righteous man blessed with many riches until God allowed Satan to test his loyalty. He lost his material possessions, he lost his home and family -- but even when his wife urged him to curse God's name his faith stayed strong. Some even say his suffering brought him closer to God. It's that thought that we can hold onto when we suffer."
I lean my shoulder against the polished wood, wondering whether I can help someone suffering so much understand the miracle of Job's trials. "It was St. Augustine who said that God is so great that he would not allow evil to exist if he wasn't powerful enough to turn that evil into something good. We can't know what God intends, but perhaps your misfortunes were meant to bring you back to your own faith. It did bring you back today."
If it's the Lord's purpose that led you here today, then it could be my purpose to help you help you find the rest of your way. After peeking out and seeing an empty nave, I venture, "I have some reading materials on the question of evil in my office. I'd be happy to let you borrow them. Perhaps you could read them and then come back to talk about them, if you'd like?"
Jed: Bloody hell, it wasn’t faith, but sheer fucking desperation brought me here today. Science can’t solve my problem, so I thought that maybe hoodoo could. Same fucking crap I’ve always heard. Everything is God’s fucking plan, blah fucking blah.
I’m no righteous man, and maybe I’m not anymore screwed over than the next bloke. Everybody’s life is hard yakka.
But I can’t get away from the fear that squirms up my spine when I think about those blackouts. This is some fucked up shit and there’s a part of me that knows it.
I guess your pamphlets can’t hurt. “Yeah, mate, I’d like to read them.”
Father Wu: I exit the confessional, squinting until my eyes adjust and I can look up at you. "Come with me."
You follow me through the sanctuary door and into my office, where I busy myself pulling books from the shelf. The Handbook of Christian Apologetics, that has some good information on St. Thomas, and God, Evil, and Innocent Suffering, and then an assortment of magazines from behind my desk ... "Probably I'm giving you too much, aren't I?" My hand stops halfway to you, the pages of Magnificat's current issue flapping like a brightly plumed bird. "I don't even know your name. I'm Father Wu. And you are?"
Khamûl: Drawn by the lingering scent of power, the dark thing awakes, testing the air, seeking.
The body moves as he quests. The power is present, but it is too insubstantial to either aid or thwart him. The man before him has strength of a sort, but it is only enough to defend himself against the darkness.
The dark thing sees no threats in the man’s calm gaze, and retreats to sleep again, satisfied.
Jed: Are what? But you're waiting for me so say something. Fuck, you’re asking me . . . bloody hell, my name.
“Uh, Jed Brophy, pleased to meet you. . . ” I take the magazine, shaken by the skip. You must have told me yours. Fuck. “Father.”
Nothing like a title for letting a wanker be vague. I look at the label on the mag . . . Father Wu, c/o Holy Cross Church. “Thanks.”
Father Wu: Just for a second I see ... I think I see the man ... well, he looks different. No, that's not quite right, he looks the same, just ... there's something different in his posture ... something threatening in his eyes. But then it's gone and he's introducing himself, and I know I must be imagining things.
But still ...
He looks a bit shaken, like he doesn't know where he is. Drugs, maybe? A psychotic episode? A chill quakes through me as I smother any thoughts of darker causes and the curses he fears.
"Are you feeling all right, Jed?" I motion to the chair before my desk. "Would you like to sit and read for a while?"
Jed: Fear tightens my throat. I lost the plot right before the Morgan woman collapsed. What if I’m doing something during these slips?
I’ve got to suss this on my own, can’t deal with anyone else dying after I’ve seen ‘em.
“No, thank you. I’m fine. These books really quite nice. I’ll have a go and then bring them back as soon as may be, yeah?”
There’s no answers here, just reason for my fears. I need to go before something else happens.
Father Wu: He turns to go, and from the look on his face I know he didn't find the answers he was seeking. With a deep certainty I know that this could be the last chance I have to reach him, the last chance for the Lord's message to get through to him. "Jed, listen… I know things aren't making sense right now, and it's tempting to question the Lord's ways. I hope you can find it within you to have faith that He is watching over you. This too will pass."
Jed: I hesitate and turn back a tick, my face bleak, because one by one, my options are failing me. I don't know where the fuck else to turn for answers. Fortune teller maybe.
I don't know what to say. After a struggle, I get out, "I appreciate your care, and I hope this passes." It had better pass, before more people die. But you seem all right, so maybe you're right.
Five more homeless men have been found dead, exhibiting the same symptoms as those in previous incidents. The police continue to offer no solutions, but this reporter was able to detect that the men had all been staying at the Ghuznee Street shelter and soup kitchen.
I helped Pete at that kitchen, not three days ago. Nobody said a squirt about it then, so it must've happened after I was there. I shudder, suddenly fucking sooked.
How the fuck is this happening to me? Why does death seem to follow me around?
It's hard to ignore it this time. Dylan did himself, that estate agent had some weird disease, but these homeless blokes? It's still fucking summertime.
I have casual contact with someone, and then they die. Maybe I didn't need a doctor after all, maybe I need another kind of help. I've done so much cursing God since my life fell apart . . .
. . . maybe He heard and is returning the favor. Fuck.
That's absurd, fucking absurd. God doesn't give a shit. I swallow my bitterness with effort, trying to think through it. Okay, I might've slipped it, gone looey and gone back there and killed those blokes and I'm just pretending I'm sane, blocking it out.
But I didn't kill Dylan, that's fucking clear. Those plods woulda sussed that right away. And that woman, the doctors crawled all over me, trying to figure out what was wrong with her. If I'd something to do with her, they'd know it.
Comes back to the curse idea. It's been since my wedding that I've been inside a church, more than twenty years now. I've never understood my mum's unquestioning faith, it's never made sense to me . . . how she can hold steady in the face of so much shit. Fuck. But those wanker priests are trained for this, yeah?
I still feel weak, like I've got the dread lurgy, but I go to the car and drive to Holy Cross, closest to my home. I park and walk inside. The nave is quiet and still in the early afternoon. I sit in a pew, not knowing what the hell I'm doing here.
Father Wu: I straighten my collar one final time before entering the sanctuary. The nave is empty save for Mrs. Murphy, who upon seeing me makes a beeline for the confessional door, and another man I've never seen before. Few strangers wander in here, it's usually only the regular parishioners I see, but if an outsider ventures in it's most likely for a very good reason. The man catches my eye as I pass and I don't miss the desperation haunting his face. If ever someone looked like they needed solace ...
I hope the peace here will hold him here until Mrs. Murphy says her piece. Settling into the cramped box, I slide open the window. Without a moment's hesitation she begins. "Bless me Father for I have sinned ..." Her confession, straightforward and sincere, is over in no time. After she slips out with her penance I wait quietly, wondering whether the stranger who has made his way this far will take the next step. I'm rewarded a few minutes later when I hear the door on the other side squeak open. I slide the window to the side and spy through the dark mesh the same troubled face.
I wait.
I wait longer.
When no sound is forthcoming from the other side of the wall, I lean forward towards the window and ask as gently as I can, "Have you come here to confess?"
Jed: I sit and sit, hoping some answer will come to me, but as usual nothing does. The priest bloke comes in and I debate some more. Fuck, I came here to talk to someone, looks like the confessional is the place. Bloody well hate those things, always have.
I step in but I'm frozen again, don't know what to say, now I'm here. The question from the other side of the grill nearly provokes the usual response from childhood, a tally of minor offenses, like thinking impure thoughts about Mary Alice next door. I must've bored the priests to death as a teen.
But now, I'm don't see my anger as a sin, I've got every right to it. Just, what if . . . fuck.
"I'm not sure. I was more looking for information."
Father Wu: My eyebrow lifts at his words. Usually this question comes from much younger parishioners, questioning whether impure thoughts will consign them to hell. It's not common to hear it from someone of this age, and I'm intrigued. "The Lord can provide answers, if we seek them in earnest. What sort of information are you looking for?"
Jed: Now we come to it. I’m not sure what I’m looking for. The only thing I know is that there seems to be something wrong with me. The doctor couldn’t help me, all those tests she ran showed nothing. I’m in great health and she said to see a mental doctor. Maybe. But I think that this is something else. Between my blackouts and people dying around me, I think it’s something much worse.
“About evil, maybe. About how it comes about.”
That’s as close as I can get, trying to put my vague unease into the lingo of the Church.
Father Wu: There's a hardness in his voice that convinces me that the answers I give to confirmation classes aren't going to be enough here. "Well, there are many different ideas about that. Some believe evil is necessarily inherent in our existence, independent of our Divine Father and in some sense opposed to Him. Man is given the gift of free will, but he brings about evil when he disobeys the law of God. Others," I continue after a brief pause, when I hear nothing but breathing beyond the window, "others believe that there is a Divine reason for evil. God says ‘I form the light, and create darkness, I make peace, and create evil: I the Lord that do all these things.’ Perhaps we cannot conceive the reason that something we see as evil exists, but with faith we can accept that it is part of a Divine plan."
Jed: I have to think about that. So I disobeyed one of the Commandments, I’m hardly the first wanker to do that, especially not that one. Some rooting outside matrimony doesn’t bring on black outs, not that I’ve heard.
Divine plans can kiss my arse. I can’t feature me as part of some Divine plan. What’s the fucking point of that? And this is too airy for me anyhow and what’s made me avoid Church since I was old enough to make up my own mind.
“I was thinking more in practical terms.” I know I’m not being clear, but I’m not really sure this guy is the kind that would be able to deal with me telling him that I think I’m cursed.
Father Wu: "Practical terms?" And yes, it makes sense that he would be the kind to want to cut right to the chase. But his terse replies make it surprisingly difficult to give him the answers he wants. I'll have to draw him out more. "Are you struggling against a particular form of evil? Or are you..." I draw myself up suddenly, before suggesting that he might himself be perpetrating evil. "Are you being harmed?" I ask instead.
Jed: Am I being harmed? I hadn't thought about it that way . . . but if I've been cursed somehow then maybe it is harm to me. I try to think about that but it's too twisty in my mind. Fucking hell, that's why I'm here . . . for someone that can think better that I can.
"I don't know, not sure what the hell . . . er, sorry. Bugger, I'm not sure what's going on." I hesitate again, now that it comes to saying the things that've been giving me the jib-jabs.
"Some people around me have carked it. Suicide one, disease, other things. All right after I've been near 'em."
Father Wu: "I'm ... I'm sorry, son." No wonder he's looking for answers. Any one of those things could drive someone to despair, but together ... But to question his responsibility in it -- well, my heart goes out to him. "The Lord's ways are often mysterious. What we call coincidence or bad luck is all part of his plan. He tends the sparrows, after all, so I can't believe he wouldn't have a hand in these larger things. But as for your part -- aren't you taking a lot of responsibility for things beyond your control? Suicide, disease ... simply being in proximity to them hardly makes you the agent of their deaths. It almost sounds like you think you're cursed." I suddenly wish I could see this man's face, gauge his reactions instead of being held at arm's length by wood and metal mesh. "Can I ask ... do you consider yourself a man of strong faith?"
Jed: I’m about to laugh that one off, but I stop for a moment. I woulda said “no” to the question until today, but . . . fuck, here I am. “Sorry, padre, not since I sprouted up enough to start asking questions. This is the first time I’ve been in a church in twenty years.”
That’s the truth as far as it goes. I did my time in Sunday School though and I remember a story . . . fuck, about a test. “Wasn’t there some bloke who’s whole family got killed or something . . . to settle a bet? “ That doesn’t sound right. I scratch around through my memory, but I’ve got nothing else, can’t remember why God would do something so outlandish.
Father Wu: "Ah, yes, you mean Job." I try to hold back my sigh. One of the faith's more perplexing mysteries -- and not, I'm certain, what this man wants to hear. "Job was a righteous man blessed with many riches until God allowed Satan to test his loyalty. He lost his material possessions, he lost his home and family -- but even when his wife urged him to curse God's name his faith stayed strong. Some even say his suffering brought him closer to God. It's that thought that we can hold onto when we suffer."
I lean my shoulder against the polished wood, wondering whether I can help someone suffering so much understand the miracle of Job's trials. "It was St. Augustine who said that God is so great that he would not allow evil to exist if he wasn't powerful enough to turn that evil into something good. We can't know what God intends, but perhaps your misfortunes were meant to bring you back to your own faith. It did bring you back today."
If it's the Lord's purpose that led you here today, then it could be my purpose to help you help you find the rest of your way. After peeking out and seeing an empty nave, I venture, "I have some reading materials on the question of evil in my office. I'd be happy to let you borrow them. Perhaps you could read them and then come back to talk about them, if you'd like?"
Jed: Bloody hell, it wasn’t faith, but sheer fucking desperation brought me here today. Science can’t solve my problem, so I thought that maybe hoodoo could. Same fucking crap I’ve always heard. Everything is God’s fucking plan, blah fucking blah.
I’m no righteous man, and maybe I’m not anymore screwed over than the next bloke. Everybody’s life is hard yakka.
But I can’t get away from the fear that squirms up my spine when I think about those blackouts. This is some fucked up shit and there’s a part of me that knows it.
I guess your pamphlets can’t hurt. “Yeah, mate, I’d like to read them.”
Father Wu: I exit the confessional, squinting until my eyes adjust and I can look up at you. "Come with me."
You follow me through the sanctuary door and into my office, where I busy myself pulling books from the shelf. The Handbook of Christian Apologetics, that has some good information on St. Thomas, and God, Evil, and Innocent Suffering, and then an assortment of magazines from behind my desk ... "Probably I'm giving you too much, aren't I?" My hand stops halfway to you, the pages of Magnificat's current issue flapping like a brightly plumed bird. "I don't even know your name. I'm Father Wu. And you are?"
Khamûl: Drawn by the lingering scent of power, the dark thing awakes, testing the air, seeking.
The body moves as he quests. The power is present, but it is too insubstantial to either aid or thwart him. The man before him has strength of a sort, but it is only enough to defend himself against the darkness.
The dark thing sees no threats in the man’s calm gaze, and retreats to sleep again, satisfied.
Jed: Are what? But you're waiting for me so say something. Fuck, you’re asking me . . . bloody hell, my name.
“Uh, Jed Brophy, pleased to meet you. . . ” I take the magazine, shaken by the skip. You must have told me yours. Fuck. “Father.”
Nothing like a title for letting a wanker be vague. I look at the label on the mag . . . Father Wu, c/o Holy Cross Church. “Thanks.”
Father Wu: Just for a second I see ... I think I see the man ... well, he looks different. No, that's not quite right, he looks the same, just ... there's something different in his posture ... something threatening in his eyes. But then it's gone and he's introducing himself, and I know I must be imagining things.
But still ...
He looks a bit shaken, like he doesn't know where he is. Drugs, maybe? A psychotic episode? A chill quakes through me as I smother any thoughts of darker causes and the curses he fears.
"Are you feeling all right, Jed?" I motion to the chair before my desk. "Would you like to sit and read for a while?"
Jed: Fear tightens my throat. I lost the plot right before the Morgan woman collapsed. What if I’m doing something during these slips?
I’ve got to suss this on my own, can’t deal with anyone else dying after I’ve seen ‘em.
“No, thank you. I’m fine. These books really quite nice. I’ll have a go and then bring them back as soon as may be, yeah?”
There’s no answers here, just reason for my fears. I need to go before something else happens.
Father Wu: He turns to go, and from the look on his face I know he didn't find the answers he was seeking. With a deep certainty I know that this could be the last chance I have to reach him, the last chance for the Lord's message to get through to him. "Jed, listen… I know things aren't making sense right now, and it's tempting to question the Lord's ways. I hope you can find it within you to have faith that He is watching over you. This too will pass."
Jed: I hesitate and turn back a tick, my face bleak, because one by one, my options are failing me. I don't know where the fuck else to turn for answers. Fortune teller maybe.
I don't know what to say. After a struggle, I get out, "I appreciate your care, and I hope this passes." It had better pass, before more people die. But you seem all right, so maybe you're right.
