Secrets And Styes

Prologue1972: Salford, Manchester, England.

My ears pulsed to the beat of my heart. I unclenched my hands and wiped the sweat on my trousers, at once feeling fresh beads prickle my palms.

My breathing was fast and furious, propelled by nervous energy. I was about to commit a crime – a very grave crime.

......

My crime would be against Marjorie.

A fact that gave my violation its 'serious' status. You see, I liked

Marjorie – quite a lot. Having to do this to her hurt me more than anything else in the world. But I had to; there was no other choice. So, aware doubt was beginning to pull me back, I put my hand on her front door and pushed.

The tinny tinkle of the bell alerted Marjorie of my entrance. My eyes focussed on the rainbow-coloured plastic strips hanging from the door frame. Marjorie's hands, clamped prayer-like, plunged through, and with a flick, the ribbons fluttered outwards, giving Marjorie the dramatic entrance that beguiled us kids.

But now, I wasn't beguiled by the sight of her; my smile was forced. There was nothing forced about Marjorie; her smile was always: ready, warm, welcoming,

"Hello Gerard, how are you this morning?" she asked, pulling strings tight at the back of her pinny.

"Alright," I said, hoping the one-word answer would hide the tremor in my voice. I stepped forward with my hands behind my back to conceal their shaking.

"What can I get for you?" she asked, patting her hair, set solid with lacquer.

I moved forward and hovered over the counter while an uncertain sound fell from me, "Erm?"

"Take your time," she said, stepping back to give me a good view of the brightly coloured sweet jars behind her.

Knowing I had no margin for error, I executed my diversion tactic immediately.

"Can I have a five-pence worth of strawberry bonbons, please?"

"Course you can, sweetheart," she said, turning her back on me.

Then – with a deft swiftness, my arm shot forward and plucked a penny Blackjack from its tray. I had it in my back pocket before Marjorie had even touched the bonbon jar.

I'd done it – I was now a bone-fide child-thief.

......

I skipped away from the crime scene, sucking on a bonbon. My crime had given me something I seriously needed – a sin.

As the child of immigrant Irish Catholics, I was on the cusp of a momentous occasion: my First Confession and Holy Communion. The learning and build-up to this rite-of-passage had caused me considerable anxiety, so it was a huge relief that I had a real-life sin to confess to Father Carey.

I swallowed my bonbon, and tightness gripped the pit of my stomach, stopping me in my tracks. The tautness gave way to a dull ache, which made me smile. For I knew what the pain was, it was the sin swaddling my soul, and my smile was for Father Carey – he'd surely be proud of my brevity of sin.

......

Although I had nerves, when confession day came, they were low- level compared to those I had while acquiring my sin.

I coveted the sin dearly because it meant I could enter the confessional box with the confidence that comes from telling the truth.

I'd heard playground whisperings that some kids were going to make their sins up. That was something I wouldn't do. I knew that lying in confession would have severe and lasting consequences – I wouldn't go there.