Chapter Three
510 Words
CHAPTER THREE
A brisk wind swirled the leaves around her feet as Eva approached St Gabriel's Church. Grey clouds bunched up, allowing only a few weak rays of sun through the sentinel of trees along the road. They'd been threatening rain all day and she'd brought her umbrella just in case.
The walk was invigorating—the crisp air biting at her face made her feel alive and helped to dispel the last vestiges of her hangover. She'd vowed to herself last night that she wouldn't drink, but she was so terrified of what she was about to do that she drank herself to sleep in front of the TV. Edgar was still in Melbourne; his mother had taken her sweet time to die, and he was now organising the funeral.
The front door of the church was open. Eva stood in the doorway. It was empty. Being Saturday, there was no service till seven o'clock. Her appointment for an anonymous reconciliation was for four o'clock. If you turn and run now, no-one will be any the wiser. Go home and forget you ever wanted to do this.
Shutting out the voice in her head, she walked to the confessional booth and slipped inside. The grille in the wall through which you talked to the priest reminded her of a prison. Not that she'd been to one. Or intended to go. The priest was bound not to disclose confidential information to anyone, not even the police.
She knelt on the bench in front of the grille and took a deep breath. It had been so long. Should she say something, or wait?
'In the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, Amen,' a voice said through the grille. She recognised the gentle tones of Father O'Halloran.
Then it came to her in a flash. Maybe Gerry was right, you never forgot. 'Forgive me Father for I have sinned.' Her voice was hoarse, she cleared her throat. 'It's been forty-six years since my last confession.'
She was a child again, waiting for a thunderclap from heaven to strike her down.
'What sins do you accuse yourself of?'
'Murder.'
It was out, the word she'd never said out loud, lingering in the air with a sinister resonance. Still no thunderclap. Like a boil that had been pricked, it was easier now to let the rest out.
'I killed my husband. Twenty years and two weeks ago. I found out he was planning to leave me for his mistress, so I poisoned him. I deliberately chose a poison that mimicked heart attack symptoms, so I was never suspected. You're the first person I've told.'
Her tone of voice was matter of fact, but her heart was racing. What was he thinking? Priests are not supposed to judge, but they're also human. Was that the worst sin he'd heard? Surely not.
'You've carried a heavy burden over the last twenty years,' Father O'Halloran said.
'Yes.' Her voice wavered. 'I loved him so much.' Then the words poured out. This is not what you do at confession. He's not your therapist.
But she couldn't stop herself.
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