Cold Work

The life support machine cried. "Time of death, 15:00."

I couldn't care less about what the doctor and nurse said afterwards. My last conversation with Sister Mary Margaret...it was like a splinter under my nail.

The rest of the world sounded muffled, but then I could hear the doctor again. "Whatever she said to you, don't take it personally. It's called confabulation, the creation of false..."

Yes, I know what confabulation is. But that...that couldn't be, could it?

It was like she described a recurring nightmare in perfect words...the click of the door, the rain-sodden footsteps on the linoleum floor, the roar of thunder outside, my father holding his hands up, the shooter, the gun and then my father's final words: "Don't worry, son."

"It was him," she said, coughing on her words. "He killed..."

I spoke to Maria in the waiting room, who spoke in breathless tones. She had rushed from the orphanage as soon as I called her.

"Is it true?"

"Simeon..."

"Is it?"

Maria's silence filled the gap. "He is a changed man."

"Where is he now?"

The doctor interrupted us. The world muted once more, except for the talk with Maria. What she said rung louder, and carried a dull weight, each word slamming me in my chest.

"You will do yourself no good by seeking him out."

"But how did she know?" Anger, anxiety, frustration, loss...all gave my words extra edge.

"Will you sign here?" the doctor asked, handing me a clipboard and a pen. Bureaucracy never waits for grief or pity.

"Were you related to the deceased?" the doctor asked Maria.

"We worked together at the orphanage on Jameson Street for many years." She looked at me. "I suppose we were like family."

"Yes, yes, Mr. Johns here told me he grew up in that orphanage...she sounded like a wonderful lady...my condolences. Anyway, I must be off."

"So, where is he now?"

Maria had aged horribly, I could see. Then again, so did I. She had been like an older sister to me all those years, and Sister Mary Margaret was our mother. I imagined the burden of knowing my father's murderer could have passed through our parish killed Sister Mary...and was killing Maria.

"Maybe we should go for some coffee and have a talk. It's been over fifteen years."

"Do you really want to stretch this out?"

She bit her lips as she used to when she didn't like something. "It's good to see you, Simeon." She wrote something down on a piece of paper and handed it to me. She carried on talking but then became muffled and distant.

"Please call me. Okay?"

"Okay."

She hugged me. "There's always the other option," she said, pointing to the gold crucifix around my neck. It had obviously fallen out whilst I was running down the street, but I put it back inside my shirt. When she left me alone in the waiting room, it was like she had also abandoned me.

I only remember leaving the hospital and entering the laundromat. Everyone working there passed by me with blank faces and empty expressions.

"Well, well, well. Look what the dog dug up."

Wilkes always smiled like a fox would. He put his sweaty arm around me and walked me through a featureless door.

"Smoke?" I said, offering him a cigarette.

"I could die for a smoke." He couldn't wait to light up.

We went down a shadowy stairwell, then he came to a door guarded by a man with an assault rifle.

"Smoke?" I said to the guard.

He nodded, took the cigarette, then put a key into the door and ushered Wilkes and me inside. It stank of stale coffee, cigarette smoke and damp laundry. The guard shut us inside, just the two of us.

"I suppose you're looking for another job?" Wilkes said, sliding into the office chair behind his desk, wiping the sweat from his reddened face and puffing on the cigarette.

"Sister Mary Margaret is dead."

Wilkes' eyes widened, and he leaned back, his breathing sounding like a stressed wheeze. "Oh."

"Yeah."

He looked down at his desk and clasped his hands together. "I see. I'm...I'm sorry."

"So, you know?"

"Know what?"

"What she told me...about the man who killed my father."

"What are you talking about?"

"Sister Mary Margaret said my father was murdered by a man named Mike Wyatt."

Wilkes frowned. The lines on his face had lines. "Mike Wyatt? You mean the guy on TV?"

"What?"

"He's a priest. He does mass on TV. Or used to."

"I don't watch TV."

Wilkes raised one bushy eyebrow, and I knew what was coming next. "He's been out of the game for decades. Builds wells and schools in Africa now. You really want to open that sack of shit?"

"I didn't say what I wanted to do."

"Please, Strangler. I know you better than anyone else." He leaned forward in his chair. "Look, if there was money in it, you know I would give you a call, right? You were my best. You're not like these other idiots who think this is like the movies. But...we don't do cold work."

"Says the guy who killed a senator for knocking over his daughter."

"Yeah, and look where that got me? I've got to do my business out of a fuckin' laundromat now." Wilkes stood up and paced around the room. I could hear his heavy breathing, the chokehold that chain smoking held on his lungs and airways. "Strangler...see, businessmen, child molesters, criminals, or worse like my politician friend, nobody cares. That's our bread-and-butter, our meat-and-potatoes, chips-and-dip. But a priest?"

"He sounds like a bloody do-gooder to me, trying to hide in plain sight."

Wilkes took a white handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his glazed face with it. His hands trembled as he dropped the handkerchief, then stubbed out the cigarette I had given him. "Is it hiding in plain sight when everyone knows what he did? He's minding his own business, trying to do good."

"Good. That's what you call what we do? Just tell me where I can find this guy."

"He's outside our jurisdiction."

"Interesting." I turned for the door but then Wilkes called me back.

"I can't let you leave here Strangler. You've made me an accessory." He was always quick. He wasn't the first person to point a gun with a silencer at me.

"I thought you didn't do cold work?"

"What you want to do is cold work. This is just business."

"Was it Wyatt?"

"No, I don't give a fuck about your priest. I told you, he's not in the game anymore. But you don't want to just let it go. This is me stopping you from making a huge mistake. This is me protecting my business as a legitimate enterprise."

He always was funny. I couldn't help myself. We both started laughing.

"Suppose the deceased deserves a last laugh," he said, coughing.

"Absolutely," I said smiling as the cigarette I had given him began to work. He clutched his chest, coughing, then collapsed to the floor, choking. I put on a leather glove, and when his eyes rolled upwards, I placed the cigarettes from his front pocket in his hand. I took the cigarette he had been smoking out of his other hand. Outside, Wilkes' guard also lay on the floor in a heap, and I did the same, removing the cigarette. Cold work, my ass.

The rain pounded my trench coat and the top of my hat. I passed St. Mary's, and looked up at the enormous structure. It felt wrong not to go inside. I shook the water off my back in the foyer before I entered the church. Inside it felt smaller than what I remembered, the pews not so big but it also had a largeness, as if I were coming into a new world completely different from outside. I made a beeline for the confession box.

"Bless me father, for I have sinned." The words practically spoke themselves using my voice, that's how many times I've been here.

"What have been your sins, my son?"

"Father Murphy?"

"No, Father Murphy has been moved to another parish."

"And you are?"

"I'm Father Wyatt."

My eyes drifted towards Heaven. Oh you.

"What have been my sins, Father?"

"Yes, son. Go on."

"Well..." Do it. Do it. No. No, don't do it. Not in a confession box. I cleared my throat. Suddenly, the words were not so free flowing. "I...well, I've done wrong." What? What was wrong with me? The world wasn't muffled this time, but my voice was like a six-car pile up on the motorway.

"My child, this is the house of God. You are safe here. God has brought you here for a reason."

"Heh. You could say that again."

"Pardon?"

The rain battered on the church roof. Suddenly I was seeing the confession door open, and Wyatt stepping through and shooting me like he shot my father. "No...forgive me," I stuttered. "I'm sorry." What the fuck is wrong with you?

"My son, unburden your sins. Only by confession can God clean your soul. It's alright. You just have to let go."

Chest pain. Palpitations. It felt like I was running out of air in the confession box. "No, Father. Sorry." I kicked the door open and ran outside the church. The ice-cold rain washed over me, drenched my hair and my beard. Was this why Wilkes said we didn't do cold work? It's not that we didn't, it's that we couldn't...I needed a drink.

A stiff whiskey calmed me down in Paddy's just opposite the church. I drank to Sister Mary Margaret, of course. After all, she was the one who brought me here for my first drink when I was old enough. I still remember the taste of knowing no-one was going to adopt me. I stayed in the bar for hours after I had finished my drink and refused a second from the lonely waitress. When it was closing time, I left without saying a word. I slapped myself in the face. Put your game face on. It's just another job. Now get the fuck on and get it over with.

I crossed the street and saw Father Wyatt walking under his black umbrella. I followed him for a few blocks and then right to his apparent destination. What looked like the parochial house was a tiny, crooked thing. I had imagined a guy on TV would be living in a golden palace.

"Oh, hello," he said, noticing me following him.

"Get inside," I said with my gun.

I had expected a cry of defiance. I'm a priest, don't you know? How can you kill one of God's servants in cold blood? Et cetera, et cetera. He had a puzzled, but otherwise strange look. Was this what I looked like when Wilkes pulled his gun on me?

"Of course," he said. He unlocked the door, and we went inside together, him in front of course. I shut the door behind him and watched as he hung his coat on a dirty hook on the wall. The paint was falling off, and the carpets were fading. All I saw on my left was a chipped kitchen sink, a tiny stove, an excuse for a table and one chair. The living room barely fit the black-and-white cat in the armchair and a bookshelf. I imagined up the stairs was a similar story.

"For a guy who has a TV show, you are frugal."

"Excuse me?"

"You're Father Mike Wyatt, the guy who does mass on TV?"

He smiled. "Once. Then they let me go. I wasn't made for TV clearly, but...I'm happy here." His eyes kept darting to the gun in my hand.

"I've got some questions for you."

"Alright." He looked at the armchair on the right, and I motioned him there with my gun. He lifted the lazy cat off and onto the floor and sat in the chair and looked up at me. "What's this all about?"

"You know Sister Mary Margaret O'Keefe?"

"Yes."

"You know she died?"

He crossed himself. "I am so sorry...but I don't understand."

"She told me you used to be a contract killer."

I saw a change in his eyes, as the puzzlement faded and filled with wide realization. "Yes," he said without hesitation. "Yes, I committed murder. Grievous sins..."

"So, you know why I'm here now?"

"I do."

He seemed to shrink in his chair. For a man who had been a contract killer, he moved like a frightened mouse. Maybe that was why he was so good. Nobody suspected the timid ones.

"You must be Frank Kelly's child," he said.

"No. My name is Simeon Johns. You killed my father, Larry Johns."

Wyatt nodded and put his hands together.

"Yes, say your prayers now," I snapped. Why did I say that? What's going on with you, Strangler?

He looked up at me with his big brown eyes. "Yes. I remember that night now. And I remember you," he said, a slow measurement of each word. "You're the reason I became a priest."

"What?"

"I was desperate. I needed the money. I killed Frank Kelly, but it wasn't enough. I needed to kill your father, but..."

"But what?"

"I saw you, after I had done it. I saw you crying over your father, and I knew..."

Now I felt hot tears stinging my eyes. "You sonofabitch." I pointed the gun at him and clicked it. "Say your fucking prayers."

"Simeon," he said. "If it is my time, then so be it. I took something from you. I know that. If God wants to punish me, then I accept it."

"God doesn't exist here."

"Doesn't He? You have no idea how I have suffered since that day, just living with and knowing what I did, knowing whatever I do will never change it." His voice became higher, as if he were delivering a sermon. "Becoming a priest was literally the only thing I thought I could do. Getting away. Trying to make sure people don't make mistakes like I did. But it doesn't change anything, does it? I'm still a man who murdered people. If you kill me, then I don't have to live with it anymore. If you want to forgive me, then do it. Send me to God. But if you want to punish me..."

"I don't forgive you. I don't absolve you of your sins. There is no God, and all you'll see is cold, black death." I knew I was losing it, because I was spouting words and making his argument for him.

Wyatt remained silent, throughout. Then when he spoke, it was a soft whisper. "You're right. You have the right. If revenge is what you seek, then so be it. I for-"

The gunshot sounded muffled, I thought afterwards. It felt like something, or someone, had moved my hand. A vague, disinterested but gnawing loneliness settled in my chest. Was this cold work?

The cat came back into the room, mewing and rubbing its body against Father Wyatt's lifeless leg. Its bowl in the kitchen lay empty, so when it had stopped raining, I picked up the cat and a box of food from the dirty kitchen and walked home in the cold darkness.