Mark's Temptation

Port Carmen was a small village on the cool east coast. A dozen fishing boats and a handful of pleasure craft were docked in the bay.

Mark stepped off the bus and thanked the driver. Gravel crunched beneath his feet as he walked up the steep hill past the wind-worn church and the gravestones that were as old as the village itself. The priest's house was back down the hill where the sea met a stream.

Come in peace read the sign at the end of the road by the recycling bins. Mark exhaled deeply, feeling rude to disturb the man on his day of rest. He spun the plain gold band around his finger. He had to. If not he would do something stupid, again.

The shadow of the house fell over him, newly painted to protect it from salty winds from the sea. The mat beneath the bright blue door said WELCOME with a smiling face. Mark grasped the brass door knocker and hit it three times against the golden base.

Stepping back from the door, Mark straightened his red cardigan and waited. Were jeans a disrespectful choice? Too late now. He wasn't going to knock on the priest's door and run away.

The sound of footsteps beyond the door were reassuring and at the same time filled Mark with guilt. He sighed again. He'd not seen Father Crith Dounin in more than a decade.

The blue door creaked as it opened. Father Dounin squinted at Mark then pulled a pair of glasses from his shirt pocket.

“Mark Corrin?” The grey haired man leaned closer, eyes peering at the visitor as if he was fine print on a contract. Mark swallowed again. He would always feel like a small boy in front of the holy man.

“It's me Father. Sorry to disturb you on your day of rest.”

“Not a problem Mark. Is there a reason you didn't want to come to church yesterday? We could have talked there.” Father Dounin's voice made Mark think of digestive biscuits dipped in hot tea, warm and coforting.

“I was working yesterday. Also I would feel uncomfortable back in the church. Everyone there knows me. I doubt they remember me fondly.” Mark was talking to his shoes.

“It's alright Mark. Come in. I'll put the kettle on. You should know they would all be happy to see you. It's been years and they all loved you as a boy.” The priest waved a hand as another invitation and walked back into the house.

Taking off his shoes at the door as his wife had taught him, Mark stepped onto the oak floorboards in his purple socks. The floorboards were cold beneath his feet. It didn't sooth his nerves.

Father Dounin already had a kettle on the boil as Mark entered the long kitchen. Framed paintings of birds lined one wall, from their gradual incline in skill the visitor guessed that they were the priest's own work.

“Something to do with my time,” smiled the old man, seeing Mark looking at his paintings.

“They're beautiful,” said the guest, genuinely meaning it for the later additions.

“Have a seat Mark. I can see you're here to talk.”

Mark sat in a chair that looked like his own flat pack ones at home. He tried not to slouch.

“I never pictured a priest in combat trousers,” Mark said, pointing to the host's dark blue attire.

“I like the pockets, very useful.” Father Dounin gave a smile that could calm stormy seas. “Spit it out Mark, what's worrying you.”

“Is it obvious I'm worried?” The visitor gave a weak twitch of his lip.

“People don't tend to come to me for casual conversation, sadly. If I can help I will. You have to tell me what's troubling you first.” As the kettle boiled the old man pulled a tin from a cupboard over the cooker. He walked stiffly to the table and sat opposite Mark. The priest opened the tin, revealing every possible type of teabag.

Opting for a bag of apple tea, the visitor stood and fetched the steaming kettle to the table. He took two cups from the hooks under the cupboards.

“You're stalling. Which is ironic given your skill with cars.” Father Dounin fixed Mark with hard stare.

“Well. That's why I'm here actually.” He sipped deeply from his apple tea, not quite ready to say it. “You know how I got into trouble.”

“Yes.” The priest nodded. His grey eyebrows narrowed.

“Stealing cars.”

“Including mine.”

“Sorry Father. I was an idiot. For a long time.” The knot in his stomach was tightening as he remembered the day people found out he'd taken the priest's car for a spin. That was the day the village had really turned against him.

“What is your concern now, Mark. Spit it out.” The man's green eyes glittered with impatience.

“I've been feeling tempted to do it again. It was always my addiction. Knowing I could even get into a car gave me a rush. Starting the engine. Feeling the pull as I accelerated.”

“Stop describing it with that drunk look on your face Mark,” said the priest, sipping again.

“For a while I didn't miss it. I had my wife and my work. Recently,” he sniffed, “I've been as busy as ever but it's been on my mind. It's like an itch that I can't scratch.” Every time I see a car I want to know if I can still do it.”

Father Dounin made a deep sound of thinking. He looked at the portrait of Samarius the Saviour on the wall. The red skinned prophet stared back with a calm benevolence, despite the ritual wounds that covered his body. As if the priest and the red prophet had spoken the old man nodded.

“You're married now?”

“Yes. Her name is Helena. We've been together for four years. Married for two.”

“Ah,” said the old man, he nodded giving his guest an odd smile. “Now it makes some sense.”

“Does it?” Mark was confused and somehow relieved.

“You've been with Helena long enough now that you know each other intimately. You can predict each other's actions. You know what she likes and doesn't. The mystery of initial romance is becoming a friendship based on mutual experience. Is the marriage going well?” The priest produced a tin of biscuits from Samarius only knew where and offered Mark one.

The cinnamon tasting biscuit with chocolate chunks was as soothing as anything Father Dounin had said. The guest crunched through the whole thing before he answered the question.

“Things are good. She's talking about having a baby. That makes me feel nervous. I was a nightmare as a child. I worry that my children might be the same. What if the stress of dealing with a kid like me breaks up the marriage. I love Helena. I want to have children with her but it freaks me out honestly. She was apparently a blessed child. She slept well. She ate everything.” He sipped the tea again. It was starting to go cold. “I wasn't like that. I didn't sleep properly for years. I cried constantly as a baby.”

“Yesss.” The priest sucked air in through his teeth. “I remember your mother crying in church asking if anyone knew what to do about it.” Those green eyes fixed Mark with a grasping stare again. “It's this anxiety that you have to work through. Talk to Helena.”

“I have. She thinks everything will be fine. She always does.”

“Is she wrong?” asked the priest, selecting a jam filled biscuit. He closed his eyes with appreciation as he bit into the sugary snack.

“Most of the time she's right.”

“Then perhaps it's a matter of placing your faith in her. We have a tendency of bringing our fears to life if we concentrate on them Mark. If you trust that Helena is wise then it will help you to stop worrying about it. If you're not worrying about that then the temptation of theft will diminish. It's only there to distract you from your worries.”

Mark finished his tea in a big gulp. The knot in his stomach was loosening. As he thought about Helena it was clear the old man was right. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred Helena was right, even when he'd bet all of his common sense on the opposite.

“How would you feel if Helena left you? How would you feel if you hurt her doing something stupid?”

“It would kill me.”

“Cast the magic you use to unlock the cars.” The priest was serious. Seriously mad.

“Here? Now?” Mark's voice rose as the knots tightened again.

“Yes. Here and now.”

“Why?” asked the guest as if the host was tricking him. Were there police waiting in another room for him? Using the magic alone wasn't illegal but it was grounds for a search and investigation.

“Have just the slightest faith in me Mark. I have been doing this a long time.”

Concentrating, the guest summoned a spark of intent. It was only visible as a mirage like heat haze between his fingers. With that feeling, locks tended to forget they were locked. Passwords remembered that they had been entered already. Engines purred into life without a key.

“Now picture Helena crying. It's because of this.” Father Dounin took Mark's wrists. “She'll leave you. You will not see her when you wake up in the morning. The smile you love to see on her face will never be there again. You'll never see her with your child in her arms. She'll find another man to settle down with.” The priest nodded at the distortion of light between Mark's fingers.

With a shimmer around his fingers Father Dounin touched his guest's forehead. The image of Helena crying became more vivid. Mark's hand started to shake. A tear dripped down his cheek.

“Picture that, feel it whenever you're tempted.”

“Thank you Father.”

“That's alright. It's not much compared to your... talent. It will remind you of her whenever you're tempted. Hopefully it's enough to dampen down the impulse.”

Looking at his hands, Mark thought about stealing a car. The thought gave him a pit to go with the knots in his stomach. An echo of heartbreak made him gasp down tears.

“I should go.” He stood, crumbs falling from the crotch of his jeans.

“Go in his name and with his love. Most of all, look after yourself.”

Father Dounin's smile was enough to calm any fear. Almost. Bowing his head to the priest, Mark made to leave. The old man's words caught him.

“As long as I live, you can talk to me. You know where to find me.”

“Thank you. Really.” Mark tried to express gratitude with a look, it probably just came off as intimidating knowing him.

They walked to the door. Mark put on his shoes and bowed his head to the holy man. The old man inclined his head in return.

“Any time you need to talk Mark, I mean that.”

“I know. Thank you Father. I'll pop by again. Hopefully for small talk next time.”

Father Dounin's eyes creased into a smile. “I'd like that. I've always got more tea and biscuits.”

“Good day Father.”

“Good day to you Mark.”

Mark stepped out and watched the old man's smile as the door closed. The gravel crunched beneath him as he walked to the bus stop, feeling a lot lighter.

#

“My goodness Lord Samarius, Mark Corrin, I'm sure you remember him. Seems like he's on the path now. Fighting temptation like the rest of us. At least temptation to steal cars is something different. If I have to hear another man tell me he's in love with his wife's friend. Oh dear. Time for more biscuits.”

Father Dounin toddled back to his chair and picked out a butter shortbread round. Thinking back he remembered the day Mark had stolen his car. For the life of him he still had no idea why any teenage boy racer wanted anything to do with that rusted bucket. The roar of the car around the village could be heard for miles before the boy had parked it right back where he found it.

“May the luck of the Lord be with you my boy,” said the priest, dipping his biscuit. As he sat there, he could hear the waves of the sea at the end of the stream.

#

Mark's bus dropped him off at the end of his street. As a bin man he was as used to the street in the pitch black of the early morning as daylight. His little flat had the curtains open. Helena was at the window, probably making lunch. She gave him a glowing smile as she saw him and waved.

She was as beautiful as the day they'd met. She'd grown since then. Still shorter than him and he didn't let her forget it. Short jokes made her scowl but when he lifted her off her feet she always laughed. Her hair was a wavy waterfall of chestnut brown. Her eyes were a deep mahogany. She had freckles across her cheeks which always liked to tan in summer as her hair took on an orange tint.

Mark raced up the creaky stairs to their front door.

“You're late,” she said, hands on hips. He loved those hips.

“Am I?”

“No.” She cracked a smile and kissed him, leaning up and pulling him down.

“Come in handsome. I've made lunch and I've left the honour of washing the dishes for you.”

“Because you know how much I love being your servant?” He asked.

“Obviously.” She turned, he looked at the way her jeans hugged her figure.

“Are you staring at my backside?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Good. Come and have lunch. Where were you?” She was already picking their cheap plates out of the cupboard over the sink in their tiny kitchen.

“I went home for a bit, talked to Father Dounin.”

“Oh. What about?” She asked, not caring about the sanctity of conversations between a holy man and his followers.

“Just some things that have been worrying me.”

Helena poured macaroni cheese onto two plates and handed out their best plastic cutlery. She sat, waiting for him to talk when he was ready. She realised she still had the Kiss the Cook apron on and threw it at the sink, where it landed in soapy water. She shrugged.

“Iwanttohaveababywithyou,” he said, letting it all out in a string of sounds too fast for the ear.

“What?” She asked, digging into the macaroni cheese.

“I want to have a baby with you, Helena.” She nodded, as if he'd said they were out of milk.

“Alright. Can we have lunch first?”

“You're a terrible tease,” he said, picking up the fork by his plate.

“Yes, and a hungry one.”