"Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. It has been seven years since my last confession."
"Seven years, my son? The past seven years been troubled times in Dublin."
The young man grunted in reply, and the priest squinted in the dim light of the confessional. Through the screen, the priest saw a sharp nose that curved to the right at an absurd angle. He smelled the faint odor of public houses wafting through the vent.
"Very well, my son. I shall hear your confession."
"I was there, Father, the thirteen o' January when those bloody bastards, sorry Father, when those British bastards shot us on O'Connell Bridge. We were waiting for the Sandymount tram by the bridge, had been to market. My mum, she died there, on that bridge. I prayed a thousand times, I said so many Hail Mary's... I even tried to learn it in our language, Father. From an old book my mother had, see? Se do bheatha, a Mhuire, ata lan de ghrasta, Ta an Tiarna leat. But she still died."
"This was not your fault, child. May I ask, how old you were?"
"Fourteen. Old enough."
The priest nodded in reply.
"So you see, Father. I haven't been to confessional since. Or services. My old man, he doesn't believe like my mother did. And there were mouths to feed, five of us now without a mum. And my old man, he was drinking and working himself to death. He worked for these two old British codgers. They were Northeners, but of course back then they were just British. My Da, he could write real well, but there wasn't money for us for secondary schooling. I wanted to be a priest, Father, I really did. But there wasn't money for schooling."
The priest nodded again.
"I was just a kid, Father, but I had to do something. I had to. They killed my mother, and those codgers were killing my Da every day. Every day. I had a brother Charlie, he was two years older than me, and we started buzzing 'round near St. Stephen's Green. We were going to be soldiers, we were. We were going to kick those British bastards out of Ireland. Well Charlie got caught throwing Mills bombs not long after. He spent a few years in Kilmainham Gaol. Right good place, to meet people, that jail was. But Charlie was right angry about being caught. I stayed on. I threw rocks at the barracks, at patrols. Mills bombs when I could. I was even there with our boys at Parnell Square, throwing Mills bombs. I didn't have a gun yet; though. I wish I had had a gun."
"Did you kill anyone?" The priest asked. His tone was a mixture of grim fascination and begrudged reverence.
"No, Father. I was a poor throw, and besides, those Mills bombs weren't so good. If I had had a gun though…"
The priest swallowed noticeably. "Go on, my son."
"They wouldn't let me. I was too young. I was fourteen, mind, but I was tall and big for my age. I saw Collins once; he was a big man too, like my Da. He stood so proud. I remember wishing my Da could see him, the way he walked."
"What did your father think of your activities, my son? I cannot imagine that he would approve so easily, when at fourteen you could have joined a mill or some apprenticeship..."
"Oh. No, he didn't mind none. But then they signed for peace and we weren't fighting the British no more. That nearly killed my Da. I remember, he came home so angry that day. My sister Mae, the one who can't walk so good since the O'Connell Bridge shooting, she took his anger. I wasn't home, or I would have done it. She cooked and cleaned and went to market, after mum died. And she's two years younger than me. They sold us out, with that treaty. Imagine, us loyal to King George. And Collins. I read about it. He was to be the Prime Minister, yea? He was supposed to kiss Fitzalan's arse to make it official. I wish I had been there. I wish I had seen him when Collins told that British bastard that we'd waited seven hundred years so he could wait seven minutes. You're Irish, aren't you, Father? You aren't one of Queen Mary's, are you?"
The priest frowned. "I'm not sure that the church makes such a distinction, but I was born in Navan, County Meath."
"Good. I thought so. You don't sound like it, though. You sound too…"
It was quiet for a moment, and the priest wondered if it was time for him to absolve the young man of his sins, and send him on his way with a string of penitences. It neared the lunch hour, and the priest thought heartily of a warm meat pie and ale from the shop up the street. He wondered if he should ask the young man to say his Hail Mary's both in Gaelic and English. He might appreciate the gesture, he mused, to incorporate the Irish rebirth into his sorrow for his crimes during the war. But the war, and what a war!, was so long past. It had been nearly seven years since the Anglo-Irish treaty of there were far worse crimes than Mill bombs…
"My Da… he died from the drink in '24. Father, I want to tell you something. You can't squeal on me to the Razzers, can you? "
"For your time with the IRA? No, my son. I am oath bound not to say anything…"
"Not about that, Father. You see. My Da… he died from the drink in '24."
"Yes…"
"I told you he worked writing up things for these old codgers. They were Northerners, they were. I heard my Da talking about their accents. They always thought that they were better than us, because they were King's men, but we showed them in the war. But those old codgers… I have two sisters and a brother, Father, younger than me.. Charlie, he was out of jail by then, but he wasn't much help. I went to those old codgers and asked for my Da's last wages. Do you know what they said, Father? One of them said that my Da never earned a ha'pence; he called him a scoundrel and a drunk, and said he should have had his partner get rid of him years ago. The git had the nerve, Father, to say this to me when my Da wasn't yet dead and buried a week."
"What did you do?"
"Nothing." The young man sighed. "What ought I do? We had no money. My sisters and brother were going to be thrown in the poor house. Charlie's alco from the war and was always bollixed like my Da was. I was so scared and angry, Father. I begged that codger to give me my Da's pay, to let me work for him, anything."
There was a rustling noise from behind the screen as the young man shifted positions; he flipped idly through a worn English copy of the Bible. The newly printed Gaelic version sat unused in the book pocket, its shiny gold cover printed with "1925 Dublin" underneath the Gaelic script Biobla.
"I was a messenger, for a while. I took their documents to the registry, courts, and back. I wanted to learn to scribe, but my writing was too far neglected from the war. And my hands shook. I delivered papers for them for almost five years. All that time I heard that old codger, telling me how my Da hadn't earned a single ha'pence of his wages. It made me so angry."
The priest leaned in toward the screen.
"One day, the old codger calls me to the center floor. He's angry because some delivery is missing; it's not there, he said. I asked him where. He said it was supposed to be received by the court this morning, or the whole thing would fall through. I didn't know what he was talking about, Father. I told him, look, you old codger, I don't know what delivery you are talking of. I didn't take anything to the courts this morning. I had been on a run to the bank with a deed. But the old codger didn't believe me. He screamed at me, in the office in front of everyone else, screamed that I was worthless like my Da, that I'd never do anything worthwhile. He told me I should drink and get on with it, just like my Da. That it was all we were worth."
"He should not have done so."
"No. He shouldn't have, should he?" The English Bible thumped noisily as he shoved it beside the Gaelic one. "I wish my father had gotten in with the war. I think he would have done well in it. He was a big man, very strong. But that old codger just wore him down. By the time the war started, he was nothing. They say the law does that to you, but I don't believe it. I don't believe it at all. I think the law kills big men by wearing them away. It does. Otherwise, how does some tiny old codger like Alleyne wear down a big man like my Da? It's the same thing those British bastards did to Collins. Fight his war; fight dirty by putting republican prisoners in with their patrol cars; kill innocent mothers at checkpoints; then get Collins to sign an arse-licking agreement that lets us be a free state of the English. Oh, well. What does it matter? Both of them died, those men. This world isn't right for strong men, it's not right."
"What did you do after he yelled at you?" the priest asked.
"Oh." The young man sighed. "Don't razz me, Father. Don't go on to the cop shop. But I killed that old codger. I snuck up behind him one night and conked him over the head. With a Guinness mug, see? In honor of my Da. For Collins, too, the poor bastard."
"My son, this is most serious. You should turn yourself in-"
"No. NO! He got what he deserved, Father. I just wanted someone to know. He got what he deserved. I'm to sail for America tomorrow… my brother heard of a job. That old codger got his. I just wanted someone to know. You understand, Father. You're Irish. You understand."
The priest sighed, and raised his hand to cross the air. "God the Father of mercies, through the death and resurrection of his Son, has reconciled the world to himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins; through the ministry of the Church may God give you pardon and peace, and I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen."