“Forgive me Father,” the boy’s voice whispered in the dark, “for I have sinned.”
“And what,” asked the kindly voice of Father McDonald “have you done?”
“I’ve murdered someone.”
A brief silence.
“I see, my child.”
“I poisoned Father McPhearson.”
It was no secret that the late Father McPhearson, hard of hearing and loud of voice was the terror of children during confessional. When hearing a lad confess his sins, McPhearson who generally regarded all boys with suspicion, let his thunderous voice bellow out what he had just been told.
“You played with yourself?!” he’d often boom so that the boys’ mothers, waiting outside the confessional booth, would hear all.
And as a teacher? During classes he’d slap a tardy boy’s knuckles with his ruler, yell at anyone who dared yawn when he spoke, or sneer at the ignorant in such a way as to invite the rest of the class to cruelly chortle. So, the notion of a vengeful pupil poisoning the old priest was certainly conceivable.
“How did it happen?” Father McDonald inquired.
“I heard Father McPhearson had a peanut allergy; so, I brought a packet of peanuts to class and crushed them into powder. When he wasn’t looking, I poured the packet into his coffee.”
“And what did you intend?”
“I just wanted to make him sick,” the boy’s voice almost sobbed. “I wanted to get my own back for being caned!”
Father McDonald knew that McPhearson had indeed flung a pack of peanuts at some hapless choir boy but not because of any allergies, rather the lad didn’t fetch a packet of crisps as asked for. Father McPhearson’s explosion was aimed at the lad’s inattentiveness more than anything, but this anecdote had grown with every retelling until in its final form, Father McPhearson beat a boy half to death for almost killing him.
The prosaic explanation of Father McPhearson’s passing was a stroke in his sleep, but Father McDonald listening to the sobbing voice, had a hunch that it belonged to the petulant and misbehaving Syd Forbes.
Syd Forbes was a kid who had “issues with authority” which meant he loathed being told what to do, but like anybody who was a natural born anarchist, when given a fraction of power, like being put in charge of a study group for example, he’d predictably turned into a mini dictator, acting not unlike Father McPhearson when it came down to it.
But now Forbes sounded so distraught, so guilty.
“My child,” Father McDonald coughed, knowing he might finally be able to get this kid to behave “If you want to be forgiven of your sins…”
