Soul Murder. Daniel Blake

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      And yet he knows, as I know, as everyone knows, that what he should do, if he was as humble and holy as he makes out, is go and live in a seminary among those training to be priests, and sell the mansion, using the profits to help with the church’s work. The place would fetch a couple of million on the open market. Imagine what good could be done with that amount of money.

       So forgive me if I doubt the sincerity of Bishop Kohler’s spiritual commitment.

       Still, in the same interview, he said he liked to spend time alone in the Cathedral of Saint Paul, the diocese’s mother church out near the university in Oakland; that he preferred on occasion to do the locking-up rounds himself, solo, the better to be alone with God in His house.

       Which is why I knew I’d find him here, now, and without witnesses.

       Kohler leads me in silence to the confessional. He asks me nothing about myself, I think, the better to maintain the anonymity of the confession. He may know my face, but not my name, nor anything else about me.

       He’s not to know that, in a few minutes, all this will have ceased to matter for him.

       He motions me into one door of the confessional, and himself steps into the other.

       The confessional is in classic style; two compartments separated by a latticed grille on which is hung a crucifix. I kneel on the prie-dieu.

       I don’t know how to begin. I’ve always thought confession should be between the sinner and their God, with no other human present, so this is difficult for me.

       ‘Has it been long since your last confession?’ Kohler whispers.

       It’s only the two of us in the entire place, but the near-darkness of the confessional – and of the cathedral itself – seems to make whispering appropriate.

       ‘Yes,’ I reply.

       ‘Would you like me to remind you of the purpose of confession?’

       ‘Yes.’

       ‘You must confess your sins in order to restore your connection to God’s grace and to escape hell, particularly if you have committed a mortal sin.’

       ‘What’s a mortal sin?’

       ‘A mortal sin must be about a serious matter, have been committed with full consent, and be known to be wrong.’

       ‘What kind of sins are mortal sins?’

       ‘Murder, for sure. Blasphemy. Adultery.’

       He can’t see me, but I smile.

       ‘And what happens if these sins aren’t confessed?’ I ask.

       ‘It’s a dogmatic belief of the faith that if a person guilty of mortal sin dies without either receiving the sacrament or experiencing perfect contrition with the intention of confessing to a priest, that person will receive eternal damnation.’ He pauses. ‘These things are known to all Catholics,’ he adds.

       ‘I’m sorry, Father.’

       ‘It must have been a very long time since you last confessed, no?’ Another pause. ‘In order for the sacrament to be valid, the penitent must do more than simply confess their known mortal sins to a priest. They must be truly sorry for each of the mortal sins committed, have a firm intention never to commit them again, and perform the penance imposed by the priest. As well as confessing the types of mortal sins committed, the penitent must disclose how many times each sin was committed.’

       I know that whatever’s said in the confessional stays there; this is an absolute, inviolable rule, even if to do otherwise might save lives. Doctors and attorneys can break their pledges of confidentiality in extremis; a priest, never.

       So I can tell him, even if everything else goes wrong.

       ‘I have killed,’ I say.

       Kohler gasps; in horror, surprise, perhaps both. He must think it unlikely, but perhaps the tone of my voice lets him know that I’m not joking.

       ‘How many times?’ he asks, more in a croak than a whisper.

       ‘More than once.’

       ‘When did you last kill?’

       ‘Now.’

       I’m up off the prie-dieu and out of the door in a flash, pulling the gasoline can from my bag. I throw open the confessional’s other door and see Kohler there, his mouth a perfect circle of outrage at this violation of religious etiquette if nothing else.

       I splash the gasoline on him. For an old man, he still looks strong, but gentle too. Years of turning the other cheek have left him useless in a situation like this.

       In another two seconds, maybe three, he might have reacted to the danger; but those are seconds he doesn’t have, seconds I won’t give him.

       I light the juggling torch and touch it to his face.

       His screams echo loud and bounce round the cathedral, and the flames rush from his skin and clothes to the walls of the confessional, leaping orange through crackling wood as I step back and close the door on him, holding it shut for as long as I can stand before the heat drives me back.

       It’s not long, but it’s enough.

       ‘Isaiah chapter fifty-nine, verse seventeen,’ I shout, so he can hear me above his screaming and through his agonies. ‘“For I put on righteousness as a breastplate, and a helmet of salvation upon my head; and I put on the garments of vengeance for clothing, and am clad with zeal as a cloak.”’

       The screaming stops, and in its place comes a rasped muttering, the words of a dying man, indistinct but their meaning clear if I strain to hear:

       ‘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.’

       10:12 p.m.

      The death of a surgeon in an upscale condo block had merited one mildly disgruntled local TV crew. The death of the bishop brought the national networks out in force. They crammed up against bumblebee-striped crime tape and turned glaring СКАЧАТЬ