Sunday, August 17, 2008
Sins like Stormclouds
The market’s closed today. The shop’s closed as well, come to that, since we only open to discerning customers* by appointment** on Sundays. Felicia and I took our customary walk but managed to swing by St Pity’s on the way back. It’s always a delight to see who’s been to confession. It’s even better to see who comes out still with dirty great stains attached to their souls.
Take Constance Clarkson, for example. She’s been to confession because she’s got this sort of electric-blue glow all over her from the blessing of absolution but it’s patchy. It clings to her back and shoulders but has melted away from her head already. Absolution should last much longer. Normally it hangs off the virtuous like a shroud of nice and is only gradually eroded by white lies and ‘it’s better this way’s. Constance’s blessing was slipping off her like cheap oil off Teflon.
That’ll be the murder of her husband, then, still clinging to her. She’s too afraid to confess it. I can’t say I blame her, either. I doubt I would.
Not like old George, there, sitting on his grave waiting for her to pay an outward show of respect. He’s just waiting for her to die of natural causes, because he knows she’ll be going underground and he’ll be waiting.
**three weeks in advance and preferably not on a Sunday