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.



*well-off
**three weeks in advance and preferably not on a Sunday

2 comments:

aims said...

I love it!

I would never have thought of looking at people coming out of confession in that manner. I love it! (and not being a catholic I don't see many confessors)

However - it made me think instantly of When The Dogs Bite and all of Rachel's walks in the cemetery. I was wondering if she ever saw wraiths or old George for that matter. Could you ask her Jasfoup?

Leatherdykeuk said...

Ha.

I asked her and she doesn't see very much at all - the occasional shadow, she says.

She wouldn't see George as I travel 120 miles to dictate my dailies