scandal and negative publicity. In Sister Verity, they'd found someone who was capable of sniffing out and identifying the rot, God's own bloodhound. Sister Verity became widely known as simply 'The Sister' within the inner circles of the church.
In this role, she would attend confession in selected parishes, and it was there, in the confessional that she was able to establish the veracity of the priests. Her exposures were kept in-house in most cases, but some were too big to contain.
The newspapers ran headlines over the next few weeks: Priest accused of child molestation - More victims come forward - Accusations going back decades - Bishop knew of allegations - Priest commits suicide!
At first, she'd been only too willing to assist, later becoming unhappy, not only at the way in which the Church handled things, but also at the regularity with which she uncovered these people. 'Let he who is without sin, cast the first stone', was stretching the point. Although she was not without sin herself, the extent of sin she found in those holy places alarmed her. Inevitably, she came up against priests, who she had reported to the Church authorities first time around, only to find them transferred to another parish, in the hope that they would mend their wicked ways.
Her last case had been the final straw.
One of the things she needed to do while waiting in the confessional, was de-tune herself from the box itself, or she would be hearing how Mrs Dalton, or some other poor soul, had confessed to stealing eggs and potatoes to feed her starving family, while shame kept her from telling the priest that she'd also been sleeping with the milkman and the coalman while her husband was in prison, and her conscience had guilted her into thinking half a confession was better than nothing.
Well-worn hollows, formed by many different elbows, dished the shelf by the screen. The atmosphere was heavy and oppressive. It wasn't right. Placing her hands onto the wood, she focused beyond the fabric of its construction. So much guilt, unhappiness, sorrow and pain, had been absorbed. The image of a choirboy came to her, sitting on the pew outside, deliberately timing his arrival so that he'd be the last in the queue.
"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned, it's been too long since my last confession, and since then you have had me indulge in vile practices with you, Father, and it has to stop!"
The priest was calm. "You want to turn your back on all the special privileges your position brings . . .? You no longer want to be in the choir?"
The boy blurted out, "I'll not be doing those things anymore; it's against God and nature…!"
The priest hissed through the grille, "It stops, when I say it stops!"
"No, Father, it ends now, or I go to the police!"
"Then go to the police! Do you think they'll take the word of an illegitimate orphan, against the word of a priest?"
He could have only been thirteen, his voice newly broken. Unsure, he rose suddenly and dismissed himself.
Father O'Donohue swept out of the confessional behind him.
The boy didn't make it out of the churchyard.
Strong as she was, she came close to breaking point. After six years of service, she decided it was time for her to leave and she left without permission to do so, returning to her home one last time, to retrieve the stone from its hiding place.
When they'd originally come for her years before, she'd dropped it into the water butt outside the front door of her house. She took it from its slimy drawstring purse, held it and closed her eyes. It was the first time she'd touched it since her friend, Mick, had been run over attempting to negotiate his way over a railway crossing whilst drunk. When that had happened, she'd wanted to throw it away. Now that she knew she possessed the ability to interpret what the polished black sphere merely amplified, it would become a supplementary tool, and as part of her calling and destiny, it was far too important to
In this role, she would attend confession in selected parishes, and it was there, in the confessional that she was able to establish the veracity of the priests. Her exposures were kept in-house in most cases, but some were too big to contain.
The newspapers ran headlines over the next few weeks: Priest accused of child molestation - More victims come forward - Accusations going back decades - Bishop knew of allegations - Priest commits suicide!
At first, she'd been only too willing to assist, later becoming unhappy, not only at the way in which the Church handled things, but also at the regularity with which she uncovered these people. 'Let he who is without sin, cast the first stone', was stretching the point. Although she was not without sin herself, the extent of sin she found in those holy places alarmed her. Inevitably, she came up against priests, who she had reported to the Church authorities first time around, only to find them transferred to another parish, in the hope that they would mend their wicked ways.
Her last case had been the final straw.
One of the things she needed to do while waiting in the confessional, was de-tune herself from the box itself, or she would be hearing how Mrs Dalton, or some other poor soul, had confessed to stealing eggs and potatoes to feed her starving family, while shame kept her from telling the priest that she'd also been sleeping with the milkman and the coalman while her husband was in prison, and her conscience had guilted her into thinking half a confession was better than nothing.
Well-worn hollows, formed by many different elbows, dished the shelf by the screen. The atmosphere was heavy and oppressive. It wasn't right. Placing her hands onto the wood, she focused beyond the fabric of its construction. So much guilt, unhappiness, sorrow and pain, had been absorbed. The image of a choirboy came to her, sitting on the pew outside, deliberately timing his arrival so that he'd be the last in the queue.
"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned, it's been too long since my last confession, and since then you have had me indulge in vile practices with you, Father, and it has to stop!"
The priest was calm. "You want to turn your back on all the special privileges your position brings . . .? You no longer want to be in the choir?"
The boy blurted out, "I'll not be doing those things anymore; it's against God and nature…!"
The priest hissed through the grille, "It stops, when I say it stops!"
"No, Father, it ends now, or I go to the police!"
"Then go to the police! Do you think they'll take the word of an illegitimate orphan, against the word of a priest?"
He could have only been thirteen, his voice newly broken. Unsure, he rose suddenly and dismissed himself.
Father O'Donohue swept out of the confessional behind him.
The boy didn't make it out of the churchyard.
Strong as she was, she came close to breaking point. After six years of service, she decided it was time for her to leave and she left without permission to do so, returning to her home one last time, to retrieve the stone from its hiding place.
When they'd originally come for her years before, she'd dropped it into the water butt outside the front door of her house. She took it from its slimy drawstring purse, held it and closed her eyes. It was the first time she'd touched it since her friend, Mick, had been run over attempting to negotiate his way over a railway crossing whilst drunk. When that had happened, she'd wanted to throw it away. Now that she knew she possessed the ability to interpret what the polished black sphere merely amplified, it would become a supplementary tool, and as part of her calling and destiny, it was far too important to
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