Bad Faith!

By Mike O'Connor

A huge lottery win is guaranteed to create a buzz in a small Irish village like Ceanngoorley. When the win in question is attributed to a talking statue of the Virgin Mary, greed and superstition collide in a tsunami of hilarious chaos. Will the devious Father O'Hoora prove to be the real winner, or will his grand plans be thwarted by a vengeful bishop and a mysterious American stranger?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mike O'Connor
• Release date: Apr 26, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452384672

Mike O'Connor

Mike O’Connor is a powerful and engaging storyteller who performs at many events across the country. An important researcher into Cornish music and folklore, he has been awarded the OBE and made a bard of the Gorsedh of Kernow.

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Bad Faith

Mike O’Connor

Published by Mike O’Connor at Smashwords.

Copyright 2010 Mike O’Connor

Smashwords Edition, License Notes.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

CHAPTER 1

Bless me Father, for I have sinned.

As the penitent spoke, with a tremor in his voice, the priest silently mimicked the words.

He then waited in silence, for a moment to elapse.

Time is money, thought Father Fergus O'Hoora. Yet, the pause annoyed him. Regular sinners knew the routine, the line they would next be required to deliver. O'Hoora frequently wondered why they did not just get on with it, instead of always waiting to be prompted. In the solemn confines of the darkened confessional, did they inexplicably forget the drill? Or did they feel obliged to wait like sheepish schoolchildren for him to ask the same old question, in the same tired old voice?

How long since your last confession?

The sinner took a deep breath, before replying. Twelve years, Father.

The long finger of O'Hoora's right hand shot to the RECORD button of the tape recorder under his chair. At last! he thought delightedly, a confession worthy of my time. He did not recognise the black hatted man, with bowed head, but his tone rang familiar. Some grave wrongdoing was weighing heavily upon his conscience. A sin that might just win the five-hundred pound prize for Confession Of The Month, at the next gathering of the Clerical Coursing, Shooting and Slaughtering Club.

Most so-called sinners in the parish of Ceanngoorley never actually confessed to anything major and O'Hoora was heartily sick of them. He had heard enough shameful admissions of impure thoughts, bouts of taking the Lord's name in vain and petty thefts to last him a lifetime and a reincarnation or two. Real black evildoings were an all too rare treat.

Twelve years, he said gravely. That's a long time. A man can do a lot of sinning in twelve years.

God, don't I just know it! the penitent sighed. It seems there's temptation at every turn. A man can hardly get out of bed without putting a foot wrong. Day in, day out, sin, sin, sin. A saint would be driven to distraction by the temptations I've given into. I suppose I shouldn't have waited so long before confessing.

Why did you? asked O'Hoora.

I just never seemed to find the time to go, he replied. It's hard to fit in time for God, in my line of business.

What business would that be?

I'm a priest.

O'Hoora smiled. Ah, one of our own! I don't know you, do I?

I'm just passing through, the priest told him. Down from Donegal, actually. Had to make myself scarce in a hurry. Bit of trouble on the old One Eyed Jack The Lad front.

Nothing incurable, I hope.

Oh, it's not that kind of trouble, he replied. My lad is a bit too healthy for its own good, if anything. There's been a few complaints, so I thought I'd better lie low for a while, until the Bishop pays off whoever's been stabbing me in the back.

Say no more, said O'Hoora. Now, what about this confession of yours?

I don't think I'll bother with it, the penitent priest answered. I've no more change for the meter anyway. Could you just absolve me of everything and give me a spot of penance?

No problem, said the PP. Your sins are forgiven. Go in peace. Say a couple of acts of contrition, whenever you have nothing better to do.

I'll do my best, he promised. Thanks, Father.

A small red bulb was lit over stall two, to his left. O’Hoora pressed a button, heard the coin drop, then the screen slid across. At the sound of a familiar voice, he switched off the tape recorder.

Bless me Father, for I have sinned.

How long since your last confession? he enquired, yet again.

Two weeks, Father. I missed last week, on account of having to work. The business of law enforcement can be a demanding taskmaster.

Indeed, replied O'Hoora.

Normally, he had little time for the delusional ramblings of Dinny O'Shea, the traffic warden with a personality complex that was somewhere between Hitler and Padre Pio.

I've compiled a list of the sins I've committed, in no particular order of seriousness, Dinny continued, taking a carefully folded sheet of A4 paper from his jacket pocket. Are you ready, Father?

O'Hoora sighed heavily. Ready when you are.

The traffic warden cleared his throat and used a small pen light to scan the report sheet. Right, here goes. The following are the sins I have committed since my last confession, the date of which you are already aware. Instances of taking of the Lord's name in vain - twenty-three. Instances of swearing - eleven. Instances of coveting my neighbour's wife - ninety-four. Instances of coveting my other neighbour's wife - two hundred and three. Miscellaneous instances of lustful thoughts - four hundred and five. Instances of self abuse - fifty-seven.

That's a lot of wan ......, a lot of self-abuse in the space of two weeks, O'Hoora observed.

It's an increase of fifty-two percent on the preceding two week period, said Dinny. I put it down to the hot weather and the fact that my other neighbour's wife has taken to sunbathing in her back garden of an evening. Not that that's any excuse, of course.

Indeed not, O'Hoora said sternly. Look, Dinny, just between you and me, perhaps you should find an alternative hobby to looking at women and committing mortal sins with yourself. Absolution and penance don't seem to be having any effect on your devilish libido.

What do you suggest, Father? Should I maybe go to Lough Derg again?

That didn't work last time, O'Hoora replied. In fact, if I recall correctly your confession of the following week, it made you even worse.

I would like to take up a hobby, said Dinny. But law enforcement and looking at women are the only things that interest me.

Perhaps you should find a girlfriend, suggested the priest.

But Father, wouldn't that just open up new avenues of sin? God knows what I might be tempted to do if I had a girlfriend.

You might resist temptation until after you were married. Then, you would no longer be committing a sin.

I don't know, Dinny mused. I'm not much good with women and the ones that are around today could be liable to cause all manner of domestic upheaval. I'm not at all sure one would suit me.

In that case, there's nothing for it but more penance, O'Hoora concluded. Say two hundred Our Fathers, fifty Hail Marys, thirty decades of the Rosary and an act of contrition. See if that doesn't keep you busy for a while.

Having absolved the horny traffic warden and seen him on his way, O'Hoora checked his watch. Eight more minutes, then he could shut up sin shop for another week. The takings would be average, for the time of year - about a tenth of what he raked in during Easter or Christmas. Confession was a tedious process, at the best of times, but who was he to deny his flock their regular fleecing?

As he braced himself for the inevitable latecomers, he studied the buxom figure of Miss June 1992, smiling toplessly from the glossy calendar on his cubicle door.

I wouldn't mind giving you some stiff penance, he muttered, not for the first time.

The bulb over stall one lit up. He pressed the button, a coin dropped into the slot and the shutter slid across.

Father?

The voice was that of a young girl.

Bless me, Father, he patiently reminded her.

I'm up the pole, she said.

Glancing sideways, he saw the anxious face of seventeen year old Missus Phonsie.

Up the pole! he repeated, pressing the RECORD button.

She nodded. Yes, Father. I'm going to be having a baby.

Aren't you a bit young to be pregnant?

Maybe, she agreed. But I am anyway.

O'Hoora sighed. I know I've probably asked you this question before, Missus Phonsie, but why do you go around calling yourself Missus when everyone knows you're not married?

My mother thought Missus was a nice name for a girl, so that's what she called me, she answered. Missus Eileen. You christened me yourself.

I may well have done, he responded. But that doesn't explain what you're doing pregnant. Did your mother never warn you about the dangers of doing the dirty with lads? If you ever came to mass, you'd hear me warn in sermon after sermon about the dangers of sex outside marriage. The flesh is weak, Missus, especially at your age, and the devil can offer you very tempting fruit. It's natural to be tempted, but very wrong to give in to it. If you prayed, God would give you the strength to resist it. But I'm not going to lecture you. It's a bit late for that now. But answer me one question, honestly. Did you come to confession because you know you sinned, or because you got caught?

I....uh, I'm not sure, she stammered.

Do you know who the father of the bas.... child is? he asked.

Yes.

And does he know you're expecting his child?

He does now.

Have you and he discussed marriage?

Father, you know we couldn't do that! she cried.

He sighed. Missus, how could I know any such thing? Until now, I didn't even know you were pregnant. I suggest you sit down and talk to him about this. As you're a woman, it's mostly your fault, but he still must take some responsibility. If you want to see me about a shotgun wedding, you can make an appointment with my secretary.

But it's your baby, Father!

As the shutter slammed shut, there was a dramatic burst from the church organ.

Bloody kids! O'Hoora muttered, switching off the tape recorder.

Missus inserted another coin. He glared at her through the wire mesh.

Is this your idea of a joke? he demanded.

She looked shocked. No, Father. I'm up the pole with your baby. I got a letter from the doctor.

Impossible, he snapped. I'm a man of God. It's someone else's. Girls your age eff around like rabbits these days.

I've never effed around, she protested indignantly. You're the only one I've done it with since April.

Christ almighty! he exclaimed.

You said it was alright, because you were a priest, she continued. Don't you even remember? You gave me a lift from the teenage disco in the parish hall. You were very drunk. You asked me if I had a boyfriend and if I liked riding. Then you offered me twenty quid, for a quick one in the back seat. You didn't even drive me all the way home and I got drenched.

Twenty quid! he repeated. And this is how you repay me! Good God, child, have you no shame? I'm a priest. A parish priest, no less. I can't be the father of your child, even if I am.

You must do something, she pleaded. If my dad finds out I'm poled, he'll break a pickaxe handle across my arse and my mother will have a seizure.

You should have thought of that before you tempted a man of God, replied O'Hoora.

Missus began to cry.

Alright, there's no need for that, he snapped. I'm a forgiving man and I don't think either of us wants a scandal. Especially you. How far gone are you?

I'm still here, she sobbed, wiping her eyes.

He rolled his eyes heavenwards. I mean, how long are you pregnant?

Oh. About two months, if you rode me in April.

Does anyone else know?

No, Father.

O'Hoora lit a cigarette and carefully weighed up his options. There was still time enough to arrange a trip to England for the little tramp.

Father.... she began.

Shush - I'm praying for guidance, he retorted.

He finished his cigarette, before speaking again. There's not much we can do for now. I suggest you go home and take a lot of strenuous exercise. Drink and smoke heavily, if you can. And think carefully. Maybe there's some young fella you know that would take the blame. Give me a few days and I'll be in touch.

Missus Phonsie left the confessional, none too pleased with his response. O'Hoora had a bad feeling in his guts that had nothing to do with needing to visit the toilet. Fruit of his loins on his own doorstep was the last thing he needed.

The bulb over stall two was lit. To hell with it, he thought, pushing open his door. I've had enough sin for one day.

Chapter 2

Ah, Ireland! Where the breeze is sweet as shalamar and there's forty shades of green.

A.C. Deasy put down his bag of duty free and bent to kiss the tarmac of the airport runway. The fat woman behind him, who was not looking where she was going, tripped over his semi-prone form and hit the ground, with a seismic thud.

Gee lady, I'm sorry, he said, scrambling to his feet. Let me help you up.

I'm perfectly capable of getting up by myself, thank you very much, she snapped.

In fact, she wasn't. It required the combined efforts of Deasy and another man to haul the fat lady back to her feet.

Who do you think you are? she irately demanded. The bloody pope? God forgive me.

The name is Bond - James Bond, the man replied.

Not you. Him! She pointed a podgy finger at Deasy. Are you in the habit of kissing runways and tripping people up? I could have broken my neck, or crushed my black forest gateau. Are you something to do with religion?

Deasy laughed and brushed dust from the knees of his emerald green trousers. No ma'am, I'm just a regular guy who loves this cute little country of Ireland. I sure hope it rains soon. They say the water tastes like whiskey. This is my first visit to my old Irish home, far across the foam, so I guess I just got carried away.

Ought to get put away for talking such rubbish, she grumbled. Thank God my gateau is alright. Bloody Americans! Horse manure for brains, the lot of them. If I had my way, I'd gas them. Or maybe I'd put every last one of them up against a wall and shoot them. No, better still, I'd......

Deasy did not hear her. He was already on his way to the arrivals hall, at high speed, bowling over a woman with a baked Alaska, en route. Inside, two customs officers were in the process of welcoming a man of Pakistani appearance to the land of saints and scholars.

What brings you to Ireland? the older one demanded.

I'm here on business, the Pakistani man replied.

And what business would that be? the Immigration officer asked sarcastically. Would it be the business of coming here to try and take all that lovely Irish dole you've heard about in your country?

I have come from London, the businessman protested.

Why so? demanded the second Immigration official. I suppose you heard the dole was better over here. How much did they tell you you'd get?

I am a businessman, the Pakistani man said impatiently. Check my documentation, if you do not believe me.

Any fool can forge documentation, the first Immigration official barked. I saw a programme about it on television the other night. You come in here with your fancy documentation and next thing you're taking the dole off of hardworking - if they had anything to work at - Irish men and women.

I have come here with a view to opening a factory, said the Pakistani man. So yes, I do hope to take a large number of Irish men and women off the dole.

He admits it! cried the second official. The bastard admits it.

This is as close to the Irish dole you'll ever get, sunshine, his colleague growled, grabbing the man by the arm. You're on the next flight back to England. Live the life of Reilly on John Bull's handouts, you bloody scrounger.

Further protests were in vain. The social welfare obsessed officials had made their decision and their humiliated victim was led away by the airport police.

The Immigration officials turned their attention to the next member of the queue at the desk. Seeing Deasy, and there being no mistaking what he was, the senior officer cracked a well practised smile.

Cead mile failte, he greeted heartily. Are you here for business or pleasure?

Gee, in Ireland, everything is pleasure, Deasy replied. You wanna check my passport?

The officer laughed. Not at all. You put that in your pocket. You're in Ireland now and we like our visitors to feel welcome.

Maybe you could help me with something that's been bugging me, said Deasy. You know that song..... He began to sing. Where the breeze is sweet as shalamar and there's forty shades of green.

The eyes of both Immigration officials misted over.

Ah yes, sighed the older one. Forty Shades Of Green. A lovely song.

None lovelier, Deasy enthused. What bugs me is the shalamar bit. Do you guys know what shalamar is? It's not the name of a girl, is it?

It's a band, said the younger one. They had several disco hits, in the eighties. What was that one that went dum, dum, dum, de dum, dum, dum dum?

I Owe You One, said his partner.

He smiled. That's right. He then began singing in a cod funky voice, whilst clicking his fingers. I owe you one. Girl, you made my day with the way you gave love. I owe you one.

I - I owe you one, oooohhhh! his partner responded, in high pitched tones. They had another one too. Dum, dum, dum, dum.

That was Shakatak, the other man corrected. They were utter shite.

Were they Irish? asked Deasy.

Shakatak?

No, Shalamar.

I doubt it, said the older officer. They were as black as a shit after a feed of porter, if I remember rightly. Come to think of it, they'd hardly ever be mentioned in Forty Shades Of Green. That must be some other kind of shalamar. Maybe a showband. Joe Dolan would be the man to ask about that. Anything to declare?

Was that another of their hits? asked Deasy.

The officer sighed patiently. I'm asking you if you have anything to declare. Guns, drugs, booze, perfume, fags, that sort of thing.

Gee, I dunno, he answered. I'll have to look in my case. I didn't pack it myself, so I have no idea what's in it.

Never mind, said the officer. You look like an honest man. Enjoy your stay in Ireland.

Deasy wished them a heartfelt have a nice day, before proceeding cheerfully towards the car hire desk.

I'm here to trace my roots, he told the green uniformed girl who was in charge of that particular place of business.

We only do car hire here, she replied.

Gee, I love the Irish warmth and sense of humour! he gushed. Tell me, do you get a lot of leprechauns around this time of year?

Not in here, she said. They're not allowed to drive.

Too short, I guess, he said earnestly. I'd sure love to see one though. Where's the best place to look.

She recommended the tourist office.

A red haired girl, with huge glasses and small spots was seated behind the counter of that aforementioned establishment.

Leprechauns, she sighed, popping a blackhead.

What about them? grunted the bearded and balding man on the neighbouring stool.

We should put a few in the window, she replied. Give the place a touch of character.

Touch of bollocks, more like, he snorted. If you want to look at leprechauns all day, Joan, get a job in a souvenir shop. What we need in here is something classy, reflecting the modern Ireland we live in. Little Jack Charltons and Mary Robinsons hanging from the ceiling - that sort of thing. I mean to say, who'd be daft enough to believe in leprechauns, in this day and age?

Scarcely had the words left his mouth, when the answer burst through the door, grinning inanely from ear to oversized ear. Alarm bells clamoured and sirens wailed in the experienced brain of Goblin, the tourist board officer. White shoes, emerald trousers, pink shirt embroidered with a camera dangling from a neck strap, and a jacket covered in traditional postcard views of Ireland. The uniform was unmistakably that of the most deranged species of tourist on earth, the naive American. Goblin beat a hasty retreat to the sanctuary of the back office.

Be with you in a sec. said Joan, before setting to work with two sets of fingernails on a particularly stubborn blackhead on the tip of her nose.

She hissed and grunted loudly, straining from the effort of trying to pop it. When her fingernails proved unequal to the task, she removed the gold name badge from her lapel and speared the blackhead with the tip of the pin.

Ouch...ooh...aahh, gotcha! she grunted.

She squeezed the tip of her nose, until tears streamed down her cheeks, before she was satisfied the