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domed ceiling had been painted and the walls whitewashed. The high arched windows sparkled, letting the sunlight beam through the coloured glass, bouncing its rays towards the altar where a large painting of the Virgin Mary stood ten feet tall in judgement and framed in gold.
The refurbishments of St. Patrick’s had finished last May and Maggie hadn’t seen it since it had been re-opened.
‘Maggie Donaldson, why it’s good to see you. The sheep returning to its fold.’
Father Maloney greeted her at the church door. She’d never warmed to him, always getting the sense that if it wasn’t for her father’s large donations of laundered money given to the church in exchange for ten Hail Marys and all his sins forgiven, Father Maloney would never let them near the church – let alone in the continually reserved front row pew.
The other reason why Maggie had no time for Father Maloney was because she felt he’d let her down as a child. And though it might’ve been petty of her, she could never quite find it in her to forgive him.
Growing up, she and her siblings had been taught never to talk about what went on at home. She’d unbendingly kept to the rule until the day of her eleventh birthday when she’d bunked off school to go to church to ask God for help. Not for herself, but for her mother who, instead of making her a cake, was laid up in bed after having the shit beaten out of her the night before by her enraged father.
She’d sat at the back of the freezing church with her eyes scrunched up, trying to concentrate hard on remembering her prayers. Trying to stop the tears rolling down her face. Father Maloney had come to sit next to her and asked what was wrong. Like a naive fool she’d trusted him, needing to talk. Thinking maybe God had sent the priest to come and sit next to her, Maggie had broken her own family’s sacred vow; she’d opened her mouth.
After she’d told him, Maggie had pleaded her concern. ‘But Father, you won’t tell my Dad I’ve told you will you? If he ever found out I think he’d kill me.’
He hadn’t killed her, but when she’d seen Father Maloney standing in her kitchen with her father that same afternoon laughing and joking about life back in Ireland, Maggie had wished she was dead. She stood rooted to the red tiled floor as her whole body started to tremble; once more the fear of what was to come had almost made her vomit. Her father had spoken to her. ‘I understand you paid Father Maloney a visit today Maggie. Gave him a tale.’
Father Maloney had scowled at her then, looking over his glasses as he spoke. ‘You know what they say about liars, Margaret?’
Maggie had looked at her father, then at the priest and had known she was going to get the beating of her life that night. Even at her young age she’d felt her temper rising, incensed by the injustice of the situation. Standing humiliated in the kitchen Maggie had decided she’d nothing to lose. She wanted to make it clear to Father Maloney exactly what she thought of him for breaking her trust. A trust she’d never given to anyone before. ‘And you know what they say about cunts like you.’
She’d flown across the room along with a mouthful of blood and landed on a pile of shopping bags. She’d presumed it’d been her father who’d hit her with such almighty force that her front tooth was loose. But when she’d looked up, half dazed, her father was still standing in the same spot. It was Father Maloney who’d stood red-faced, his hand raised in the air. She’d touched her swollen lip and glared at the priest, calmly speaking to him and sounding much older than her eleven years. ‘And Father, by the way, it’s Maggie – not Margaret.’
The church bells began to ring, bringing Maggie back from her thoughts. She looked at Father Maloney and smiled. ‘I’ve been away, detained as it were Father.’
The priest looked at Maggie, puzzled, and then continued to question her, his strong Irish accent carrying over the ringing church bells as they stood at the door of the church.
‘Pastures new, Margaret?’
‘I’ve heard them call it a lot of things but I’ve never heard them call a year banged up in Highpoint Prison pastures new. Oh and Father, perhaps you’re forgetting the discussion we once had. It’s Maggie, not Margaret, remember?’
Father Maloney blushed and Maggie saw he’d at least had the decency to look ashamed. With that, she turned on her heel and marched down the aisle into the cool of the church, catching the grin from Nicky and the angry glower from her father.
The regular congregation at St. Patrick’s church was an odd sight; made up of locals and tourists, sex workers, gays and lesbians, drunks and the homeless from the melting pot of Soho’s community. Then of course there was her own family; the Donaldsons.
Her family were worlds and hearts apart from each other. However, on Friday mornings they’d turn up for the ten o’clock service; sober, drunk, stoned, stressed, whatever state the morning delivered them in, to stand in what was supposed to be the house of God listening to Father Maloney and taking Holy Communion.
It had always been like that; one long hour of hypocrisy. Maggie had turned her back on any belief she’d had in God the day Father Maloney had betrayed her trust and like most things in her family, she only came along because her father told them to. There was no other choice.
Maggie looked down the pew. At the end was her mother, dressed as usual in her beige cashmere coat. She gave Maggie a quick nervous glance and a short smile then looked away. Next to her was her father, who immediately felt Maggie’s gaze. He stared at her with disgust before turning away, sticking another piece of gum into his mouth as he did so. Tommy sat next to him, tall and handsome. She hadn’t seen him since he’d ran away from her. He stared ahead into the distance, his look blank, cold, frozen. He didn’t turn towards Maggie even though she was sure he could feel her looking at him. She loved him so much but she’d no idea how to get through to him anymore.
Nicky stood next to Tommy, his face swollen with bruising, twitching and twisting from one foot to another. Uncomfortable in his own body. Occasionally he leaned his weight on the pew in front for support until it creaked, sending a loud echo through the church.
He looked terrible and as Maggie caught his eye she felt uneasy. This was the first time she’d seen him since she’d got out. She got the distinct impression he was avoiding her. She needed to talk to him but from the manic wide-eyed stare she could see she’d have to wait until he came down from his high. He was sniffing and rubbing his nose restlessly until her mother passed him a handkerchief. He blew his nose and Maggie stared as the white delicate hankie turned scarlet red from his blood.
‘Sorry … sorry.’
Nicky pushed past them and hurried to the back of the church where he made his way out watched by a worried Maggie, but ignored by his father who couldn’t care less what part of Nicky’s body was bleeding.
Maggie put her head down and closed her eyes. She’d no idea what she was supposed to do for Nicky, for Tommy, for her mother. They all seemed beyond helping themselves and the way things were going she wasn’t far behind them. And then of course there was Harley. Her beautiful daughter who with every breath she took, she missed. She needed to have Harley with her but quite how she was going to do that, she didn’t know. She squeezed her eyes shut, not wanting the tears to trickle down her face.
She sighed and opened her eyes, twisting her head slightly, catching her father looking at her with a scowl. Maggie turned away and tried to concentrate on the service but her mind kept bringing her back to Johnny.
For so long Johnny had been everything to her. She’d given him her heart and he had given his to her. But she didn’t know if that was enough. Had she really thought that by being with him everything would be alright? Or had she just wished and wanted it to be so much she’d refused to see what was staring her in the face? That it was impossible. Her relationship with Johnny could never go further than their fantasies. He could no longer leave his life than she could leave her mother.
Perhaps Harley would be better off without her. Maybe she was being selfish, thinking she could be what Harley needed. She knew there’d be loving people,