The cathedral had an imposing grandeur, befitting a place of worship for a God credited with creating everything in six days – the flora and fauna of earth, the galaxies and even the deep nothingness of the black hole. The old white-washed stone building rose high, its twin spires seeking the heavens, the flash of its sides broken by windows with stained glass mosaics; green, red, gold and purple glass pieces in a deceptive randomness, exquisite in their simplicity. A high sun-cross stood towering above the arch of the front roof –the universal sign of Christianity. The lawns were neatly manicured, littered with purple jacaranda leaves, leaving the tree branches bare, like the arthritic fingers of an old man waiting for his appointed hour, to be interred into the eternal home of the dead, from whence other life would sprout.

The compound was deserted; there was not a single soul in sight. No nuns tending to the flowers lining the perimeter of the grounds. No parishioners bearing gifts for the altar of their God.

A big fat heavily expectant cloud hung above, threatening to birth octuplets.

The Man looked warily back at the gates he’d just come through, and around him, and up at the mother cloud. A cold drop of rain landed on his brow and rolled down the bridge of his nose. He didn’t bother to wipe it, didn’t think to. There was a knot in his gut, he felt his heart beat – not fast, or slow; he was simply aware of it, the blood rushing into his chest, and out again to journey through his arteries.

This is what I must do, The Man whispered to himself, urging his feet not to betray the determination of his heart. And he walked towards the church doors.

The Man is agnostic. He was raised Christian, Protestant, and was, until he couldn’t reconcile reason with the biblical tale. And yet, the Mosaic Law still echoed within him, and the uncertainty of the here-after haunted him. It is this fear that had driven him to the church – better err on the side of caution. He needed to speak to someone, a man of the cloth, confess, and hope for the atonement of his terrible sin. A specific practice of the Catholic Church suited this need. Protestant clerics could not be trusted.

He took the short flight of stairs up to the tall doors and paused. Their mahogany panels were covered in vaguely decipherable engravings. One was cracked slightly ajar but not enough to see through. As he made to rap on it with a clenched fist it came open, pulled from within. Standing there was the six foot frame of a priest in a full collar shirt and cassock, his body tipped to one side, leaning on a nondescript aluminium walking cane with a rubber grip. He had small curious darting eyes, wide round nostrils, a warm air about his smile, and his teeth were a sharp contrast to his oily charcoal black face.

“Welcome to God’s house, my child.” The priest spoke, ushering The Man inside with a slight sweep of his hand, his voice bearing a re-assuring lilt.

“Yes…I mean, thank you…uhm, thank you, father.” It felt odd for The Man to call another other than his sire, father, but he had watched enough movies to know that’s how Catholic clerics were addressed.

The Man admired the splendour of the church with a gaped mouth, running his hand over the smooth vanished wood of the pews every time he came upon a row as the two men walked slowly down the aisle in silence. The Man’s rubber shoes squeaked against the floor, the priests’ cane knocked on it. The two men would soon realize it, so that The Man planted rather than dragged his feet, and the priest lay his cane down a little more delicately.

The priest watched his guest admire the trappings of the church; paintings of the Virgin Mary, the patron saints, the altar of sacrifice, Christ on the cross – bearing the sin of mankind on his crown of thorns. The Man was dazed, captured by the serenity, the warm tranquility in the church, the whiff of incense. The priest wondered who it was the Great Patriarch had sent him.

“It is…”
“I know, first time?”
“Yes, I really don’t…”
“All are welcome in God’s house.”

The Man stopped at a painting of white winged immortals thrusting black horned creatures down into crimson fires that rose out the bottom of the canvas. There were naked humans between them, some in contorted faces – whom the black horned creatures had grabbed – and others wore relief on their faces as the white winged immortals pulled them away from the blistering blaze.

The Man shuddered, seeing clearly his own face superimposed on the humans in that painting. Would he find heaven, or would the demons win the battle for his soul?

“Did you bring an offering?”

The priest’s calm crisp effortless voice brought The Man back to reality. He fumbled for his pockets, still unsure he had heard his companion right. Out his left back-pocket came a 500 bob note. Surely he couldn’t offer it all, but how does a man ask for change? He hesitated a moment, then begrudgingly offered it, regret apparent in his unease.

“Relax son, I’m only joking.” The priest chuckled; pushing back The Man’s outstretched hand with a soft moist palm.

The two men stared at each other, sizing each other up for their impending dance. Who would lead, and to what music, what rhythm, would there be sore feet when the music stopped? At least the man had a sense of humour, The Man thought. The boy knows enough to come, the priest thought. He was at the gates of judgment now, and the only way to know his fate would be to walk through. Redemption or condemnation; let it be known, today, in this moment.

“I have sinned, Father.” The Man began, after he’d requested and been led into the confessional. He remembered the line from a film, that’s how it went, that’s how one started out. He struggled to reign in his nerves, let his heart pour out. His palms rest on his thighs, soaking his jeans in the sweat of anxiety.

A gleam of light streamed through a break on the side of the little confessional. The Man couldn’t help imagining it had some connotation. In matters spiritual, you never know what’s sheer coincidence or providence. He struggled to find comfort, to sit easy inside the cramped space. He simply couldn’t, there was an unsettling air about the little cubicle. He could have sworn he heard voices coming out of the snaking wood grains, speaking in little whispers from which he couldn’t decipher any actual words. He heard himself breath, the priest’s silence wasn’t helping.

The silence grew to a din, too loud to bear. The Man shifted on the little bench he sat on and cleared his throat. Still, his voice came out choked. He coughed a second time and turned to his side, imagining the black six foot priest on the other side, a man who had sacrificed sexual pleasure and the joy of fatherhood to dedicate a lifetime to the service of God and man.

“I don’t remember it exactly, father. I was maybe eight or ten or twelve. The memory keeps coming back to me, like a dream I had, that I keep remembering. Or that keeps recurring. I see the bathroom clearly, I see myself in it. I see the soap dish, the scrub, the tap, the slanting floor and the tiles father. I see my shorts in a small heap around my feet father. And I see the white tiles.”

“The tiles…” The priest encouraged, his curious bone tickled, yet careful not to prod.

“Yes father, the white tiles. It all happened in a bathroom, you see.”

The Man paused, unsure whether or not to continue. He sought an assurance.

“Whatever I say here is confidential, you know, like the lawyers, right?”

“Open your heart , my Child.” The priest replied. “The Lord is willing to be turned from His path of wrath.”

“The child is there, father, against the white tiles. I see the white tiles, father.”

“The child?”