Jackie Morrissey lives in Dublin, Ireland and works in Adult Education. Previous
publications include a short story in the anthology The Turning Tide (ed. Thomas McCarthy), another
in West 47 Online and regular pieces for "Sunday Miscellany" on
RTE 1 (Irish national radio). She won the 2004 Molly Keane Short Story Memorial Award with
‘A Place for Everything’.
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‘Ask St Clare for three favours; one business, two
impossible, say nine Hail Marys for nine days with a
lighted candle, pray whether you believe or not, your
request will be granted no matter how impossible it might
seem. Publication on the ninth day must be promised.’
He read the message in the ‘personal’
column of the Dublin Advertiser again anxiously, his mouth moving with the words. ‘Nine days’. He
had done that, exactly as required, but so far nothing had changed. Well, maybe not exactly as it said.
He was really only interested in one impossible favour, but perhaps it only worked if you really wanted
all three. Surely by now there would be something... Sighing, he put the newspaper back into his desk,
then studied his hands. Dirty again. He left the office quietly, went through reception, and out into
the hall to the toilets. The liquid soap there had a nasty smell, but it was strong. He rubbed the
undiluted substance vigorously into the skin before putting his hands under the hot tap. As hot as he
could bear. His hands were a problem. They were never quite clean, no matter how often he washed them.
Now, they were red and sore, and yet he could still see minute specks of dirt in the skin around the
fingernails.
Returning to reception, he stepped inside, and knew at once that the
door was faulty. The handle was not slotting back into its correct angle once the door was closed. He
stepped outside again, and re-entered. The handle clicked, then settled as it was meant to, horizontally,
at just the right angle. He was pleased. Sometimes it took several attempts to get it right. The
receptionist was looking at him with a sarcastic face, but he didn’t care. She was an ignorant woman,
just like the rest of them. He admitted to being a perfectionist, but there was nothing wrong with that.
If those sluts in the office tried it for a while, their work would improve, but they were only interested
in sitting around, giggling, and exposing their plump white thighs to the public. They were obscene. He
would much rather work with men, so much less distracting, and they didn’t look at you with those knowing
eyes like women did... He knew they sniggered at him, but it mattered to a sensitive person like himself
that things were right. Obviously they could never understand that.
Back at his desk, he felt a little less anxious. Perhaps things were
changing for the better. His problem remained though. That pile of work in the bottom left hand drawer
of his desk was still untouched. It had piled up because there wasn’t enough time in the day. His work
was excellent, everybody knew that; neat, orderly, meticulous. His figures were always accurate. It
was the time it took. Getting things right was always a slow business, and he would never hand in
anything that was less than perfect, even if it meant re-doing it several times. But the work in
that drawer had become more than just a backlog. He dreaded it. At first, he had told himself just
to ignore it because he was busy, but now he was afraid. He didn’t know why, but he couldn’t touch
that drawer. He could touch the desk, the other drawers, anything but that one drawer. His hand
shook, his heart raced unpleasantly, and he sweated disgustingly when he tried. It had become a
problem. He could no longer control it. His little problem, returning to torture him after all
these years.
* * *
‘It’s his feet. There’s something the matter with his feet.’
That was what his mother had said, back then. He had had to give up
his trainee accountant job. He couldn’t make it into work on time in the morning. It had taken so
long for him to get down the stairs, placing each foot carefully on exactly the right place, the
safe place. Sometimes his foot slipped, ending at the wrong angle, touching the wrong spot, and he
would begin again, slowly, painfully.
He wasn’t sure how it had stopped. His father had died, and the
house had been sold. The emotional and physical chaos of these events had crashed like a mudslide
over his concerns, and when it cleared, his life had moved on. He had moved into a bedsit in a
shabby old house in central Dublin. It was a small room, but easy to keep in order. He had found
a job. Each morning, for eighteen years, he had left his room at precisely 8:15 am, and walked
the same route, without deviation, to the office, arriving at 8:50 am. He felt safe in his routine.
A precise, careful man, doing his job carefully and efficiently, living his life as people ought.
On Saturdays, he washed the floor, and every piece of furniture and paintwork in the room. It
didn’t take long. On Sunday, he attended 10 o’clock Mass, then visited his mother, who now lived
with his married sister in the red-brick suburb of Drumcondra. He had Sunday lunch there, but
always left promptly at 3 o’clock. His sister’s house was really too muddled for his taste, and
her children, although probably much like any others, were noisy, and rather disgusting when
they ate.
* * *
Returning to his room at 4pm the following Sunday, he resolved
to try another Message from the personal ads. This one was to the Sacred Heart of Jesus, Holy
Mary and St Jude. St Jude was a favourite of his mothers’, he remembered. It read:
‘May the Sacred Heart of Jesus be praised and loved.
Holy Mary Mother of Jesus and St Jude hear my prayer
and my request. St Jude helper of hopeless cases,
help me in my distress (mention request). Say
prayer for nine days, leaving a copy in a church
each day. Never known to fail. Publish prayer.’
He felt half embarrassed about these ads, knowing how the women in
the office would laugh if they knew, but they held a fascination for him. So simple, so certain.
Perform the ritual, honour the promise, and your problems would be solved. He was a Catholic,
after all, even if the modern church frowned on such things. He was not a fan of the modern church,
anyway. All those 'social worker' priests, and that hand shaking-business. God knows what sort of
germs were spread around with that carry-on. He preferred the dimly remembered church of his
childhood, with all its Latin pomp and mystery.
He began his pilgrimage the following day. It took some organising.
From the wording of the message it seemed that he needed to find nine different churches. That
meant a lot of walking, and he never liked to go anywhere unprepared. The first was easy, his
local church would do. He did it after work, slipping into the dark, quiet, interior to recite
the prayer, then leaving a written copy of the message tucked into a candle holder. He stumbled
on the words the first time, so repeated it three more times to make sure it was right. As he
left the church that evening, he felt a sense of elation, almost of light-headedness. It was
going to work, he was sure of it.
The other eight churches posed more of a problem. He plotted
his routes carefully on a map each evening before setting out. A church several streets away
served for his second visit, but he didn’t really feel quite happy with it. It was a new,
concrete structure, and he took quite a while to find a suitable spot for his prayer. It was
important to get these things right. Eventually he settled for a quiet corner in front of a
polished pine statue of the Virgin Mary. He had to say the prayer nine times to get it perfect.
He felt that if he didn’t concentrate totally, it wouldn’t work, but the unfamiliar surroundings
distracted him. He aimed for three perfect prayers each evening, just as he had done the first
time. He left the Message beside the statue of Mary. Coming home, he was dismayed to realise
that he had spend almost three hours at his task.
| "Ask St Clare for three favours; one business, two
impossible, say nine Hail Marys for nine days with a lighted candle, pray whether you believe or
not, your request will be granted..." |
The third church was a twenty-minute walk away, towards the city centre.
He had marked out his route particularly carefully because he was unfamiliar with this area, but he soon
realised that some of his chosen paths were rather unwise. They were poor streets, with cracked pavements.
Foul smells ambushed him from alleyways as he passed, and he began to feel rather sick. He placed his feet
carefully to avoid the blackened chewing gum marks on the paving. It was a relief to reach the church.
Inside, it was dark and peaceful, and he sat for some time before beginning his work. Only when he had
stopped sweating and breathing hard did he move up the aisle towards the altar. His concentration was
badly affected by his experiences on the street, but he persevered. After all, perhaps it was not meant
to be easy. He lost count of the times he recited the prayer before getting three perfect versions, but
it was dark when he left, and the journey home left him shaken and nervous. He decided to try something
more suburban next time.
His fourth attempt required a bus journey. His intended destination was
a large, prosperous looking church that he knew was directly on the bus route. No dark streets to worry
about. He had the exact fare ready as he stepped on to the bus, and he sat in a front seat, watching
intently out of the window for his stop. Stepping down from the bus, he nearly stood on a discarded
orange ice lolly which was dripping stickily into the gutter, but he avoided it just in time. Making
his way into the church, he watched his feet as he walked, and found himself counting each step.
Seventy-two from the bus stop to the church steps. Six steps up to the entrance. Twenty-eight to
the top of the church. Five steps to the left was a statue of the Sacred Heart. Christ with his
red, bleeding, heart displayed to the world. It was too much to the middle, and low down for a
heart though. More where a liver might be. He found the thought distracting. No matter how much
he tried, his attention wandered from the words and fixed upon that misplaced red heart.
‘...Holy Mary Mother of Jesus...’ he prayed fiercely, but it didn’t work.
Even with his eyes shut that heart appeared in his head, its vibrant red pulling his thoughts towards it.
Despairingly he began to recite aloud. It worked. After several attempts, he said three perfect prayers,
and left the Message at the bleeding feet of Christ. He carefully retraced his steps out of the church
and to the bus stop. It took seventy-three steps this time. The extra step preyed on his mind.
On his way out on the fifth night, Friday, his landlady waylaid him.
‘You’re certainly busy these evenings’ she said, ‘Have you got a new lady friend Mr Curran? I always
thought a nice chap like you should get out more…’
Feeling his shoulders tense up, he answered abruptly.
‘No, nothing like that. I had some personal business to attend to.’
He stressed the word ‘personal’ in the hope of shutting her up, but
she was not so easily discouraged.
‘Oh, personal. I see. Well I won’t intrude on your ‘personal’
business so, but I would appreciate it if you come in quietly if you’re going to be late. It was
nearly eleven before you got home the other evening, and I was sure I heard you talking. If it was
anybody but you Mr Curran, I’d have wondered what was going on… Mind now, quiet.’
With that she vanished back into her own room. He left the house feeling
uneasy. The landlady had always reminded him of his mother, something he had found comforting in the past,
but now he realised that, just like his mother, she often made him feel guilty.
The fifth church was close by, a little one he had previously overlooked.
It took three hundred and eighty-nine steps to walk to it, then twenty-one along the left hand side to
the statue of Our Lady of Perpetual Succour. There was a Sacred Heart here, too, but he noted with relief
that it was over on the other side of the church. Kneeling close to the image of Mary, he began his prayer,
but the words jumbled in his head, tripping him first on one line, then another. He began to recite out
loud. From a pew at the back of the church an elderly woman shushed him fiercely, but he blotted her
out. It was important to concentrate. He said the prayer over and over, as fast as he could, but each
time a word slipped, or he slurred over some important part, or his attention wandered. The words
became meaningless after a while. A rhyme or a pattern rather than a Message. That was the problem.
It took a long time to complete three correct prayers. By then the church
was empty, and a caretaker was noisily moving things to encourage him out. He began his exit. Twenty-one
steps along the left hand side to the door. He tried not to step on the lines between the tiles; he liked
to see his feet landing firmly on the red and yellow squares. He walked the short distance to his flat
carefully, counting as he went. On reaching the door, he had counted three hundred and ninety nine. Disturbed,
he went quietly into the building, mentally retracing the journey. Thirteen extra. An odd number. He thought
he might have taken smaller steps crossing the main road, while watching the pub traffic on the way home.
That might account for it.
| "The Church behind him emptied. He worked on frantically, but
the heart wouldn’t let him succeed. He knew what he had to do....The crash echoed through the building as
Christ toppled from his pedestal, but he hardly paused to look at his handiwork. He shouted the prayer
loudly now, over and over. Three perfect prayers." |
On Saturday he went in the morning. His chosen destination lay along another
bus route. He made the trip without incident, and entered the old church. A long aisle; thirty-one steps. He
chose St Jude again, and settled down for the prayer, but the place was surprisingly busy. Soon he realised
from the chirping of little girls, some in bridal veils, that it was a Holy Communion practice. He tried to
hurry, but the pressure hindered him. Once again, he resorted to praying out loud. A firm tap on the shoulder
made him look up, to see an irritable priest glaring disapprovingly at him.
‘You can’t do that here’ he said, ‘You’ll have to move along.’
‘But I have to finish. I have to do it three times.’
‘You’ve done it fifty times, I’d say’ said the priest ‘now move on, I’m sure
you have somewhere to go. You’re alarming the children’
Shocked, he decided to move along as requested. He failed to understand why a
child should be alarmed by a man saying a prayer.
Outside, he asked an elderly woman if she knew of another church nearby.
Looking curiously at him, she gave directions. He followed them carefully. The new church was quieter, but
it still took him some time to calm himself, and to complete his task. It was early evening before he
returned to his room, and he felt too exhausted to tackle his usual cleaning routine, instead, he lay
on his bed, eyes open, and let the prayer run repeatedly through his brain. Only four more to go, and
his problem would be solved.
Sunday, and he thought perhaps he might perform his task after Mass. He
knew there was a church on the way to his sister’s place. His clothes were crumpled, he had been too
busy to pay much attention to such things, but he shook out his suit jacket and pulled the legs of the
pants straight. He had no clean shirt so he put the old one on again. It looked all right, although it
did smell a little unfresh, up close.
As soon as Mass ended, he boarded the bus and headed for the new church.
It was modern and ugly, with angular pieces of yellow glass in the long, rectangular windows. He had a
moment’s panic before entering, as he realised that he needed to find a toilet, but he had passed an
alleyway nearby, and it was secluded enough to serve. Shaken, he counted his way back to the church.
In the door, and up the length of the church. Twenty-eight steps. His
limbs were shaking, so he tried to step especially firmly on each grey floor tile. He was sweating.
This task was getting harder, but perhaps that was a sign that it was going to work. Five steps to
the right was a statue of Our Lady, smiling her kind, distant, smile. Close by, though, was another
Sacred Heart, Christ with his bloody hand outstretched towards him. He fixed his eyes on Mary,
Queen of Heaven.
‘May the Sacred Heart of Jesus be praised...’ he began, but that image
of the bleeding red heart rose up before him, and he stumbled on the words. He tried again. And again.
That heart had invaded his mind, he couldn’t get it out. He began to believe there was something sinister
about those statues. Why should they have their hearts in the wrong place anyway? He began to recite out
loud, very fast to escape the throbbing intrusiveness of that misplaced heart. He could hear it in his head,
blotting out his prayers. Behind him, in the church, a voice said something loudly, complainingly, but he
couldn’t allow himself to be distracted. He continued to pray. Later, a woman tapped him on the arm. He
turned to look at her, mouth still moving in prayer, and saw her shocked look, and the direction of her
gaze. It was just like her type, filthy slut, to be looking there. He must have forgotten to zip himself.
Angry at the interruption, he resumed his chant. The Church behind him emptied. He worked on frantically,
but the heart wouldn’t let him succeed. He knew what he had to do.
The crash echoed through the building as Christ toppled from his pedestal,
but he hardly paused to look at his handiwork. He shouted the prayer loudly now, over and over. Three
perfect prayers.
The Gardai found him unresisting as they led him down the aisle, counting
quietly to keep up with their footsteps. It was only when they mentioned prison that he began to struggle,
and he was in the car by then and easily subdued. Slumping despairingly, he knew that this was the defining
moment of his life. He could never complete the nine churches now, and so would never solve his problem.
* * *
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