Operation Penance: A hilarious laugh-out-loud slapstick comedy drama about a priest with a guilty secret that leads him straight into temptation! Read online

  Turning his key in the door, he at last relaxed, having packed quite a lot into his day. Most of it would see a mention on his work log, but a portion of it definitely wouldn’t. He was never quite sure how hard the bishop studied his time sheets, but he was having to get quite inventive to cover his secret sexual incursions into the neighbouring parish. Several hours a week was a lot of time to lose, and he lived in fear of one of his needier parishioners kicking the ball upstairs to head office if they had to leave one too many voicemails.

  Pat’s phone buzzed yet again as he hung up his jacket and dropped his dog collar onto the stand at the top of the hall. Recalling the unwatched video, he pulled it from his pocket, along with the christening cake, and made his way into the kitchen to put the kettle on. Setting out the mug and tea bag on the work surface, he decided to occupy the time the water took to boil with a little adult action. Once more he opened the text and clicked on the file, making it full screen in order to maximise his viewing pleasure and carefully setting the volume loud enough for him to hear but not God, which, from his limited experience of such matters, was pretty much a medium setting with his thumb pressed over the speaker.

  As he hit play the paused image sprang to life, showing the woman in shot was on all fours, her head hanging down as a pair of pendulous, well-tanned, naked breasts dangled even lower, swinging in time to her suspiciously dramatic guttural gasps like two pogoing skinheads repeatedly butting heads. Behind her, out of focus, knelt a podgy red-faced man whom, he noted, was obviously unaccustomed to this level of carnal exercise, his clumsy, altogether less rhythmic efforts akin to an X-rated balloon-based party game. Father Pat felt instant empathy with another bloke punching well above his weight. Maybe a lonely millionaire or aging rock star with the best years of his libido behind him, desperately clinging to any hope of retaining the interest of an infinitely more attractive partner?

  Given his line of work, Father Pat wasn’t a massive expert on adult cinema, yet, barring the naked breasts and racy respiratory soundtrack, he still felt it was unlikely to take anything home from this year’s Porn Awards. Disappointed by her operatic hype, he patiently waited for the woman to raise her head, just on the off chance that maybe he knew her. After all, it might be fun to have an amateur porn star amongst his flock, that would certainly liven up the open mic nights in the church hall. When at last the woman began to loudly announce her much anticipated arrival, and in doing so looked straight at the camera, he felt sick to the core and his heart skipped a beat. It was Felicity! His Felicity, the love of his life he was currently risking his whole earthly existence for! The one he loved was untrue and this heart-breaking thunderclap of discovery could only be God’s earthly revenge for kicking him out at the traffic lights!

  As the video played on he started to sob, barely able to watch as a shrieking Felicity acted her leading man right off the stage. Someone who had brought so much joy to Pat’s life was deceiving him. Yet, as the first tear ran down his ruddy cheek and his thumb instinctively moved across to the stop button, the camera zoomed in on the facial features of Felicity’s now heavily perspiring co-star, who, judging by his rolling eyes, was about to finish up at the rear. A second jolt of realisation threatened to burst his heart like a dropped bag of liver. For fuck’s sake, it was him!!

  Like so many men before him, Pat had never seen his fuck face, which was not altogether surprising as, having only recently begun his sexual journey of discovery, things hadn’t yet progressed to the ‘let’s film ourselves, it’ll be fun’ stage. He was shocked at just how contorted it became the closer he got to splashdown, gurning like a constipated lion trying to rid himself of last night’s curried armadillo. For the second time that day his heart raced and his balls shrank. This definitely wouldn’t be one to share with St. Mildred’s Flower Arranging WhatsApp Group!

  Chapter 2

  Father Pat hadn’t had the greatest night’s sleep on the bathroom floor after feeling sick every time he lay down in bed, endlessly tormented by the same burning question smashing around inside his panicked brain. Who had filmed them, and why? He felt sure Felicity would be absolutely outraged by their most intimate, private moments being captured on camera for the gratification of others; though, to be fair, he wasn’t 100% convinced she would, seemingly more than comfortable with absolutely anything of a sexual nature. If he was honest, it was a relief that he’d got in the habit of dropping God off at the traffic lights because, considering she was a qualified legal professional, some of her colourful bedroom language left a lot to be desired.

  Wow! Maybe that was the answer? Perhaps Felicity could bring them to heel with a nasty legal letter stating a rigid timeframe within which to comply, or possibly dash out a quick cease and desist text and they would simply fold. Pat just wished she would answer her phone so he could appraise her on the delicate nature of their predicament.

  To add to his frustrations, the sender also hadn’t responded to his numerous texts demanding that they contact him immediately, which were quite angry in tone to start with, then slightly less annoyed, soon followed by empathic understanding, and ultimately pleading. Worse still, the number didn’t accept incoming calls, instead cutting him off after just one ring, thus removing his default method of conflict resolution; namely, leaving a bunch of furious voicemails threatening hellfire and eternal damnation, which usually had the desired effect for anything from late pizza deliveries to substandard car repairs.

  So, it was a thoroughly dejected priest who sat at the kitchen table in his PJs, nursing a steaming mug of tea, the neatly wrapped christening cake from the night before still lying untouched on the side. Pat knew if this video got out his career was finished. Getting caught watching porn on his phone at a christening was one thing, but starring in it was on another level!

  As his sleep deprived brain slowly churned over the previous day’s events, he realised that the footage must have been captured by a covert camera hidden in Felicity’s bedroom. Of course! That could only mean one thing. An intruder had gained entry to her flat to install it while she was at work. He must warn her! They might return at any time, a lust crazed stalker who wanted her all for himself and would stop at nothing to permanently secure her favours. That’s why she wasn’t answering her phone, he already had her captive! The thought of the woman who took his virginity being held against her will by a technologically savvy psychopath was simply too much to bear. Suddenly, Father Pat knew exactly what he had to do. Race over to Harborne and try to save her!

  Shooting up from the table, he ran upstairs to get dressed. Pat had no idea what clothes would be most suited to tackling a texting sex pest, so he just threw on what he’d worn for yesterday’s liaison with Felicity. Then, at least if there was a blood-soaked battle to the death, he wasn’t making any unnecessary laundry for himself, as they needed to go in the wash anyway.

  Storming out of the door, he caught sight of the organist walking over from the church, waving cheerfully. Father Pat responded by firing up the Zafira, smashing it into first gear and wheel spinning off the drive without even stopping to acknowledge him. No time to waste on idle chitchat, a top solicitor’s life might be in danger! The man just stood and stared as the decrepit Vauxhall disappeared up the road, though it wasn’t technically out of sight, just obscured by all the thick black smoke pouring from the exhaust. Its knackered head gasket failed miserably in its efforts to keep engine oil out of the cylinders, as the rev counter needle flew into the red quicker than an African dictator’s wife with a brand new credit card.

  Although Pat wasn’t wearing his dog collar, he decided against dropping God off at the traffic lights today. A lifetime spent in the pulpit convincing his congregation that the Lord was all seeing made it a totally pointless exercise anyway! He probably already knew all about Felicity and what they got up to while the Zafira spent three hours dropping supermarket 20/50 engine oil next to factory-fresh BMWs. No, it made far more sense to hold him in reserve should the need for any extreme violence arise. Admittedly, he couldn’t recall any bible passages where his creator opened a can of whoop-ass, but some of the stuff in the Old Testament was fairly tasty. That alone guaranteed him automatic membership of the newly formed Special Prayer Service!

  As he drew closer to Harborne, so Pat’s determination levels increased, forcing his right foot down ever harder on the accelerator pedal and steadily increasing his emission output to blazing oil tanker levels, leaving in his wake a smoke trail that resembled a low-level fly past by the MPV wing of the Red Arrows. But then his eyes weren’t focused in the rear-view mirror, they were firmly fixed on where he was going, as the SPS were now engaged in a life or death mission to save Felicity from the clutches of a perverted CCTV technician!

  Just as engine oil reserves neared the critical level, Pat screamed into Felicity’s road in a sideways skid that saw the heavily cracked tyres struggle to remain on the rusted rims. There certainly wasn’t time for the three-minute walk from the Harborne Shopper’s Car Park today because a life was at stake! If there wasn’t a parking space available he would just have to make one! Sure enough, as he suspected, every gap outside Felicity’s neat little terrace was taken, all except for a yellow disabled bay on the other side of the road, one that was clearly too small for a heavily smoking Zafira driven at speed by a lovelorn insomniac priest with a new-found love of horizontal Morris dancing.

  Pulling hard on the handbrake, he slid the backend round and stuffed it bonnet first into the tiny space, loudly smashing up the curb before finally coming to rest against a garden wall that had survived two World Wars yet still retained enough structural integrity to halt a rusting Vauxhall. Knowing this was no time to dally, and trusting his redeemer was close behind, he shot out of the driver’s door and across t
he road, convinced God wouldn’t miss this for the world now that Pat Gallagher was one of his wayward Christian soldiers marching as to war!

  Sadly for Pat, the only thing right behind him was an ancient cardboard air freshener, dislodged on impact after two entirely fragrance-free years swinging from the Zafira’s broken cigar lighter, which promptly found a new home in the gutter next to a sizable collection of nitrous oxide cannisters. Other than that, it was just a knackered, hot, flabby priest against an unknown and presumably technically advanced enemy.

  Only once the initial burst of adrenalin began to subside did Pat realise just how tired he was. Despite the perilous nature of Felicity’s predicament, it made sense to take a moment to gather all his might for what would almost certainly be a fight to the death! However, the din of the Zafira crash landing like a packed holiday jet overshooting a Mediterranean runway had stirred the present occupant of Felicity’s boudoir. As Pat struggled to regain control of his breathing, the front door opened to reveal an irritated young woman wearing a flimsy dressing gown and puffing furiously on an e-cig.

  “Who the fuck are you?” she demanded.

  Pat was totally taken aback. He’d expected to see Felicity with a newly purchased chef’s knife held to her throat by some sex-crazed computer nerd. A scantily clad former smoker with an undeniably forthright doorstep manner definitely hadn’t figured anywhere in his admittedly haphazard, in-car risk assessment.

  “Er... Is Felicity in, please?”

  “Who the fuck is Felicity?” demanded the indignant vape fan, whom Pat noted preferred sickly fruit flavours.

  “She’s the solicitor that lives here. We are in a committed relationship, and I strongly suspect she’s being held against her will by a homicidal, sex-crazed techno-geek.”

  Pat wished he could settle on a single uncomplimentary description for Felicity’s stalker, but it was tricky without actually knowing what he looked like. It didn’t seem right to him, going off half-cocked with the insults, because nasty names only hurt if they made sense. So, he would settle on something once they eventually came face to face, making it just a simple matter of accessorising an unflattering noun with a thoroughly disrespectful adjective, an unfortunate habit he hoped his less attractive rosary rattlers never got wind of.

  “Solicitor? Ha! I’m the duty solicitor today, love. You can have half an hour for seventy quid or two hours for £250.”

  “You don’t look much like a lawyer to me. When were you called to the bar?” inquired Pat, totally missing the irony.

  “Love, I think the girl you are referring to moved out yesterday. Though you’re right, the landlord does rent this place out to solicitors who might spend the odd day in court, but the sort that try really hard not to make a habit of it. Now, if you’ll kindly bugger off, I’ve got an architect due in fifteen minutes and I need to look my best if I’m going to get a tip!”

  With that, she shut the door, leaving Pat wondering if God had heard all that and exactly what His take on events might be?

  Left with no option but to retreat back to his wheezing Zafira with the imagined laughter of his Maker still ringing in his ears, Pat crossed the road to the disabled bay and dejectedly climbed back into the driver’s seat. It had been a really bad day. Discovering he was no longer in an illicit relationship was bad enough, but finally discovering himself to be the victim of an elaborate blackmail plot came as an even bigger body blow. He simply couldn’t believe that Felicity wasn’t a solicitor, or that in fact she was, just not the kind that got you off a speeding ticket on a technicality, more the sort that just got you off, full stop!

  Discovering that their time together had all been on the meter was a bitter pill to swallow and hot tears pricked his eyes. Throwing himself over the steering wheel, he began to blub. What the hell would he do now without his ‘Felicity Time’, and exactly how long would it be before the parish bell ringers saw the video of him getting his clapper greased?

  In his melodramatic fug, Pat didn’t hear the car pull up behind his perpendicularly dumped faith mobile, still wailing like a five-year-old mourning a deceased ladybird when there was a sharp tap at the window. Wiping his eyes on his sleeve, he peered out at a man in a suit, who gestured for him to wind down the window. Pat fumbled for the keys in his pocket and rammed them into the ignition. Then, with his vision still blurred by tears of heartbreak, he mistakenly pressed the button to roll down the passenger window. The man huffed at Pat’s unintentional error and started to walk around the car to address him from that side instead. Realising his mistake, and having now largely regained his composure, Pat obligingly wound that window back up and rolled down the driver’s side instead. On reaching the now closed passenger window the complainant became visibly more irritated and stormed back around the car, while Pat waited patiently, trying hard to look apologetic about the whole thing.

  “Do you realise this is a disabled parking bay?” blustered the man.

  “Yes,” replied Pat, who wasn’t going to make a bad day worse by adding lying to his newly uncovered prostitution addiction.

  The man looked taken aback by Pat’s truthful answer, something he hadn’t anticipated during the few seconds he’d had to compose his short script of raging indignation.

  “Then why did you park in it?”

  “It was an emergency.”

  “An emergency?”

  “Yes, I thought a friend of mine was in grave danger.”

  “That’s no excuse!”

  “On the contrary, I would consider that to be an excellent excuse, and I would know as I hear quite a lot of them in my job.”

  “What job would that be?”

  Shit! thought Pat, suddenly realising that a priest claiming to be on a life or death mercy mission, parked in a disabled space outside a prostitute’s house, might only take seconds to make the Harborne Community Facebook page.

  “Traffic warden,” he blagged, swiftly electing to become a stranger from the truth after all.

  “I would expect a traffic warden to know better than to take the parking space of a disabled man with a - ”

  “Mazda MX5?” said Pat, turning his head and noting the outlandish choice of transport for a person claiming to have debilitating health issues.

  “It’s a mobility car!”

  “You’ve got an MX5 on mobility? Exactly what is your disability, a serous phobia of slow cars? Or does driving with the top down ease your chronic catarrh?”

  “If you must know, I have an arthritic ankle!”

  “Well, it didn’t seem to bother you too much when you were jogging around my car getting ready to bawl at me!”

  “That’s because I’m having a good day and the adrenalin rush must have masked the pain!”

  “Tell you what, why don’t you just get back in your state sponsored sports car, go once around the block, and I will be gone by the time you get back? How does that sound?”

  Father Pat had long forgotten the art of arguing because he seldom got the opportunity these days, the job just didn’t call for it. Comforting, scolding, reasoning and soothing were his go-to people skills. Being a priest offered very little opportunity to mock the afflicted and invite them to feck off.

  Mr MX5, sensing the balance of power had shifted, nodded his approval and turned to retreat.

  “One last thing before you go? What do you do for a living, since you asked me?”