Temptation [A Young Writer's Prize Submission]

Temptation

Chapter One

I never believed in all that 'eternal happiness' lark – the stuff that's forced down your throat by anyone with a belief system.

I can't deny that it's tempting to believe there's a reward after suffering through life, nobody wants to think their efforts are in vain. But the line blurs at repentance.

Everyone misbehaves; it's just human nature that people do things they'd rather not remember, so where is the line drawn? Should an immoral person scramble into heaven if they repent at the last minute? Where's the justice in that? A deathbed 'sorry' can't cancel out a lifetime of sin.

Besides, there's no proof that bad people are punished – or good people are rewarded. I've seen bad things done by untouchable.

Mind trekking through various fields of thought, a thundering sound shocked me out of my daydreams. I crashed into reality, to find my gaze resting on the straining seams on somebody's jacket. Vision vanished from my head – all I could see were those seams.

The source of my interruption was a bald-headed priest enjoying the limelight. His red, chubby face boasted a beaming smile, which mocked the reluctant churchgoers. In the corner of my eye, I noticed my foster father, Thomas Isaac, sitting in a distracted state. His posture was lazy, which put crinkles in his cream linen suit. Absentmindedly, he fiddled with his gold cufflinks; his eyes strayed to his watch every few seconds.

His wife, Debra, sitting on my left side, was riveted. Her brown eyes were alight with religious fervour, her delicate ears absorbing every syllable from the pulpit. Her lilac cotton dress was more suitable for spectating a horse race at Royal Ascot, than listening to a priest of a small parish. Saying that, Debra had her own opinion on everything from fashion to gardening, and very rarely changed her mind.

Beyond Debra, the baptismal party waited in the front row, but even they were struggling to pay attention as the priest droned on. The baby, who minutes before had been sleeping happily, now began to whimper and complain – probably because he realised what he'd been dressed in. What was the appeal of white cotton gowns at christenings? Other than the entertainment value, that is.

The priest cleared his throat in a bid to renew attention. Then, with a flourished parting note: "Now, we welcome this child into the Catholic Church."

He stepped down from the pulpit, beckoning the baptismal party toward the font. The baby – as if sensing what was to come – changed his whimpers to full on tears, as his mother delicately lowered him over the basin of water. Here, my vision was hindered by a large hat in the front row.

A cry of pure anger and distress echoed through the church, drowning out the priest's blessing. I barely concealed my grin. In my mind, black shadows scattered from the baby's extremities. These dark shapes surrounded the church, crawled up the walls and fought to escape through cracks in the windows. The crying stopped abruptly: after a hymn, we were free to move from the pews.

Debra leaned across me to smack her husband's arm. He gave a long-suffering sigh, but dutifully stood, squeezing my shoulder lightly as he followed her toward the proud parents, brandishing their child like a beacon. I remained seated with my foster siblings; Susana and her kid brother, Philip.

I might exaggerate when saying that no two people could look less like sisters than Susana and I – but that statement reflects my feeling. Perhaps it's more accurate to say that no two people could feel less like family than she and I.

With the advantage of Debra's Italian heritage, Susana had adopted the ancient Roman custom of bleaching her hair. She might not have used the original formula to do it, but several times in the past, I'd been strongly tempted to switch her bottles of dye with the relevant substance.