'In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.'
Freddie made the sign of the cross while the priest spoke, sniffing and rubbing at his nose afterwards. Through the small patterned screen in the cramped confessional booth, he could see the old man's deeply-grooved face cast in shadow, and felt a deep pang of something he didn't recognise in his chest.
'Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It's been . . . a long bloody time since I last confessed.'
Father Kearney's lips could be seen barely moving through the other side of the small screen. 'What's brought you here tonight?'
Freddie sighed deeply and pinched his nose a few times, blinking his bleary eyes. He must have been coming down with something. 'It's about me nephew. No one's heard a dicky bird about who nearly done him in, and it's nearly doing me in thinking about it.'
He was met with the priest's patient silence, and so Fred went on, 'I'm confessing about the sins I'm gonna commit when I find those bastards what done it. I'm not sorry for it, though.'
'Well,' began the old man, and Fred heard him shift on the seat, the wood creaking quietly in response. 'That isn't exactly how this works. One must be sincere in his contrition, should he receive God's true forgiveness for his mortal sin.'
'Oh, cut the holier-than-thou shite, Father,' spat Fred, turning sharply, his intense gaze boring through the cross-shaped slits towards the priest's jawline, which had lost its defined shape over the years. 'Last time I heard, sodomy were a sin. And sodomy with an eleven-year-old will get you a nice long stay at Her Majesty's Pleasure, probably with a big, black cock up your arse, which personally I think would be rather poetic.'
Silence struck the air like knives before Freddie slowly relaxed and faced forward again, hands folded ahead of him in the space between his parted legs. 'Look, I ain't here to confess. There ain't enough Hail Marys to save my soul after what I'm gonna do to the bastards what tried to top me nephew. Me first assumption was that it were the Greeks, but someone would have talked by now. I've got all of London by the balls right now and no one's said a dicky. So, I'm thinking it's personal-like. A vendetta o' sorts.
'I've got more than my share of enemies. Whoever it was got into the boy's wedding and didn't raise no suspicion. That means, he knows us personally. What I need you to do, Father, is keep your ears to the ground, see if you hear anything. And I do mean anything. If that bastard decides to—" And here's where Fred put on a heavy Irish accent in mockery of the old priest: "—bear his soul to God and ask for forgiveness, then I wanna hear about it the second he leaves the confessional. Because if I find out you know summink and you didn't tell me, well . . . We both know what they do to nonces in nick. And summink tells me that a nonce of the highest order like you might just get the royal treatment.'
Freddie didn't wait for a response. He simply stood, drew the red curtain, and smoothed the front of his shirt before heading towards the front doors. Stella was waiting for him in a beige mackintosh and a pair of white kid-skin gloves, watching him steadily as he approached.
'Ready?'
He nodded wordlessly and pushed past her out the front doors to the tiny parish church, slipping on his sunglasses. It was a cold day in May, lightly raining with a rather brisk wind, but the sun was shining down through the clouds in various places, giving the grassy countryside an almost eerie, fairytale sort of look.
As soon as the heinous act had been committed, Fred had put out a red alert all throughout London. He practically went door-to-door, asking those he trusted for their cooperation, and blackmailing those he didn't. Normally, with a crime like attempted murder, there was always a peep from somewhere—a man who sold a suspicious figure a gun, or the bloke who hired him, or even the man who did the deed himself would boast about it while well into his cups down at the pub. Someone, somewhere would talk. The fact that no one had now made it all the more suspicious.
Freddie drove his BMW through the winding roads that cut the foggy heaths and bracken as they headed further into the Essex countryside, with Stella silently seated beside him. The only noise that joined them the entire ride was the occasional scrape of the windscreen wipers swiping forward and back again to clear the rain.
They drove like this for some time until they approached Aunt Polly's moderately-sized farm. There were large pockets of rainwater amongst the various valleys and crevices, and the drive, unpaved, was slicked with mud. Smoke was billowing up from the chimney on the great yellow farm house, looking like the fog that hung low to the ground surrounding the premises.
The horses were huddled together for warmth in the stables, and Polly's new worker, Lena, was out and about, trudging through the mud in her Wellingtons with a large bundle of hay over her shoulder, squinting out towards the black car with her narrow, hooded eyes and red-flushed moon face. Her sandy blonde hair was short and swept back against her scalp, adding to her mean appearance.
Fred parked the car in the muddy drive and looked at Stella when he turned off the engine. 'I want you to meet someone before I show you what I come up here to show you.'
After sniffing, he exited the vehicle and Stella followed suit, closing the door behind her and trailing after him as he headed up to the front door on the large farm house. Before he could even knock, the door opened and there stood Polly, older-looking than the last time he had seen her but as vibrant and tough as ever. She had a cigarette between her pursed lips, which were drawn together with many lines surrounding them like a permanent pucker, and she squinted at him through the smoke.
'Who's this?' Her head cocked towards the woman at his side.
Freddie rubbed his wind-chapped hands together. 'This is Stella, Stella Collins. Me girlfriend.'
Polly's eyes widened to the size of dinner plates. 'Well, blimey,' she said softly, pulling the cigarette out from her teeth to step aside. 'Freddie Evans got himself a girlfriend. I need to check me diary, see if Hell's frozen over. – Come in, won't you, and let's have a cup of tea.'
They all came into the warmth of the house, kicking the mud from their shoes off on the rug. Polly had called in Lena from her duties and they all had tea in the front room, and Polly reassured her nephew (and herself) for the hundredth time that she had only hired the Polish woman because she could afford it, and that she didn't really need the help, and added that she simply wanted to do her Christian duties by giving a poor soul some good work and decent pay. Lena had just sat there and drank down her tea with plenty of milk and sugar, only speaking to announce in broken English that she was getting more biscuits from the kitchen after she had crammed most of the package into her spittle-coated lips. She ate like an ox but worked just as hard, and Polly liked her, even if she would never admit it aloud.
After tea, they said their goodbyes and headed back out into the rain. By then the sun was tucked far down into the hills, casting the landscape in dusky greys and soft purples. It was raining harder, and Stella pulled her jacket around her more tightly. Freddie got a torch from his car and used it to illuminate their path as he led her up the hill and towards the old barn that sat atop it.
When they had reached the great door, Fred took time to open it and ushered Stella inside before following after her. As soon as they were inside, the heavy rain outside became muted, and they could stomp their boots and blow into their hands for heat.
The barn was empty, except for mounds of hay and various equipment hanging from the walls. The horses had separate stables, as did the hogs in their own stone alcove, and so Stella was confused, for the moment, at what exactly Freddie was trying to show her.
Freddie, however, knew exactly what he was looking for. Stepping forward, he reached a certain part of the floor and kicked aside some hay. Then, leaning down, he put his fingers into a particular groove on the wooden boards and lifted it with some effort, until the hay slipped off and a large door was revealed. Pushing it further still, it fell loudly onto the other side, and Stella jumped slightly before hesitantly stepping forward, watching as Freddie unlocked and opened a large trough buried beneath the ground.
Her mouth fell agape as she saw its contents; pistols, rifles, carbines, and other weaponry of all sorts sat atop piles and piles of bank notes. She watched in stunned silence as Freddie opened the second trough as well, and there were just as many guns and stacks of bank notes lying within. Together there could have been a million pounds in there, at least. Her heart was beating a tattoo against the back of her rib cage at the thought.
'This is me safe keeping,' he told her, a bit nasally from his illness, sniffing and rubbing a hand over his mouth and nose. His multitude of rings clinked together in the movement. 'In case summink happens to me. It's just . . . Everything with Junior has made me think, do you know what I mean?'
Stella nodded, pressing her lips together briefly. Her mouth felt dry. 'I completely understand,' she told him, startled at how cool and composed her voice sounded. 'Something so . . . horrific could make anyone think about their life.'
Freddie nodded but said nothing, eyes on the troughs at their feet. A short silence passed between them and he blinked blearily, clearing his throat and turning to look towards the barn door with his full lips slightly parted. What little moonlight was visible filtered in through the wooden slats and illuminated his face. 'I just wanna take care of me own, even after I'm gone.'
Inhaling as deeply as he could through his nose, he looked at her once more and then said, 'Well, let's go get summink to eat, eh? Don't think I had anything all day.'
As she watched him close the troughs and the floor compartment, covering it up with hay afterwards, she knew sleeping with Freddie was finally paying off. Now she had her escape. With the sort of money he was keeping in there, she and Fyodor could go to Malta. And only she was privy to the knowledge of its whereabouts.
She almost felt bad, actually, using him like this when his nephew was fighting for his life in a hospital bed. But then again, this was Freddie she was talking about, after all. He was one of the biggest Faces in London. He'd hardly miss it.