Kevin Morey lives in Cork, Ireland where he works as an engineer. He writes very short stories and flash fiction. His work has been published in the Brighton Prize Anthology and commended in the Jonathan Swift Creative Writing Awards. He co-wrote a short play which was staged at Cork Arts Theatre and he is currently working on a two-act play. He has also done some set design and building.

Pious Pricks

By Kevin Morey

‘Jesus help him’ she says as she pushes a pin through the tongue of the effigy doll. She has added a lolling tongue to the cloth doll for this purpose. He can still be saved although his doll has more pins than the others.

She knows he has good in him because he was the one who shushed the others when they jeered as she walked past the scaffolding. At first she thought he might be her guardian angel but now she knows better. She has watched him and seen that, though he may be pure of heart, he is not pure of mind. She has watched him come out of the shop with that tabloid, the one with the page 3. Four mornings, four pins. It hurts her more than it hurts him. This afternoon she heard him talking to another one as she crouched by the hoarding and she heard him say that evil word. He put it in her head: Fuck! Fucking! Fuckers! She can see the nails being driven into the hands of Jesus and she is wielding the hammer but still the word repeats in her head…

She will pray until 2am but she must be up early for the rosary procession in the town. She will help to carry the statue of our blessed lady. There will be jeering and abuse from the ignorant but the others with their closed minds will pretend not to see them at all. They think only of pleasure and success, of this world. Of course there will be the pain of walking but she will sing all the louder. She will be full of grace. She will feel the power of the holy spirit coursing through her veins and she will use this power for the good of others.

After all, she saved Peggy Dillon – Saved her soul anyway. She died but it was for the best. She couldn’t help herself. She wouldn’t help herself. She was drinking, always drinking, letting men into the house by night and all the while her soul was shrivelling, blackening – a horrible insult to God. In the end she knew she had to stick a pin in her heart. Father McEvoy was with Mrs. Dillon when she died and made an act of contrition for her. He said he knew it must be a blow for her when she had been praying so hard for Peggy. She had smiled and said that Peggy’s death was a wonderful gift but he couldn’t understand. He asked if she was feeling alright, if she needed to talk to someone.

Her pins are set out in two matching rows skewered through a strip of blue velvet. She reaches for the matching pin and dips it in a small bottle of methylated spirits. She prays quickly on an intake of breath ‘Hail Mary full of grace sss-sss’ and it’s done. She has suffered for them all. As she stands the tensing muscle in her leg radiates fiery pain. That word whispers around her brain ‘fffuck’. She closes her eyes to picture the sacred heart and squeezes the crucifix around her neck, imprinting the suffering of Christ in the palm of her hand. She puts the doll in the drawer of the dresser with the others.

Father McEvoy’s doll has two pins like antennae in his head and it reminds her of how weak minded he has been. In his sermons he speaks of God’s love, always love, with no mention of eternal damnation. God be with the days of the visiting Redemptorists who condemned the wicked and put the fear of God into the faithful. Father McEvoy argued against the processions saying that our lady would value ‘more practical demonstrations of devotion’. Is there nothing to be valued from the old ways? Now the others are losing their devotion and they have only six regulars. She remembers the great novenas long ago with Mammy, the candlelit processions, the Easter vigil, the singing crowds for Corpus Christi – Strength/en/ our/ faith/ Re/deem/er..

There is no doll for Bernie. She has faith and humility. She too is a soldier of the Lord. Yesterday she finally shared the secret of the dolls with Bernie and she had fallen silent with admiration. When Bernie was leaving she offered to collect her for tomorrow’s procession to ease the walking. She insisted that God would be pleased that she should save herself for the procession. Maybe Bernie is her guardian angel.

***

She has just said a morning prayer in front of the sacred heart when the door bell rings. ‘Just putting on my coat’ she calls and checks her bag – rosary beads – prayer book – Mammy -purse. She opens the door with a bright smile and then a bewildered snatch of panic and confusion rises in her chest and stops her breathing. She takes in the whole scene in one swirling glance. Everything is wrong. Bernie is there but standing shamefully to the side, looking away. Father McEvoy and Doctor Cauldwell are on the doorstep and two strangers are standing back on the footpath.

‘Ah Jude’ says Father McEvoy, ‘do you mind if we come in for a _ a little chat..’

She can’t hear any more words, her head is a swirl of realisation – betrayal, isolation, the work of the devil. In that moment she realises There are no guardian angels. The priest and the doctor advance and she stumbles back in the hall to where she can see the sacred heart through the living room door – Jesus, Oh Jesus, Help me…

She lurches through the door but her tortured leg is taking her weight and it gives in beneath her. Falling forward she grabs the drawer handle but the drawer pulls out of the dresser and she falls amidst a cascade of pins and dolls. All of her sacred secrets laid bare to the sceptics. Now is her greatest test and she blindly roars defiance at the devil: FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!