Charles by Con Riley
3
As the padre drew back the rest of the curtain, Charles retraced his verbal steps. A rare surge of embarrassment flushed him. “I told you about the wank—”
“Magazines from the 1980s? Yes,” the padre said without flinching. “You painted quite the picture.”
Of pubic hair, Charles thought, heat creeping up from his collar. “And about me being”—he choked on the word manwhore—“popular.”
“With men?” The padre nodded. “Yes, I think I got that picture as well, in quite vivid detail.”
Was that a smile playing where that scar started? Or ended, maybe? His eyes kept snagging on it, wondering what might have caused it. He dragged his gaze away just as the padre added, “Popular with crabs too, by the sound of it. I’m guessing you don’t mean crustaceans.”
“No.” Charles tugged at his shirt collar, which seemed to have tightened, his gaze now caught on the book on the padre’s lap. “I swear, I—”
He didn’t know how to finish. Didn’t know how to explain to a man of the cloth that while everything he’d said was true, he wasn’t ashamed of filling his life, and bed, with pleasure. He was hot under the collar at sharing that amount of detail with someone who might judge him for it, that was all. “I was joking about confessing. About me being some kind of sexual sinner.”
He straightened his shoulders and confessed his whole truth.
“There’s nothing wrong with me being gay.” He lifted his chin, because if Charles was sure of one thing, it was that only his maker could judge him, and as he’d made him this way…. “I don’t actually think there’s anything wrong with me.” Apart from his inability to find a job that stuck. “It’s just that I didn’t mean to say any of that sex-related stuff to someone so…”
Don’t say hot.
“…holy.”
The padre pressed his lips together, a pinched look Charles was used to from George lately. He couldn’t guess what it meant on this man, but as he watched, the padre seemed to come to a decision, reaching the few inches between them to rest a hand on his leg, the weight of it solid, its squeeze confirming somehow, but gone as fast as it had landed.
“I’m not here to judge you,” he said, “but I am here to listen. It sounded like you had important things on your mind towards the end there. If you don’t have anyone to share them with, I’ll listen.” The padre scanned his face, his own quite immobile apart from his eyes, which took a lively interest.
“Important things on my mind?” Charles chuffed, his thoughts returning to George’s opinion of him. “Hardly. I’m as shallow as a puddle.”
“Are you quite sure about that?” the padre murmured.
They really did sit close to each other, Charles realised. As close as he’d sit while assessing if a date was worth prolonging, deciding whether this was someone to fuck and forget—fun but nothing memorable.
Forgetting this face would be harder.
If Charles had met him anywhere else, would he have looked twice? In a club on a Friday night, for instance, his usual way to shake off the work week. It made a change to sit so close to a man who didn’t smell of booze, or sweat from dancing. Or of sex, he admitted as the intimacy of the moment hit him.
When did I last sit this close with a stranger, and talk? Just talk, without hooking up being the next step?
Charles didn’t often feel shame—refused to—but a tiny spark of something like it flickered.
That’s not shame,he told himself robustly. It’s….
He looked away. Studied the stitching of the dividing curtain as if it might darn where he’d started to fray that morning; where he’d unravelled even more during that disaster of an interview. Now that he thought about it, when was the last time he’d felt together? Whole instead of having something missing?
I’ve been lonely since Keir left.
“I’m not lonely,” Charles said, frowning, because where the actual fuck had that thought come from?
“It doesn’t sound as if you are,” the padre said, his tone easy, no judgement obvious in it. “Bit of a difference between being with lots of people and being with them though, isn’t there?” His own gaze drifted to the empty pews. “Easy to be around many, and yet feel isolated, especially if you don’t have that one special person who’s always ready to listen.”
“One special person?” Charles wrinkled his nose. “Sounds a bit romantic. Sorry, I’m not really a believer.”
The padre tilted his head, his gaze searching. “Would me confessing a few things make sharing what’s on your mind easier for you? Because ignoring the first part of your confession, the second part did sound… painful.”
Charles wondered if he knew that he traced his scar with the tip of his finger as he spoke only to drop his hand to his lap abruptly. Charles dropped his gaze too, worried he’d made an awkward situation worse by staring. He settled on saying, “I’m not sure a vicar could have very much to confess.”
“That’s where you’d be wrong. Here’s my first confession.” The padre leaned a touch closer, his voice low. “I’m not a vicar. I didn’t make it all the way to ordination. Didn’t make it anywhere close, to be honest. You might say I fell at the first hurdle.”
Charles caught sight of a half-smile that appeared closer to a grimace as the padre continued. “I stepped off the ordination track last year. Took a breather by doing something different overseas. A sabbatical, if you will, only one with an unfortunate ending.”
He must have seen Charles glance at his scar again because he nodded. “Then I came to Glynn Harber to recover. To think. To come to a final decision. An old friend invited me here. To help him out, he said, but I think he’s the one who helped me more. Kept me busy. Encouraged the children to call me padre. Tried to involve me with them, even though”—he touched the scar again—“I think this has to scare them. So, you’re my first and last confession since I got here.” He pursed his lips for a second before he did smile fully, if a touch lopsided. “If I’m not going to be here for much longer, I might as well go out with bang.”
That smile shouldn’t have been so shocking, turning a grim man handsome, but Charles huffed out a sharp breath, thankfully covered by what the padre said next.
“And please don’t worry about the crabs. The ordination track encourages us to explore future career pathways. I had planned to go into army ministry. Spent a good chunk of time with soldiers at the start of their military journey. There isn’t an STI that some squaddie hasn’t tried to show me, like a sprinkle of holy water might cure it. Heard about plenty of promiscuity too. Training for combat really can bring out the best and worst in people.”
“You think people enjoying sex falls into the worst category?”
The rain must have passed outside. Beams of sunlight filled the chapel, but somehow the padre’s face turned shadowed. “The worst? Not even close.” Those shadows almost looked bruised. “Sex as part of a commitment is a gift, I’m told. One to give thanks for, and treasure. Besides, I’d be a bit of a hypocrite if I held being gay against you.”
“Oh.” Charles wasn’t sure how to describe what flooded through him at that revelation.
Relief, for not causing offence, maybe, because even if he was out and proud, being confrontational wasn’t his habit.
Or was it surprise? Silly when he knew gay clergy existed. Had done forever, although he didn’t know how well that was accepted, or if the padre’s version of commitment meant anything like his own dedication to one-time enjoyment. Sure that he could guess the answer to that question, Charles decided to move on. “Why won’t you be here for much longer?”
“Because if I’m not going to take a permanent role here, I need to move on to make space for someone who will. I’ve already been here too long.” There were those clouds again, marring his expression. “Had more than enough time to listen and come to a decision.”
“Listen? To what?”
“To the voice that guides me. The one that helps all of us find our calling. We all have one.” Maybe he noticed Charles raise his eyebrows, because he nodded. “Sometimes it’s so faint we have to strain to hear it. Give it time and space somewhere peaceful with no distractions,” he said, almost sounding as if he was reminding himself, rather than offering advice, “and it’ll come back. Mine’s being a touch fickle. Seems to have gone AWOL. Maybe that’s its message.”
The only small voice Charles heard was George’s, telling him to hurry home to work for him. He resolved to ignore it for a while longer. “So your calling isn’t as an army padre?”
A frown brought back the sternness Charles had first seen, but it didn’t seem to be aimed in his direction. “No.”
“And you don’t want to work here long-term?”
“I thought I might.” He hung his head for a moment, raising it to glance sideways at Charles. “I’ve helped out with some teaching. Religious education. Some sociology, exploring moral and ethical dilemmas. That kind of thing. All with the sixth-form students. I’ve sat for them in their art classes and helped them with their university applications too. Offered to listen to their problems from a pastoral rather than purely religious perspective.”
“You listen to teenagers’ problems?” Charles faked a shudder. “That must keep you busy.”
“Not really, and that’s why staying seems pointless. I have an office they can come to, but I can count the students on one hand who’ve taken me up on the offer.”
“And the younger children?”
He shook his head.
Charles sat up straighter. “You don’t like young children?”
“I like them just fine,” he said, and Charles relaxed. “Much more than I imagined, to be honest. They’re—”
“Magic?” Charles suggested. “Brilliant little creatures who make every day surprising?”
“I thought you called them maggots.”
“Well, they are quite maggoty too, but that’s all part of their charm.”
“Maybe it would have been different if…” He lifted his hand to his scar, lowering it before he could touch it. “The little ones might have warmed to me without this—” He stopped. Swallowed. Started over. “All I’m certain of is that ordination isn’t for me. It can’t be. As for the future… I’m still listening, remember?”
He drew in a deep breath and Charles followed his line of sight to see it land on the chapel’s simple altar. “I still have faith. That’s never going to change. It’s only my path that’s up for debate. But it will be strange to be called by my given name, instead of padre. Or instead of His Holy Hotness,” he added, and there was that half smile again.
Lopsided or not, Charles liked it.
Wanted to see more of it.
Tried harder to provoke it.
“Holy Hotness?” he scoffed. “Try being a holy hot mess, like me,” he said, pleased to see it widen. “Does that mean you stop being….” Charles didn’t know how to phrase it. “Holy?”
“I’m miles from that even on my best day.” The padre extended his hand. “I’ll just be Hugo Eavis. Temporarily in charge of pastoral support here, last of a long line of army padres, but definitely far from holy.”
“And I’m Charles Heppel.” He shook Hugo’s hand, not at all surprised by the firm grasp that engulfed his. “Currently unemployed, useless third son of an earl, and irredeemable sinner. Pleased to meet you.”
“Oh, I imagine you’re perfectly redeemable.” Hugo sat back, seeming to settle in his seat more easily, and the sunshine returned. His smile warmed Charles as much as the puddle of light they sat in, and he couldn’t help smiling back.
Some of the disappointment he’d carried from the headmaster’s study was easier to put down now he knew he wasn’t the only one struggling to find the right path forwards. Sure, he’d pick up that disappointment again later, but for now, he could let it go and listen.
“You can tell me about it, if you want,” Charles offered. “Tell me about how you got from wanting to be an army padre to here, and what might be next for you. I….” He wasn’t quite sure if what he said next was comparable, but it felt so. “I know what it’s like to look for a good fit. To have a drive that makes you keep searching until you find….”
“Fulfilment?”
Charles nodded.
Hugo said, “I could tell you all about that, but now that we’re at the same level, how about you go first? I don’t care whose son you are, or believe you’re anywhere close to useless, but something was bothering you badly when I got here. Give yourself some grace, Charles. We’re already forgiven for not being perfect. You could get it off your chest, if you wanted. Just two men talking. No judgement.”
He angled himself towards Charles, long legs stretched in front of him, but something clattered as he shifted that he reached down for. A walking stick, Charles noticed, silver tipped, and complete with some kind of regimental insignia.
Now they were at the same level?
This was a man who had wanted to serve Queen and country.
And God.
A man who’d maybe got injured doing so, Charles guessed. And who worked at a school where Charles could barely get a foot in the front door. And that mention of Hugo exploring his calling meant he must be someone with depth.
Real depth.
What was the last thing I explored that wasn’t TikTok, or Grindr?
The same level?
They weren’t even close.
Charles revisited other jobs that hadn’t lasted, and how the only fulfilment he’d found lately came with a whiff of poppers.
I literally fuck around. Hardly the hallmark of a hero.
Charles opened his mouth to say so, but shut it just as swiftly. He cocked his head. “Did you hear that?”
“Hear what?”
Charles stood. “That?” He took a few steps, listening. “It sounds like—”
“Running,” Hugo said, levering himself upright as well.
The chapel door swung open, the man in the doorway breathless. “One of Ruth’s kids is missing.” His gaze caught on Hugo’s stick and then swung to Charles. “Help me find him, will you?”