Stewardess Fanfiction

Title: Midnight Virgin. 2/9 in the Already Crazy series.
Fandom: Boondock Saints
Author: stewardess_lotr
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Murphy has a plan: A shite one. Schoolboy Connor and Murphy, age eleven.
Warnings: Blasphemy
Archive: In my LJ only





“It won’t fucken work,” Connor said.

They were in their bedroom; Ma was at The Anvil. With any luck, she’d not be home until midnight. They’d be long gone by then, unless Connor kept up his gloom and doom.

“Ya looked in a mirror by candlelight at midnight,” Murphy reminded him.

“We were eight fucken years old then! I don’t believe in that shite anymore.”

Murphy ignored his outburst and put two blankets into a duffle bag. “Got the juice?”

“Aye.” Connor sat on his twin bed that was only an arm’s length from Murphy’s. Murphy gave silent thanks that they were too poor to have separate bedrooms.

“Torch?” Murphy asked.

“Aye,” Connor said.

“Did ya get new batteries for it?”

“No.”

“Fuck. Sandwiches?”

“Aye.”

They were ready to go. It was seven in the evening, giving them barely enough time to get to the cathedral before it locked its doors for the night.

***

A Tinker had told Murphy that, if you were in a church at midnight, you would see the Blessed Mother. They had heard the same thing about looking in a mirror at midnight, which had been a complete fucking failure, but the church sounded more promising.

And it was simple enough to prove or disprove.

They selected the cathedral because no one knew them there. Their priest, Father Cagnini, would have known their appearance at the church at such a late hour meant something was up.

They had tested the doors, and found the cathedral was locked after the last service, so they’d have to go in early, hide their stuff, and wait.

When they arrived at the cathedral, there were less than two dozen people inside. No one gave them a second glance. They were wearing their school uniforms, which made them invisible.

They sat in a pew and stuffed their bags under the bench in front of them.

“We should hide in a confessional,” Murphy whispered.

They had discussed this already; Connor didn’t want to -- he thought it would be too small. Instead, he thought they should stretch out on the benches and pretend to go to sleep.

But Murphy was afraid they would be discovered, so when the cathedral was nearly empty, they went out through the front entrance, then came back in through a side door that was right by the confessionals.

The confessionals had no doors, only heavy velvet drapes. The interiors were carpeted, and the walls were covered in fabric. They were slightly bigger than an old-fashioned phone kiosk.

They picked the closest one. They were cramped, especially as Murphy brought the food and juice and the torch in with them, so they could eat while they were waiting.

Connor lay on his back and put his legs up on the one solid wall, his head toward the curtain, and Murphy did the same. There wasn’t even enough room for them to sit cross-legged on the floor together.

“You could take the other confessional,” Murphy whispered.

“Naw. I don’t want to fall asleep,” Connor said.

But they did anyway.

***

Murphy woke up to total darkness. He tried to stretch and kicked Connor, who grunted. Murphy groaned. His legs had fallen asleep. He stood with difficulty and turned on the torch. It gave out a weak light that obviously wasn’t going to last, so he shut it off. He peeked out from behind the curtain and immediately pulled his head back in.

The cathedral at night looked like an enormous cave. There was no light other than feeble candles lit here and there, somehow making the emptiness even more menacing. The high ceiling was lost in darkness.

The confessionals were up near the altar; the front entrance of the cathedral seemed miles away. Their bags with their blankets were somewhere in the middle.

With their blankets, they could stretch out on the floor; they’d be a lot more comfortable while they waited for midnight.

Connor stood up and tried to stretch in the cramped space. “What time is it?”

Fuck! They didn’t have a watch with them. Well, if the Blessed Mother showed up, they could hardly miss her.

Connor stepped outside of the confessional, and Murphy followed him out.

“We should eat now,” Murphy said nervously. They were automatically whispering in the dark. He dreaded walking around the darkened cathedral, especially without a functioning torch. Without speaking, they retreated inside the confessional, keeping the drape closed, and unpacked the food: cheese with butter on wholemeal bread.

Judging from his level of hunger, it was after nine p.m. They’d had tea and biscuits at four that afternoon and nothing since.

Murphy turned the torch back on, picked up the thermos flask of juice, removed the top, and lifted it to his lips. Connor snatched it out of his hands.

“Fucker,” Murphy hissed. “I was going to let ya have some.” They didn’t have enough, he realized, only a pint or so. They should have brought a bottle of water.

Connor screwed the lid back on. “Listen,” he said. He shook the flask, and there was a rattling sound. “The glass inside’s broken. I heard it. You were just about to drink broken glass.”

“Fuck,” Murphy said. Thank you. “We don’t have anything else to drink.”

Connor smiled, which Murphy could faintly see by the dying torch. “There’s holy water.”

Murphy stuck out his tongue in disgust. People had been dipping their hands into it all day. And the stone containers hadn’t looked that clean anyway. Murphy thought he remembered seeing a cigarette butt floating in one.

“Come on,” Connor said. “We have to get our bags. And maybe there’s a water fountain by the entrance.”

Reluctantly, Murphy stood up and followed him out. They walked slowly down the center aisle, but it was too fucking dark. They would have to go around the perimeter, where the candles were lit. They back tracked and went down the left aisle, which seemed the brightest.

Murphy kept his eyes straight ahead. The bigger than life-size statues of the saints, with their gleaming glass eyes, were fucking scary in the dim candlelight.

Connor was walking just in front of him. He put his hand on Connor’s shoulder, as if he had gone blind and Connor was leading him.

Connor stopped and looked at him over his shoulder. “Let’s light all the candles.”

“We don’t have any money,” Murphy whispered. You were supposed to donate twenty pence to light a candle.

“So fucken what? We need the light.”

They walked back to the closest saint, who was unfortunately Saint Sebastian. Why the fuck had the artist wanted to make the blood and the wounds look so real? It was disgusting. The artist should be made to look at the thing when there were only candles to see it by. Then he’d be fucking sorry.

They lit all the candles, six rows deep, eight across. The light of it was heartening, and they stood there in gratitude. Connor dropped his head in prayer, and Murphy instantly did likewise.

Forgive us, Father, for stealing the candles.

Postponing their need for water and their blankets, they made their way around the pews, lighting every candle they found. They had no matches, but they could lift an already lit candle to light others.

Unfortunately, they couldn’t take any candles with them to light their way, as the candles were in metal containers that quickly grew burning hot. The containers fitted into a metal grid that held them up so they couldn’t touch anything.

It was still horribly dark. The candles were merely small oases of light in the gloom. They made their way around the perimeter until they were back at the confessionals.

“I’ll get our bags,” Connor said. “Stay here.” Before Murphy could argue with him, Connor walked swiftly down the center aisle and returned with the bags.

Murphy was relieved Connor hadn’t given him a chance to follow. The increased light from the candles made the saints look worse. They seemed fiendish in the glow.

They spread the blankets out on the carpeted floor by the confessional, and stretched out on them, side by side. Murphy shut his eyes tightly and pulled the corner of a blanket over his head. He was sure every saint was staring at him. His skin began to creep. He might have made a sound.

“Murph? We should go home.” Connor sounded blessedly human and alive in the dark.

“Aye,” Murphy agreed immediately. They hadn’t found a water fountain. Without something to drink, it was impossible to choke down the sandwiches. They’d be parched and starved if they stayed.

They hadn’t planned on staying all night, anyway. After midnight, they were going to leave, sneak back home and into bed. Their Ma should be sleeping; in the morning they could convince her they had never gone out. At worst, she might give them a beating, but her beatings never hurt much.

They quickly packed everything up and went to the side door. The torch was completely dead, so they had to locate the door by feel.

Murphy could hear Connor rattling the two heavy doors that opened outward.

“I can’t get them open,” Connor said. “They’re locked.”

“On the outside?” Murphy said, panicking.

“Aye,” Connor said. “We’ll have to try the front. You want to stay here?”

“No,” Murphy said quickly. He could no longer bear to have Connor more than a few feet away from him.

Slowly they moved down the center aisle. Their eyes adjusted to the dim light, but it was still slow going. They clutched the end of each pew as they moved along. At last they made it into the vestibule, where there was a row of doors opening out onto the cathedral steps. They couldn’t get any of them open.

“Looks like we’re staying,” Connor whispered. Defeated, they returned to the confessional, which was feeling like home. They spread their blankets out again on the floor outside of it. After what seemed like years, but might have been only ten minutes, Murphy gave up.

“Connor. I can’t sleep out here.”

Without saying a word, Connor followed him into the confessional. They lay back down, feet and legs resting against the wall.

“I guess this was a stupid fucken idea,” Murphy said.

“I gotta take a piss,” Connor said calmly.

Murphy was filled with dread. “Ya can’t.” Pissing in the cathedral? They’d be damned on the spot.

“I could piss in the flask. Pour it out and use it.”

“But then they’ll know we were here,” Murphy said, picturing broken glass and juice on the floor. He wondered how long it was until midnight. Would Saint Mary even come if Connor pissed in the cathedral?

“Let’s look for a door by the altar. I bet there is one, for the priest.”

Murphy’s gut twisted in fear. The altar, in the nave of the cathedral, was pitch black. All that could be seen was a huge statue of Jesus on the cross, looming over it. He couldn’t go that way, no matter what.

In spite of his hunger, and their uncomfortable position, he was sleepy again. They had put the blankets down for padding, and were wearing their coats for warmth. Murphy’s eyes closed, sleep overtook him, and his legs fell to the side on top of Connor, waking them both up.

“Turn on yer side. Like this.” Connor pushed at him until Murphy was rolled up in a ball, his knees bent. Connor pressed up behind him in the same position, so they were like interlocking zees.

The top of Murphy’s head was pushed uncomfortably against the wall, but he was sure he could sleep. Connor put one arm over Murphy; there was nowhere else for Connor’s arm to go.

Murphy drifted on the edge of sleep. He could remember Connor sleeping with him like this, long ago, before they went to school. Their Ma would sing to them and stroke their foreheads as they fell asleep, while Connor held him, and Murphy held a stuffed animal, a rabbit that was a bright shade of blue.

***

“It’s getting light.” Connor’s voice was in his ear.

Murphy moved with difficulty. His bladder ached. They helped each other to stand, then stumbled out of the confessional. There was a dim grayish light everywhere. They had slept through midnight.

“Fucken windows!” Connor said, in a louder voice than they had used in the dark.

Murphy looked up at the stained glass windows. They let in so little light that it was impossible to tell the time.

“I have to piss, Murph,” Connor said.

“Someone will open the doors soon,” Murphy pleaded.

“I have to piss now.”

They went down the center aisle toward the vestibule and the front doors. It was possible someone had unlocked them early in the morning, so they tried them all; no luck.

“I’ll piss here. They’ll think it was a drunk.” Connor pointed to one end of the vestibule. Murphy fled back inside the cathedral. God would thunder with outrage the moment Connor pissed on the holy building.

Two minutes later Connor appeared. He dipped his finger in the holy water by the entrance and crossed himself.

“I can fucken bend again.”

Murphy tried not to think about the pain in his own bladder. It was getting hard to walk. But he was sure he couldn’t piss even if he tried, no matter how bad the pain got.

They walked back up the aisle toward the altar, which finally had a faint light. The mystery and awe of the place was vanishing; it looked dusty and worn, and the air was very cold.

They explored the nave. Behind the tall decorative screens at the rear of the altar was a narrow corridor, ugly and utilitarian, open to the high ceiling above. The floor was linoleum. There was a small door that looked like it might lead to a closet or another hallway, but it was locked.

“Go on ahead of me,” Connor said. “Go pack everything up.”

Murphy stared at him. “Why?”

“I have to take a shit.”

Murphy squeaked. “Ya can’t fucken . . .”

“It’s either here on the floor or in my pants.”

Murphy fled back to the confessional and packed hurriedly. Connor was going to take a shit right under the statue of Jesus. Jesus would see Connor taking a shit in his church, his house, his . . .

Murphy’s face screwed up in pain as his bladder stabbed at him, demanding relief. Carrying their bags, he went back up the altar steps and met Connor coming toward him.

“Connor, look!”

In the growing light, they could see a small room off of the nave they had missed the first time. They hurried into it. There were no doors to the outside, but Connor found a light switch. He flicked it on and they blinked, blinded. After a while they could see again.

The room looked like an office. On a table was an old phone with no dial. Murphy looked at in confusion. Connor pointed to a row of small buttons on the wall by the phone, each one labeled.

1. Friary
2. Cafeteria
3. Custodian

Before he could finish reading the faded writing, Connor took the phone receiver from him and pressed the button for “Friary.”

Murphy’s dread and full bladder combined into a hellish pain.

“Hello? Me brother and I are locked in the cathedral. Aye. We fell asleep. We’ve been here all night.”

Connor hung up the phone. “That was Brother John. He’s going to come get us out.”

The side door rattled a couple of minutes later, and a priest in his cassock and a brother in his robe came straight to the office, the light of it calling to them like a beacon.

“Thank God you’re alive!” the priest blurted, and embraced them. His squeeze nearly killed Murphy’s control of his bladder. They were hustled out of the cathedral and into the friary next door.

Murphy could think of only one thing. WC. WC. WC. He saw a door marked with the magical letters and broke into a run.

Then followed five minutes of hell as his bladder would not relax. Finally a thin stream came out and he groaned. It took three more minutes to drain himself. When he came out, Connor went in.

“Your Ma and Da must be worried sick!” the priest said. He poured them glasses of milk.

“Our Ma doesn’t even know. We were going to stay at a friend’s last night.” Murphy’s bladder felt like a strange empty place inside him. His stomach gave a roar at the sight of the milk.

Connor came out of the WC. After drinking the milk, they looked at each other and Connor closed and opened his eyes in agreement. Over the worried objections of the priest and brother, they left.

It was seven in the morning. If they hurried, Ma would still be asleep, so they went at a trot, eating the cheese sandwiches on the way.

***

They made it into their beds without waking Ma. Murphy’s small bed felt beautiful. Going to the WC whenever you wanted was beautiful. It was beautiful to have water to drink, and to see light that wasn’t filtered through stained glass.

It was beautiful to be in a place where there were no saint’s eyes watching him, where the only eyes were Connor’s.

“I thought the Father was going to catch on to us for sure,” Connor whispered. “But he believed us.”

“Why shouldn’t he? Who the fuck in their right mind tries to get locked into a church all night?”

He could hear Connor laugh. “No one. Christ Almighty . . .”

“Lord’s fucken name,” Murphy whispered sleepily.

“He’s going to find out we lit all the candles. And . . .” Connor laughed hysterically, until he was hiccupping and writhing on his bed.

The Father’s going to find my shit under Jesus!

Murphy pounced on Connor and laughed until his nose and eyes ran, until his sides ached, until he was snorting like a racing horse.

At last they quieted. Connor whispered, “Thank God you’re alive!” and it started again. Murphy punched Connor over and over, he hurt so bad from laughing.

After the cramped quarters of the confessional, Murphy realized there was plenty of room on Connor’s bed for the both of them. He rolled onto his side. Connor pressed against him, and gave a last snort of laughter.

Murphy knew what Connor was thinking of. Holy statues bled and wept. So why not?

Fucken holy turd of God.

---

For uisgich.

Special thanks to juniper_nyne.

Note: Tinker refers to a nomadic class of people in Ireland known as Travellers. Tinker is no longer PC, but it would have been used by the twins at the time this story takes place, late 1970s. My apologies to the Travellers.

Bookcover by Nine Fingers. Sean Patrick Flanery photo from duboseknows.com. Norman Reedus photo from Meet Norman Reedus.