Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.
It’s been over a year since my last confession.
I think I know something about what happened to Joe Peddingstall. I wanted to go to the police with it, but Joe told me not to. Begged me is more like it. Still, it’s something I needed to get out and Mrs. Bolt has assured us that this will all remain confidential, so I’ve decided to post what I know here.
Joe and I are mates. I’ve always found it curious how that word has such different connotations, even among various English-speaking countries. Mates. People who are friends. People who work together. Who live together. Who are matched for each other.
Joe and I play football (another word with a different meaning in America than it does here. Of course, the Yanks’ version has little to do with the feet). I play forward, while Joe is right wing.
Anyway, about a week ago we won a big match against St. Francis Academy and a bunch of us went to a pub following for pints. After a few, I excused myself to use the Gent’s.
A minute later, Joe entered the loo.
“You looked good today,” said Joe.
“It was a good game,” I admitted.
“All the more reason to celebrate,” he said.
We had only been in the stall for a few minutes when we heard the bathroom door open and then swing closed moments later. The room was empty when we poked our heads outside of the stall, but when we returned to the table, we found everyone staring at us, their faces ashen and aghast.
The party broke up soon after that.
I know that Morgan Stanley fancies herself as the reason behind the attack on Joe, citing some ridiculous incident that happened over a month ago with some hooligans who no doubt have forgotten about her the next day. Still, in some misguided way, Morgan continues to enjoy the romance of it all.
I, however, know the truth, although I can not say this to anyone, not even in confession to Father Stone. And so I confess what I know here, over the internet, on this blog.
I know the truth about Joe.