It all began with one of those moments.
You know the ones I'm talking about. The kind when your mind blanks, the world melts away, and all you can think is, Oh shit. The moment when you realize there's no coming back from whatever you just did, saw, or heard.
For me, those usually send me running for cover — straight to a dark room where I can mindlessly watch some show or play whatever game will distract me from the changed world just beyond my bedroom door. Until, eventually, I have no choice but to crawl out of my hole and face the music. I believe the technical term is "avoidant coping mechanism." That's what my last therapist said, anyway (department-mandated therapy for each field agent after every mission). Something about "de-stressing." It was all a steaming crock of shit. Nothing stressed me more than that lumpy couch.
But maybe, if I'd actually listened to that crap, I wouldn't have ended up in some random convent in rural North Yorkshire, where it all began — or, more accurately, where it ended.
One year ago:
Mother Superior was angry. Again. For a devout worshiper, she spent an awful lot of time kneeling before the Father of Contention rather than God the Father.
She was almost frothing at the mouth, her jaw trembling so violently I feared she'd unhinge the thing entirely. Her usual greyish complexion was aflame, now resembling the healthy pink tinge of the living. Rage never looked so healthy. I wouldn't be the one to reveal the wonders it did for her color, though.
I knew better than to risk it all over a lighthearted quip. One wrong word and I'd be dodging her head as it detached and flew at me, fangs bared like the demon women nukekubi. That would haunt me forever.
Besides, I wasn't the focus of her fury today, and I harbored no intention of changing that. It was poor Sister Michaels who had won her attention this time. Our sweet, lovable biscuit fiend Dorene had eaten the last chocky digestives, leaving our Reverend Mother without a delectable treat to dip in her evening brew — on a Sunday, no less, when the supermarkets were long closed. Sinful.
Sister Michaels' guilty expression only made it worse, especially with her twitchy eyelid that had a nasty habit of acting up when she was stressed. With every involuntary wink, Mother Superior's temper unraveled a little more, until, finally, the top blew off.
Of course, I'd handle the damage control — whisking Dorene and her twitchy eyelid from sight and nipping down to the 24-hour convenience store for a ridiculously overpriced pack of McVities. A duty that weighed heavy on my shoulders.
My purpose in life hadn't always been so divine. Until four months ago, I was an active field operative, traipsing the world, saving lives, and restoring balance. A symbol of quiet, karmic justice. Nothing special compared to my current calling. Alas, life had caught up to me.
I sought God, and desperately needed a quick getaway. Taking inspiration from the greats (Johnny English and Ace Ventura), I set my mind on restarting my life — repenting within the confines of a modest, historical monastery in the Italian countryside, under the hot sun, sampling God's blood from their private winery. It was an honest, pure-intended sacrifice. One marred by the sudden decision to transfer me back to the weeping English countryside after three months, without my consent.
With Dorene safely tucked away, I readied myself for the 45-minute walk to the nearest open corner shop. To think, half a year ago, I was the pinnacle of fitness. Now, the mere thought of trekking across the steep cobbled pavement floored me entirely. Truthfully, even as a spy, uphill endeavors were my kryptonite. Besides, it's not all like the movies. Spies take elevators too.
Perhaps this time I wouldn't go. Dorene ought to have learned her lesson by now. Plus, my evening trips for sweet treats were becoming routine. I couldn't remember the last time my 5:30 to 7:00 p.m. was free. Something always seemed to come up. Perhaps my trips were coddling them, preventing them from truly learning from their mistakes?
I recognized the whispers of Satan encouraging me to condemn my coworkers. I listened. I was still a newbie; my descent into temptation would be forgiven. In fact, I'd spend this time in the chapel, on my knees before God. It had been a while since we spoke, and it was a good place to go to avoid everyone. Ironic, that.
Skipping down the corridors, I neared the chapel. A rumble of voices grew louder. That was odd. It was usually empty. Perhaps the others had the same idea and came here to avoid the raging Mother Superior too. I hoped they wouldn't mind sharing their prayer time. In the spirit of kindness and hospitality.
Something within me squirmed. Maybe it was the years of training trickling to the surface, but the air felt dense and charged. My footsteps instantly lightened. What could possibly be going on? I reasoned. I was in the least assuming, most boring place on Earth. Yet my body refused to listen to reason. When I stumbled upon a gathering of innocent nuns praying, I was going to feel so stupid.
My breathing quietened. Pressing my ear to the closed door, I could make out the words "package," "hurry" within the gentle murmurs of chatter. I didn't recognize that from any of the prayers. Admittedly, I hadn't learned much. What was I doing? This was absurd.
Wrenching open the double doors, I marched into the room, fighting past the hesitancy in my muscles. My mind blanked, the world melted away.
The chapel was full. Everyone was there, forming an assembly line along the pews. Hands clenched, not in prayer, but around thick packages of brown paper wrapped in tape. A couple of packages were open, fully displaying the white fine powder within. I didn't need to draw on my previous job experience to recognise it immediately. That probably would've taken me back. I mean, the scene of nuns packaging cocaine would shake anyone — but my mind was occupied, by the floating body hovering a two metres from the ground.
"Oh shit."