0 comments/ 90850 views/ 29 favorites An Impossible Dream By: clinton09 [©2010 BY CLINTON09; ALL CHARACTERS ARE OVER THE AGE OF 18 WITH IDENTITIES DISGUISED; FOR AGES 21 OR ABOVE] [To a great extent, the love is romantic and not physical. If this is not of interest to you, we will see you next time. Thanks.] [Although in the mature genre, the story concerns the relationship of mother and son in their later years.] * The same situation, the status quo if you will, existed for year after year. My mother, Sue, was locked into a marriage of convenience. It was not unpleasant for her, and her husband, Mal, stood to inherit some money. So, it was just so easy for her to stay put. There was no harm in that, of course, except that her heart belonged to another. I should know, because I was that 'other'. She tolerated her husband but loved her son, James. Everything happened when I had turned 40, my mother 60. During the formative years, my mother and I had had the most innocent of relationships. We were in love in a sentimental, non-physical way. As mom's husband aged, he got more distant. He did not have the time, or take the time, to address mom's needs and desires. He was content in working and vacationing occasionally. He never got around to expanding their family as mom had wanted; he was satisfied with the single child (i.e. me) Sometimes mom and I would spend our Saturdays together at a drive-in, while her 'old man' was either working overtime or catching up on sleep. But, while other cars had steamy windows from couples hard at it, mom and I would hold hands, exchanging words of devotion in between the crackling intermittent sound from the drive-in speaker. Poignantly, one time I even offered to marry mom, since she appeared to be so distraught. Mind you I was only 13, we only held hands, and my ability to support myself, let alone a wife, were rather minimal. That offer was so moving, if unsupportable, that it was the only time that mom kissed me. As the later years passed, my dedication to my research job kept me from dating, or so I thought. However, whenever I went home on holiday, I felt an overwhelming relief and joy at seeing my mom. I also was struck by seeing the effect my appearance had on her. I came to realize that this was the real reason that I stuck to my job and didn't take dating opportunities as they arose. One Thanksgiving, I was moving from the university long-stay hotel suites to a small home. Mom offered to come up and help me move. When I politely begged off, she told me that her 'old man' wouldn't be there—he'd go to his sister's place and be fine. She broke me down...I said okay. At the time, I was 29 and mom 49 (her 'old man' 59). It had been two whole years since I actually saw mom, as I couldn't get away the previous year even during the holiday. We did speak every weekend; my questions always covered how she was or whether she was taking care of herself, going to her usual doctors for checkups. She always was moved, but puzzled, that I would worry whether she had made her appointment with her family doctor or her OB-GYN. But I did. Now we were together. This was the first time that we were truly alone since, well, ever... Our visit started with the traditional holding of hands and hugs. Okay, there was a tear or two when we reminisced. It appeared that her love life had come to a crushing end sometime before. I had to admit that my devotion to my craft had stifled my social life, too. Mom: "Baby, you really have to go out in the world and find that certain someone. I mean, even if your broken down old mom never did, maybe you can beat the odds and find Mrs. Right." We both laughed and shared a hug. We held hands, looked in each other's eyes, and kissed. The innocent kiss from years gone by was exchanged, but now a more fervent type emerged. Soon we were embracing while kissing. Then, it truly was magnetism alone that pulled us into my bedroom. It was a mystery to me how we ended up on my bed with no clothes; it all was a blur really. But the pent-up love and devotion we felt over all those years just exploded forth. My mother was beautiful and I had never noticed that before. I never noticed because it had never been about sex, only love. However, adults affirm love with sex, so here we were. Mom was gently stroking my cock which was a generous nine inches. As I said, mom was 49 to my 29, so we had to have 'that' quick discussion. Mom: "Honey, I love you more than life itself; what we are about to has been building up for so many years. It has been so long for me that I can't wait. I do have to tell you that you will have to be careful; I can still get pregnant and I'm still married." Me: [I took mom's hand.] "Mom, admit that you love ME more than anyone, much more than you love that robot that walks out in the morning and comes home to go to bed at night." [She smiled, nodded, kissed me on the cheek.] "Mom, you will not be able to have a baby forever; I'm asking you, begging you, PLEASE..LET'S MAKE A BABY TONIGHT...I WANT TO GET YOU PREGNANT. I HAVE ALWAYS DREAMT OF GETTING YOU PREGNANT. Have my baby, mom, please, I love you so much..." Mom filled with tears. She said that she couldn't because 'the old man' has been impotent for years and neglectful of their love life for even more years. So, he would know immediately and tell everyone. Also, the money from his parent's estate was soon to be divided between him and his sister. Mom always hoped to have some of that to ensure my success. Me: "Mom, I don't know how much that money would be, but I don't care. No amount of money can buy time...the chance to make a new life. Please." Mom shook her head no. That was that. She told me it was $11 million and 'her old man', ever paranoid, had secreted it in his own non-commingled accounts. So, she had to be real careful for the next few years. At that, we broke up for the night, not wanting to 'tempt fate' by fooling around without protection. My little house had a guest room and the master bedroom. I forced mom, against her pleading, to take my master bedroom. One neat feature of the house was an intercom between those two rooms. Well, 30 minutes after we split up for the night, I got a call that mom needed me in her bedroom NOW. I rushed in, only to find her under the covers, with the blanket and sheets open on the other side. I was being invited in. Given the ardor of the moment, and the built-up passion we had, there was no force on earth that could prevent me from getting in. Mom and I embraced and kissed as we always did. Shyly, I cupped her breasts, which were remarkable for a 49 year old and pretty damn good for anyone. Her tanned nipples popped just as I touched them, inviting me to kiss and lightly suckle on their magnificence. I kissed mom again, and then bent down to give her 'more southern parts' some attention. It had been so long for us that we were both out of practice. I did pretty well on the wet lips of her pussy, though. As I gave her my full attention, doing a pale impression of Gene Simmons (KISS) on her 'female zone', she moaned in orgasm. It had been so very long for her. Later she told me that her 'old man' had never deigned to 'service her' and she never had had the big 'O' with her 'old man'. Mom offered to go 'down on me'. I thanked her but pointed out that I was stiff as petrified wood and ready without her help. I wanted in at this point. Putting mom in the middle of my king-sized bed, I mounted her...finally. So long, so very long, I had waited for this...dreamt of this! For Mr. Johnson, it was as tight, as warm, as welcoming, as he had always hoped. Just as I began the rhythmic motions of love, mom stopped me. Mom: "I hate to be the nag that everyone hates...a real Killjoy. Just remember, sweetheart, as much as I want your baby...desperately want your baby, I cannot do it in good conscience, being married and being so close to getting us the money that would preclude you ever worrying about block grants or your next paycheck." Tearfully, I said I understood. I pulled my cock out and actually milked out a large dab of pre-cum. Though it wasn't likely to do anything, I wanted to follow mom's wishes to the letter. I did a re-entry worthy of the Space Shuttle. Soon we were 'at it' as before. At the point of climax, I pulled out. My cock was on fire, about to explode after the torrid sex and all of those years of waiting. My poor testes were 'distended', bloated, swollen to the size of two mangos. I grabbed mom's beautiful face, kissed her really hard. Then, I put her at the level of my nine inch cock. She quickly got the idea and 'serviced me'. Soon, a huge wave of spunk, laden with sperm, was exploded into her waiting mouth. Her cheeks swelled, but she somehow contained it and swallowed. Another complete mouthful was ejaculated and swallowed noisily. Finally, one last tremendous jolt of seed was emptied into her waiting mouth. She had taken too much as it is; this last mouthful was the last straw and out if came, like the Niagara Falls, with a huge frothy waterfall around the entire width of her pouting lips. It was a sexy sight. As the years went by, we would meet either in her town or mine. Our love life only grew more intense. The OB-GYN whose appointments seemed to concern me so much fitted mom with a diaphragm, just to be safe. Thus, we could have normal sex without worries, with me able finally to pump my virile sperm into her cunt. If only those sperm were allowed to alight on her treasured ovum and ride it until it affixed itself on her walls. This went on, year after year. Very quietly, mom passed from here to there, from being able to have children into 'that other world' of older women. It was very hard for her to tell me, but certainly no surprise. I tried to be as supportive as I could, and made sure that our love making did not differ in any way whatever. So, we now get to the year where I was 40 and mother was 60. By this time, her old man's sister (who was always nice to me) passed away at 75. Sadly, as he was driving back from making the arrangements for her final rites, he was struck by an errant driver. He passed away within days of his beloved sister. It was materialistic, if not ice cold, to think about it, but these developments did mean that my mother finally received the estate funds that she had hoped for. After asking me three times, I finally agreed to accept her check for $5 million, which was a sizable portion of the proceeds. And, she was right. I would no longer have to prostitute myself in those dreaded bid proposals for grant money. My research had gone stale. Arthur C. Clarke once said that no scientist over 40 should ever darken the door of a lab. Well, I was over 40, and he was right. I quit the university job, dumped that little home, and finally got my dream of co-habiting with my beautiful mother. The first day I was there, I asked her, begged her, to go to her OB-GYN, and get that damn diaphragm removed. I knew it was 'too late' for babymaking but at least she could have more comfort and natural feeling when we did it. She dutifully went to her doctor. Mom: "Wow, my OB-GYN took a really long time on that diaphragm removal thing. I always wondered why her exams took so long, much longer than other doctors. I was tempted to find another one, but you were so insistent that I use her." [She kissed me as the opening to our love session.] Finally, we were going to make love, without reservation, birth control, concerns about impotent husbands back home, estate money in jeopardy, or anything else. My mother was 60. Now Sophia Loren, Farah Fawcett and Joan Collins all looked fantastic at 50 and beyond, but that was 3 women out of how many billion? My mom was 60 but looked, umm, 50, which was okay. To me, she was perfect. My memory skirted over any ravages of time. My love covered up any imperfections. We came together with the pent-up passion of 40 years of togetherness. We had made love before, to be sure, but never in the marital bed of my mother, and never totally free of all concerns. This act of love would mark our union as man and woman. As I held her hand, I did not focus on whether it had a blemish or two. It was the same hand that had held me as a child; the same one that had comforted me on the loss of my favorite pet. The same hand that I held in the drive-in theatre when I proposed marriage to mom, when I was but a lad of 13. Here I was in the marital bed, finally. Mom came out in the trousseau that she wore on her honeymoon, the same diaphanous peignoir. I had to, I just had to leap out of bed and pick up this precious female. As we kissed, I carried this woman who meant so very much to me to the marital bed. Careful to leave her nightgown intact, I caressed her still firm, luscious breasts underneath the silky shimmering cloth of that nightgown. Her nipples came up, thrilling my loving hands. Pushing that nightgown up, I inserted myself inside of her. My trusty nine inch babymaker was hard as steel, determined to transfer a huge backlog reservoir of my very potent seed from my swollen testes to her soon to be swollen womb. It could no longer be called 'fertile' but it was, at least, unprotected this night. I used all of my strength to make mad, passionate love to the most wonderful woman in the world. Nothing could stop me from my mission of delivering my potent seed. If it was no longer possible for my vibrant, lively sperm to make her pregnant, then they would still be delivered and sent on their way. Me: "Mom, I love you so much!" [I screamed and she joined me. We held hands tightly and then she felt the fiery hot spray from my nine inch babymaker, spraying shot after shot, spurt after spurt, relentlessly unburdening my hugely swollen balls while transferring all of that copious liquid into her womanly depths. With a final drip, drip, it was over. We kissed lightly and fell asleep, lovers now and forever, joined by my still erect cock, plugged into her womanhood. At her advanced age, after the 'change of life', no miracles could be expected, no surprises in store. That was pure medical science. The next night we had a similar experience of love that was both passionate if poignant. In such cases, the feeling of 'we are too late' always supersedes 'well, better late than never'. The following night, mom had to beg off, saying she felt strangely dizzy and ill. I told her the symptoms sounded just like pregnancy. She said they did after all, but that was impossible, as we all very well knew. She actually got mad at me for suggesting it, saying that it was in bad taste considering her age and condition in that regard. I told her that I had a tester (which I just happened to have) and that she should just humor me. She glared at me and took the test into the bathroom. She emerged and gave me the test kit, leaving me to monitor it (as if any reaction would be forthcoming.) She was slightly irritated by this whole thing and went to suave her nerves at the Home Shopping Network. A while later, I let out a whoop. She came flying in, asking what was going on. Mom: "My God, what is the big hullaballoo?" Me: "Well, see for yourself...it's blue...you are PREGNANT, mom!" Mom: "That's obviously wrong! I went through the 'change' a few years ago! This is obviously a false positive." Me:"No, mom. I am happy, so very happy to tell you, you are wrong. You ARE pregnant! You WILL have my baby. It's time for me to 'fess up'. All of those years that I wanted you to go to that PARTICULAR OB-GYN, well that was for a reason. She and I were good friends from charity work; I asked her to do a particular procedure on you without your knowing, year after year. She collected ova from you. I was concerned about our lives, being separate as they were. What I had feared came to be. You felt compelled to be free of my sperm until it was too late. As you know, a woman cannot CREATE a baby after 'the change', but she can BEAR one until she's perhaps 70. At your last check-up, where that diaphragm was removed, that sweet woman implanted two of your ova, both lovingly fertilized by the seed of yours truly. So, as we made love the other night, I KNEW that you were pregnant or soon to be." Mom broke down in tears. This news was just too much to digest at once. When I asked her if she was happy about the surprise, she told me she was so very happy. We hugged in the same way we hugged when I was ten, thirteen, twenty, thirty, and forty. We held hands in the same way, hugged, and kissed. Time had taken much, but also given us much. Now we had all the money in the world, a wonderful set of twins on the way (and one more set after that), and a home for the six of us. No, we did not have ALL the time in the world, but we had just enough time to enjoy being together and sharing the important things in life. And for that, we were both grateful. An Impossible Dream Guys, let me ask you one thing; have you ever met a woman who was so far out of your reach that you made no attempt to reach her? If you have you will understand exactly how I felt not fifteen minutes ago. She was several rungs higher up the corporate ladder than I, even more rungs up the social ladder than I, and light years higher up the ladder of personal wealth than I. She had a style that I could never achieve, a presence that I envied. She was Ariadne d'Arbanville, and I was smitten, not that it was ever going to do me any good, I was so far down the queue of smitten men that she needed binoculars just to see me, that's if she even bothered to look. I had just had to resign myself to the fact that she and I would never exist on the same planet. This was my first day at Broadstock Corporation's London office. Broadstock was a multi-national corporate megalith, a company so large, so important, that mere minions such as myself were made to feel honoured just to be breathing the same air as them. The Broadstock empire consisted mostly of a media conglomerate that large that it influenced the way that the population of several countries voted. Governments owed their very existence to Roland Broadstock, and he made certain that they were aware of that titbit of information. When Roland wanted something done, it was done. His power was immeasurable, and he and they knew it. I wasn't new to this corporation, this was my fifth year, having begun life as a newly graduated journalist doing the usual hack work in the lowest level of his empire, a regional throw away paper that few read, covering store openings, Council meetings and police rounds. My job was to cover a set route each day taking notes of the committee meetings of various interest groups, as well as council planning decisions, and the goings on at the local Magistrates Court. It was a shit job but you have to start somewhere. The whole time that I spent in this stultifying boredom, I dreamed of the one big story that would make my name and cement my career as an Investigative Journalist. My big break arrived in my second year when I got wind of rumours that Barry Coleman, a member of parliament, was taking back-handers from a company Director, Robert Simpson, who needed a planning decision overturned so that they could set up a processing plant on land that had been zoned as residential. I didn't tell my Editor about the story until I had the proof that would stand up and not result in a successful libel suit. I had completed my rounds report and dropped it into the Sub-editor's in tray, along with my report of the investigation, and was going through my schedule for the next day, when the typed pages were dropped on my desk in front of me. "What's this?" He didn't sound happy. "Oh just something that I got wind of and decided to follow up." "You are sure of your facts then?" "I wouldn't have submitted it if I wasn't. I can prove everything that is in that report, dates, times, places and even amounts. There were that many paper bags being shifted around, it was almost like that party game pass the parcel. Simpson sent one of his minions to his Lawyer with a bag of money. His Lawyer sent one of his minions to Jamieson, the Lobbyist with a paper bag with money, slightly less than he received. He in turn sent a messenger to the Minister's office with a paper bag with slightly less than he, the Lobbyist, had received. There were cut-outs all along the food chain and they all had their snouts in the trough. I don't know how much the intermediaries each took as their cut, but I know how much was in the bag that Simpson handed over, and how much was in it when Coleman opened it. My information is that Coleman is having dinner at his club tonight, and his guest is none other than the Chairman of the council zoning committee, and I can guess that some of the money that he got will find its way into the pocket of a certain Chairman. Council are due to discuss the planning proposal at the regular meeting tomorrow, if this hits the fan in tomorrow's paper we might be able to influence the decision and prevent the overturning of the residential zoning." "You do realise that we will have several Lawyers calling us tomorrow with veiled, and not so veiled, threats of legal action. You have to be one hundred percent sure of your story or your career here will be short-lived. If it turns out that you are right, and can prove it, you can kiss good-bye to your current job and move to more exciting reporting." "I'll look forward to the new experience." That was all that I said, I needed to say no more. I knew that my facts were not only correct, but provable. At 10:00 the next morning I was at the Council offices for the Planning Meeting. I had a copy of this morning's paper under my arm. The front page was going into the scrap book that I was about to start. My first by-line. The Headline Writer had come up with 'Council Under Pressure' which I thought was somehow a tad lacking, but it did have an economy of words that I had yet to embrace. I sat, one of two people, in the public gallery waiting for the meeting to begin. Someone tapped me on my shoulder. "A word if you will." It was the CEO. I followed him to his office to find Coleman already there in a not happy mood. "What is this?" He asked, pointing to his copy of the article. "That is a story that I wrote about you attempting to influence the proper working of this council at the behest of your good mate Robert Simpson." "I don't know where you got this tissue of lies from, but, let me warn you, you have not heard the end of this." "And what are you going to do about it?" "My Lawyers are at this very moment filing an affidavit, suing you and this rag for libel and defamation. Let's see how you and your sleazy rag feel about that." "Oooh, I'm so afraid." I said sarcastically. "Our legal department has gone over the information and the proof that I provided, and they say, 'go your hardest'. They would not have printed this if they were not sure that the information would hold up in any libel case. You cannot be found guilty of libel if you are telling the truth. I have told the truth. And before you ask, I am not going to reveal my sources, even in the face of a contempt of court charge." "We'll see about that." I thought that he was going to say more, but, if he did I didn't hear it because he was on his way out of the room. I returned to the public gallery in time for the start of the hearing on the application for the change of the zoning regulations. The Chairman was the first to speak. "We have before us an application to change the zoning of a parcel of land situated on the main highway, some seven kilometres to the north of this town. Now, as I understand it, this land was rezoned as residential some twenty years ago when a property developer had bought up this parcel with the view to creating a new suburb. Unfortunately for him, the property market suffered a slump and he was unable to proceed with his plans, and by the time that the property market improved, he had unfortunately run out of money. No further interest has been forthcoming for this land until now. We have a proposal from Simpson Oil Seeds to buy this land in order to build a seed oil extraction plant. This plant will employ at least two hundred workers in its construction phase and at least a hundred operational staff. There is a need for enterprises such as this, as a source of employment at a time of high unemployment. This committee has looked at this proposal in detail and are ready to hear any submissions as to why we should not change the zoning from residential to industrial. Are there any here who would oppose these plans?" He looked around the chamber, hoping that there would be no dissenting voices. His gavel was raised and just about to be lowered, sealing the deal, when a clerk entered the room and whispered in his ear. The gavel was lowered, slowly, not in a final gesture, but in shock as he saw his share of the bribe being withheld. "Are you sure?" He whispered to the clerk. "Yes. James (the CEO) has just got off the phone to our legal team. They have confirmed that this is sub-judice, we cannot move on this proposal until the legal case has been heard." "Fuck." While those in the chamber could not hear his exclamation, it didn't take a professional lip-reader to understand it. He looked at those few in the chamber who were largely made up of those who had to be there, few outside the council were even interested in the meeting. "I have just been informed that there are legal proceedings around this meeting and the decision making process. We are unfortunately unable to vote on this proposal at this time." The gavel was raised and lowered in a gesture of angry finality. "This meeting is closed." He stormed from the chamber. "What the fuck is going on?" He yelled at the clerk scurrying along beside him. "How should I know, I was just following instructions." He saw me strolling down the corridor. "You! You're to blame for this. This so-called article in this mornings paper is a pack of lies. I am off to see my Lawyer. You had better make plans to leave this town and your job, because mate, you will not be welcome in either after I'm through with you!" "We shall see what we shall see." I smiled brightly at him as I headed for the front door, whistling a happy tune as I went. I didn't know the name of the tune, or even if it officially existed as a tune, it was happy and it was tuneful, and a reflection of how I felt about now. People to whom I had meant little before today, gazed at me in what I hoped was respect as I walked towards my desk. A reception committee awaited my return. "James, We have had three, possibly four lawyers offices ring us about this article. They have all been told the same thing, that we stand behind you and this article, and we have the necessary proof to successfully fight any law suit that they care to bring against us. Now Rodney (the Sub-Editor) here tells me that Legal has gone over it with a fine toothed comb and found it to be sound, and a fine piece of investigative journalism. Congratulations my boy. Now for the good news, How do you feel about working in the main office?" "You mean the Standard?" "Yes, the Standard." "When do I start?" "You already have. Bryce, who is a man of some importance, here has come all the way out here to meet you, and to formalise your transfer into town. I'll leave the two of you to nut out the finer points of your transfer." "Wow! I don't believe this could be happening to me. Thank you Sir." I said to his retreating back. "How long will it take you to pack up your things?" Bryce asked me. "About a minute, once I find a suitable box to put my stuff in. There's not a lot here." "Good, enough time for a coffee, lead me to the lunch room." My how things change when you're famous. A steady stream of people that didn't know that I existed before today, came into the lunch room to pat me on the back and tell me that they knew that I had it in me. Coffee never tasted this good. Half an hour later I was in Bryce's car, my box of stuff in the boot, heading for my new life. Wait until I tell Mum and Dad that the cost of my education had not been wasted. Speaking of which. I took my mobile from my pocket and called home. "Mum, it's James." Before I could utter another word she asked me what was wrong. "Nothing's wrong Mum, in fact everything's right, couldn't be better in fact. I have got a promotion to the Standard, I'm on my way to Sydney as we speak to take up my new job." "How come, how has this happened?" She sounded shocked. "You obviously haven't read this weeks paper. Read it before you wrap garbage in it and you'll understand. Your little boy is famous. I'll tell you all about it when I get home tonight." "You still live at home then." Bryce had been listening, he was a Journalist after all. "Yeah, I can't afford a place of my own on the money that I get from working at the weekly throw away. That brings me to something that we haven't actually discussed, how much will I be getting now?" The figure mentioned brought a whistle from my lips. "That hasn't been finalised yet, but that's the base rate, the least that you can expect." "Phew! That much." "Yes, that much. But you'll have to earn every cent of that. If you can't come up with the goods you'll be back in your old job that fast that your head will spin." "So, I'm under no pressure then?" "There is one thing that you'll learn very quickly, and that is that Roland expects results for the dollars he pays us. If circulation drops, or ratings fall, there has to be a very good reason for that or heads will roll. It's not good enough for us to tell him that no-one buys newspapers any more, he expects us to encourage the public to keep buying them. If circulation falls then advertising revenue falls, and that cuts into his profit margin, and that is not allowed to happen. Do I make myself clear?" "Perfectly. I suppose that he expects that I will hit the ground running, and not take time to assimilate into my new surroundings." "I knew that you were a fast learner the moment I met you." I didn't know whether he was genuine or being sarcastic. The introductions to other Journalists was a very brief affair, it happened on the run, such was the life of this place, as I would come to realise very quickly. A desk was found for me and I dumped my box of stuff. "You have a direct line as well as an extension number. All calls will come through the switch unless you give out your direct line, that way you can keep calls confidential if you're speaking with an informant. Personal calls should come through the switch." "So that you can monitor them to check if I'm bludging, is that it?" "Did I say that?" "No, I don't know what gave you the idea that we'd spy on our staff." He glanced at the woman seated in the next desk. "Sonia here will show you where the essentials are. I'll leave you in her capable hands." "Hi, I'm James, and as you might have guessed, I'm new here." "Hi, I'm not much older than you, in terms of how long I've been here. This is my second month." "Boy, they must have a high turn-over of Journos around here." "They come, they go. The good ones are moved to either London or New York, the not so good tend to stick around a little longer, while those less good get sent to the regionals, or are sacked." "I hope that I'm not one of those." "I don't think you will be, there's a buzz about you already, being groomed for stardom they tell me. It must have been some story that you came up with to warrant this treatment." "I caused a stir, yes. A certain polly (Politician) is likely to find himself under investigation by ICAC because of an article that I wrote." "Obviously a government member." "What makes you say that?" I asked her. "Because Roland has it in for the government and will use any method to discredit them." "Oh, I suppose then that I will be given the task of following up on this story and hounding Coleman until he resigns, or is pushed." "I don't think so. I heard some talk this morning, it seems that Roland thinks that Coleman is more useful, in the bigger picture, to be kept in his current job. He will probably go after him with a vengeance closer to the next election. Go for him now and the voters will forget come election time." "Our boss is a devious bastard, isn't he? Remind me not to get on his wrong side." "I'll watch your back if you promise to watch mine." She smiled at me. I hadn't noticed how good she looked until she smiled, it capped off a really nice face. "What are you working on at the moment?" "This is a biggy. There has been a rumour going around about a huge cover up of a ring of paedophile priests in the Catholic Church, and that the church hierarchy has tried to cover it up. I have been sniffing around the edges, but can't seem to penetrate the wall that has been built around it. Any suggestions?" "I think that I should ask to work on this with you." "Why? It's my story." "Because the priesthood is a male preserve, and a woman will never be able to break down the male network. The only way that we can bring them to account is to brand all priests as paedophiles, that way they will be forced to defend themselves. If you attack the individual they'll just be moved around, keeping one step ahead of investigators." "You seem to know something about this subject." "I am a Catholic, and yes, I was an altar boy. You know that joke about the young priest filling in for the older one who is off somewhere. He has been giving instructions as to the penalties for various offences that he will hear during confession. One young man confessed to engaging in oral sex with another young man. The young priest hadn't been told about that one, so he asked one of the altar boys, 'what does Father Murphy give for a blow job?' to which the boy replies, 'A can of Coke and a Mars bar.' In the light of what has been rumoured, and exposed, this is not a joke/" "So how are we going to break down the barriers?" "I might just have to go to confession, I haven't been for a while." "And what do you have to confess?" "I might just mention that I have discovered that a priest has been playing around with young boys and confess that I have not gone to the police about it, and ask what he would do under the circumstances. If he tells me to go to the police, I'll casually mention that he was the subject of the rumour. Then let's see what he will do. If he denies it I'll still investigate, if he demands to know who told me so that he can sue for defamation, then I'll have to tell him that I cannot reveal my source, just as he can't reveal what he hears in the confessional. If he is suddenly moved to a new Diocese we'll know that this is possibly the tip of a very large and messy iceberg, of institutional malfeasance. If he tells me to go to the police, then I know that he's not the one and hope that he takes the matter further." "You're a devious one, aren't you? Is that how you got that story on Coleman?" "Yes and no. Most of it I got from a whistle blower within his electoral office, the rest was my deviousness." "I think that I'm going to enjoy working with you. I'll put in a request to have you assigned to this story." "Thank you, I'd like that, and not because of the story, I'd enjoy working with you on any story." "Aren't you sweet. I must warn you that my boyfriend might not like it." "I suppose that he's one of these hulking football players who could rip my head of with a single punch." "No. If the truth be known, I don't have a boyfriend." "Next question. Where is the watering hole of choice, I think that I owe you a drink." "I suppose that now you are thinking that you can get me drunk and have your wicked way with me, you cad." "No. If I were to make love to you, I would want you to be perfectly sober so that you fully enjoy the experience." "Put it away stud. Let's just see what eventuates, shall we?" "Sure, I wouldn't want to rush you, tomorrow will be soon enough." I smiled at her to let her know that I was joking, which was part of my strategy to get into her pants. If she felt comfortable in the knowledge that I was joking, I could sneak up on her and take her by surprise. "How far have you got with your investigation?" I asked her. "So far I have interviewed a dozen or so concerned parents, all of who have told me that they are concerned about their children and the church. They have all told of behavioural changes, of their sons suddenly not wanting to go to church, of them becoming withdrawn around the family, of having few friends, and of their school grades dropping dramatically and of bad behaviour towards their teachers." An Impossible Dream "Do these boys go to a Catholic school?" "Most of them, yes. Those that don't all go to church, and were friends with the others. Now they don't seem to be friends any more." "Have any of the parents sought help? Have any gone to the police with their concerns?" "Yes, a couple of them went to the police, but were told that nothing could be done unless the boys were prepared to stand up in court and give evidence. None were." "That's not surprising, given the position of the priest in our society. He is seen as the intermediary between the people and God, and that gives him a position of immense power over them. To go against that sort of institutional power is never going to happen. What we need to do is, while not forgetting these boys and their families, attack this from the top." "And just how do you propose that we do that?" "Give me time to think about this, but it could be the only way that we can get to the bottom of it. My understanding of the way that they operate, is that they treat each case as a one off incident, when in fact the practise seems to be very widespread. So much so, that there must be some top down directives on how to deal with these cases, to isolate them so that each is treated separately from the others. If the public ever got wind of the systemic nature of this, it would be a PR disaster for the church." "You do realise that we will have to tread very softly with this, in case we frighten them off." "I think that, initially at least, they will try to tough it out. If that doesn't have the desired results then they may offer some form of compensation in exchange for signing a non-disclosure agreement and a promise to take the matter no further. If that happens, we will not get anywhere." "Okay, first things first, we go see our Editor and get permission for you to work on this with me, and then we pitch the idea of going at it from a different direction, as you suggest, the top down." "Before we do that, why don't we see if there have been any other investigations, anywhere, that we can tap into. It's to the Internet my dear." She looked at me as I tossed those words at her, and smiled. She was caught up in this, just as I was. By this I mean not only the investigation, but the 'us' this. At least I hoped so. "Before we do anything we should clear it with the boss. Now is a good time to introduce you to our fearless Editor, Byron Pickering. Come." She grabbed my hand and led me to the office at the back of the newsroom. The tag on the door indicated that he was not only 'in' but available. Sonia tapped on the door and, without waiting for him to tell us to enter, walked in, pulling me behind her. "Byron Pickering, meet the new star to our newsroom James, hang on I don't even know your last name." "It's Lawrence, James Lawrence." "Ah yes, I wondered when you would grace my office. I've heard a lot of very good things about you. I suppose the next thing is that the lovely Sonia here is going to suggest that the two of you work together on the job she's on at the moment.' "A mind reader even. Yes I am going to suggest that very thing, not only because he's young and cute, but because he has some very good ideas." "Not so young, I am pushing twenty-five I'll have you know. The rest I'll agree with, you know the cute thing, and the good ideas, although self promotion is not one of my many character traits." "James, if you want to get ahead in this organisation, you are going to have to learn to blow your own bags, you can't always rely on other people to push your case. You have a lot going for you here, work with Sonia, let her knock the small paper mentality out of you and you will go a long way, because, if you don't you may as well pack your things and go back to wherever you came from. If I didn't think that you had it in you, you wouldn't be here. The job that you did on Coleman was a good piece of investigative journalism, the kind that we want here. You have the chance to make it big in this world, don't give that up. Now get to work, both of you." "Wow. Talk about praise from Caesar. I have never heard him talk about anyone like he just did about you. You have his permission to join me on this ride, but let me warn you, it will probably be a bumpy one, are you up for it?" "My seat belt is already fastened." "Right. First things first, come with me and I'll fill you in on what I have found out so far. That will give you some context on this sorry mess, and hopefully even a starting point for the rest of the story." We spent the rest of the day trolling through the interviews that Sonia had done with the victims, and families of victims, of sexual abuse at the hands of paedophile priests. Families of victims because many of them had committed suicide, rather than face life with the guilt, because they were made to feel that somehow it was all their fault. "Who was it that came up with this so called Melbourne Response?" I asked her. "I'm not sure, all I know is that it is a cheap method of making this problem go away. At least that's what it was meant to do. But look at it, how draconian is it, to force those making the complaints to appear, unrepresented, before this sham of an inquiry, and give evidence in front of the accused. This is worse than the victims of rape having to give evidence at the trial of the rapist, at the least they have legal representation. In this case, if the church deemed it appropriate, they were paid off, given $10,000, forced to sign a non-disclosure contract, and told to go away." "And the priest is allowed to walk free, only to re-offend." "In some cases he was sent for 'treatment' before being allowed back to a pastoral role, but it appears that in most cases the treatment was a waste of time, a case of being seen to be doing something." "Right, let's see if we can find out who it was that came up with this Melbourne Response, and if there were any official directives about it on record. If we can find this we will at least have some sort of proof of the institutional response to these allegations, and until the cases are tried and proven, they are, and will remain, allegations." "We have the proof, from these interviews, that these incidents did occur, what we don't have is any evidence that the practise was endemic and that the hierarchy know of it and tried to cover it up." "What we also need to establish is that the movement of priests from one position to another was as a result of allegations having been made of their paedophile activities, and who was responsible for making that decision." "There is another possibility." "And what might that be?" Sonia was puzzled. Was I alluding to something that could potentially exonerate those at the top. "What if the practise was so endemic in the church that those leaders at the parish and diocese levels knew of it and were protecting their own arses as well as those further up the food chain?" "If that were to be the case, then it would be common knowledge right to the top. This sort of thing would have to have been going on for so long that those at the top were aware of it from their own beginnings in the priesthood." "But how would we ever be able to prove that? As soon as we got close enough to getting the evidence that we need, they'll close ranks and deny us access. We need to find someone outside the clergy that can gain us access to church records. I suppose that it would be too much to hope that they would have committed anything to a computer record." "What about the church archives? They would only hold correspondence for so long before archiving it." "Or destroying it. Which will probably be what they will do if we request access to their archives." "Could we use the Freedom of Information act to apply for access? Surely that would apply to all public records and not just those of governments." "They will most likely hide behind their confidentiality rules and claim that what goes on between the priest and his parishioners has the same level of confidentiality as exists in the confessional. We can hardly push that particular issue when we refuse to reveal those that give us confidential information. "Look, I don't know about you, but I've had enough for one day." I said. "I suggest that we adjourn to a convenient watering hole and you can introduce me to the other inmates of this insane asylum." Sonia had her bag out from under her desk before I had finished my suggestion. From the way that she was greeted she was obviously well known to the other Journos. I, on the other hand, came in for my fair share of dirty looks. Who was this interloper that was dominating her attention? "Guys, this is James Lawrence, newly arrived from Siberia, otherwise known as a regional paper. He is a star on the ascendant if Byron is to be believed. He and I have been thrown together on my pet project." A glass of amber was thrust into my hands. I had no alternative but to drink it. This was going to be a long evening for someone like me to whom moderation was important. Before long there were several untouched glasses waiting for my attention. "You obviously have had experience with the drinking prowess of this industry." Sonia whispered in my ear. "I had my years at Uni to hone my skills at avoiding getting shit-faced. Don't get me wrong, I like a drink or two, but no more. My big break came from remaining sober and listening as those in the room had forgotten that old adage about loose lips sinking ships. In amongst the bullshit that was flying around was the information that I couldn't get out of a certain person while he was sober. It cost me a fortune to get him to that stage, he wasn't a cheap drunk by any means. When he realised what I had done he was livid. It could easily have cost him his job, if I hadn't lied to his boss to shift the blame away from him." "Look, I don't know about you, but I'm feeling in the need of food. What say we adjourn to somewhere quiet and have some dinner, my treat." "An offer that I can't refuse. The end of a perfect day for me." "End? Did I just hear you say end?" "What else did you have in mind?" "We shall see what we shall see." There was that enigmatic smile that I was to become used to, or is that to which I was to become used? Who gives a shit about grammatical correctness at a time like this? It mightn't have been the flashiest restaurant in town, but it was perfect for the occasion. It was quiet, off the beaten track and cheap. Did I mention the food? The food was spectacular, and plentiful, none of this trendy crap where the main course would struggle to fill a hollow tooth, oh no. We waded through the mounds of fine food, drank a bottle of medium priced but excellent Shiraz and, over coffee, reached the simultaneous decision to adjourn to her place, a flat overlooking the spectacular Sydney Harbour and the Opera House. It was tiny, or should I say compact, but comfortable for a single person. Her bed was what is classified as a 'king single' somewhere between a single and double bed. While we couldn't thrash around in it, it was comfortable enough that after making love we both managed a comfortable nights sleep. "Are you still here?" Sonia's drowsy voice interrupted my early morning reverie. "I thought that I would have woken to find you'd snuck off like a thief in the night." "What, and disturb your sleep? You do realise that you snore something fierce, don't you?" "Bullshit. You should talk, you kept me awake for hours rattling the windows. If I hadn't felt sorry for you I'd have kicked you out." "I'll withdraw my complaint if you withdraw yours, okay?" "I suppose I can do that. You don't really snore anyway. We'd better make a move if we're going to get to work on time. You do know that you're going to have to front for work in the same clothes, and jocks, that you had on yesterday, not to mention the designer stubble that sandpapered my face and somewhere else last night. If this is going to be an ongoing arrangement, you're going to have to leave spare clothes here along with your shaving gear and toothbrush. I'll let you use mine this morning," "I have a good idea, we can ring in and tell Byron that we are following up a lead, which we will be, and we can go out to my place and I can pack the necessaries for brief stays with you and you can meet Mum. She, by the way, is going to help us. She doesn't know it yet, but she will." We walked to the train station and caught a train to my suburb and a cab to home. "Hi Mum, sorry I didn't call last night, but, I'd like you to meet Sonia Challis, she and I are working together on a big story. Sonia, this is my Mum Maureen." Mum looked at Sonia, a knowing smile creased her face as Sonia hugged her. "Forget the Maureen, you can call me Mum. I understand fully why you didn't call, you were otherwise occupied. Don't try and deny it, you've got that look in your eyes that tells me that you are happy about something. He doesn't have that look often," She said to Sonia. "The last time was when he was offered his first job on the local paper. Coffee?" "Yes, thanks." We said in unison. This brought another smile to her face. "By the way Mum, Mrs Thornleigh, she still works up at the church doesn't she?" "Yes, why?" "We are working on a story about the sexual abuse of kids by the clergy, and we need to get a look at the Parish archives, if that's possible." "Are you suggesting that Father O'Brien is one of those dirty priests?" "No. I'm sure that he's not. He certainly wasn't while I was an altar boy and definitely not with me. What we looking for are directives from the Diocese and Arch-Diocese, telling the priests how to handle any allegations of that nature." "I don't know whether she's able to access those papers, or even if she wants to. It is her job that will be on the line if she's caught, you do understand that, don't you?" "I know Mum, I wouldn't have asked you if I didn't think of a way that we could get the information without her being caught. The information is of a general nature, not specific to this Parish." "I'll call her, she's not at work this morning, she's only part-time, they can't afford to employ her full-time at present." She went off to make her call while Sonia and I worked our way through the pile of biscuits that always seem to magically hit the table any time Mum had guests. "I like your Mum." Sonia said around a bite of biscuit. "And she likes you, I can see it in her smile. She thinks that I've met the woman of my dreams." "A possibility I'd have to say." She leaned over and kissed me. "She's coming over here." Mum's voice began before she had entered the kitchen. "Oh, sorry, I didn't mean to barge in on you like that." She said as she saw the kiss. "I think that she might have something to tell you." We chatted amongst ourselves for the ten minutes or so that it took for Mrs Thornleigh to arrive. To say that she had something to tell us was understating the situation big time. "Hi Jimmy, how is the town's most famous stirrer? You really threw a cat amongst the pigeons with that story didn't you?" "They all richly deserved it." I said in my defence. "I agree with you that they deserved it. Who have you turned your sights on this time, and who is this lovely thing?" "Mrs Thornleigh. . . ." "Beryl." "Beryl, this is Sonia, she and I are working on a story about the sexual abuse of young boys by priests." "That seems to have been done to death by the media, and there's a Royal Commission looking into it already. I don't know that I can give you any more than you already know." "We are coming at it from a different direction. The church appears to be trying to put forward that these are individual incidences and not endemic in the church. We don't believe that, we believe that officials at the Diocese and Arch-Diocese level know of what has happened over many, many years, and have done nothing to stop it, in fact they have gone out of their way to protect the priests involved. We are looking to find out if there have been any official directives from up top, instructing priests at the Parish level as to how that they can counter any allegations of sexual abuse. What we are also looking at is a part of the hidden cost of these incidents, those young lads who suffered so much that they took their own lives rather than face the stigma of being a forgotten abuse victim." I knew that this would get to her, her nephew Robbie was one of those, he committed suicide some ten years ago. He was a couple of years older than me, and the priest was moved on after he had died. "Could you come to my place?" She asked us. "I have something to show you. I haven't shown this to anyone. I need you to understand that I hold nothing against Father O'Brien, he did all that he could officially do under the circumstances. He sought guidance from the Bishop and was told to relocate Father Flannery. You have to understand that he has rules that he has to obey, the same as everyone. He did break one rule, he allowed us to bury Robbie in the cemetery, the church wanted him to be buried outside because he had committed suicide, and that's a sin in the eyes of the church, and he wasn't given the last rites before he died, as the church decrees." "I understand fully, I like him, he's one of the good guys." We found ourselves seated in Beryl's kitchen staring at the pile of documents that she had placed in front of us. "I copied these without even Father O'Brien's knowledge. I have thought of going to the Royal Commission when it gets here. I'll tell him before hand so that he knows what to expect. He has been told how to answer questions if he's asked to attend. He's to say that he had done everything in his power when the situation was brought to his attention in the confessional." "Something should be done about priests hiding behind the sanctity of the confessional, even murderers can confess to killing someone to his priest and know that the priest can't go to the cops about it. There should be a law that forces priests to tell the police when a criminal has confessed to them." Sonia wasn't a Catholic, so she couldn't get her head around the concept of the confessional. "But then I suppose that the criminal will simply not confess to his priest." "If he doesn't he does not receive absolution and won't go to heaven when he dies." I told her. "You don't think that simply telling a priest will get you through the gates of heaven, do you?" "That's what we're told." "So, a priest can confess to his confessor that he has had sex with a young boy, in the knowledge that his crime will not be revealed, is that fair?" "No-one said that any of this is fair, but these are the rules that priests live by." "Then we really have to do something about this." Sonia looked closely into my eyes. "I hope that you're not going to get all Catholic on me and refuse to do anything about this?" "I'm a Catholic by default, not choice. I have seen enough of the wrong-doings of this church to want to see those guilty of these crimes brought to justice. If the church looks on my actions as somehow reprehensible and excommunicates me, so be it. I will not lose any sleep over it. Better men than me have been wrongfully excommunicated by the church." I turned to Beryl. "Can we take these with us and have them copied. We'll take anything out that can identify the source, and get them back to you?" "Yes. I want to see justice done in such a way that this practise can be stamped out for good." Byron headed us off at the pass as we walked into the newsroom. "Tell me that you've actually been working on your story and not been engaged in carnal pleasures." "Okay, if that's what you want to hear, then yes, we have been working on our story." He was somewhat taken aback by the fact that I wasn't afraid of him. "And it is the truth. We have made something of a breakthrough in that we have evidence of a cover-up by the church hierarchy. We have a written directive on how to act on allegations of sexual impropriety by the clergy. It comes from the top." An Impossible Dream "When you say top, you mean a Bishop or something?" "Try Arch-Bishop. Now we can authenticate these documents, but unless we can get hold of the computer files, the church can always say that they were forgeries put about by someone wanting to damage the good name of the church." "So what we have is evidence that we are unable to use." "I'm not saying that we can't use it, just that we can't prove it. We don't have the powers of the police, or the Royal Commission, to force the church to release the documents. What we can do is to write up our report, hinting at the existence of these documents, and hand them over to either the police or the Royal Commission before we release the report. The church will go into damage control and, if their usual route is taken, they will deny, deny, deny, not realising that the police or whoever already have the documents. That extra lead time should give the authorities time to act before they can be destroyed." "You've thought this through, haven't you?" "We have thought this through, this is a joint effort, Sonia and I are a team, a very good team, and worth more than the miserable salary that you are paying us." "No hide, no Christmas box. We'll leave the decision as to your nett worth to this organisation until after I have read your report. Hop to it." "Yes Sir." We both saluted him, in a spontaneous casual fashion and headed for our desks. We hardly noticed the passage of time. Neither of us felt the urge to stop for lunch, or even a cup of coffee. We were told later that we ignored other staff and Journalists saying good night to us. The truth was that neither of us heard them. It was late when we finished the report to our satisfaction. We printed off a copy and placed it in Byron's in tray as we left. Something else that we didn't notice was that as we walked towards the front entrance I reached for Sonia's hand and she gave it to me. It was the most natural of gestures, so much so that we didn't notice it until we reached her apartment. We were oblivious even to the fact that we had not eaten since coffee and biscuits at Beryl's house, we just fell, totally exhausted, into bed. The touch of our naked bodies should have been enough to lead to a night of unbridled passion, but we were too tired even for that. Breakfast was disgusting, MacMuffins, hash browns washed down by several MacCafes, but we didn't care, all that we wanted to do was to fill the gaps in our stomachs caused by our single minded desire to complete our report. People stared at us as we entered the newsroom, and it was then that we realised that I still had Sonia's hand in mine. "Ah the love-birds have arrived." Byron's disgustingly hardy voice shouted over the din of people talking on phones and chatting to each other. Thirty years ago you could have added the clatter of typewriters, but they no longer existed. "Come in." We entered, not in fear for we knew that he would have nothing but praise for our work. "This is some report that you have written here, I will say that for it . . . " "There's a 'but' about to appear, isn't there." Sonia beat me to the punch. "As I was a bout to say before I was so rudely interrupted, was that I'm sorry, but we can't print it, at least not yet." "We already knew that, we realise that the police need to act on it before we publish, to minimise the opportunity of the church to destroy the documentation." "No, that's not what I meant. We can't use it period, at least not until the Royal Commission has completed its gathering of evidence and released its findings, and that will take months, years even, to happen." He saw the disappointment in our faces, all of that hard work for what? For nothing. What a let down. "I don't mean that we can't use it at all. Look, I've spoken to Legal and the police, and they both said the same thing, that it's simply too hot to handle right now, but in time it will be, and you can look forward to your acceptance speech at the Walkley Awards." "What if we were to present this report directly to the Royal Commission? Once it is out in the open as evidence it is on the public record. Surely we can publish then, get the drop on the other media outlets." "That sound good in theory, but, if you present it as evidence the church will go into damage control and deny it until they can manage to destroy any trace of the evidence ever having existed. James, don't get me wrong, the two of you have done a thorough piece of investigative journalism here, something of which you can be justifiably proud. But when you've been around this industry for as long as I have, you learn that the timing of a story is almost as important as the story itself." "I suppose that you're right, but where does that leave my source. She has been waiting for a long time for closure on this, for the church to admit its culpability in what has happened to her family. She is not after financial compensation, especially if it's attached to a Melbourne Response solution. All she asks is for the church to recognise that the problem exists, has existed for decades, probably longer, and to do something positive about it. Is that too much to ask?" "No, it's not too much to ask for, but we can't always get what we ask for. That's life, and to quote someone, 'you'll just have to suck it up.' I'm sorry, but my hands are tied on this, the media has been on this subject for some time, and we can print stuff that we know but can't prove until we're blue in the face and the public won't take any notice of us. We've done it for so long that it has lost it's impact, and Roland is only interested in stories that have the sort of impact that sells paper, sells air-time on TV." "What are we going to do now? This was our big story." "We can both have a think about it and see if there is a story out there that you can get your teeth into." We were deflated. All that effort for what? Nothing. As soon as I reached my desk I rang Beryl. "Hi Beryl, it's James, look I didn't thank you for that information that we got from you, it was just what we needed for our story. But here's the thing, the paper won't use it." "Why?" "Because this cause has been done to death with little chance of a result, at least not until the results of the Royal Commission are published. I guess that it was just one of my impossible dreams, me thinking that I could do something. The problem for the paper is that, while the information that you gave us is damning, the church can claim that the instructions are forgeries. We need someone who is inside the church to come out and swear that they are the real deal and not forgeries. I'm sorry, but that's how it stands." "Oh." Her voice was that quiet that I had trouble hearing it. "Well, at least you tried. Thank you for that." My next call was to Mum. "Hi Mum, is it okay if Sonia comes over for dinner tonight?" "Of course it is. She's a lovely girl son, she'll make you happy." "Don't you think that you're jumping the gun a little here?" "That's one of your problems son, you rationalise these things until the opportunity is lost. It's obvious that the two of you are a perfect fit, so why beat about the bush, do something about it." "I suppose that you thought of asking me before asking your Mum for an invite to dinner? I could have other plans for this evening." "Do you? Have other plans." "No as it happens." "Well then, would you like to come over to mine for dinner tonight?" "Yes, of course. Only because I like your Mum." "As it happens, my mother already has us married off." "A woman of vision it seems." "Does that mean . . .?" "I won't discount the possibility." She smiled at me, got up, walked around from her desk to mine, sat on my desk and smiled again. What she did next was un-expected, but not un-welcome, she kissed me. Someone whistled at us, while another suggested that we get a room. We went to lunch instead. A surprised awaited us when we got home, a couple of extra dinner guests "Father, I'd like you to meet the two Journalists that I told you about this morning." Beryl took Father O'Brien's hand and led him to us as we entered the living room of Mum and Dad's house. "James you already know from a few years ago before he went to Uni to study Journalism, and this is his partner in crime Sonia." "Pleased to me the two of you. Beryl has told me what you are doing, and I commend you for your thoughts, efforts and enthusiasm. I wish you well, and I wish that there was more that I could do to help, but my hands are well and truly tied." "I know that I speak for Sonia, I wish that there was more that you could do. We have found ourselves in something of an impasse, we have a story that our Editor tells us is the best that he has seen and would win a Walkley, but that he can't print it because, due to the almost incessant number of horrific stories that have already come out, based on statements made by victims and families of victims, that lack one thing, and that is tangible proof, that our story lacks impact. Can you believe that?" "What sort of proof are you looking for. I know that there is convincing evidence of a number of priest who have committed crimes against young boys, and this has led to convictions and gaol terms for the offending priests, what else can you want?" "What we a looking for is evidence of a cover-up by the church. Evidence the the hierarchy of the church knew that this sort of thing was going on and not only did nothing about it, but actively sort to hinder any investigation that was carried out by police. They deliberately moved offending priests from Diocese to Diocese, they hid behind the sanctity of the confessional to prevent priests from revealing offences to the police. They subverted the course of justice by conducting their own sham trials where the victims had to present their evidence without the benefit of legal representation. Can you imagine how a twelve year old kid would feel in a situation like that?" Father O'Brien was saved from answering by the call to dinner. "Dad, I'd like you to meet Sonia. She's a Journalist at the Standard and I am working with her on projects. Sonia, this is my father, Peter." "Pete, not Peter. Or you can call me Dad, seeing as how, if Maureen is to be believed, you two are a step shy of the altar." "Okay Dad, I'm pleased to meet you. Now I know where James has inherited his good looks from." We were seated at the table, Dad appropriately enough, at the head, Mum at the foot, Beryl and Father O'Brien opposite Sonia and me. Father O'Brien wasted no time on a long and involved Grace, allowing us to dig into the first course, one of Mum's beef and vegetable soups that took several days of intermittent slow cooking to mature into the a thick, rich dish. Dad introduced us to a bottle of red wine that he informed us he had hidden in his wardrobe for just such a special occasion. It was worthy of the wait. The main course dishes had just been cleared from the table, and during the hiatus between it and dessert, I bit the bullet. "Father O'Brien, tell me, the Parable of the Good Samaritan, what does that say to you?" "That mercy and love can come from unexpected people. Why do you ask?" "I feel that it means something a little different. To me it is a criticism of the priest and teacher, scribe or whatever, who had allowed church to get between them and the work of God." "I think that I know where you're going with this. You are telling me that I have placed protecting the church before doing the work of God, that the church is more important to me than justice and mercy. Let me tell you, that, notwithstanding the use of that Parable in the context of what has happened, is happening, in the church, I have given this a great deal of thought. And I admit that self-preservation features strongly in my thoughts, let's face it, who would employ a forty plus year old man who went straight from school to a seminary and into the priesthood. I have no other work experience. What kind of job do you think that I could get, and you can be certain that any entitlements that would be coming my way after the church has dismissed me, would not sustain me for the rest of my life." "So, we can't expect you to help us in any way?" "Did I say that? After Beryl told me what you told her this morning, I have had a re-think of my situation. I am prepared to give up my calling, my life's work, to give you the evidence that you need. What can you give me in return?" "I can see to it that anything that you give us will have everything that could identify the source removed from it. I can guarantee that you will be referred to in any copy as 'Father X', I might tart it up a bit by calling you 'the Whistle Blower Priest', with your permission of course." "That sounds almost like I'm a super hero, I like it. There is an up-side to all of this." "What might that be?" Beryl asked. "It means that, if I'm defrocked and kicked out of the Priesthood, I'll be able to marry Beryl here, that's if she wants me." Beryl placed her hand on his on the table. "I'd consider it when the time comes. I'd have to get a full-time job to support you, you do realise that." She kissed him, a chaste little kiss that said more to Father O'Brien than any words could tell him. "That's it. If you can guarantee that the story will get printed if I provide you with all of the evidence that I have, then you've got it." "Leave it with me, I'll speak with Byron in the morning and call you as soon as I have an answer from him." Mum had slipped into the kitchen and chose that moment to return with plates of apple crumble hidden by a thick vanilla custard. She mightn't be the most flamboyant of cooks, but it was very tasty. This was followed by coffees all round and an hour or so of interesting and varied conversation. Sonia told me later in bed, that she had never felt more at home with people that she had just met. Even Father O'Brien and she had found enough common ground to carry on a quite long conversation. "Father O'Brien is a very strong willed man, do you know that?" "What do you mean? I have never really thought of him in that way." "He has been in love with Beryl for years, since before her husband died he told me, and he has never given in to the temptation to tell her how much he loved her, or to act on it. Chatting with Beryl, she's known for years and has been waiting for him to make his move. She didn't want to come between him and the church." "Do you think that tonight might be the night?" "If they take any notice of what I have told them, individually, then yes. She might have to show him the way, but I'm sure that love will out." Speaking of love, Sonia and I made up for missing out last night because we were so very tired. We tried to keep it quiet, without success it seems. "Have you given any thought to where you are going to live?" Mum asked as we sat at the kitchen table to a large breakfast. "What makes you ask that?" I asked. "Well, by the sound coming from your room, you are either very much in love with each other, or you're both very good actors. I know which of those I want to be the truth." "Okay, we are both lousy actors. You can draw your own conclusion from that." Sonia told her with this wicked look in her eyes. Cross that from the impossible dream list. Byron was not happy to see us the next morning. "Are you two still angry at me for canning your story?" 'No, in fact what we now have will force you to un-can the story." "What new and exciting thing do you have to add?" "We have a priest who is willing to put his job on the line and give us chapter and verse of the attempts to sweep this under the carpet. How do you like them apples Boss?" "And how much is this going to cost us? I'm sure that he wants some form of compensation." "He wants nothing more than the protection that we offer any confidential source, complete anonymity. He will provide us with the certified copies of all original memos, emails, and snail mail directives dating back at least ten years. These direct Priests as to how to react to allegations of sexual abuse involving fellow Priests. They are very strong on the subject of not revealing information received in the confessional to the police. As to direct allegations about the activities of other Priests, they are to refer the matter immediately to the Diocese, where it will be dealt with in a manner considered appropriate to the situation. Appropriate manner includes, and this is spelt out in one memo, the moving of the offending Priest to another Diocese. All further correspondence with the victim, or the victim's family is to be referred to the Diocese for consideration. Priest at the Parish level are instructed not to take matters into their own hands." "Okay, wheel him in and let the negotiations begin." Father O'Brien's visit to the Standard's offices was preceded by the courier delivery of a large package. This proved to be a cardboard Archive box, heavily secured with packaging tape and wrapped in a plain wrapper. A note inside was from Father O'Brien. 'I have sent this package ahead because I considered it to be injudicious to be seen leaving the church with a bundle of files. Beryl has been taking them home in small bundles until we had copies of all relevant files. Will you and Sonia come to church on Sunday, I am to make a momentous announcement to the Parishioners.' "I wonder what this is all about?" I asked Sonia. "I guess that I will just have to break the habit of a lifetime and go to church with you." "I'm pretty much a stranger to the church myself these days." We spent the best part of the day wading through the documents, cataloguing them and tagging them, so that they would be easy to refer to as needed. At the end of the day I rang Byron's Secretary. "Hi, it's James Lawrence here, would it be possible to arrange an appointment with Byron?" "Is it important? He has a meeting with the Managing Editor in half an hour." "It is that important, don't worry, it won't take long, just a preliminary to a more important appointment, hopefully tomorrow." I was put on hold for fully thirty seconds. "He'll see you immediately, come straight down." A minute later she ushered us into the inner sanctum. "Well, I suppose that you two have been making significant progress with your story." "Yes, we have spent most of today sorting through the files the Father O'Brien has sent us, and we have our story. We haven't written it up yet, that will take us a day or two. In the mean time, we want you to speak with Father O'Brien, if you want us to be there we will, but I think that we might be too close to him for comfort. Someone not close to him may be able to look at this whole story with more objectivity than we can." "Very well, give me a précis of what you have, and then give me his number and I'll call him to arrange a meeting tomorrow. You may want to call him first to let him know that I will be calling him." "Very well, I'll call him immediately." "Good work you two. I knew that I would be getting the best team when I put you together." Father O'Brien spent the best part of two hours with Byron. Numerous cups of coffee were ferried into the office before Byron dictated something to his Secretary that was taken into the office and signed by both parties. The two of them walked down to our desks. "James, Sonia, I must say that you have done a bang-up job here. Gerald (Father O'Brien's name is Gerald?) has let me know in no uncertain manner that he would not have given his story to any Journalists other than the two of you. He has told me that, if you hadn't pointed something out to him, he would have taken this information to his grave, along with his shame for doing nothing about it. I don't know what you said to him, and I don't want to. An Impossible Dream "I will see both of you on Sunday, won't I?" He, Father O'Brien, asked, the emphasis being on 'will'. "Yes, we wouldn't miss it for the world." Sonia answered for the both of us. Sunday, how do I describe Sunday? It began with breakfast. Sonia stayed overnight with me and let me tell you, it was the most fantastic night of my life. Somewhere in there, in amongst the whispered expressions of my feelings toward her, and her reciprocal emotions, I might have asked her to marry me. It is said that actions speak louder than words, somewhere between my cock entering her pussy and her shuddering orgasm some time later, I got the message that she had accepted. "Does that answer your question?" "In the best way possible. I love you, from the very moment I was introduced to you I knew that I loved you." "I beat you to the punch by at least thirty seconds. I watched you and Bryce walking through the newsroom and knew even then that we were being thrown together for a reason that had nothing to do with work. I had heard a couple of Journos talking about this whiz-kid from a regional rag coming to work for us, and how good you were, but even that didn't prepare me for meeting you in the flesh. I was hooked." We consummated our new and improved status for some time before exhaustion took over and we fell asleep with me still inside her pussy. We woke with me still inside her, this time mouth, as she woke me. "Good morning my darling fiancé." She put him back in. "And good morning to you my love." I changed position so that I could lick her pussy that was redolent of last night's festivities. Some time later, lured by the aroma of bacon and eggs and toast and freshly brewed coffee, we slipped into our clothes and headed for the kitchen. "Look at the two of you, you both look like the cat that ate the canary." "Mum, Dad, we have an announcement to make. We are engaged, we are going to get married." Mum reached us first, grabbing us both in her embrace, she kissed Sonia and me in turn. "Congratulations, this calls for a celebration! We are taking the two of you to lunch after church, aren't we Peter?" Dad arrived on the scene half a second after Mum and joined in the group hug. "You bet." He kissed Sonia, and shook my hand, the left one but who cares. "I'll have to pay a visit to the ATM on the way, I don't have anywhere near an appropriate amount of money for this occasion." Sonia looked great. For someone who never went to church she was dressed perfectly, a navy blue dress that floated around her beautiful body, kissing it in places that enhanced her figure, dark stockings and heels high enough to emphasise the perfection of her legs. In keeping with the Catholic tradition of head covering, she wore one of those 'fascinators', those little bits of millinery frippery, most often seen at horse race meetings like the Melbourne Cup. We sat with Mum and Dad a couple of rows from the front of the church, uttering the appropriate responses required in the liturgy of the church, genuflecting at the right time, and listening in anticipation to Father O'Brien's homily. At the end of the service, just before the Benediction to dismiss the congregation, he held up his hand. "My friends, this will be my last time with you. I have tendered my resignation from the Priesthood, effective immediately. My reason for doing this is that I have for some time been torn in two directions. On the one hand it was to my life as a Priest and my duty to the church. On the other hand it was my life as a man, a man who was experiencing the same sort of emotions and feelings as every other man, the need to be accepted by another on a more personal level that the Priesthood allowed. I was in love with a woman, I am in love with a woman. That love has transcended my love for my life as a Priest. The woman concerned has been very understanding for a long time, too long a time. I have decided to put her out of her misery by asking her to marry me. She has accepted. Beryl Thornleigh has consented to be my wife as soon as my resignation has been accepted by the church. As of next Friday I will no longer be a Priest and Beryl will be Mrs Beryl O'Brien. Monday week I start looking for a job. Can we now have the Benediction." The celebratory table was expanded to include Gerry and Beryl. It was the happiest of meals, and I have to admit that there were probably a few too many bottles of expensive champagne drunk in the progress of the meal, so much so that we had to get one of those services where they send a car and two drivers to drive us and Dad's car home. Sonia and I were still a tad seedy when we got to work. We had no sooner sat down at our desks when we were summoned to Byron's office. We were surprised to see a similarly seedy Gerry seated there. "James, Sonia, I have spent the weekend going through your story, and let's say that I am impressed with the work that you have done. We are going to publish, and it's going international. We have a new member of our team, Gerry here has agreed to come on board as our new Religion Analyst. His first job will be to analyse the evidence given at the Royal Commission, as well as the people giving that evidence, looking for evidence of evasion and downright lying by those giving evidence. He will do this in complete anonymity, using a nom de plume and observing the proceedings by way of video coverage." "You're a dark horse, aren't you? Not a word during the celebrations yesterday." "Celebrations, what celebrations, and why wasn't I invited?" "It was a spur of the moment thing, to celebrate Gerry's resignation from the church and his going to marry Beryl." "Not forgetting your own impending nuptials". Gerry tossed into the conversation. "What? Has everyone gone totally bonkers here?' You two have known each other for what, twenty seconds, and now you're getting married, are you completely stupid?" "No, we make a good team in more ways than one, even you have to admit that." "True, I'll grant you that. My next bit of news is almost anti-climactic in comparison. After I read your report, I felt it necessary to speak with Roland Broadstock in person." "You mean the Big Kahuna Roland Broadstock?" I asked. "The very same. I emailed him the report, and he rang me at some ungodly hour this morning. You two, should you accept, are to pack your bags and move to London, you are being offered a job on his flagship paper there. Well, what do I tell him?" "We accept." We said in unison. It took a week to tidy up our lives here, and pack. I got to meet Sonia's parents, Berndt and Freida who accepted me despite me taking their only child from their midst and carting her off to the other side of the world. It seemed as if every member of Gerry's congregation was at the wedding of the year, and I couldn't have been happier for the both of them. By comparison, Sonia and my wedding was a quiet affair, just a few family members and a couple of friends, and Byron who insisted on an invite and gave as impressive set of matching luggage for our honeymoon/move to London. Like I said at the beginning, she was Ariadne d'Arbanville, and I was smitten, smitten by her style, but not her as a person. She was an impossible dream, and I knew that. I had a reason not to be smitten by her as a person, because I was totally and utterly smitten by the woman who was my possible dream, in the person of my partner and wife, Sonia.