Apeiron Review | Issue 17

The Priest in London Nick Mancuso He was surprised at the informal and confident tone with which the woman, for whom Father Kyle would break his vows, first addressed him.

“You’ve got terrible taste,” she said, standing in that pub in Pimlico where Father Kyle had been sitting alone, enjoying his guiltiest of pleasures, a mystery novel and a pint of hard cider. It was like they were just two thirty-somethings in a pub, and it took Father Kyle a minute to realize his thick scarf hid his white clerical collar, and that was exactly what they were.

He never had conversations like this. Talking with parishioners always felt tainted with reverence. Not with her, though, probably because she didn’t realize he was a priest just yet.

“Why’s that? It’s fine,” he said taking the last sip. He smirked, a departure from the reserved, bland smile he gave everyone.

“It’s far too slow,” she said, setting her coat down across from him.

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” said with confidence as he closed it. He had opinions on this, as years ago for Christmas his sister gifted him an e-book reader and secretly loaded it with a dozen mysteries, so he could indulge without anyone noticing that he wasn’t exactly reading Letters to the Corinthians. Nobody but God ever noticed.

This book, though, was a paperback, a real English mystery, by a real English author, one he’d bought that morning, words spelled colour and grey, perfect for London.

“It doesn’t even pick up after the second murder,” she said, smiling. “You’re American, right?”

He nodded.

“What brings you to London?”

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