Prologue

Far from the suffocating tropical heat and the incessant chatter and honking traffic, far from the gaggle of selfie-taking, vlogging tourists in the ornate, white-walled courtyard, far even from the few penitent souls who took their worship seriously at the front of the stunning sanctuary, Padre Roberto Inocento hid in the dull cool of his confessional booth. They would come to him. He knew they would. They always did. But after a few minutes of cod counselling and simple advice, wrapped up in Scriptures and church tradition, they would leave him alone again.

That was how it was. Day after day after day. And he liked it that way.

He got out his well-thumbed Sudoku book. Might as well pass the time keeping his elderly brain far from dementia before his next parishioner arrived. As they always did.

Suddenly he became aware of someone sitting on the other side of the grate. It wasn’t just the presence. He was always aware of that. He was attuned to it. It was the smell: the less alluring, more overpowering, smell of someone who was trying a little too hard with perfume.

He peered through the grate. The person on the other side appeared to be wearing feminine clothes – all flowery and brightly coloured – but covered over with a thin, dark cardigan. It was as if they were a peacock trying hard to be a hen; as if they were dressed to attract the opposite gender, but knew they should dial it down and be demure for God. Or for him. For someone else, certainly.

Although he knew God would not be fooled.

And then there was their silhouette. His eyes were not the sharpest anymore, but beneath the strong perfume and the overtly feminine dress was someone with wide shoulders, a muscly frame and seemingly a distinctive square jaw.

And then there was the voice: like bass trying falsetto, and not quite hitting the heights. ‘Forgive me, Father.’ it squeaked. ‘I’m about to sin.’

‘Have I seen you here before?’ Padre Inocento queried gently.

The voice replied. ‘No. I’m new to this game.’

‘I figured as much.’ Father Inocento admitted. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone quite like you.’

‘Thank you. I’m flattered. But I know you’re taken. God would be so disappointed.’ The voice cooed cheekily.

Father Inocento glossed over that last remark. ‘You do know that’s not how it works, right? You’re supposed to ask for forgiveness for past sins. And then repent of them.’

‘But you do sell indulgences, don’t you? I mean, that’s still a thing, right?’ the voice asked.

Padre Inocento cleared his throat. ‘Well, yes, it is. But, you know...’

The voice cut over him. ‘Well, Father, indulge me. I’ll pay you. Get me a fast pass into big house in the sky and I'll get you a Bugatti. Hey, I’ll get you a whole fleet of Bugattis. You’ll make the pope look like a pauper. ‘Cos, let me tell you, Father, I’m about to sin. I’m about to sin like you've never seen before. I’m about to sin so hard that I’ll make the devil himself blush with shame, and I will never be stopped.’

A few minutes later, a fragrant, flamboyant trans woman, their peacock finery barely concealed under a thin, black cardigan, stumbled out of Cebu Metropolitan Cathedral, teetering precariously on their shocking neon pink genuine Manolo Blahnik heels, two irate women yelling at them in Bisaya from the doorway. They straightened up their cardigan, flashed a middle finger at the women and took out their mobile phone to make a call. ‘He wouldn’t do it. Stupid old homophobe.’ They snapped in their high-pitched, clipped, but husky tone. ‘Oh, don’t worry: we’re on. We were never not on. We’re doing this and no-one will stop us. Not that geriatric cis. Not the church. Not even God. Yeah, you heard me. Not. Even. God.’