children,
received their stammered confessions, administered the last rites, buried them in dealboard coffins. And still no resurrection.
He approached the presbytery carefully, his senses alert for any sign of a watcher: a parked car, a shadow that moved, a sound. There was nothing. Keeping himself close to the house walls, he reached the door. There was nothing for it now: if someone was watching, he would just have to let them see him.
He knocked on the presbytery door. His visits to De Faoite had not often brought him here. They normally met at Trinity College or the Chester Beatty Library in Ballsbridge: the old priest kept his worlds quite separate. Perhaps that was what kept him sane.
‘I’m not a good man,’ he had once told Patrick. ‘I find it hard to be a priest. I hate poverty. I loathe petty crime and the mess people make of their daily lives. If I had it to do over again, I don’t think I could face it. Do you know, if I believed in reincarnation like these Indian yogis, I think I’d go crazy. Imagine - having to come back again! Jesus, Patrick, doesn’t that give you the creeps now?’
Patrick knocked again. Perhaps hating his vocation was what made a man a saint. He didn’t know: he was one of the people who made messes of their lives. He suddenly realized that he had not been to confession in twenty years. There were a lot of messes to get off his chest. Mist swirled round the enamel-painted door. Why didn’t De Faoite answer? There was a light on in the upstairs room that served as the old man’s study.
There was no answer to his third knock. As he turned to go, he noticed that another light was burning in the church next door. He opened the iron gate and went through. The old church loomed out of the darkness, faintly menacing in a veil of mist.
It had been built in 1689, and much of it was now in a state of serious decay. De Faoite had started a restoration fund and issued appeals for money, but who was going to dig into his pocket to gild a church among the tenements?
Above the door, a weather-worn statue of the Virgin gazed down at him. The face was almost featureless, without nose or eyes or expression. On her head she wore a crown, and on her lap a deformed child, its limbs eroded by wind and dirt, stretched a fingerless hand towards a faintly delineated breast.
The door opened to his touch. There was a smell of wax and incense, mixed with an underlying odour of damp. Beneath an icon of the Sacred Heart, a red lamp flickered in the draught from the door. He slipped inside noiselessly, feeling alien and ill at ease. When had he last set foot inside a church?
Faint shadows moved beneath the ceiling. At the far end of the church, above the altar, a single lamp hung on a copper chain, shedding a dull sepia light to the top of the sanctuary steps. Nearby, half a dozen candles had burned to stubs at the foot of an alabaster statue of the Virgin.
He called De Faoite’s name, but there was no answer. Mist followed him into the church, rolling gently across the floor. He closed the door behind him.
‘Are you here, Father?’
A faint echo rang from the ceiling, hidden in darkness. Automatically, he dipped his fingers into the holy water stoup and crossed himself. The church was unheated, and tonight it felt like an ice-box.
Perhaps the priest had been called out to hear an urgent confession from one of his parishioners. There were three confessionals against the west wall. Patrick made his way to them. They were all empty.
He called again, but his voice was swallowed up in the damp, sacral silence. He was wasting his time here. Best to find a telephone and ring De Faoite again. He turned and started to go.
There was a low sound. It seemed to come from the direction of the transept, possibly the sanctuary. Patrick froze. In the shadows, nothing moved. A candle sputtered and went out. He took a cautious step forward.
‘Is there someone there?’ he called.
No one answered. He felt the
received their stammered confessions, administered the last rites, buried them in dealboard coffins. And still no resurrection.
He approached the presbytery carefully, his senses alert for any sign of a watcher: a parked car, a shadow that moved, a sound. There was nothing. Keeping himself close to the house walls, he reached the door. There was nothing for it now: if someone was watching, he would just have to let them see him.
He knocked on the presbytery door. His visits to De Faoite had not often brought him here. They normally met at Trinity College or the Chester Beatty Library in Ballsbridge: the old priest kept his worlds quite separate. Perhaps that was what kept him sane.
‘I’m not a good man,’ he had once told Patrick. ‘I find it hard to be a priest. I hate poverty. I loathe petty crime and the mess people make of their daily lives. If I had it to do over again, I don’t think I could face it. Do you know, if I believed in reincarnation like these Indian yogis, I think I’d go crazy. Imagine - having to come back again! Jesus, Patrick, doesn’t that give you the creeps now?’
Patrick knocked again. Perhaps hating his vocation was what made a man a saint. He didn’t know: he was one of the people who made messes of their lives. He suddenly realized that he had not been to confession in twenty years. There were a lot of messes to get off his chest. Mist swirled round the enamel-painted door. Why didn’t De Faoite answer? There was a light on in the upstairs room that served as the old man’s study.
There was no answer to his third knock. As he turned to go, he noticed that another light was burning in the church next door. He opened the iron gate and went through. The old church loomed out of the darkness, faintly menacing in a veil of mist.
It had been built in 1689, and much of it was now in a state of serious decay. De Faoite had started a restoration fund and issued appeals for money, but who was going to dig into his pocket to gild a church among the tenements?
Above the door, a weather-worn statue of the Virgin gazed down at him. The face was almost featureless, without nose or eyes or expression. On her head she wore a crown, and on her lap a deformed child, its limbs eroded by wind and dirt, stretched a fingerless hand towards a faintly delineated breast.
The door opened to his touch. There was a smell of wax and incense, mixed with an underlying odour of damp. Beneath an icon of the Sacred Heart, a red lamp flickered in the draught from the door. He slipped inside noiselessly, feeling alien and ill at ease. When had he last set foot inside a church?
Faint shadows moved beneath the ceiling. At the far end of the church, above the altar, a single lamp hung on a copper chain, shedding a dull sepia light to the top of the sanctuary steps. Nearby, half a dozen candles had burned to stubs at the foot of an alabaster statue of the Virgin.
He called De Faoite’s name, but there was no answer. Mist followed him into the church, rolling gently across the floor. He closed the door behind him.
‘Are you here, Father?’
A faint echo rang from the ceiling, hidden in darkness. Automatically, he dipped his fingers into the holy water stoup and crossed himself. The church was unheated, and tonight it felt like an ice-box.
Perhaps the priest had been called out to hear an urgent confession from one of his parishioners. There were three confessionals against the west wall. Patrick made his way to them. They were all empty.
He called again, but his voice was swallowed up in the damp, sacral silence. He was wasting his time here. Best to find a telephone and ring De Faoite again. He turned and started to go.
There was a low sound. It seemed to come from the direction of the transept, possibly the sanctuary. Patrick froze. In the shadows, nothing moved. A candle sputtered and went out. He took a cautious step forward.
‘Is there someone there?’ he called.
No one answered. He felt the
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