mouth, and Fr. Proulx placed the bread on his tongue.
Corpus Domini nostri Jesus Christi custodiat animam tuam in vitam aeternam. Amen .
He then turned to the side of the altar to offer the Host to the nuns. They were all hidden from view, and Murdoch could see only the priest as he reached forward to the invisible woman at the prie-dieu.
Murdoch went back to the pew, trying to swallow the wafer of bread, which stuck to the roof of his mouth. The nuns were singing a Miserere. He knelt down and tried to say the Paternoster.
He heard a sniffle beside him. One of the women was weeping. At what? She couldn’t possibly have known Susanna. It was pure sentimental rubbish that she was crying like that. Murdoch’s own eyes were dry. He was too angry to cry.
The singing ceased and the priest completed his rituals at the altar, wiping the chalice with the cloth and replacing it in the ciborium. He kissed the altar and turned to face the four of them.
Dominus vobiscum .
“And with thy spirit,” replied the crying woman, her Latin somewhat indistinct.
Both priest and server made the sign of the cross, and Murdoch did the same. The mass was over. Fr. Proulx and the server disappeared into the sanctum, and the three women slipped away without any talking or acknowledgement of each other or him. He sat for a moment longer, the pungent odour of the incense tingling in his nostrils. The candles in the sconces flickered. It was daylight outside but another snow-filled grey morning, and the light in the chapel was dim.
Chapter Nine
P ATRICK P UGH TILTED THE WASHSTAND MIRROR forward so he could see himself better. He separated out the front lock of his hair and daubed it with the bleach. His hair was naturally dark brown, thick, and wavy, but he’d been dyeing this one piece white for some time. He thought the flash gave a certain element of drama to his appearance, rather like a picture he’d seen of Mercury, the winged messenger. Besides, it was memorable. If anybody was talking about him, they inevitably referred to the man with the white streak in his hair. Then, if necessary, he could reverse that. Return to his normal appearance. “Have you seen a man, slim, about forty years of age, nobby dresser? He has a white lock of hair at the right temple?” “No, can’t say I have.” Pugh had found that, in some circumstances, it was better to be obvious than not. When you wanted to vanish, everybody was on the lookout for the flamboyant man in the tartan suit and red crusher, not the quiet, nondescript one in the plain grey overcoat and black fedora. He thought of it as a sort of magician’s trick. “Look over here, at this scarf, not here where I am putting a card in my pocket.” Pugh was fond of magic tricks and had learned several. On some of the lonely night watches, he practised legerdemain with a pack of cards. When he was tired of this work, he thought he would start a new career as a touring magician.
He whistled through his teeth, a jolly ballad he’d heard at the tavern. That was another thing he was good at, remembering tunes. He only needed to hear one once, and he could whistle the whole thing right through.
He scrutinised himself. That seemed good enough. He moved the mirror downward so he could get a glimpse of his naked loins. Yes, good. His stomach was as flat as a prizefighter’s, and his thighs and calves firm and muscular. He could pass for a man at least ten years younger than he actually was. Finally, he stretched out his hands. Steady as rocks. The tip of his middle finger on the left hand was missing, and he never failed to experience a touch of chagrin at the sight. Even though he’d learned to take advantage of the defect, he was vain about his long, slender fingers. He’d suffered the loss when he was doing a stint as a mucker in a copper mine in Jerome, Arizona. Sheer carelessness on his part. But that was another tale to tell when he found time to recount his memoirs for posterity. Keeping
Corpus Domini nostri Jesus Christi custodiat animam tuam in vitam aeternam. Amen .
He then turned to the side of the altar to offer the Host to the nuns. They were all hidden from view, and Murdoch could see only the priest as he reached forward to the invisible woman at the prie-dieu.
Murdoch went back to the pew, trying to swallow the wafer of bread, which stuck to the roof of his mouth. The nuns were singing a Miserere. He knelt down and tried to say the Paternoster.
He heard a sniffle beside him. One of the women was weeping. At what? She couldn’t possibly have known Susanna. It was pure sentimental rubbish that she was crying like that. Murdoch’s own eyes were dry. He was too angry to cry.
The singing ceased and the priest completed his rituals at the altar, wiping the chalice with the cloth and replacing it in the ciborium. He kissed the altar and turned to face the four of them.
Dominus vobiscum .
“And with thy spirit,” replied the crying woman, her Latin somewhat indistinct.
Both priest and server made the sign of the cross, and Murdoch did the same. The mass was over. Fr. Proulx and the server disappeared into the sanctum, and the three women slipped away without any talking or acknowledgement of each other or him. He sat for a moment longer, the pungent odour of the incense tingling in his nostrils. The candles in the sconces flickered. It was daylight outside but another snow-filled grey morning, and the light in the chapel was dim.
Chapter Nine
P ATRICK P UGH TILTED THE WASHSTAND MIRROR forward so he could see himself better. He separated out the front lock of his hair and daubed it with the bleach. His hair was naturally dark brown, thick, and wavy, but he’d been dyeing this one piece white for some time. He thought the flash gave a certain element of drama to his appearance, rather like a picture he’d seen of Mercury, the winged messenger. Besides, it was memorable. If anybody was talking about him, they inevitably referred to the man with the white streak in his hair. Then, if necessary, he could reverse that. Return to his normal appearance. “Have you seen a man, slim, about forty years of age, nobby dresser? He has a white lock of hair at the right temple?” “No, can’t say I have.” Pugh had found that, in some circumstances, it was better to be obvious than not. When you wanted to vanish, everybody was on the lookout for the flamboyant man in the tartan suit and red crusher, not the quiet, nondescript one in the plain grey overcoat and black fedora. He thought of it as a sort of magician’s trick. “Look over here, at this scarf, not here where I am putting a card in my pocket.” Pugh was fond of magic tricks and had learned several. On some of the lonely night watches, he practised legerdemain with a pack of cards. When he was tired of this work, he thought he would start a new career as a touring magician.
He whistled through his teeth, a jolly ballad he’d heard at the tavern. That was another thing he was good at, remembering tunes. He only needed to hear one once, and he could whistle the whole thing right through.
He scrutinised himself. That seemed good enough. He moved the mirror downward so he could get a glimpse of his naked loins. Yes, good. His stomach was as flat as a prizefighter’s, and his thighs and calves firm and muscular. He could pass for a man at least ten years younger than he actually was. Finally, he stretched out his hands. Steady as rocks. The tip of his middle finger on the left hand was missing, and he never failed to experience a touch of chagrin at the sight. Even though he’d learned to take advantage of the defect, he was vain about his long, slender fingers. He’d suffered the loss when he was doing a stint as a mucker in a copper mine in Jerome, Arizona. Sheer carelessness on his part. But that was another tale to tell when he found time to recount his memoirs for posterity. Keeping
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