He dipped his fingers in the Holy Water and on his right a match flared in the darkness of the little side chapel to St Martin de Porres as someone lit a candle, illuminating a familiar face.

There was a slight pause and then the Devil moved out of the darkness and Father da Costa girded up his loins to meet him.

8

The Devil and all his Works

'What do you want here, Mr Meehan?' Father da Costa said.

'You know who I am?'

'Oh, yes,' Father da Costa told him. 'I was taught to recognise the Devil from a very early age.'

Meehan stared at him for a moment in genuine amazement and then he laughed harshly, his head thrown back, and the sound echoed up into the rafters.

'That's good. I like that.' Father da Costa said nothing and Meehan shrugged and turned to look down towards the altar. 'I used to come here when I was a kid. I was an acolyte.' He turned and there was a challenge in his voice. 'You don't believe me?'

'Shouldn't I?'

Meehan nodded towards the altar. 'I've stood up there many a time when it was my turn to serve at Mass. Scarlet cassock, white cotta. My old lady used to launder them every week. She loved seeing me up there. Father O'Malley was the priest in those days.'

'I've heard of him,' Father da Costa said.

'Tough as old boots.' Meehan was warming to his theme now - enjoying himself. 'I remember one Saturday evening, a couple of drunken Micks came in just before Mass and started turning things upside down. Duffed them up proper, he did. Straight out on their ear. Said they'd desecrated God's house and all that stuff.' He shook his head. 'A real old sod, he was. He once caught me with a packet of fags I'd nicked from a shop round the corner. Didn't call the law. Just took a stick to me in the sacristy.' He chuckled. 'Kept me honest for a fortnight that, Father. Straight up.'

Father da Costa said quietly, 'What do you want here, Mr Meehan?'

Meehan made a sweeping gesture with one arm that took in the whole church. 'Not what it was, I can tell you. Used to be beautiful, a real picture, but now ...' He shrugged. 'Ready to fall down any time. This restoration fund of yours? I hear you've not been getting very far.'

Father da Costa saw it all. 'And you'd like to help, is that it?'

'That's it, Father, that's it exactly.'

The door opened behind them, they both turned and saw an old lady with a shopping-bag enter. As she genuflected, Father da Costa said, 'We can't talk here. Come with me.'

They went up in the hoist to the top of the tower. It was still raining as he led the way out along the catwalk, but the mist had lifted and the view of the city was remarkable. In the far distance, perhaps four or five miles away, it was even possible to see the edge of the moors smudging the grey sky.

Meehan was genuinely delighted, 'Heh, I was up here once when I was a kid. Inside the belfry. It was different then.' He leaned over the rail and pointed to where the bulldozers were excavating in the brickfield. 'We used to live there. Thirteen, Khyber Street.'

He turned to Father da Costa who made no reply. Meehan said softly, 'This arrangement between you and Fallon? You going to stick to it?'

Father da Costa said, 'What arrangement would that be?'

'Come off it,' Meehan replied impatiently. 'This confession thing. I know all about it. He told me.'

'Then, as a Catholic yourself, you must know that there is nothing I can say. The secrets of the confessional are absolute.'

Meehan laughed harshly, 'I know. He's got brains, that Fallon. He shut you up good, didn't he?'

A small, hot spark of anger moved in Father da Costa and he breathed deeply to control it. 'If you say so.'

Meehan chuckled. 'Never mind, Father, I always pay my debts. How much?' His gesture took in the church, the scaffolding, everything. 'To put all this right?'

'Fifteen thousand pounds,' Father da Costa told him. 'For essential preliminary work. More would be needed later.'

'Easy,' Meehan said. 'With my help you could pick that up inside two or three months.'

'Might I ask how?'

Meehan lit a cigarette. 'For a start, there's the clubs. Dozens of them all over the north. They'll all put the old collecting-box round if I give the word.'

'And you actually imagine that I could take it?'

Meehan looked genuinely bewildered. 'It's only money, isn't it? Pieces of paper. A medium of exchange, that's what the bright boys call it. Isn't that what you need?'

'In case you've forgotten, Mr Meehan, Christ drove the money-lenders out of the temple. He didn't ask them for a contribution to the cause.'

Meehan frowned. 'I don't get it.'

'Then let me put it this way. My religion teaches me that reconciliation with God is always possible. That no human being, however degraded or evil, is beyond God's mercy. I had always believed that until now.'

Meehan's face was pale with fury. He grabbed da Costa's arm and pushed him towards the rail, pointing down at the brickfield.

'Thirteen, Khyber Street. A back-to-back rabbit hutch. One room downstairs, two up. One stinking lavatory to every four houses. My old man cleared off when I was a kid - he had sense. My old lady - she kept us going by cleaning when she could get it. When she couldn't, there were always ten bob quickies behind the boozer on a Saturday night. A bloody whore, that's all she was.'

'Who found time to clean and iron your cassock and cotta each week?' Father da Costa said. 'Who fed you and washed you and sent you to this church?'

'To hell with that,' Meehan said wildly. 'All she ever got - all anybody from Khyber Street ever got - was screwed into the ground, but not me. Not Jack Meehan. I'm up here now. I'm on top of the world where nobody can touch me.'

Father da Costa felt no pity, only a terrible disgust. He said calmly, 'I believe you to be the most evil and perverted creature it has ever been my misfortune to meet. If I could, I would hand you over to the proper authorities gladly. Tell them everything, but for reasons well known to you, this is impossible.'

Meehan seemed to be more in control of himself again. He said, with a sneer, 'That's good, that is. Me, you wouldn't touch with a ten-foot pole, but Fallon, he's different, isn't he? I mean, he only murders women and children.'

For a moment, Father da Costa had to fight for breath. When he spoke, it was with difficulty, 'What are you talking about?

'Don't say he hasn't told you,' Meehan jeered. 'Nothing about Belfast or Londonderry or that bus full of schoolkids he blew up?' He leaned forward, a strange intent look on his face and then he smiled, softly 'You don't like that, do you? Fell for his Irish charm. Did you fancy him, then? I've heard some of you priests ...'

There was a hand at his throat, a hand of iron and he was back against the cage of the hoist, fighting for his very life, the priest's eyes sparking fire. Meehan tried to bring up a knee and found only a thigh turned expertly to block it. Father da Costa shook him like a rat, then opened the door and threw him inside.

The cage door slammed as Meehan picked himself up. 'I'll have you for this,' he said hoarsely. 'You're dead meat.'

'My God, Mr Meehan,' Father da Costa said softly through the bars of the cage, 'is a God of Love. But he is also a God of Wrath. I leave you in his hands.'

He pressed the button and the cage started to descend.

As Meehan emerged from the church porch, a sudden flurry of wind dashed rain in his face. He turned up his collar and paused to light a cigarette. It was beginning to get dark and as he went down the steps he noticed a number of men waiting by a side door, sheltering against the wall from the rain. Human derelicts, most of them, in tattered coats and broken boots.