He moved across the street and Varley came out of the doorway of the old warehouse on the corner. 'I waited, Mr Meehan, like Billy said.'

'What happened to Fallon?'

'Went off in the car with Billy.'

Meehan frowned, but for the moment, that could wait and he turned his attention to the queue again. 'What are they all waiting for? This bleeding soup kitchen to open?'

'That's right, Mr Meehan. In the crypt.'

Meehan stared across at the queue for a while and then smiled suddenly. He opened his wallet and extracted a bundle of one-pound notes.

'I make it twenty-two in that queue, Charlie. You give them a quid apiece with my compliments and tell them the pub on the corner's just opened.'

Varley, mystified, crossed the street to distribute his largesse and within seconds, the queue was breaking up, several of the men touching their caps to Meehan who nodded cheerfully as they shuffled past. When Varley came back, there was no one left outside the door.

'He's going to have a lot of bleeding soup on his hands tonight,' Meehan said, grinning.

'I don't know about that, Mr Meehan,' Varley pointed out. 'They'll only come back when they've spent up.'

'And by then they'll have a skinful, won't they, so they might give him a little trouble. In fact, I think we'll make sure they do. Get hold of that bouncer from the Kit Kat Club. The Irishman, O'Hara.'

'Big Mick, Mr Meehan?' Varley stirred uneasily. 'I'm not too happy about that. He's a terrible man when he gets going.'

Meehan knocked off his cap and grabbed him by the hair. 'You tell him to be outside that door with one of his mates at opening time. Nobody goes in for the first hour. Nobody. He waits for at least a dozen drunks to back him, then he goes in and smashes the place up. If he does it right, it's worth twenty-five quid. If the priest breaks an arm, accidental like, it's worth fifty.'

Varley scrambled for his cap in the gutter. 'Is that all, Mr Meehan?' he asked fearfully.

'It'll do for starters.' Meehan was chuckling to himself as he walked away.

Father da Costa could count on only three acolytes for evening Mass. The parish was dying, that was the trouble. As the houses came down, the people moved away to the new estates, leaving only the office blocks. It was a hopeless task, he had known that when they sent him to Holy Name. His superiors had known. A hopeless task to teach him humility, wasn't that what the bishop had said? A little humility for a man who had been arrogant enough to think he could change the world. Remake the Church in his own image.

Two of the boys were West Indians, the other English of Hungarian parents. All a product of the few slum streets still remaining. They stood in the corner waiting for him, whispering together, occasionally laughing, newly-washed, hair combed, bright in their scarlet cassocks and white cottas. Had Jack Meehan looked like that once?

The memory was like a sword in the heart. The fact of his own violence, the killing rage. The violence that had been so often his undoing through the years. The men he had killed in the war - that was one thing, but after ... the Chinese soldier in Korea machine-gunning a column of refugees. He had picked up a rifle and shot the man through the head at two hundred yards. Expertly, skilfully, the old soldier temporarily in control. Had he been wrong? Had it really been wrong when so many lives had been saved? And that Portuguese Captain in Mozambique stringing up guerrillas by their ankles. He had beaten the man half to death, the incident that had finally sent him home in disgrace.

'The days when bishops rode into battle with a mace in one hand are over, my friend.' The Bishop's voice echoed faintly 'Your task is to save souls.'

Violence for Violence. That was Meehan's way. Sick and disgusted, Father da Costa took off the violet stole he had worn for confession and put on a green one, crossing it under his girdle to represent Christ's passion and death. As he put on an old rose-coloured cope, the outer door opened and Anna came in, her stick in one hand, a raincoat over her.

He moved to take the raincoat, holding her shoulders briefly. 'Are you all right?'

She turned at once, concern on her face. 'What is it? You're upset. Has anything happened?'

'I had an unpleasant interview with the man Meehan,' he replied in a low voice. 'He said certain things concerning Fallon. Things which could explain a great deal. I'll tell you later.'

She frowned slightly, but he led her to the door and opened it, pushing her through into the church. He waited for a few moments to give her time to reach the organ, then nodded to the boys. They formed into their tiny procession, one of them opening the door, and as the organ started to play, they moved into the church.

It was a place of shadows, candlelight and darkness alternating, cold and damp. There were perhaps fifteen people in the congregation, no more. He had never felt so dispirited, so close to the final edge of things, not since Korea, and then he looked across at the figure of the Virgin. She seemed to float there in the candlelight, so calm, so serene and the slight half-smile on the parted lips seemed somehow for him alone.

'Asperges me,' he intoned and moved down the aisle, one of the West Indian boys carrying the bucket of holy water in front of him, Father da Costa sprinkling the heads of his congregation as he passed, symbolically washing them clean.

'And who will cleanse me?' he asked himself desperately. 'Who?'

In the faded rose cope, hands together, he commenced the mass. 'I confess to Almighty God, and to you, my brothers and sisters, that I have sinned through my own fault,' Here, he struck his breast once as ritual required. 'In my thoughts and in my words, in what I have done, and in what I have failed to do.'

The voices of the congregation swelled up in unison behind him. There were tears on his face, the first in many years, and he struck his breast again.

'Lord, have mercy on me,' he whispered. 'Help me. Show me what to do.'

9

The Executioner

The wind howled through the city like a living thing, driving rain before it, clearing the streets, rattling old window frames, tapping at the glass like some invisible presence.

When Billy Meehan went into Jenny Fox's bedroom, she was standing in front of the mirror combing her hair. She was wearing the black pleated mini skirt, dark stockings, patent-leather, high-heeled shoes and a white blouse. She looked extremely attractive.

As she turned, Billy closed the door and said softly, 'Nice, very nice. He's still in his room, isn't he?'

'He said he was going out again, though.'

'We'll have to change his mind then, won't we?' Billy went and sat on the bed. 'Come here.'

She fought to control the instant panic that threatened to choke her, the disgust that made her flesh crawl as she moved towards him.

He slipped his hands under her skirt, fondling the warm flesh at the top of the stockings. 'That's a good girl. He'll like that. They always do.' He stared up at her, that strange, dreamy look in his eyes again. 'You muck this up for me, you'll be in trouble. I mean, I'd have to punish you and you wouldn't like that, would you?'

Her heart thudded painfully, 'Please, Billy! Please!'

'Then do it right. I want to see what makes this guy tick.'

He pushed her away, got up and moved to a small picture on the wall. He removed it carefully. There was a tiny peephole underneath, skilfully placed and he peered through.

After a few moments, he turned and nodded. 'Just taken his shirt off. Now you get in there and remember - I'll be watching.'

His mouth was slack, his hands trembling a little and she turned, choking back her disgust, opened the door and slipped outside.