She turned, peering at him uncertainly. The tears had streaked her make-up, making her somehow seem very young. 'You mean it?'

'On the word of an Irish gentleman.'

She flung her arms about his neck in delight. 'Oh. I'll be good to you. I really will.'

He put a finger on her mouth. 'There's no need. No need at all.' He patted her cheek. 'I'll be back, I promise. Only do one thing for me.'

'What's that?'

'Wash your face, for God's sake.'

He closed the door gently as he went out and she moved across to the washbasin and looked into the mirror. He was right. She looked terrible and yet for the first time in years, the eyes were smiling. Smiling through that streaked whore's mask. She picked up a flannel and some soap and started to wash her face thoroughly.

Father da Costa couldn't understand it. The refuge had been open for just over an hour without a single customer. In all the months he had been operating from the old crypt he had never known such a thing.

It wasn't much of a place, but the stone walls had been neatly whitewashed, there was a coke fire in the stove, benches and trestle tables. Anna sat behind one of them, knitting a sweater. The soup was in front of her in a heat-retaining container, plates piled beside it. There were several loaves of yesterday's bread supplied free by arrangement with a local bakery.

Father da Costa put more coke on the stove and stirred it impatiently with the poker. Anna stopped knitting. 'What do you think has happened?'

'God knows,' he said. 'I'm sure I don't.' He walked to the door and went out to the porch. The street was apparently deserted. The rain had declined into a light drizzle. He went back inside.

The Irishman, O'Hara, the one Varley had referred to as Big Mick, moved out of the entrance to a small yard halfway up the street and stood under a lamp. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man, six foot three or four at least, with curling, black hair and a perpetual smile. The man who moved out of the shadows to join him was two or three inches shorter and had a broken nose.

It was at this moment that Fallon turned into the end of the street. He approached silently, pausing in the darkness to take stock of the situation when he saw O'Hara and his friend. When the Irishman started speaking. Fallon moved into a convenient doorway and listened.

'Sure and I think the reverend gentleman's just about ready for it, Daniel,' O'Hara said. 'How many have we got in there now?'

Daniel snapped his fingers and several shadowy figures emerged from the darkness. He counted them quickly. 'I make it eight,' he said. 'That's ten including us.'

'Nine,' O'Hara said. 'You stay outside and watch the door, just in case. They all know what to do?'

'I've seen to that,' Daniel said. 'For a quid apiece they'll take the place apart.'

O'Hara turned to address the shadowy group. 'Remember one thing. Da Costa - he's mine.'

Daniel said, 'Doesn't that worry you, Mick? I mean you being an Irishman and so on. After all, he's a priest.'

'I've a terrible confession to make, Daniel.' O'Hara put a hand on his shoulder. 'Some Irishmen are Protestants and I'm one of them.' He turned to the others. 'Come on, lads,' he said and crossed the road.

They went in through the door and Daniel waited by the railings, his ear cocked for the first sound of a disturbance from inside. There was a slight, polite cough from behind and when he turned, Fallon was standing a yard or two away, hands in pockets.

'Where in hell did you spring from?' Daniel demanded. 'Never mind that,' Fallon said. 'What's going on in there?'

Daniel knew trouble when he saw it, but completely miscalculated his man. 'You little squirt,' he said contemptuously. 'Get the hell out of it.'

He moved in fast, his hands reaching out to destroy, but they only fastened on thin air as his feet were kicked expertly from beneath him.

He thudded against the wet pavement and scrambled to his feet, mouthing obscenities. Fallon seized his right wrist with both hands, twisting it up and around. Daniel gave a cry of agony as the muscle started to give. Still keeping that terrible hold in position, Fallon ran him headfirst into the railings.

Daniel pulled himself up off his knees, blood on his face, one hand out in supplication. 'No more, for Christ's sake.'

'All right,' Fallon said. 'Answers then. What's the game?'

'They're supposed to turn the place over.'

'Who for?' Daniel hesitated and Fallon kicked his feet from under him. 'Who for?'

'Jack Meehan,' Daniel gabbled.

Fallon pulled him to his feet and stood back. 'Next time you get a bullet in the kneecap. That's a promise. Now get out of it.'

Daniel turned and staggered into the darkness.

At the first sudden noisy rush, Father da Costa knew he was in trouble. As he moved forward, a bench went over and then another. Hands pawed at him, someone pulled his cassock. He was aware of Anna crying out in alarm and turning, saw O'Hara grab her from behind, arms about her waist.

'Now then, darlin', what about a little kiss?' he demanded.

She pulled away from him in a panic, hands reaching out blindly and cannoned into the trestle table, knocking it over, soup spilling out across the floor, plates clattering.

As Father da Costa fought to get towards her, O'Hara laughed out loud. 'Now look what you've done.'

A soft, quiet voice called from the doorway, cutting through the noise.

'Mickeen O'Hara. Is it you I see?'

The room went quiet. Everyone waited. O'Hara turned, an expression of disbelief on his face that seemed to say this couldn't be happening. The expression was quickly replaced by one that was a mixture of awe and fear.

'God in heaven,' he whispered. 'Is that you, Martin?'

Fallon went towards him, hands in pockets and everyone waited. He said softly, 'Tell them to clean the place up, Mick, like a good boy, then wait for me outside.'

O'Hara did as he was told without hesitation and moved towards the door. The other men started to right the tables and benches, one of them got a bucket and mop and started on the floor.

Father da Costa had moved to comfort Anna and Fallon joined them. 'I'm sorry about that, Father,' he said. 'It won't happen again.'

'Meehan?' Father da Costa asked.

Fallon nodded. 'Were you expecting something like this?'

'He came to see me earlier this evening. You might say we didn't get on too well.' He hesitated. 'The big Irishman. He knew you.'

'Little friend of all the world, that's me.' Fallon smiled. 'Good night to you,' he said and turned to the door.

Father da Costa reached him as he opened it and put a hand on his arm. 'We must talk, Fallon. You owe me that.'

'All right,' Fallon said. 'When?'

'I'll be busy in the morning, but I don't have a lunchtime confession tomorrow. Will one o'clock suit you? At the presbytery.'

'I'll be there.'

Fallon went out, closing the door behind him and crossed the street to where O'Hara waited nervously under the lamp. As Fallon approached he turned to face him.

'Before God, if I'd known you were mixed up in this, Martin I wouldn't have come within a mile of it. I thought you were dead by now - we all did.'

'All right,' Fallon said. 'How much was Meehan paying you?'

'Twenty-five quid. Fifty if the priest got a broken arm.'

'How much in advance?'

'Not a sou.'

Fallon opened his wallet, took out two ten-pound notes and handed them to him. 'Travelling money - for old times' sake. I don't think it's going to be too healthy for you round here. Not when Jack Meehan finds out you've let him down.'

'God bless you, Martin, I'll be out of it this very night.' He started to turn away, then hesitated. 'Does it bother you any more, Martin, what happened back there?'