That’s why there are holes in the walls even in the lounge of the rectory. What was he looking for?

The entire death scene is horrible under the focused beam of

a halogen bulb: it looks yellowish, like a faded newspaper article.

Everything in here looks old too, like it all came out of a 1960s catalogue. My immediate thought is that it can’t be a fun lifestyle being a priest. Everything you own has to be old and outdated.

It’s a lifestyle that doesn’t rely on monetary possessions, but on scripture and love and peace. In Father Julian’s case, perhaps a little too much love if it turns out he is Bruce Alderman’s

father.

The rectory is as messy as the office. Papers and books

everywhere. Furniture has been tipped up, the sofa and cushions torn open. The bedroom isn’t any better. The mattress has been pulled from the bed and sliced up, every drawer pulled out

and tipped over, a clutter of clothes and toiletries spewed across the floor. In the bathroom the medicine cabinet is empty. So is the space beneath the sink. I head back into the bedroom. There are framed photographs on the drawers — some have been tipped down, some have cracked glass. I don’t recognise anyone in them except Father Julian and Bruce Alderman. Most of the others in the pictures are wearing cassocks.

I pull up the corner of the carpet in the bedroom then, and

it’s a case of like Father like son. There is an envelope beneath it. I wonder who came up with the idea first — Bruce or Father Julian — and then I make room for the possibility it was a genetic link.

The envelope is full of photographs, fifteen, maybe twenty of

them. Most are of babies; there are a few of young children and a couple in their teenage years. I recognise Bruce Alderman. The photos were taken when he wasn’t looking at the camera, as if he didn’t know the photographer was there. In most of the shots

he is isolated, alone. But these images are out of context. They don’t mean anything by themselves.

It’s hard to know how many children I’m looking at here; the

ages and faces seem to change to a point where I can’t tell if a six-month-old baby is the same six-year-old or sixteen-year-old.

There are sixteen photos in total, but not necessarily sixteen kids.

It’s obvious the age of the photographs changes by the quality and condition of the paper they’ve been printed on, and by the clothes the kids are wearing. Some pictures look thirty years old, some look like they may only be a few. It’s impossible to know whether Father Julian took them or was sent them. Other than

the photos of Bruce, all the others are taken closer up — indoor shots of Christmas presents being opened, of birthdays, happy

moments caught in time.

I pull the carpet up further, then start lifting it in other areas of the rectory before returning to the office and doing the same thing there. Nothing. These photographs, these children — is this the secret Father Julian died for?

I head back down the corridor. I’ve been here over an hour

and Alderman is still waiting for me. I pass Father Julian’s office.

When I was here a month ago he apologised for the mess. He’d

obviously been looking for something. I squeeze my eyes shut

and try to focus. Something here is falling into place. I can see the edges of it, forming, forming … and I think of the key that Bruce Alderman gave me. No numbers, no markings. Did this

key belong to Father Julian? Is that what he was looking for?

Suddenly the door I used to enter the church opens up, then

closes. The muffled sound of a voice drifts down the corridor

towards me, followed by high squawking radio chatter. I duck

down behind Father Julian’s desk and turn off my torch. There

is more radio chatter; I hear the word ‘backup’; and I know the officer parked outside has asked for it because for some reason he’s decided to do his job and walk around the building and he’s found the security tape over the door has been tampered with.

I move to the side of the desk so I can see into the corridor.

The beam of a torch is bouncing from the floor to the walls. It’s getting brighter. I pull back just as the officer reaches the office.

The light hits the wall behind the desk. It moves over it and then moves on. He takes a step into the room and then takes a step

back out of it. He carries on to the next room. I figure I have about two minutes to get the hell out of here.

I get out from under the desk and move to the door. My feet

are silent on the cold floor. I listen to the officer making his way further along the corridor. Then I look around the door frame.

He’s further down the corridor towards the rectory. He goes

around a corner, and as soon as he’s gone I start back towards the chapel for my clothes. I reach the end of the corridor. A second flashlight, this one moving around the pews, suddenly moves

across the room and hits my body. I look away before it can hit my face.

‘You! Hey, you! Stop!’

But I do the opposite. I turn and run towards the exit.

chapter forty-three

I’m out of shape. I can feel it in the first few strides. My socks slide on the floor and the chase is almost over before it begins.

I can hear the officer behind me, and a moment later the first one I saw appears at the other end of the corridor, running towards me. I pull the door; it opens into the corridor and blocks the path of at least one of my pursuers. Then I grab the basin of holy water and throw it in the opposite direction. It clatters on the ground without hitting anybody, but a moment later there’s a

sliding sound and then the man behind me yells ‘Shit!’ as he slips and falls. It forces his partner to slow down. I keep running.

I hit the line of trees as the two men burst from the building behind me. I change direction and keep running, not slowing

when my feet crash into tree roots or get punctured by pieces

of bark and acorns and stones. I can hear them following me,

closing the distance. I make a left and a right, and keep making them. I can see the beams of their flashlights falling on me, on trees around me, but then they appear less frequently The rain is pouring down heavily, drowning out all sounds of pursuit. I keep running, altering direction through the trees. Suddenly I’m out of the trees, heading across the cemetery between gravestones and graves. I have no idea where I am, and the best I can hope for is that a cemetery at this time of night in this kind of weather is a hard place in which to follow anybody.

A car comes towards me from the road and I duck down behind

a gravestone. It passes me by. There is yelling and confusion.

I look out and see one of the officers is only a few metres away.

He comes towards me and I duck back down. He passes me and

keeps going. He’s making quick ground. I crawl towards another grave and then another, staying hidden for a few more seconds.

I look back up — the officers are now twenty metres away. I stand up and run deeper into the cemetery. My feet sink slightly into the grass. Another car travels along the road and I have to hide again.

The cold air makes it harder for me to breathe, and I start sucking down oxygen in deep lungfuls that burn and make me dizzy.

I hide behind a tall grave marker and look back in the direction I’ve come from. I can see flashlights moving around the trees

and graves not far from me. I’m unsure now of what direction to run.

I stay low and move further away, putting more grass and

graves and metres between me and the flashlights. More patrol

cars arrive — I can see their headlights, hear doors banging.