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There was a confidence in her voice now, a calmness. Of course bringing things out into the open often made people feel like that, but this was different.

'He has children?'

'Three, Father.' There was a pause. 'What can I do?'

'The answer is so obvious. Must be. Leave this place, find another job. Put him out of your mind.'

'I can't do that.'

'Why?' he said, and added with calculated brutality, 'Because you enjoy it?'

'Yes, Father,' she said simply.

'And you're not prepared to stop?'

'I can't!' For the first time she cracked, just a little, but there was panic there now.

'Then why have you come here?'

'I haven't been to Mass in three months, Father.'

He saw it all then and it was really so beautifully simple, so pitifully human.

'I see,' he said. 'You can't do without God either.'

She started to cry quietly. 'This is a waste of time, Father, because I can't say I won't go with him again when I know damn well my body will betray me every time I see him. God knows that. If I said any different I'd be lying to him as well as you and I couldn't do that.'

How many people were that close to God? Father da Costa was filled with a sense of incredible wonder. He took a deep breath to hold back the lump that rose in his throat and threatened to choke him.

He said in a firm, clear voice, 'May Our Lord Jesus Christ absolve you, and I, by his authority, absolve you from every bond of excommunication and interdict, so far as I can, and you have need. Therefore, I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.'

There was silence for a moment and then she said, 'But I can't promise I won't see him again.'

'I'm not asking you to,' da Costa said. 'If you feel you owe me anything, find another job, that's all I ask. We'll leave the rest up to God.'

There was the longest pause of all now and he waited, desperately anxious for the right answer, aware of an unutterable sense of relief when it came. 'Very well, Father, I promise.'

'Good. Evening Mass is at six o'clock. I never get more than fifteen or twenty people. You'll be very welcome.'

The door clicked shut as she went and he sat there feeling suddenly drained. With any luck, he'd said the right thing, handled it the right way. Only time would tell.

It was a change to feel useful again. The door clicked, there was the scrape of the chair being moved on the other side of the grille.

'Please bless me, Father.'

It was an unfamiliar voice. Soft. Irish - an educated man without a doubt.

Father da Costa said, 'May our Lord Jesus bless you and help you to tell your sins.'

There was a pause before the man said, 'Father, are there any circumstances under which what I say to you now could be passed on to anyone else?'

Da Costa straightened in his chair. 'None whatsoever. The secrets of the confessional are inviolate.'

'Good,' the man said. 'Then I'd better get it over with. I killed a man this morning.'

Father da Costa was stunned. 'Killed a man?' he whispered. 'Murdered, you mean?'

'Exactly.'

With a sudden, terrible premonition, da Costa reached forward, trying to peer through the grille. On the other side, a match flared in the darkness and for the second time that day, he looked into the face of Martin Fallon.

* * *

The church was still when Anna da Costa came out of the sacristy and crossed to the choir stalls. The Braille transcripts were where she had left them. She found what she was looking for with no difficulty. She put the rest back on the stand and sat there for a few moments, remembering the stranger with the soft Irish voice.

He'd been right about the trumpet stop. She put out a hand and touched it gently. One thing putting everything else out of joint. How strange. She reached for her walking stick and stood up and somewhere below her in the body of the church, a door banged and her uncle's voice was raised in anger. She froze, standing perfectly still, concealed by the green curtains which hung beside the organ.

Father da Costa erupted from the confessional box, flinging the door wide.