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He poured himself another whisky and Fallon waited. They all waited. Meehan stared into space. 'No, these dirty little tarts are no good to anybody and the boys are no better. I mean, what's happened to all the nice clean-cut lads of sixteen or seventeen you used to see around? These days, most of them look like birds from the rear.'

Fallon said nothing. There was a further silence and Meehan reached for the whisky bottle again. 'Albert!' he called. 'Why don't you join us?'

The bedroom door opened, there was a pause and a man entered the room who was so large that he had to duck his head to come through the door. He was a walking anachronism. Neanderthal man in a baggy grey suit and he must have weighed at least twenty stone. His head was completely bald and his arms were so long that his hands almost reached his knees.

He shambled into the room, his little pig eyes fixed on Fallon. Billy moved out of the way nervously and Albert sank into a chair on the other side of Meehan, next to the fire.

Meehan said, 'All right, Fallon. You cocked it up.'

'You wanted Krasko dead. He's on a slab in the mortuary right now,' Fallon said.

'And the priest who saw you in action? This Father da Costa?'

'No problem.'

'He can identify you, can't he? Varley says he was close enough to count the wrinkles on your face.'

True enough,' Fallon said. 'But it doesn't matter. I've shut his mouth.'

'You mean you've knocked him off?' Billy demanded.

'No need.' Fallon turned to Meehan. 'Are you a Catholic?'

Meehan nodded, frowning. 'What's that got to do with it?'

'When did you last go to confession?'

'How in the hell do I know? It's so long ago I forget.'

'I went today,' Fallon said. 'That's where I've been. I waited my turn at da Costa's one o'clock confession. When I went in, I told him I'd shot Krasko.'

Billy Meehan said quickly, 'But that's crazy. He'd seen you do it himself, hadn't he?'

'But he didn't know it was me in that confessional box - not until he looked through the grille and recognised me and that was after I'd confessed.'

'So what, for Christ's sake?' Billy demanded.

But his brother was already waving him down, his face serious. 'I get it,' he said. 'Of course. Anything said to a priest at confession's got to be kept a secret. I mean, they guarantee that, don't they?'

'Exactly,' Fallon said.

'It's the biggest load of cobblers I've ever heard,' Billy said. 'He's alive, isn't he? And he knows. What guarantee do you have that he won't suddenly decide to shoot his mouth off?'

'Let's just say it isn't likely,' Fallon said. 'And even if he did, it wouldn't matter. I'm being shipped out from Hull Sunday night - or have you forgotten?'

Meehan said, 'I don't know. Maybe Billy has a point.'

'Billy couldn't find his way to the men's room unless you took him by the hand,' Fallon told him flatly.

There was a dead silence. Meehan gazed at him impassively and Albert picked a steel and brass poker out of the fireplace and bent it into a horseshoe shape between his great hands, his eyes never leaving Fallon's face.

Meehan chuckled unexpectedly. 'That's good - that's very good. I like that.'

He got up, walked to a desk in the corner, unlocked it and took out a large envelope. He returned to his chair and dropped the envelope on the coffee table.

'There's fifteen hundred quid in there,' he said. 'You get another two grand on board ship Sunday night plus a passport. That clears the account.'

That's very civil of you,' Fallon said.

'Only one thing,' Meehan told him. 'The priest goes.'

Fallon shook his head. 'Not a chance.'

'What's wrong with you, then?' Meehan jeered. 'Worried, are you? Afraid the Almighty might strike you down? They told me you were big stuff over there, Fallon, running round Belfast, shooting soldiers and blowing up kids. But a priest is different, is that it?'

Fallon said, in what was little more than a whisper, 'Nothing happens to the priest. That's the way I want it. That's the way it's going to be.'

'The way you want it?' Meehan said and the anger was