Текст книги "A Prayer for the Dying"

Автор книги: Jack Higgins

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4

Confessional

Anna da Costa was playing the piano in the living-room of the old presbytery when Father da Costa entered. She swung round on the piano stool at once and stood up.

'Uncle Michael, you're late. What happened?' He kissed her cheek and led her to a chair by the window. 'You'll hear soon enough so I might as well tell you now. A man was murdered this morning at the cemetery.'

She gazed up at him blankly, those beautiful, useless, dark eyes fixed on some point beyond, and there was a complete lack of comprehension on her face.

'Murdered? I don't understand.'

He sat down beside her and took both her hands in his. 'I saw it. Anna. I was the only witness.'

He got up and started to pace up and down the room. 'I was walking through the old part of the cemetery. Remember, I took you there last month?'

He described what had happened in detail, as much for himself as for her, because for some reason it seemed suddenly necessary.

'And he didn't shoot me, Anna!' he said. 'That's the strangest thing of all. I just don't understand it. It doesn't make any kind of sense.'

She shuddered deeply. 'Oh, Uncle Michael, it's a miracle you're here at all.'

She held out her hands and he took them again, conscious of a sudden, overwhelming tenderness. It occurred to him, and not for the first time, that in some ways she was the one creature he truly loved in the whole world, which was a great sin, for a priest's love, after all, should be available to all. But then, she was his dead brother's only child, an orphan since her fifteenth year.

The clock struck one and he patted her head. 'I'll have to go. I'm already late.'

'I made sandwiches,' she said. 'They're in the kitchen.'

'I'll have them when I get back,' he said. 'I won't have much time. I'm being picked up by a detective-superintendent called Miller at two o'clock. He wants me to look through some photos to see if I can recognise the man I saw. If he's early, give him a cup of tea or something.'

The door banged. It was suddenly very quiet. She sat there, thoroughly bewildered by it all, unable to comprehend what he had told her. She was a quiet girl. She knew little of life. Her childhood had been spent in special schools for the blind. After the death of her parents, music college. And then Uncle Michael had returned and for the first time in years, she had somebody to care about again. Who cared about her.

But as always, there was solace in her music and she turned back to the piano, feeling expertly through the Braille music transcripts for the Chopin Prelude she was working on. It wasn't there. She frowned in bewilderment and then suddenly remembered going across to the church earlier to play the organ and the stranger who'd spoken to her. She must have left the piece she wanted over there with her organ transcripts.

She went out into the hall, found a raincoat and a walking stick and let herself out of the front door.

It was still raining hard as Father da Costa hurried through the churchyard and unlocked the small door which led directly into the sacristy. He put on his alb, threw a violet stole over his shoulder and went to hear confession.

He was late – not that it mattered very much. Few people came at that time of day. Perhaps the odd shopper or office worker who found the old church convenient. On some days he waited the statutory half an hour and no one came at all.

The church was cold and smelt of damp, which wasn't particularly surprising as he could no longer meet the heating bill. A young woman was just lighting another candle in front of the Virgin, and as he moved past he was aware of at least two other people sitting waiting by the confessional box.

He went inside, murmured a short prayer and settled himself. The prayer hadn't helped, mainly because his mind was still in a turmoil, obsessed with what he had seen at the cemetery.

The door clicked on the other side of the screen and a woman started to speak. Middle-aged from the sound of her. He hastily forced himself back to reality and listened to what she had to say. It was nothing very much. Sins of omission in the main. Some minor dishonesty concerning a grocery bill. A few petty lies.

The next was a young woman, presumably the one he had seen lighting the candle to the Virgin. She started hesitantly. Trivial matters on the whole. Anger, impure thoughts, lies. And she hadn't been to Mass for three months.

'Is that all?' he prompted her in the silence.

It wasn't, of course, and out it came. An affair with her employer, a married man.

'How long has this been going on?' da Costa asked her.

'For three months, Father.'

The exact period since she had last been to Mass.

'This man has made love to you?'

'Yes, Father.'

'How often?'

'Two or three times a week. At the office. When everyone else has gone home.'

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. She had never heard such anger in his voice before.

'Come out – come out, damn you, and look me in the face if you dare!'

Anna heard the other door in the confessional box click open, there was the softest of footfalls and then a quiet voice said, 'Here we are again then, Father.'

Fallon stood beside the box, hands in the pockets of the navy blue trenchcoat. Father da Costa moved closer, his voice a hoarse whisper.

'Are you a Catholic?'

'As ever was, Father.' There was a light mocking note in Fallon's voice.

'Then you must know that I cannot possibly grant you absolution in this matter. You murdered a man in cold blood this morning. I saw you do it. We both know that.' He drew himself up. 'What do you want with me?'

'I've already got it, Father. As you said, the secrets of the confessional are inviolate. That makes what I told you privileged information.'

There was an agony in Father da Costa's voice that cut into Anna's heart like a knife. 'You used me!' he cried. 'In the worst possible way. You've used this church.'

'I could have closed your mouth by putting a bullet between your eyes. Would you have preferred that?'

'In some ways I think I would.' Father da Costa had control of himself again now. He said, 'What is your name?'

'Fallon – Martin Fallon.'

'Is that genuine?'

'Names with me are like the Book of the Month. Always changing. I'm not wanted as Fallon. Let's put it that way.'

'I see,' Father da Costa said. 'An interesting choice. I once knew a priest of that name. Do you know what it means in Irish?'

'Of course. Stranger from outside the campfire.'

'And you consider that appropriate?'

'I don't follow you.'

'I mean, is that how you see yourself? As some romantic desperado outside the crowd?'

Fallon showed no emotion whatsoever. 'I'll go now. You won't see me again.'

He turned to leave and Father da Costa caught him by the arm. 'The man who paid you to do what you did this morning, Fallon? Does he know about me?'

Fallon stared at him for a long moment, frowning slightly, and then he smiled. 'You've nothing to worry about. It's taken care of.'

'For such a clever man, you really are very foolish,' Father da Costa told him.

The door at the main entrance banged open in the wind. An old woman in a headscarf entered. She dipped her fingers in the holy water, genuflected and came up the aisle.

Father da Costa took Fallon's arm firmly. 'We can't talk here. Come with me.'

At one side of the nave there was an electric cage hoist, obviously used by workmen for access to the tower. He pushed Fallon inside and pressed the button. The cage rose through the network of scaffolding, passing through a hole in the roof.

It finally jerked to a halt and da Costa opened the gate and led the way out on to a catwalk supported by scaffolding that encircled the top of the tower like a ship's bridge.

'What happened here?' Fallon asked.

'We ran out of money,' Father da Costa told him and led the way along the catwalk in the rain.

Neither of them heard the slight whirring of the electric motor as the cage dropped back to the church below. When it reached ground level, Anna da Costa entered, closed the gate and fumbled for the button.

The view of the city from the catwalk was magnificent although the grey curtain of the rain made things hazy in the middle distance. Fallon gazed about him with obvious pleasure. He had changed in some subtle, indefinable way and smiled slightly.

'Now this I like. Earth hath not anything to show more fair: isn't that what the poet said?'

'Great God in heaven, I bring you up here to talk seriously and you quote Wordsworth to me? Doesn't anything touch you at all?'

'Not that I can think of.' Fallon took out a packet of cigarettes. 'Do you use these?'

Father da Costa hesitated, then took one angrily. 'Yes, I will, damn you.'

'That's it Father, enjoy yourself while you can,' Fallon said as he struck a match and gave him a light. 'After all, we're all going to hell the same way.'

'You actually believe that?'

'From what I've seen of life it would seem a reasonable conclusion to me.'

Fallon leaned on the rail, smoking his cigarette, and Father da Costa watched him for a moment, feeling strangely helpless. There was obvious intelligence here – breeding, strength of character – all the qualities and yet it seemed impossible to reach through and touch the man in any way.

'You're not a practising Catholic?' he said at last.

Fallon shook his head. 'Not for a long time.'

'Can I ask why?'

'No,' Fallon told him calmly.

Father da Costa tried again. 'Confession, Fallon, is a Sacrament. A Sacrament of Reconciliation.'

He suddenly felt rather silly, because this was beginning to sound dangerously like one of his Confirmation classes at the local Catholic school, but he pressed on.

'When we go to confession we meet Jesus who takes us to himself and, because we are in him and because we are sorry, God our Father forgives us.'

'I'm not asking for any forgiveness,' Fallon said. 'Not from anybody.'

'No man can damn himself for all eternity in this way,' Father da Costa said sternly. 'He has not the right.'

'Just in case you hadn't heard, the man I shot was called Krasko and he was the original thing from under a stone. Pimp, whoremaster, drug-pusher. You name it, he had a finger in it. And you want me to say sorry? For him?'

'Then he was the law's concern.'

'The law!' Fallon laughed harshly. 'Men like him are above the law. He's been safe for years behind a triple wall of money, corruption and lawyers. By any kind of logic I'd say I've done society a favour.'

'For thirty pieces of silver?'

'Oh, more than that, Father. Much more,' Fallon told him. 'Don't worry, I'll put something in the poor box on the way out. I can afford it.' He flicked his cigarette out into space. 'I'll be going now.'

He turned and Father da Costa grabbed him by the sleeve, pulling him round. 'You're making a mistake, Fallon. I think you'll find that God won't let you have it your way.'

Fallon said coldly, 'Don't be stupid, Father.'

'In fact, he's already taken a hand,' Father da Costa continued. 'Do you think I was there in that cemetery at that particular moment by accident?' He shook his head. 'Oh, no, Fallon. You took one life, but God has made you responsible for another – mine.'

Fallon's face was very pale now. He took a step back, turned and walked towards the hoist without a word. As he drew abreast of a buttress, some slight noise caused him to look to his left and he saw Anna da Costa hiding behind it.

He drew her out gently, but in spite of that fact, she cried out in fear. Fallon said softly. 'It's all right. I promise you.'

Father da Costa hurried forward and pulled her away from him. 'Leave her alone.'

Anna started to weep softly as he held her in his arms. Fallon stood looking at them, a slight frown on his face. 'Perhaps she's heard more than was good for her.'

Father da Costa held Anna away from him a little and looked down at her. 'Is that so?'

She nodded, whispering, 'I was in the church.' She turned reaching out her hands, feeling her way to Fallon. 'What kind of man are you?'

One hand found his face as he stood there as if turned to stone. She drew back hastily as if stung and da Costa put a protective arm about her again.

'Leave us!' she whispered hoarsely to Fallon. 'I'll say nothing of what I heard to anyone, I promise, only go away and don't come back. Please!' There was a passionate entreaty in her voice.

Father da Costa held her close again and Fallon said, 'Does she mean it?'

'She said, didn't she?' Father da Costa told him. 'We take your guilt on our souls, Fallon. Now get out of here.'

Fallon showed no emotion at all. He turned and walked to the hoist. As he opened the gate, da Costa called, 'Two of us now, Fallon. Two lives to be responsible for. Are you up to that?'

Fallon stood there for a long moment, a hand on the open gate. Finally, he said softly, 'It will be all right. I gave you my word. My own life on it, if you like.'

He stepped into the hoist and closed the gate. There was the gentle whirring of the electric motor, a dull echo from below as the cage reached the ground floor.

Anna looked up. 'He's gone?' she whispered.

Father da Costa nodded. 'It's all right now.'

'He was in the church earlier,' she said. 'He told me what was wrong with the organ. Isn't that the strangest thing?'

'The organ?' Da Costa stared down at her in bewilderment and then he sighed, shaking his head and turned her gently round. 'Come on, now, I'll take you home. You'll catch your death.'

They stood at the cage, waiting for the gate to come up after he had pressed the button. Anna said slowly, 'What are we going to do, Uncle Michael?'

'About Martin Fallon?' He put an arm about her shoulder. 'For the moment, nothing. What he told me in the church spilled over from the confessional box because of my anger and impatience so that what you overheard was still strictly part of that original confession. I'm afraid I can't look at it in any other way.' He sighed. 'I'm sorry, Anna. I know this must be an intolerable burden for you, but I must ask you to give me your promise not to speak of this to anyone.'

'But I already have,' she said. 'To him.' A strange thing to say and it troubled him deeply as the cage arrived and they moved inside and made the quick descent to the church.

Alone in his study, he did a thing he seldom did so early in the day and poured himself a glass of whisky. He sipped it slowly and stood, one hand on the marble mantelpiece and stared down into the flames of the small coal fire.

'And what do we do now, Michael?' he asked himself softly.

It was an old habit, this carrying on a conversation with his inner self. A relic of three years of solitary confinement in a Chinese prison cell in North Korea. Useful in any situation where he needed to be as objective as possible about some close personal problem.

But then, in a sense, this wasn't his problem, it was Fallon's, he saw that suddenly with startling clarity. His own situation was such that his hands were tied. There was little that he could do or say. The next move would have to be Fallon's.

There was a knock at the door and Anna appeared. 'Superintendent Miller to see you, Uncle Michael.'

Miller moved into the room, hat in hand. 'There you are, Superintendent,' da Costa said. 'Have you met my niece?'

He made a formal introduction. Anna was remarkably controlled. In fact she showed no nervousness at all, which surprised him.

'I'll leave you to it.' She hesitated, the door half-open. 'You'll be going out, then?'

'Not just yet,' Father da Costa told her.

Miller frowned. 'But I don't understand, Father, I thought ....'

'A moment, please, Superintendent,' Father da Costa said and glanced at Anna. She went out, closing the door softly and he turned again to Miller. 'You were saying?'

'Our arrangement was that you were to come down to the Department to look at some photos,' Miller said.

'I know, Superintendent, but that won't be possible now.'

'May I ask why not, Father?' Miller demanded.

Father da Costa had given considerable thought to his answer, yet in the end could manage nothing more original than, 'I'm afraid I wouldn't be able to help you, that's all.'

Miller was genuinely puzzled and showed it. 'Let's start again, Father. Perhaps you didn't understand me properly. All I want you to do is to come down to the Department to look at some photos in the hope that you might recognise our friend of this morning.'

'I know all that,' Father da Costa told him.

'And you still refuse to come?'

There wouldn't be any point.'

'Why not?'

'Because I can't help you.'

For a moment, Miller genuinely thought he was going out of his mind. This couldn't be happening. It just didn't make any kind of sense, and then he was struck by a sudden, dreadful suspicion.

'Has Meehan been getting at you in some way?'

'Meehan?' Father da Costa said, his genuine bewilderment so perfectly obvious that Miller immediately dropped the whole idea.

'I could have you brought in formally, Father, as a material witness.'

'You can take a horse to water but you can't make him drink, Superintendent.'

'I can have a damn good try,' Miller told him grimly. He walked to the door and opened it. 'Don't make me take you in formally, sir. I'd rather not but I will if I have to.'

'Superintendent Miller,' Father da Costa said softly, 'men of a harsher disposition than you have tried to make me speak in circumstances where it was not appropriate. They did not succeed and neither will you, I can assure you. No power on earth can make me speak on this matter if I do not wish to.'

'We'll see about that, sir. I'll give you some time to think this matter over, then I'll be back.' He was about to walk out when a sudden wild thought struck him and he turned, slowly, 'Have you seen him again, sir, since this morning? Have you been threatened? Is your life in any kind of danger?'

'Goodbye, Superintendent,' Father da Costa said.

The front door banged. Father da Costa turned to finish his whisky and Anna moved silently into the room. She put a hand on his arm.

'He'll go to Monsignor O'Halloran.'

'The bishop being at present in Rome, that would seem the obvious thing to do.' he said.

'Hadn't you better get there first?'

'I suppose so.' He emptied his glass and put it on the mantel-piece. 'What about you?'

'I want to do some more organ practice. I'll be all right.'

She pushed him out into the hall and reached for his coat from the stand with unerring aim. 'What would I do without you?' he said.

She smiled cheerfully. 'Goodness knows. Hurry back.'

He went out, she closed the door after him. When she turned, the smile had completely disappeared. She went back into his study, sat down by the fire and buried her face in her hands.

Nick Miller had been a policeman for almost a quarter of a century. Twenty-five years of working a three-shift system. Of being disliked by his neighbours, of being able to spend only one weekend in seven at home with his family and the consequent effect upon his relationship with his son and daughter.

He had little formal education but he was a shrewd, clever man with the ability to cut through to the heart of things, and this, coupled with an extensive knowledge of human nature gained from a thousand long, hard Saturday nights on the town, had made him a good policeman.

He had no conscious thought or even desire to help society. His job was in the main to catch thieves, and society consisted of the civilians who sometimes got mixed up in the constant state of guerrilla warfare which existed between the police and the criminal. If anything, he preferred the criminal. At least you knew where you were with him.

But Dandy Jack Meehan was different. One corruption was all corruption, he'd read that somewhere and if it applied to any human being, it applied to Meehan.

Miller loathed him with the kind of obsessive hate that was in the end self-destructive. To be precise, ten years of his life had gone to Dandy Jack without the slightest hint of success. Meehan had to be behind the Krasko killing, that was a fact of life. The rivalry between the two men had been common knowledge for at least two years.

For the first time in God knows how long he'd had a chance and now, the priest . . .

When he got into the rear of the car he was shaking with anger, and on a sudden impulse he leaned across and told his driver to take him to the headquarters of Meehan's funeral business. Then he sat back and tried to light his pipe with trembling fingers.