“I suppose so.”
“Sometimes I find the mystery of it quite terrifying. I mean, is this all that’s left in the end of an Einstein, let’s say, or a Picasso? A gutted body, a few scraps of raw meat swilling about in the bottom of a plastic bucket?”
“Ah no you don’t.” Lawlor grinned tiredly. “No meta-physics, if you please, Father, I’ve got other things to do.” He turned to Miller. “Have you seen enough?”
“I think so,” Miller said
“Good, then get this Devil’s Advocate out of here and leave me in peace to finish. It will be the morning before you get the full report now.” He grinned at Father da Costa again. “I won’t shake hands for obvious reasons, but any time you’re passing just drop in. There’s always someone here.”
He laughed at his own joke, was still laughing when they went back to the dressing-room. One of the technicians went with them to make sure that the robes they had worn went straight into the dirty laundry basket, so there was no oppor-tunity to talk.
Miller led the way back outside, feeling tired and depressed. He had lost, he knew that already. The trouble was he didn’t really know what to do next, except to take the kind of official action he’d been hoping to avoid.
It was still raining when they went out into the courtyard. When they reached the car, Fitzgerald opened the door and Father da Costa climbed in. Miller followed him. Fitzgerald sat in the front with the driver.
As they moved out into the city traffic, Miller said, “I wanted you to see the reality of it and it hasn’t made the slightest difference, has it?”
Father da Costa said, “When I was twenty years of age, I dropped into the Cretan mountains by parachute, dressed as a peasant. All very romantic. Action by night – that sort of thing. When I arrived at the local village inn I was arrested at gunpoint by a German undercover agent. A member of the Feldgendarmerie.”
Miller was interested in spite of himself. “You’d been betrayed?”
“Something like that. He wasn’t a bad sort. Told me he was sorry, but that he’d have to hold me till the Gestapo got there. We had a drink together. I managed to hit him on the head with a wine bottle.”
Father da Costa stared back into the past and Miller said gently. “What happened?”
“He shot me in the left lung and I choked him to death with my bare hands.” Father da Costa held them up. I’ve prayed for him every day of my life since.”
They turned into the street at the side of the church and Miller said wearily, “All right, I get the picture.” The car pulled in at the kerb and there was a new formality in his voice when he said, “In legal terms, your attitude in this matter makes you an accessory after the fact. You understand that?”
“Perfectly,” da Costa told him.
“All right,” Miller said. “This is what I intend to do. I shall approach your superior in a final effort to make you see sense.”
“Monsignor O’Halloran is the man you want. I tried to see him myself earlier, but he’s out of town. He’ll be back in the morning – but it won’t do you any good.”
“Then I’ll apply to the Director of Public Prosecutions for a warrant for your arrest.”
Father da Costa nodded soberly. “You must do what you think is right. I see that, Superintendent.” He opened the door and got out. Til pray for you.”
“Pray for me!” Miller ground his teeth together as the car moved away. “Have you ever heard the like?”
“I know, sir,” Fitzgerald said. “He’s quite a man, isn’t he?”
It was cold in the church and damp as Father da Costa opened the door and moved inside. Not long till Mass. He felt tired -wretchedly tired. It had been an awful day – the worst he could remember in a great many years – since the Chinese prison camp at Chong Sam. If only Fallon and Miller – all of them – would simply fade away, cease to exist.