He dipped his fingers in the Holy Water and on his right a match flared in the darkness of the little side chapel to St Martin de Porres as someone lit a candle, illuminating a familiar race.
There was a slight pause and then the Devil moved out of the darkness and Father da Costa girded up his loins to meet him.
8
The Devil and all his Works
“What do you want here, Mr.. Meehan?” Father da Costa said.
“You know who I am?”
“Oh, yes,” Father da Costa told him. “I was taught to recog-nise the Devil from a very early age.”
Meehan stared at him for a moment in genuine amazement and then he laughed harshly, his head thrown back, and the sound echoed up into the rafters.
“That’s good. I like that.” Father da Costa said nothing and Meehan shrugged and turned to look down towards the altar. “I used to come here when I was a kid. I was an acolyte.” He turned and there was a challenge in his voice. “You don’t believe me?”
“Shouldn’t I?”
Meehan nodded towards the altar. I’ve stood up there many a time when it was my turn to serve at Mass. Scarlet cassock, white cotta. My old lady used to launder them every week. She loved seeing me up there. Father O’Malley was the priest in those days.”
I’ve heard of him,” Father da Costa said.
“Tough as old boots.” Meehan was warming to his theme now – enjoying himself. “I remember one Saturday evening, a couple of drunken Micks came in just before Mass and started turning things upside down. Duffed them up proper, he did. Straight out on their ear. Said they’d desecrated God’s house and all that stuff.” He shook his head. “A real old sod, he was. He once caught me with a packet of fags I’d nicked from a shop round the corner. Didn’t call the law. Just took a stick
9″
to me in the sacristy.” He chuckled. “Kept me honest for a fortnight that, Father. Straight up.”
Father da Costa said quietly, “What do you want here, Mr.. Meehan?”
Meehan made a sweeping gesture with one arm that took in the whole church. “Not what it was, I can tell you. Used to be beautiful, a real picture, but now…” He shrugged. “Ready to fall down any time. This restoration fund of yours? I hear you’ve not been getting very far.”
Father da Costa saw it all. “And you’d like to help, is that it?”
“That’s it, Father, that’s it exactly.”
The door opened behind them, they both turned and saw an old lady with a shopping-bag enter. As she genuflected, Father da Costa said, “We can’t talk here. Come with me.”
They went up in the hoist to the top of the tower. It was still raining as he led the way out along the catwalk, but the mist had lifted and the view of the city was remarkable. In the far distance, perhaps four or five miles away, it was even possible to see the edge of the moors smudging the grey sky.
Meehan was genuinely delighted, “Heh, I was up here once when I was a kid. Inside the belfry. It was different then.” He leaned over the rail and pointed to where the bulldozers were excavating in the brickfield. “We used to live there. Thirteen, Khyber Street”
He turned to Father da Costa who made no reply. Meehan said softly, “This arrangement between you and Fallon? You going to stick to it?”
Father da Costa said, “What arrangement would that be?”
“Come off it,” Meehan replied impatiently. “This confession thing. I know all about it. He told me.”
“Then, as a Catholic yourself, you must know that there is nothing I can say. The secrets of the confessional are absolute.”
Meehan laughed harshly, “I know. He’s got brains, that Fallon. He shut you up good, didn’t he?”
A small, hot spark of anger moved in Father da Costa and he breathed deeply to control it. “If you say so.”
Meehan chuckled. “Never mind, Father, I always pay my debts. How much?” His gesture took in the church, the scaf-folding, everything. “To put all this right?”