He moved to take the raincoat, holding her shoulders briefly. “Are you all right?”
She turned at once, concern on her face. “What is it? You’re upset. Has anything happened?”
“I had an unpleasant interview with the man Meehan,” he replied in a low voice. “He said certain things concerning Fallon. Things which could explain a great deal. I’ll tell you later.”
She frowned slightly, but he led her to the door and opened it, pushing her through into the church. He waited for a few moments to give her time to reach the organ, then nodded to the boys. They formed into their tiny procession, one of them opening the door, and as the organ started to play, they moved into the church.
It was a place of shadows, candlelight and darkness alter-nating, cold and damp. There were perhaps fifteen people in the congregation, no more. He had never felt so dispirited, so dose to the final edge of things, not since Korea, and then he looked across at the figure of the Virgin. She seemed to float there in the candlelight, so calm, so serene and the slight half-smile on the parted lips seemed somehow for him alone.
“Asperges me,” he intoned and moved down the aisle, on of the West Indian boys carrying the bucket of holy water in front of him, Father da Costa sprinkling the heads of his congregation as he passed, symbolically washing them clean.
“And who will cleanse me?” he asked himself desperately. ùWho?”
In the faded rose cope, hands together, he commenced the mass. “I confess to Almighty God, and to you, my brothers and sisters, that I have sinned through my own fault,” Here, he struck his breast once as ritual required. In my thoughts and in my words, in what I have done, and in what I have failed to do.”
The voices of the congregation swelled up in unison behind him. There were tears on his face, the first in many years, and he struck his breast again.
“Lord, have mercy on me,” he whispered. “Help me. Show me what to do.”
9
The Executioner
The wind howled through the city like a living thing, driving rain before it, clearing the streets, rattling old window frames, tapping at the glass like some invisible presence.
When Billy Meehan went into Jenny Fox’s bedroom, she was standing in front of the mirror combing her hair. She was wearing the black pleated mini skirt, dark stockings, patent-leather, high-heeled shoes and a white blouse. She looked extremely attractive.
As she turned, Billy closed the door and said softly, “Nice, very nice. He’s still in his room, isn’t he?”
“He said he was going out again, though.”
“We’ll have to change his mind then, won’t we?” Billy went and sat on the bed. “Come here.”
She fought to control the instant panic that threatened to choke her, the disgust that made her flesh crawl as she moved towards him.
He slipped his hands under her skirt, fondling the warm flesh at the top of the stockings. “That’s a good girl. He’ll like that. They always do.” He stared up at her, that strange, dreamy look in his eyes again. “You muck this up for me, you’ll be in trouble. I mean, I’d have to punish you and you wouldn’t like that, would you?”
Her heart thudded painfully, Please, Billy! Please!”
“Then do it right. I want to see what makes this guy tick.”
He pushed her away, got up and moved to a small pic-ture on the wall. He removed it carefully. There was a tiny peephole underneath, skillfully placed and he peered through.
After a few moments, he turned and nodded “Just taken his shirt off. Now you get in there and remember – I’ll be watch-ing.”
His mouth was slack, his hands trembling a little and she turned, choiring back her disgust, opened the door and slipped outside.
Fallon was standing at the washbasin, stripped to the waist, lather on his face, when she knocked on the door and went in. He turned to greet her, a bone-handled cut-throat razor in one hand.
She leaned against the door. “Sorry about the razor. It was all I could find.”