she had never attended a church service like this in her life. She couldn’t see much of Cussane’s face. He was simply the chief figure down there at the altar in the dim light, fascinating to her in his robes as was the whole business.
The Mass continued, most of those in the congregation went forward to the rail to receive the body and blood of Christ. She watched, as he moved from one person to the other, the head bending to murmur the ritual words and she was filled with a strange unease. It was as if she knew this man, some trick of physical movement that seemed familiar.
When the Mass was over, the final absolution given, he paused on the steps to address the congregation. ‘And in your prayers during the coming days, I would ask each one of you to pray for the Holy Father, soon to visit England at a most difficult time.’ He moved forward a little, the candlelight falling on his face. ‘Pray for him that your prayers, added to his own, grant him the strength to accomplish his mission.’
His gaze passed over the entire congregation and for a moment it was as if he was looking at her directly, then he moved on. Tanya froze in horror, the shock, the most terrible she had ever known in her life. When he spoke the words of the benediction, it was as if his lips moved with no sound. The face – the face which had haunted her dreams for years. Older, of course, kinder even, and yet unmistakably the face of Mikhail Kelly, the man they had named Cuchulain.
What happened then was strange, yet perhaps not so strange if one considered the circumstances. The shock was so profound that it seemed to drain all strength from her and she remained in the half-darkness at the back of the church while people moved out and Cussane and the acolytes disappeared into the sacristy. It was very quiet in the church and she sat there, trying to make sense of things. Cuchulain was Father Harry Cussane, Devlin’s friend, and it explained so many things. Oh, my God, she thought, what am I going to do? And then the sacristy door opened and Cussane stepped out.
Things were almost ready in the kitchen. Devlin checked the oven, whistling softly to himself and called, ‘Have you laid the table in there?’
There was no reply. He went into the living room. Not only was the table not laid but there was no sign of Tanya. Then he noticed the French window ajar, took off his apron and moved forward.
‘Tanya?’ he called into the garden, and in the same moment saw that the door in the garden wall stood open.
Cussane wore a black suit and clerical collar. He paused for a moment, aware of her presence although he made no sign. He’d noticed her almost at once during the Mass. The fact that she was a stranger would have made her stand out, but in the circumstances it had been obvious who she must be. Knowing that, there was the ghost of the child there in the face, the child who had struggled as he held her that day in Drumore, all those years ago. Eyes never changed, and the eyes he had always remembered.
He turned at the altar rail, dropping to one knee to genuflect, and Tanya, in a panic now and terribly afraid, forced herself to her feet and moved along the aisle. The door to one of the confessional boxes stood partially open and she slipped inside. When she pulled it close, there was a slight creaking. She heard him walk down the aisle, the steps slow, distinct on the stone flags. They came closer. Stopped.
He said softly in Russian, ‘I know you are there, Tanya Voroninova. You can come out now.’
She stood there, shivering, very cold. He was quite calm, his face grave. Still in Russian, he said, ‘It’s been a long time.’
She said, ‘So, do you kill me like you killed my father? As you have killed so many others?’
‘I hoped that wouldn’t be necessary.’ He stood there looking at her, his hands in the pockets of his jacket, and then he