A Prayer for the Dying

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.