'People that kill the innocent.'

'Yes, yes. What else?'

'The devious, troublemakers.'

'And?'

'Liars, Father.'

'Yes,' said Father Wilfred. 'Slanderers, McCullough. Those who bear false witness. Those who blame others for their own failings. G.o.d orders us to cast them down with Satan.'

Henry was twisting under Father Wilfred's grip, his puffy face bright red.

'Tell me where it is McCullough,' Father Wilfred said, trying to grasp Henry's flailing hands.

Henry got hold of Father Wilfred's wrist suddenly and pulled him to one side, making him stumble into the wall and fall to the floor.

'I'm sorry, Father,' he said immediately reaching out to see if he was alright.

Father Wilfred was breathing hard, the skin under his eye already swelling and reddening. He put his hands on his knees.

'Get out,' he said quietly. 'All of you get out.'

'I'm sorry,' said Henry again, looking to Paul and me for help.

'I said, out, McCullough.'

'But are you hurt, Father?'

Father Wilfred looked up at Henry with a face like that of a child who had just been knocked flat by the school bully. Frightened, angry, but bewildered more than anything.

'Why must you torment me?' he said and went into the vestry office and closed the door.

The three of us stood there in silence for a moment, not sure whether we ought to wait for him to dismiss us. Then Paul made a noise of contempt and shook his head and went outside. Henry and I looked at one another.

'Do you think he'll be alright?' said Henry.

'Yes.'

'I didn't mean to hurt him.'

'I know.'

Henry made a move towards the office door.

'Perhaps I should make sure,' he said.

'Leave him,' I said and Henry looked down at his feet and then followed me outside.

'I thought he was going to kill you, McCullough.' said Paul, glancing over his shoulder as he unchained his bike from the drainpipe.

'Where is it?' said Henry.

Paul slung his leg over the saddle.

'Where's what?'

'You know what.'

'Your coat?'

'Yes.'

Paul looked over Henry's shoulder and nodded. His coat was wrapped around a branch of one of the beech trees next to the presbytery.

'And what about the book?' said Henry.

'I don't know,' replied Paul. 'Who cares?'

Paul tried to set off, but Henry held onto the handlebars.

'Where is it?' Henry asked him again.

'Let go, McCullough. Do you want me to call Father Wilfred?'

'Depends. Do you want me to smash your teeth in?'

'You wouldn't dare.'

'Wouldn't I?'

'No, fatty, you wouldn't.'

Henry looked down. 'Just tell me if you took it,' he said.

'You'd love that, wouldn't you?' said Paul. 'Going off to gra.s.s me up.'

Henry suddenly raised his voice. 'Do you think I'm going to come back? I never want to set foot in this place ever again, so it doesn't really matter what you tell me.'

This wrong-footed Paul, but he pretended to be bored with the whole thing.

'It's in the belfry,' he said, then scowled at Henry. 'You need to lighten up, McCullough. It was only a b.l.o.o.d.y joke.'

Henry let go of the handlebars and Paul went off slowly so that he could give Henry a grin. We watched him go and then Henry sat down on the steps outside the vestry.

'It's alright,' I said. 'I'll tell Father Wilfred.'

'Will you?'

'Yes.'

'Thanks.'

I looked at him.

'What will your mother say when you tell her you want to leave?'

'Make me come back.'

'Can't you tell her what Father Wilfred's like?'

'No,' he said. 'She wouldn't believe me. She thinks the sun shines out of his a.r.s.e. Help me get my coat down will you?'

'Alright.'

We walked around the base of the tree trying to find a stick long enough to reach Henry's jacket. In the end, with some effort, I gave him a leg up and he managed to get his fingertips to the sleeve that was hanging down.

It was, I remember, an expensive looking leather thing with wide lapels and a belt with a circular buckle. He turned it over to inspect the damage and then spat on his hand and rubbed away the moss stains with his fingertips.

'Do you believe in h.e.l.l?' he said.

'About as much as Father Christmas,' I replied.

'Seriously, though. What if it does exist?' he said.

'It doesn't.'

'Yeah, but what if it does?'

'It's just an idea,' I said. 'That's all.'

'But where did the idea come from?'

'Someone's imagination.'

'You can't imagine something like that,' he said. 'No one can have invented h.e.l.l. It's like saying someone invented air. It's just always been there.'

'Look, don't worry about Father Wilfred,' I said. 'I'll make something up.'

He smiled weakly and put on his jacket and did up the belt as he went to fetch his bike from the holly bush where Paul had evidently thrown it.

'Thanks, Smith,' he said.

He stood with one foot on the pedal, pushed himself along and once he was moving lifted his leg over and went out through the gate, the front wheel wobbling. The bike was much too big for him. Or he was much too big for the bike. One or the other.

I waited for a moment, wondering if I ought to go home too and just let the whole thing blow over. But if I knew Father Wilfred he wouldn't let up and in any case I felt sorry for Henry. If his mother did force him back, as he was convinced she would, then it wouldn't be fair for him to face Father Wilfred's fury when he'd done nothing wrong.

I make it sound so n.o.ble, but in truth I just didn't want Paul to have the satisfaction of making Henry the whipping boy anymore.

I climbed back up the steps to the vestry and Father Wilfred was still turning the office upside down.

'Yes? What is it, Smith?'

'I know where your diary is, Father?'

'Ah, McCullough owned up to stealing it did he?'

'No, Father. Henry didn't take it.'

'Then who did? Peavey?'

'No, Father.'

'You?'

'Of course not, Father.'

'Surely not Miss Bunce,' he said.

'It wasn't Miss Bunce.'

'She has been acting rather rashly these last few weeks. Talking about leaving Saint Jude's. Moving away.'

'Father, it wasn't her.'

He stopped and sat down on the wooden chair. He had one of his antique swords laid across the table.

'All that I do seems to go amiss,' he said, picking it up and inspecting the blade. 'Why won't McCullough change?'

'I don't know, Father.'

'I punish him and still he sins. When will he see that I'm trying to save him?'

'I don't know, Father.'

'I fear for his soul as I fear for my own.'

'Yes, Father. I know you do.'

He turned his attention to the portrait of Jesus hanging over the sink.

'When will he realise that I give these lessons out of love? Because I do love him. If I could only save one, it would be him.'

'Father, your diary.'

'What about it?'

'I told you, I know where it is.'