'The parish? Why, Father?'

'I've decided to go back to Belfast. The bishop's not going to be all that enamoured, but I think it's best if I do. I'm not sure how much more I can do here. Not now anyway.'

'You can't leave,' I said. 'Who will we get instead?'

He smiled and gave me a sideways look. 'I don't know, Tonto. Somebody.'

He breathed out heavily 'Ah, look, I don't want to go,' he said. 'But I'm not what they want, or what they need. I'm no Wilfred Belderboss, am I?'

He bent down and picked up a fallen apple that lay by his feet. It was full of cinder coloured holes where the wasps had chewed it. He turned it in his hand and tossed it into the long gra.s.s by the fence.

I thought for a moment, then said, 'Father, will you wait here?'

'Aye,' he said and sat back while I went over to the potting shed.

It was warm inside. A smell of old soil and creosote. Farther's tools hung up on rusty nails and above them at the back of some old cracked pots that he was always meaning to glue back together was a plastic bag under a seed tray. I brought it down and took it to where Father Bernard was waiting with one arm over the back of the bench, watching everyone milling around up at the house.

'What's this?' he said.

'I think you need to read it, Father.'

He looked at me and took out the book that was in the bag. He opened it and then quickly shut it again.

'This is Father Wilfred's diary,' he said, holding it out for me to take back. 'You told me you didn't know where this was.'

'I was keeping it safe.'

'You mean you stole it.'

'I didn't steal it, Father. I found it.'

'Take it away, Tonto. Get rid of it.'

'I want you to read it,' I said. 'I want you to know what happened to Father Wilfred. Then you might see that they're all wrong about him. That he wasn't ever the man they thought he was.'

'What are you on about?'

'He stopped believing, Father. Here's the proof.'

'I'm not going to read another man's diary, Tonto,' he said. 'And I'm surprised you have.'

'It doesn't matter now,' I said.

'All the more reason to let him be.'

'Please, Father. Then they might stop comparing you with him.'

He sighed, read for a half a minute and then closed his eyes.

'You need to read it all, Father,' I said.

'I've read enough, Tonto.'

'And?'

'And what? Look,' he said. 'This isn't going to change anything. I think everyone suspects that Father Wilfred stopped believing in G.o.d. If they choose to ignore it then there's not much I can do.'

'Do you think he killed himself, Father?'

'Tonto ...'

'Personally?'

'You know I can't answer that question.'

'But you must have an opinion.'

'It was an accidental death.'

'But is that what you think?'

He put his fist under his nose and breathed in as he thought.

'If they recorded it as an accidental death, Tonto, that's how it was. And it's how it needs to stay if the rumours are to be kept to a minimum. Look, I know people will talk, and that's inevitable, but no one's going to beat their fists on a closed door forever. Sooner or later they'll just accept that he's gone. It won't matter how or why.'

'But that's the truth in there, Father,' I nodded to the book. 'Oughtn't people to know what he was really like? Shouldn't Mr Belderboss know?'

Father Bernard brandished the book at me.

'And what would he know by reading this? How could the ramblings of some poor devil who's clearly lost his mind ever be anything to do with the truth? The best thing you can do is put it on the fire. I'm serious, Tonto. Wrap it in newspaper and burn the b.l.o.o.d.y thing.'

'And leave Mr Belderboss in the dark?'

'And leave him happy. You saw him inside. He's certain his brother's in blissful peace. Why the h.e.l.l would you want to try and convince him otherwise?'

He calmed his voice and then spoke again.

'Tonto, the truth isn't always set in stone. In fact it never is. There are just versions of it. And sometimes it's prudent to be selective about the version you choose to give to people.'

'But that's lying, Father. You said so yourself.'

'Then I was being as naive as you. Listen, I do have a bit of experience in these things. It's why I was sent to Saint Jude's in the first place.'

'Experience of what?'

'Managing the truth. You see, that's what your mother didn't understand about me. I wasn't trying to expose anything about Wilfred, I was trying to help them keep the rumours on a short leash. But I couldn't do that if everyone was determined that I should be kept in the dark, could I?'

'Then you do think he killed himself?'

He thought for a moment.

'You remember you once asked me what Belfast was like?'

'Yes, Father.'

'Well, I'll tell you. It's like an ants' nest,' he said. 'An ants' nest that's always being rattled with a stick. People scurry here and then they scurry there. Then the stick comes out again and everything changes.

'The Protestants move out of The Bone to Ballysillan and the Catholics in Ballysillan move back to The Bone. There are too many Catholics in The Bone but they'd rather sleep two to a bed than live in a Protestant street where there are empty houses. So they go across the Oldpark Road to Ballybone and the Protestants in Ballybone go back to the houses that the Catholics wouldn't take. And on the roads that are the fault lines between the estates, they pack up all their stuff, cross the road, swap houses and shout at each other from the other side of the street instead. A street that's probably changed its name half a dozen times, mind you. It's madness.'

'What is The Bone, Father?'

It was strange, he'd mentioned the place so many times, and I'd never asked him where it was.

He made a rough shape with his fingers, something like a pentagram.

'Flax Street, Hooker Street, Chatham, Oakfield and Crumlin. But that's just my opinion. Ask someone else and they'll give you a different answer. No one knows where the h.e.l.l they are in Belfast half the time.'

He looked at me and when it was clear I didn't really understand what he was saying, he sighed and laughed a little.

'See,' he said. 'When you're a priest, you hear all kinds of things. And when you're a priest in Belfast you get told all kinds of things. And when you're a priest in the Ardoyne you wish you didn't know anything. There's always rumours flying around about who's done what to whom and why. Who's an informer. Who's with the Provos. Who's not. Whose son's in the jail. Whose daddy keeps a pistol under his pillow. Who's your friend. Who's your enemy. And they'd look to me to give them the right answer. And that's the trick, Tonto. Making them believe that you know what the right answer is. G.o.d knows if I'd been honest about what I knew, the whole place would have gone up in flames. They shouldn't call us priests. Not when we're really firemen.'

He looked back to Mummer and Farther and the others.

'I'm sure they know that you were only trying to help them,' I said.

'Maybe, but it doesn't look as though they need it anymore. I don't suppose anyone's going to think badly of Wilfred now this has happened.'

'No?'

'You saw them in the kitchen, Tonto. He's come back and blessed them all. I don't think they really care how he died.'

They couldn't say for certain. It may have been the loose handrail-after all it had come apart in the young policeman's hand when they'd gone up to the belfry. It might have been a simple misjudgement of the first step in the gloom-the bulb over the top of the stairs had blown. It might have been the old floorboards that had warped away from the joists. It might have been all three. It might have been none of these things. The only thing that seemed obvious, or easiest, was that it was a tragic accident.

While it was still dark, there was a phonecall from Mrs Belderboss, and even before Mummer had finished speaking to her I knew that Father Wilfred was dead.

Everyone was at the church, she said. Something terrible had happened.

Mummer and Farther and I went and joined the group of people gathered around the doors in the snow. They had taken Father Wilfred away in an ambulance and there was no real reason for us to stand there. But no one knew what else to do.

A policeman was on the steps preventing anyone from going inside. He tried to look intimidating and sympathetic at the same time. A police car was parked at the side of the presbytery. I saw Miss Bunce sitting in the back seat with a policewoman. She was nodding and dabbing her eyes with a tissue.

'Poor Joan,' one of the cleaning ladies said. 'Finding him like that.'

Mummer nodded with as much compa.s.sion as she could muster, but I knew she was put out by all the attention that was being lavished on Miss Bunce. And for what? The silly girl had gone to pieces.

She had come as usual at breakfast time and, worried that he was nowhere to be seen in the presbytery and that his bed was cold and unused, Miss Bunce had gone looking for Father Wilfred in the church. She searched the vestry and the sacristy and as she made for the book cupboard by the main doors-thinking his recent obsession for tidying and cataloguing might have taken him there-she came across him almost by accident at the foot of the belfry stairs. He was staring up at her, his head broken on the edge of the bottom step and an old sword lying a few feet away from his outstretched hand.

It was an open and shut case. It was, as they had first thought, an accidental death. An elderly priest had tripped and fallen. The sword? Had he been trying to defend himself against an intruder? There was no evidence of anyone else having been there. The church was locked from the inside. But then there was the bell that people had heard tolling around midnight. It was strange, certainly, but they had no grounds on which they could grant it any significance. Bells were often rung in churches. The sword and the bells proved nothing and were dismissed. They led nowhere useful.

The funeral took place the day the winter snow began to thaw. The parish turned out in black and stood under the dripping trees in the Great Northern Cemetery before heading back to the wake at the Social Centre.

n.o.body stayed very long. Miss Bunce couldn't bring herself to eat anything. Mr and Mrs McCullough sat by the cardboard crib the Sunday School children had made, giving Henry accusatory looks between mouthfuls of pork pie, as though they suspected it was all his fault in some way. And the Belderbosses were worn out with the endless condolences offered by the other churchgoers who had turned up to pay their respects-not quite as grief stricken as they, but nervous and bewildered all the same about the ripple that been sent across their pond. What would become of Saint Jude's now?

They shook Mr Belderboss's hand and kissed Mrs Belderboss on the cheek and went off to sit in huddles in their coats, eating their sandwiches quickly and letting their drinks go flat.

In the end, Mummer, Farther and I were the only ones left, and uncertain what else we could do, we started to clear away the plates of uneaten sandwiches and half empty gla.s.ses of beer. Once the tables had been wiped clean, Mummer draped the dishcloth over the tap in the kitchen, Farther switched off the lights and we went out into the slush. It seemed an absurd ending to a life.

While the bishop was arranging Father Wilfred's replacement an ancient priest came to Saint Jude's for a few weeks to plug the gap. He was functional and nondescript. I can't even remember his name. Michael. Malcolm. Something like that. He had no responsibility other than to take Ma.s.s and receive confession, and perhaps feeling a little insignificant because of this he took his role as caretaker rather literally, sending us altar boys out to weed the beds in the presbytery garden or touch up the paint in the vestry.

After Ma.s.s one Sunday, he dispatched me to the belfry to check that there were no pigeons nesting there. He had had a great deal of bother with pigeons nesting in the belfry at a church in Gravesend, he said. Their muck played merry h.e.l.l with the mortar on these old buildings. If pigeons were found, he would have to inform the bellringers to ring Erin Triples. Only Erin Triples would shift them. He was quite mad.

The belfry stairs had been made safe. The handrail had been replaced and a new bulb screwed into the light fitting. A heavy rug had been thrown down over the buckled floorboards while they waited on a carpenter.

There were no birds nesting there, of course. It was completely silent. The bells hung motionless in their frame. I went to look out through the small grimy window that faced south for the light. It was February. The snow had been washed away by the rain and the streets all around were slick with it. It being Sunday the roads below were quiet. A car would occasionally go down the street with its lights on but that was all. Beyond, there were other streets, houses, low-rise flats, belts of diffused greenery and then the grey monoliths of the taller buildings in the city. I was struck by the sudden thought that my future lay amongst all that somewhere.

I was about to go back down when I noticed the stack of colour in the corner. Father Wilfred's robes. The purple that he wore at Lent, the red for Pentecost, the workaday green, and the white he had latterly put on for Christmas. The police hadn't noticed them. I suppose they looked like the kind of junk that ended up in belfries, which were only really loud attics when all said and done. But the robes hadn't been dumped. They had been neatly folded, the creases smoothed away. His crucifix was lying on the top along with his Bible and his white collar. And his diary.

Chapter Twenty-seven.

Everyone was starting to go inside the house. Farther came down the path to where Father Bernard and I were sitting.

'Will you come, Father?' he said. 'Andrew's going to read for us.'

'Aye, of course, Mr Smith,' Father Bernard replied.

'Isn't it wonderful?' said Farther and shook Father Bernard's hand again before he went back to the house.

A train rushed past, leaving a skirl of litter and dust, and then the rails returned to their bright humming. In the scrubland beyond, the swifts were darting over the tufts of gra.s.s and the hard baked soil with its beetroot-coloured weeds. We watched them turning on their hairpins deftly as bats.

'You will get rid of that book, won't you, Tonto?' said Father Bernard.

'Yes, Father.'

'Then we'll be all square, won't we?'