The Confession

©Copyright Keith Wright 2023

 

 

Father Dermot had caused a little bit of a stir when he first came to the area. There was some trepidation ahead of his arrival as Father Shannon had been the Catholic Priest in Summerton for over thirty-five years. Poor Father Dermot had an uphill task before he had even set foot in the diocese, let alone the pristine parish of Summerton. When the young Priest nervously walked out into the nave of the Church to greet the members on that first Sunday, he could feel his legs wobbling a bit. Father Dermot was not deaf to the ‘Oh I say’s,’ from the ladies looking him up and down as he strolled down the aisle, his shoulder-length blonde hair flapping behind him. He was only 31 years old, and he suddenly felt 13.

  ‘Good morning ladies,’ his soft Irish accent lilted across the sunbeams shining through the stained glass windows, but his warmth landed on a frosty surface. ‘I’m the new priest, Father Dermot.’

  ‘We know.’ One of the older ladies said curtly.

  ‘I’m really looking forward to getting to know you all.’ He smiled and raised his hand to shake the older lady’s hand, and she turned away. ‘Oh, Christ.’ He thought rather appropriately and then inwardly reprimanded himself. ‘Don’t take your Lord God’s name in vain.’ At least he hadn’t said it out loud, but he was still at the stage where he thought God was listening to his every neuron flash.

  Thankfully a friendly face arrived to break up the stilted welcome. ‘Father Dermot!’ The lady was exuberant; she was in her thirties and slim with hair not dissimilar to the priests. She had bright blue eyes and a twinkle in either one.

  Her hand was already outstretched to shake his hand, and she did so energetically.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Mrs?’

  ‘Mrs. Trip. What a lovely Irish accent.’

  ‘God bless you. A sight for sore eyes and no mistake.’

  ‘We’ve been so looking forward to meeting you, haven’t we ladies.’ She winked at the Priest as the women mumbled and went to sit down. ‘Ignore those old fuddy-duddies; they’ll soon come around once they get used to you.’

  ‘Thanks. I hope so, Mrs Trip. I realise I have big shoes to fill.’

  ‘It’s early days, Father, and we are long overdue some new ideas, believe me.’

  ‘I’ve got plenty of those believe me.’ He realised Mrs Trip was still holding on to his hand.

  ‘That’s terrific. It’s all so exciting, isn’t it?’

  ‘I suppose it is.’ He laughed nervously, managing to wrestle his hand away.

  ‘Well, I’d better take a seat. I’m so looking forward to getting to know you better.’

  ‘The pleasure will be all mine, so it will.’

  Mrs Trip took her place about halfway down the aisle; somehow, the Church had become so staid that everyone had their own section of the pew to sit in. They weren’t marked or reserved in any way, but woe betides a newcomer who sat in the wrong place.

 

***

 

The first mass was not brilliant. Father Dermot almost dropped the vessel, and he got his finger stuck when placing 'bread' into the mouth of old Mrs Frosty Breeches, and every time he tried to remove his finger, the bread came with it. In the end, he managed to avoid a calamity as she closed down, and he nearly pulled her false teeth out. He would look back at it and laugh. He got through it, but he felt the energy was low and the congregation not particularly on side. His mentor Bishop O’Flaherty had said this might happen.

Once the final member had left, he walked back through the Church to the vestry to take off his chasuble and cassock. He sighed heavily. He was sweating, and he opened a can of Coke. He had a Def Leppard T-shirt and jeans on underneath his formal church attire. He let out another sigh and said a little prayer of thanks. The vestry had a back door, and he quietly opened it, stepping outside into the mild heat of the evening dusk. He leaned against the Church wall in between two large stone juts. He reached into his pocket and took out a packet of cigarettes. He lit one and blew the smoke out with a sense of relief. His mind took him back to the mass he had just orchestrated, and Mrs Smethurst’s false teeth. He began to laugh. He stifled it at first, and then it burst out of him.

Suddenly a face appeared from behind the stone partition, and he quickly hid the cigarette behind his back.

  ‘Father Dermot?’ It was Mrs Trip.

  ‘Oh, hi. Yes. Hello.’

  ‘I hardly recognised you with your clothes on.’ She giggled.’

  ‘Ah, I see what you mean. I can be a little casual outside of work. Why are you hiding behind there?’

  ‘I’m not hiding; I’m just thinking.’

  ‘Let’s see you.’

  Mrs Trip sauntered into full view. ‘There you go. Happy now, Father?’

  ‘What are you hiding behind your back?’

  She produced a smoking cigarette. ‘I’m so sorry. I know it’s a sin. It is my one vice I promise. My husband doesn’t like it, so it is only every now and…’

  Father Dermot produced his cigarette. ‘Judge not, lest ye be judged.’

They both laughed, and a bond was formed. Mrs Trip needed him; he just did not know it yet. And to some extent, he needed the friendly face of Mrs Trip.

 

***

 

 

  Even Mrs Smethurst, the frosty breeches, had warmed to Father Dermot over the following six months. Humour had won the day, and inch by inch, he had changed his sermons to cover more contemporary subjects and had injected a thought-provoking levity. The congregation was increasing, and things were looking up.

Father Dermot had heeded the advice of Bishop O’Flaherty and held a penance service early on so that the congregation could visit him for confession. Catholic priests have immense power over their members, usually accumulated over years of confessions. Members of the Catholic Church can go into a double booth, the Priest is in one, and the ‘sinner’ is in another with a grill between them, which is meant to keep anonymity. The Priest will then absolve the person of their sin by giving them a penance. Catholics think of sin like a virus to the soul; sin wounds their spirit and must be healed. The Sacrament of Penance uses Jesus’ power to heal the sick to heal a sinner. All mortal sins must be confessed at a confessional.

The Priest is bound by absolute secrecy, and confidentiality must never be betrayed. Not even the Pope can get a priest to tell him who went to him for confession or what was confessed. The Priest must be willing to endure prison, torture, and death before violating the Seal of Confession, the secrecy of the sacrament.

When the Priest absolves the ‘sinner,’ he gives them a penance, a punishment, if you will. This is decided by the Priest, usually based on the penitent. It can be to say 5 ‘Our Fathers,’ or 6 ‘Hail Mary’s,’ or ‘The Serenity Prayer,’ for example. It is often a way for the Priest to give advice and reassurance to a person weighed down by real or perceived guilt.

  Father Dermot recognised the voice immediately behind the confessional grill – Mrs Trip.

  ‘Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.’

  ‘What is it, child?’ He still found it weird saying this to an older person.

  ‘I have been a bad person. I am sinning, constantly sinning, in my head.’ She sounded distressed and close to tears.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘It is my husband. I keep wishing him dead.’

  Father Dermot remained quiet.

 Mrs Trip continued. ‘He…he is a bad man. I never knew I swear, I never knew.’

  ‘Never knew what, child?’

  ‘He is a heavy gambler; people are after him. He owes money. A lot of money.’

  ‘That is no reason to want him dead surely?’

  ‘No, but he…I’m…I’m so ashamed.’

  ‘He what?’

  ‘He beats me, and the children. I cover it with make-up and put on a happy face. But I’m desperate. I am so unhappy. I want these people he owes money to, to find him and kill him. I’m so sorry. Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.’

  ‘This is an understandable reaction. Your penance is to say The Serenity prayer to help give you peace of mind. You will then be absolved. I will call to see you, and we can discuss it further.’

  ‘Oh, you know it’s me then, Father?’

  ‘I would know that voice anywhere.’

  ‘I feel so much better just hearing your voice, Father.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it.’

  ‘One more thing I need forgiveness for.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I smoke behind my husband's back.’

  Father Dermot laughed. ‘I forgive you.’

 

***

 

Curiously a roast dinner was Father Dermot’s least favourite. He did his best with it because he knew how much effort Mrs Trip had put into making it. He had decided to split formality with casualness, he wore a black shirt and dog collar but had jeans and trainers on. Her three children were at her mother’s so they could ‘talk.’

  'Do you mind me mentioning your husband?' Father Dermot asked as he sipped at a rather lovely glass of wine.

  ‘That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?’ She smiled.

  ‘I suppose so, and for a free dinner, of course.’ He grinned.

  She laughed.

  Dermot continued. ‘So, what is going on with you two?’

  ‘Oh, Father, I just don’t know what to do. I’m getting desperate. He is getting worse. I’m frightened, not just for me but for the kids.’

  Where is he now?’

  ‘At the pub, of course. Or the casino, where else?’

  ‘Will he object to me visiting?’

  ‘He won’t care, he’ll come back in the early hours, unless he runs out of credit and then I’m in trouble, he will be back early, and it will be my fault.’

  ‘How long has he been gambling?’

  ‘All his adult life, apparently. I had no clue, like a fool. It was only after we got married that he couldn’t hide it from me anymore.’

 ‘How bad is the violence? If you don’t mind me asking.’

  ‘Not at all. It’s bad. Fists sometimes, even with the kids.’

  ‘This can’t go on, Mrs Trip.’

 ‘I know, but what can I do? I’ve nowhere to go.’

  ‘Have you tried the police?’

  ‘They are of no use. They just want to cover their arses. Oops, sorry, Father.’

  ‘It’s fine. I’m sure the police have a particular unit that deals with this sort of problem, don’t they?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m sorry, but I’ve lost faith in them. I made a statement years ago, and they ended up dropping it through a lack of evidence. It was the worst time ever. He made me suffer. We all suffered for months afterwards, and he’s far worse now than he was then.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Trip.’

  ‘Won’t you call me Margaret?’

  ‘Margaret.’

She smiled and raised her glass, and they clinked.

  ‘You mentioned someone was out to get him?

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Your husband.’

  ‘Oh, sorry, of course. It must be the wine. Yes, and they are connected.’

  ‘Connected?’

  ‘They come to Church some time. They’re Irish. They’re Republicans.’

  ‘I see. That really is connected. The Provisionals?’

  She nodded.

Father Dermot swallowed hard. ‘Fuck.’

  ‘Father!’

  ‘Sorry. Old habits die hard.’

  ‘Wow. There’s more to you than meets the eye.’

Dermot avoided her gaze and swigged at the wine. ‘Margaret, he’s in very serious trouble, unless he sorts himself out. He’s in grave danger.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You need to get out.’

  ‘I know.’

 

***

 

Both Margaret and Father Dermot were getting a little bleary-eyed. Dermot sat on the armchair and Margaret on the settee. A combination of tiredness and wine slowed the conversation but gave warmth to their conversation.

  ‘What made you become a priest, Father Dermot?’

  ‘It’s a long story, but…’

Margaret sat bolt upright. She had heard a noise in the yard, and she gasped.

  ‘What's the matter?’ Dermot asked.

  ‘He’s back.’

  ‘That’s okay.’

  ‘No, it’s not okay, you don’t know him.’

  Dermot stood and peered through the window into the darkness, suddenly a vast bulk appeared. A heavy-set man in a beige suit, with his shirt untucked. He burst through the back door. He was unsteady on his feet and stunk of ale.

  ‘Hi, darling.’ Margaret smiled.

  ‘Who’s this cunt?’

  ‘Terry, this is Father Dermot, the new priest.’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘Mr. Trip…’

  ‘I said, fuck off! I want no God botherers in here. Sling your hook.’

 ‘Are you sure you’re okay, Margaret?’ Dermot said.

  Tears were in her eyes as she nodded, yes, her hands wringing, intertwined.

  ‘What the hell has it got to do with you? Who the fuck do you think you are?’ Terry was now right in the face of Father Dermot. Young Dermot felt intimidated, and his heart was racing. Terry grabbed the top of Father Dermot’s shirt at the shoulder and manhandled the man of God to the door. He opened it and pushed him outside. ‘Get gone! And think yourself lucky I don’t kick fuck out of you.’

Dermot almost lost his footing on the tarmac outside, but he managed to regain his balance. He looked in through the window tentatively and saw Terry thrashing at Margaret, now on the settee trying to shield her head with her arms. He was screaming at her, his voice gruff and nasty. There was real venom in the blows. Terry undid his belt and repeatedly beat Margaret with it, buckle first. He caught a blow on her cheek, and blood appeared, as she screamed. Terry pulled the tablecloth off, and the plates and cutlery smashed onto the floor. He started to ram the tablecloth in her mouth. So that she would ‘shut the fuck up, you ugly bastard.’ Lights started coming on in upstairs windows around about. Dogs were barking.

 Father Dermot turned and stumbled down the dark alleyway finding himself dazed and confused out in the brighter lit road. He didn’t want to leave Margaret. He didn’t know what to do, so he carried on walking, pulling his phone from his jeans. He dialled 999.

 

***

 

Father Dermot had rung Margaret the following day. She said the police had visited, but she wouldn’t make a statement. It did calm Terry down, though, and he went to bed. She slept on the settee.

Dermot explained that he could not get involved with violence, but he could help in other ways, such as alerting the authorities. She said she understood, but he sensed disappointment in her voice along with isolation, loneliness, helplessness. She was sorry to have bothered him with her problems. Dermot felt ashamed, but he was a man of the cloth, and he had taken vows. There was a niggling voice in his brain ‘what would Jesus do?’ Would Jesus have stood idly by and allowed violence? Did Jesus stand idly by when he trashed the Temple, expelling the merchants and money lenders? Dermot wondered if he was hiding behind his dog collar because he felt scared. Terry was too big and strong for him. He would have knocked him into the other side of next Tuesday. It wasn’t a good look for a Catholic Priest to be involved in brawls, was it? He must speak to Bishop O’Flaherty for advice.

He wasn’t surprised that Mrs Trip had not appeared for Sunday Mass. All the congregation were supportive now, and he shook their hands as they left, and repeated, ‘Bless you’ a hundred times as each individual left. He was aware that two men seemed to be hanging back and were last out of the door.

  ‘A lovely service, Father,’ the first one said, with a Belfast accent, as they shook hands. The second man said nothing.

  ‘A word in your shell-like, Father.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Can you show us around the graveyard?’

  ‘Graveyard?’

  ‘Yes, so we can have a little chat.’

  The penny suddenly dropped—the Republicans. ‘Oh, yes, I see. Of course.’

  The first man walked with Father Dermot while the second man hung back.

  ‘Are you enjoying your new parish, father?’

  ‘Very much so.’

  ‘Lovely Church, you have.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘It would be awful if something happened to it, wouldn’t it?’

  Father Dermot was suddenly on his mettle. It was a shakedown. ‘I don’t suppose God would be too chuffed either.’

  ‘I think I might be beyond his open arms, Father.’ The man said with a snarl.

  ‘There is a place in Heaven for everyone. Even you, Mr?’

  ‘I just wanted to pick your brains, so I did.’ He ignored the inferred question.

  ‘Right.’

 Their ambling came to a stop, and they faced each other. The man took out a packet of cigarettes. ‘I hear you like a smoke?’

  ‘What? Who said that? I mean, it wouldn’t be very seemly to…thanks.’ He took the cigarette, and the man lit it. Dermot's hand was shaking a little; the man was not.

  ‘Terry Trip.’

  ‘Is this someone I should know?’

  ‘Oh, Father, let’s not insult each other now. He owes us rather a lot of money.’

  ‘Does he? What’s that got to do with me?’

  ‘You know him, don’t you?  Well, you know his wife. Attractive lady, Father Dermot, so she is.’

  ‘Look, this is nothing to do with me. I don’t want to get involved in anything underhand.’

  The man held up a hand as if stopping traffic. ‘But you are involved, Father. And guess what?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I am involving you just a little bit more.’

  ‘Please don’t.’

  ‘Sorry, Father. It’s not up to me, you understand. It is way above me.’ He pointed to the sky, but he didn’t mean God.

  ‘What is it you want?’

  ‘He needs persuading to pay up and who could refuse a man of God?’

  ‘He won’t listen to me. He has no faith.’ The wind rustled through the young Priest’s hair and cooled his red face.

  ‘He will, Father. Or his wife will. You see, the problem is, we have a reputation to keep, and if one person takes the piss, manners, apologies. If one person doesn’t behave as a gentleman would, it becomes like a contagion. It spreads like a virus. People take us for fools, and before we know it, people start taking more and more liberties. You understand, Father?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘So, either the debt goes away, or he goes away. You know the way these things work.’

  ‘I do now.’

  ‘Enough said.’

As the two men walked away, the quiet second man waved to Dermot. ‘Bye, Father.’

 Dermot found himself waving back. He had no intention of speaking to Terry Trip. He must talk to Bishop O’Flaherty.

 

***

 

Terry Trip parked his car at an angle on the street. He was drunk again. He sat in the driver's seat, summoning up a burp that nearly made him sick. He got out of the car looking like a puppet, with moves that weren’t quite right, but he managed to stay on his feet.

He muttered to himself. ‘Fucking cow.’ His mind was already reverting to the bottom line – it was all Margaret’s fault. He squinted as he entered the dark alleyway, his shoulders each knocking into the walls as he staggered forward, bouncing off the brickwork like a pinball hitting the bumpers. He stopped to fiddle with the small gate which afforded access to his yard.

The first strike of the iron bar caught him in the ribs causing him to cry out and reel around to ascertain the cause of the pain. His reactions were slow, and as he was on the half-turn when a strong blow connected halfway up his face, smashing his jaw and orbital socket. He didn’t get a chance to utter any words, nor would he ever again. He hit the ground hard, unable to protect his fall because of his inebriated state. He couldn’t open his left eye, but he could see the shadowy figure with his one good eye. He was involuntarily urinating into his trousers as the final blow smashed into his skull, fracturing it, sending shards of bone through the layers of meninges covering of the brain. The fragments were chased in a fraction of a second by the iron bar penetrating the pia mater, mushing the brain. He wasn’t dead, but he was as good as gone. He had seven minutes to switch off, as the brain tried to make the best of an impossible situation, keep the organs firing, but failing. Terry Trip had made his last bet and thrown his last dice.

 

***

 

Father Dermot was puffing and panting in the churchyard with a lawnmower that was possibly older than him. It was a roller type, cylindrical with twisted blades, which, in theory, at least, were supposed to cut grass. It rattled and clattered and bumped and bounced across the uneven ground. Dermot had found an old boiler suit in the vestry that was miles too big but was just about fit for purpose. He intended to tidy up the huge clumps that the council workers had left when they had used their vast ride-on machine to cut the main sections of the lawn. Dermot wished he had never bothered, and as he leaned down to pull chunks of grass from the blades, he noticed two women approaching him. They were dressed in smart clothes, one was quite tubby and the other slim, but big bosomed. ‘Now what?’

  Bosoms spoke first, at a distance too far to be comfortable, ‘Excuse me.’ He waited for them to get nearer before he said, ‘Yes, how can I help you?’

  ‘We’re looking for a Father Dermot.’

  ‘You’re looking at him.’

   She was surprised, assuming him to be the gardener. ‘We’re from the CID.’

  ‘Hello.’ He shook both their hands. ‘Pleased to meet you, sorry about the green fingers. I’m guessing you are here to give me bad news.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’ The smaller dumpy one asked.

  Father Dermot laughed. ‘No disrespect, but the police are always the bearers of bad news, sad to say. No offence, officers.’

  ‘I take your point.’ Bosoms was going to lead the conversation. ‘It is bad news, actually.’

  ‘There you go.’

  ‘Terry Trip has been found murdered last night, and we understand you have knowledge of the man.’

  ‘I do, well, a little, I know his wife better. Mr Trip didn’t come to Church.’

  ‘You don’t seem very surprised at the news if you don’t mind me saying.’

  ‘That’s because I’m not.’

  ‘Oh. Why is that?’

  ‘Listen, detective?’

  ‘Armstrong.’

  ‘Detective Armstrong. Apologies, but I need to explain my position in the community as the parish priest. The Catholic Church is a highly complex religion and very strict. I have made a sacred vow on pain of death to protect my congregation, particularly with confidential information. I’m not being awkward, I promise, but the Catholic Church is unforgiving on this. We have confessionals and all that, you see, so we have to protect the trust of the members of the Church. It’s vital. It is fundamental.’

  ‘Of course, yes, I see.’

  ‘How are Mrs Trip and her children?’ Father Dermot asked, concerned.

  ‘They’re fine.’

  ‘Did they see it? What happened exactly?’

  DC Armstrong folded her arms. ‘Hold on, Father, you cannot hold back from us and then ask us to tell you all about it.’

  ‘I can ask.’ He smiled.

  She paused momentarily, the quiet sufficient to allow through the distant hum of proper lawnmowers, electric ones, that worked. She was thinking about her next move.

  ‘What if I was to ask you maybe some hypothetical questions, might that make things easier?’ Detective Armstong asked.

  Dermot seemed thoughtful. ‘Mmm. I guess it depends upon what they are. Give it a go, why don’t you?’

  ‘Okay. Thank you. Let me see. Erm. How is the best way to phrase this?’

  It was Dermot’s turn to fold his arms, and he was grinning as he watched the cogs churning. The detective got there eventually. ‘Would it be fair to say that all Churches have people attend who may have affiliations to political movements.’

  ‘It would be fair to say that. Listen, can I get you a cup of tea or anything, I’m just about to give up on this lawnmower in any case.’

  ‘No, thanks, we’re good. Would it be fair to say that some Churches have members of the Provisional IRA attend their congregation?’

  ‘I doubt it; the IRA doesn’t exist anymore.’

  ‘Oh, you know what I mean.’

  ‘Listen, detective, I will pray for the man’s soul, but I think you are asking me questions you already know the answers to. By all means, come along to a service, everyone is welcome here.’

  ‘Okay, will you please think, and if there is anything in good conscience you can tell us that doesn’t compromise you, please let us know.’

  ‘I promise I will do that.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘God bless you.’ Dermot said.

  ‘Thank you. Bye.’

  ‘Goodbye and good luck.' Dermot said as they turned away. He rested his elbow on the cranky machinery. He expected he would be revisited, but this time by the two gentlemen who had gently threatened to burn his Church down.

 

***

 

  It was the third Confessional of the year, and Father Dermot opened the somewhat stiff door of the confessional booth. He sat and prayed for a minute or so. It always smelt fusty inside the box. It was tight in there. He heard the other door next to him open.

  ‘Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.’

  ‘Go ahead, child.’

  ‘I have killed a man.’ It was a lilting Irish accent.

Father Dermot shifted in his seat.

  ‘Hail Mary Mother of God, was it an accident?’

  ‘No, Father, I did it intentionally. I think you know the murder of which I speak.’

  ‘I think I do.’

  ‘Do you want to tell me more about it?’

  ‘I need absolution, Father.’

  ‘This is very serious and needs a severe penance.’

  ‘I understand that, and I have prayed for forgiveness from the almighty.’

  ‘You must continue to pray.’

Father Dermot had not encountered such a serious moment in the confessional booth before, and his mouth was dry. It was intense. He knew the person on the other side of the grill.

  ‘Please absolve me, Father, give me my penitence.’

  ‘Let me think and pray for a few minutes, my child.’

Father Dermot closed his eyes in the quiet. The five minutes of silence seemed to last an hour.

  ‘I am ready to give you your penitence.’

  ‘Thank you, Father.’

  ‘You must leave this area and sever all ties from loved ones. As you have taken a life, so must your life be limited because of your actions.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘You must say 5 ‘Our Father’s and 5 ‘Hail Mary’s’ daily and work with a charitable lifestyle working to improve the lives of others. You may or may not do this, but if you seek the path to absolution by our Father, then this is what you must do.’

  There was a quiet as both men were muttering prayers, scarcely discernible.

 Now that the confession was complete, the murderer slowly and tentatively left the booth. His training shoes made no sound as he walked slowly, with a heavy heart toward the door of the Church. He took off his outer garment revealing his Def Leppard T-shirt, and he laid it on the final wooden pew. He didn’t need it anymore. He paused and took in the air, he lit a cigarette and headed through the graveyard, to where he knew not.

 

***

The congregation sat patiently. Father Dermot was late starting today, and there was a restlessness amongst those assembled.

Finally, the organ struck up a chord, and the Priest walked towards the altar from the vestry. This was not Father Dermot. This was a middle-aged man with greying hair and a worried expression.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, As you can see, I am not Father Dermot. Unfortunately, due to a family crisis, Father Dermot has had to leave the parish, and it is unlikely he will be back, I’m afraid.’

There was a gasp. Mrs Smethurst turned to ask Margaret Trip what the family crisis was. Mrs Trip was not there. ‘Where’s Margaret Trip?’ She asked her neighbour.

  ‘She’s not been seen since her husband died. She’s done a moonlight flit. It’s all very odd, isn’t it?’

‘Isn’t it indeed.’

The stand-in priest continued, his voice booming.

  ‘We will start today with a hymn. Hymn 299 “Forgive Our Sins As We Forgive.”’