A week later, Rufus slipped out of the house as discreetly as he could and went to St Vincent de Paul, the nearest Catholic church. He moved up the aisle and to the side of the vast building, his footsteps echoing. The priest was at the altar, kneeling, communing with his God. Rufus felt better just for being in here. He went to the little confessional and slipped inside, pulling the door closed behind him.
He waited.
Presently, the priest came into the box next door. The screen slid back between the two compartments, and Rufus could see a shadowy figure sitting there alongside him.
‘Bless me, Father,’ he said haltingly. ‘Forgive me. For I have sinned.’
‘What is the nature of your sinning, my son?’ asked the priest.
Rufus hesitated. But the confessional was sacrosanct. Any secrets divulged here would remain secret for ever.
‘I have committed a terrible sin, Father. I have killed a man.’
The priest was silent. Then he said: ‘Tell me.’
Rufus poured it all out. He mentioned no names, but he confessed to the killing of Pardew, and to his great remorse over the accidental death of Pikey. Even as he spoke of it, he felt lighter, better. He’d done the right thing, coming here. He knew it.
The priest told him what penance he had to perform. ‘Now go, my son, and sin no more.’
Rufus emerged from the church into a soft day, all drizzle and cloudy skies, but he felt as if he was bathed in warm, forgiving sunlight. He hurried along the road towards Rory’s house, but pulled up sharply when he saw the car there, and two big men standing at Rory’s door talking to Megan.
The relief he’d felt since the confession deserted him in an instant. He ducked behind a high wall, but as he did he saw Megan’s head turning, and her hand rising to point in his direction. The cow had seen him.
The men turned. Rufus recognized Col Ballard, one of Don’s enforcers. The other man was unknown to him. In an instant, they were on the move, running out of the gate and after him.
Rufus fled. Megan had betrayed him. Not Rory, never Rory, he knew that.
The men chased him through the streets and over garden fences. Jesus, won’t they give it up? he wondered, trying the handle of a door set into a garden wall. It opened and, panting, done in, still weak from his wound, he stepped into a deserted yard. On the other side of the wall he heard the pounding of footsteps, then voices. He prayed they wouldn’t open the door.
‘Where the feck did he go?’ gasped one.
‘That way,’ said the other, and then he heard their footsteps running away into the distance.