Forty miles to the east, in Saint Matt’s vestry at the foot of the Falls Road, Father Alphonsus McLoughlin knelt at the dying embers of the fire praying like a man condemned. You wouldn’t have known it to look at him now, for he was a gaunt figure, wasted to skin and bone, but luck had once smiled on Alphonsus McLoughlin. He had won the most coveted prize a Belfast priest can hope for, the sabbatical to California, to spread the faith among the beautiful people. Alphonsus had briefly felt the sun on his back and the warm Pacific breeze playing through his hair. He had gambolled chastely with the gilded youth in the surf off Big Sur, and had ridden the ferryboat daily to Sausalito. But the sun and the surf and the laughter of innocent voices was now only a distant memory. His tan and his accent had faded and the pallor and the harshness of the ghetto had returned to his face and his voice.

      He looked up at the stern features of the Sacred Heart on the wall and redoubled his efforts, screwing his knuckles into his eyesockets and howling aloud the words of the De Profundis. Alphonsus had been praying without a break since Ash Wednesday. He had persevered in his Lenten vigil, fasting for forty days and forty nights, not a morsel of food passing his lips, a hunger strike to draw heaven’s attention to his plight. And now it was Holy Saturday night, the eve of Easter, the last day of Lent, and it was clear that the Sacred Heart was determined to let his suffering continue. In a few hours it would be dawn. There would be no reprieve, no escape. He rose from the lino, spat on the fire and cursed, as he did day and night, the name of Patrick Pearse McGuffin.

      Alphonsus felt there was a jinx on him that no penance could lift. He was haunted by a guilt he could neither understand nor explain. What latent malignant force had he unwittingly unleashed that day he had gone into the mountains beyond Tijuana and brought back the figurine of the little Virgin? Had he been seduced by a graven image of idolatry? Had he become a catalyst for the slow blight that was spreading over the land and its people? And how could he atone for what he had started?

      A faded tricolour hung from the gable of Saint Matthew’s vestry in deference to the season. But there was nothing but despair in Alphonsus’s heart. He crossed himself one last time. The features of the Sacred Heart above the mantelpiece stayed as stern as ever. If only he could be given a sign, just one, no matter how small, that he would not have to see out his days in this dreadful place among the McGuffins and their bastards, scraping for a living among the fetid backstreets of the shanty town. But the Sacred Heart, as so often, was keeping the cards close to His chest. Alphonsus started his last, desperate rosary unaware that back in Ara Coeli, the powerhouse of the organization to which he had devoted his life, Schnozzle had called a meeting to brief his senior staff, and that his own name was prominent on the agenda.

      Major-domo MacBride was run off his feet. In all his days he had never known anything like it. There were bishops and archbishops from the four provinces, the papal legate in person, monsignors and administrators, all crowded into the boardroom upstairs with their personal staff. The back parlour was overcrowded with lesser clergy and selected laity, awaiting their orders. Sam O’Dowd of the Irish News was there, waiting patiently on the stairs for Schnozzle to check his spelling before he gave him the Imprimatur. Sister Immaculata McGillicuddy guarded the front door, showing each of the guests to their places. And to cap it all, John Joe Sharkey, the new Taoiseach, was there, ordered up from Dublin, slipping unnoticed over the border with his minder O’Malley. John Joe, like everyone else who had arrived, would have his part to play in the momentous events of the morrow.

      ‘There isn’t time to stand about!’ Immaculata shouted, bursting into the kitchen where the major-domo and Frank were having a well-earned smoke. ‘Their Lordships need more whiskey; a cappuccino for the papal nuncio, and a brandy for the Taoiseach. Quickly!’

      ‘Brandy if you please!’ shouted MacBride when she was out of earshot. ‘Whiskey is good enough for the cloth, but John Joe wants a brandy!’ He rose unsteadily to his feet.

      ‘Sit where you are,’ Frank said. ‘I’ll see to John Joe.’

      ‘You’ll be lucky!’ the major-domo declared, holding up the Napoleon Four Star. The lumbago had been playing him up all day and the bottle was as good as empty.

      ‘He’ll drink whiskey with the rest of them! What is he anyhow but a jumped-up gombeen man from Annagery,’ Frank said with sudden vehemence.

      ‘Spoken like a true man!’ the major-domo concurred. ‘Take it in to them while you’re on your feet. You’ll easy recognize the Taoiseach, he’s the one in the morning suit, done up like a conjuror on the London Palladium. You’ll find him in the corner with Schnozzle’s hand up his ass, pulling his strings,’

      ‘I’ll recognize him all right,’ Frank said. ‘I remember the same boy from long ago.’

      Frank carried the Waterford decanter carefully up the wide staircase. With each step the noise of male bonhomie grew louder, with each step the smell of cigars and aftershave grew stronger. Here was power, palpable power, a heady sensation. He paused at the door, steadied the tray and pushed it open carefully. The bulky shape of John Joe’s bodyguard sprang forward, barring his way. O’Malley! He recognized at once the close-set eyes, the sweat-flecked jowls of the guard. It was not O’Malley’s first trip across the border since John Joe had plucked him out from his contemporaries for special duties. But the North left him feeling uneasy. Amid all the splendour of Ara Coeli he stood out like a sore thumb. He wouldn’t stop sweating till he’d delivered John Joe safely back to his fancy woman in Monaghan town. He took the decanter roughly from Frank and ordered him back below stairs. But not before the boy had caught a glimpse of the splendour within, of the red capes and purple robes of the hierarchy gathered round Schnozzle, vociferous in their congratulations. And a glimpse too of the man in the corner, John Joe Sharkey, whom he had last seen at the end of the Yellow Meal Road.

      At the stroke of midnight, Schnozzle’s limousine sped quietly down the drive, crossed the square and headed out towards Belfast. Its siren was silent, its lights dimmed. Only the Patriot, the last defender of the purity of the national dream, keeping vigil at the window, witnessed its passing. ‘Tá gluaistean ar an bhóthair’ he called up to Eugene. There’s a car on the road. There had been a procession of motorcars up to the Palace all that afternoon, but this was the first movement out.

      ‘The Easter Bunny is off somewhere in a great hurry,’ Eugene observed, staggering to the window in time to see it speeding away from the Shambles. He caught a glimpse of Immaculata McGillicuddy sitting at the wheel, and despite a lifetime rigorously devoted to the military cause, found himself wincing at the thought.

      Major-domo MacBride, sobered up with a pot of black coffee and hastily dressed in his best soutane and surplice, marched the servants in through the back door of the cathedral while it was still dark and ushered them into a corner behind a pillar. They huddled there as slowly the great cathedral came to life. One by one the priests of the parish filed out of the sacristy to say their trinity of masses at the scattered side altars. At ten o’clock the organ began to play, great improvised voluntaries of joy. At eleven the choir scrambled into the loft and sang a glorious Te Deum of thanksgiving. The pews began to fill, and Frank was soon conscious of the vast, expectant congregation that was crushing into every nook and cranny. And though he could see nothing of the ceremonies that began at the