Jonathan Adams ordered everyone to remain where they were. Then, knowing Matti Bonner to have been a parishioner of St Mary’s, he stepped quietly into the sour-cream smell of the Catholic chapel to tell those standing at the back what had happened. As the communicants were coming down the aisle a labourer cut the dead man down, Jonathan Adams received him and an on-duty RUC man laid him out on the ground.

By then the congregations of both churches had been released, though each Sunday, morning service began in one when Mass in the other was nearly over. The two were timed so that the congregations would not meet, either going or returning. But this morning the service had ended abruptly when Catherine ran in, and the Mass had faltered after communion. The parishioners gathered round the dead man, they studied the tree, the cut of the knot, and fended off certain political thoughts. The Presbyterians looked on remotely as the priest whispered into Matti’s ear.

The Catholics appeared awed.

But for all there this death was uninspiring. It did not lead to awesome thoughts about the hereafter. It disputed grief. It seemed the work of a man intent on turning his face away from God.

It was the third suicide in two years. A young reservist had been washed up at Dernish Island on the Erne, a girl had cut her wrists in a shed. Both of these were Protestant deaths. The first brought on by manic depression, the second by domestic trouble. But this was the first time in recent history that a Catholic had taken his own life in that territory.

Matti Bonner’s death gave the Loyalist village an insight into how vulnerable the enemy was.

The Presbyterian elders who were standing under the birch tree felt both alienated and aggrieved. His death had somehow exposed them. Even though this suicide should have been a reproach to the Catholics, they felt it was directed at them. It involved them all. There was a curse in what he’d done. It was a sign. He wanted to remain forever in their minds.

And as for the Catholics, who moved round his death with an easy familiarity, they, at a further remove, felt let down. By his suicide he had gone over to the other side. He had smashed the idol of life itself. By his death he had turned informer. They were embarrassed by the obvious grief of Jonathan Adams, while they themselves were not so moved. Matti Bonner had even robbed them of their right to mourn. That he should have hanged himself facing the Catholic chapel meant he was pointing the finger at them.

He was saying: In the chapel there is no peace.

And there were some who privately understood Matti Bonner’s despair.