He heard a faint sound coming from the left of the altar and looked up, startled. Out of the darkness came the little parish priest. Fr. Mackie had been here nearly as long as the church. He had baptised Cormac. He was also the first teacher to hit him with a ruler when he failed to recite the Ten Commandments to his satisfaction. He’d been a keen sportsman, a footballer and Gaelic footballer, in his time. He had a soft lilting West of Ireland accent and used to talk so fondly of his home in Achill Island that Cormac always wondered why he didn’t just go back there to live. After the caning episode, he sincerely wished he would! The shuffling frailty of his gait, as he approached the centre of the altar, suggested a man who’d never heard of, or hadn’t been informed of, the retirement age. He still had his hair, but rather than the thick jet-black thatch of his youth, it was now thin wisps of white that Cormac surmised wouldn’t survive a gentle gust. As he stooped to bless himself in front of the altar, Cormac could see it wouldn’t be long before the old priest occupied his mother’s position directly behind where he now struggled to stand up. He turned and walked past Cormac to where the lone candle was burning. He took one from a box and struggled to hold it still enough to light it off the flame. His tangled hand vibrated from side to side and each time narrowly missed the small flame.

‘Can I help you with that, Father?’

He shuffled around to face Cormac and was not at all fazed by the stranger in his midst. He was a man who’d gotten used to repentant sinners frequenting his church at all hours of the day. He studied the general area from where the voice had come.

‘Yes, if you don’t mind, son. My old hands aren’t what they used to be and I really would like to light this candle for a dear friend of mine and a beautiful soul who’s passed on to a better place tonight.’

Cormac walked towards him until he was within his range. He saw the look of recognition in his almost hidden eyes.

‘Cormac, is that you, son?’

Cormac took the candle from him and lit it from the dying flame.

‘Yes, Fr. Mackie it’s me. I came to light a candle for Maggie. I won’t be long till I am gone.’

He pointed a crooked finger towards the candle.

‘You just did, my son. That’s what I was trying to do myself, you see.’

Cormac sat down on the uncomfortable bench. The priest stood. Cormac could tell he wanted to speak, but couldn’t find the words. He was about to fill the void when Fr. Mackie began.

‘Cormac, I’m so pleased you’ve come to me. You see, if you hadn’t, I’m afraid I wouldn’t have possessed the courage to find you, and I must speak with you about your sister.’