JACK HAD NEVER BEEN to a priest’s home before, at least not that he could remember. The hallway was dark save for a lamp on a sideboard. Light emanated from a crack in the door leading to what Jack presumed to be the kitchen. Father Frank stood in front of him; without his collar he didn’t look like himself. He was wearing a tracksuit.

‘I was just about to head to the gym,’ he said, patting his stomach. ‘Have to get rid of the pounds before they get rid of me.’

‘Sorry to disturb.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ he said, and Jack followed him into the bright kitchen, with floor-to-ceiling glass looking out on to a wild garden filled with colourful flowers, trees, climbers, plants and three bird feeders. It seemed like it was dinnertime for an entire flock.

‘Did you do the garden yourself?’ Jack asked.

‘It’s my secret pleasure,’ Father Frank said.

It was beautiful, a real haven. ‘You’re full of surprises.’

‘You should taste my Baked Alaska.’ Frank grinned. ‘Tea?’

‘Go on then,’ Jack said.

He was tired; it had been another very long day. He sat at the table while Father Frank made tea and plated up some custard creams. ‘I know they’re old-fashioned but there’s something special about a custard cream,’ he said as he sat down.

Jack agreed. ‘You can shove your fancy biscuits, right enough.’

They both drank from their mugs. Father Frank placed his down.

‘Now, what can I do for you, Jack?’

‘I don’t know,’ Jack said.

‘Molly?’

Jack nodded.

‘You know I haven’t seen her since the funeral,’ Father Frank said, and he seemed saddened by that. Nearly two years had passed and he still missed his buddy.

‘She hasn’t been the same since,’ Jack said, by way of apology.

‘No, I suppose she wouldn’t be.’

‘Could you talk to her?’

‘Lord knows I’ve tried,’ Father Frank said. ‘She keeps running off on me.’

‘Well, she’s not in a position to run off anymore,’ Jack said.

Father Frank didn’t follow.

‘She’s in jail.’

Father Frank was drinking tea and the intake of breath sent it into his windpipe. He coughed and spluttered, and Jack found himself on his feet and patting Father Frank’s back.

‘Sorry,’ he said.

‘God Almighty, Jack, why is she in prison?’ Father Frank asked between coughs.

‘She told a judge to fuck off.’

‘Well at least she didn’t kill him,’ Father Frank said when he’d collected himself.

‘That’s the silver lining all right,’ Jack agreed. He then explained where she was, and Father Frank wasn’t sure what he could do, although he did know the chaplain in the Dóchas Centre.

‘I could talk to Sylvia,’ he said, but he made no promises.

‘I can’t get through, no one can,’ Jack said.