John-Jo spat on the floor and muttered something. The priest nodded and led him into the kitchen where he settled him at a table beside the back door. As he sank on to the chair the unwelcome guest looked up and saw Sarah watching him. His eyes were bloodshot but very blue, and bright with intelligence, although he looked ill and badly nourished. He held her gaze, unblinking. Embarrassed, she turned away.

‘Is there any dinner left, Mary?’ Father Connolly looked hopefully at the cook.

‘There’s a few potatoes and some carrots, Father, but the chicken’s all gone.’ She glared at John-Jo. ‘I thought he wasn’t getting in here any more. He’s trouble, Father. A violent man. He did terrible damage the last time.’

‘Ah now, he’s not well, Mary. He looks a lot worse tonight than I’ve seen him in a long time.’

‘You’d look as bad yourself, Father, if you drank the way he does!’

‘Well, we’ll give him whatever’s left of the dinner, and a good hot mug of tea with some bread and butter. It’s a bitter night outside.’

‘I’ll make up a plate, Father, but I’ll not take it over to him. He has a tongue on him would flay a cat. Never satisfied with what you give him, and foul-mouthed into the bargain. I’ll not stand for the kind of abuse he’s doled out to me in the past.’ Mary banged a pot on the counter for emphasis.

Sarah cleared her throat. ‘I’ll take it.’

The priest turned and noticed her with surprise. ‘Is this where you were all evening? I thought maybe you’d gone home. Well, it’ll be a kindness if you’ll serve John-Jo. And don’t mind what he says. Just give him his dinner and the tea, and Mike will see he doesn’t bother you.’

Sarah organised a plate of food, and carried it over to the man. Mike stood nearby, keeping a wary eye on him. John-Jo was slumped over the table, his head in his hands. In the heat of the room his coat was steaming and a rancid smell rose from it. His knuckles were grazed and there was a scab on his scalp under the thinning patch of grey hair. She put the plate down in front of him.

‘There’s no chicken left, I’m afraid,’ she said. ‘But you might like this. And I’ll get you some bread and butter to go with it, if you want.’

‘Feckin’ chicken. It’s always feckin’, stinkin’ chicken. I hate feckin’ chicken.’ He was digging in one of the pockets of his overcoat. ‘Here – can you cook this? I got it off a butcher down the street. Better than feckin’ chicken any day.’