Chris had tried to intervene by speaking about inclusion and community spirit in his sermons – impressing on his congregation the importance of being kind and supportive, of being non-judgemental like the Lord Jesus – but nothing changed. He’d then gone for the more direct route, visiting Billy at his home and trying to make him and his family feel welcomed. But his attempts had been met with a disapproving grunt and the door slammed in his face. And that had been before Billy’s wife, Rosie, had passed – before Billy became a drunk and virtual recluse.

Rosie had been to church, though, on numerous occasions following her diagnosis. Not at services – she would sneak in when the congregation had dispersed, crouching down behind a pew, making herself as small as possible. For peace, and an element of comfort he presumed; she never spoke with him about her illness, about her worries. She seemed a closed book. She had, however, asked Chris not to mention to anyone that she’d been visiting the church – especially Billy. How he was meant to ever mention it when Billy refused to speak with him anyway, he didn’t know, but he’d assured her he wouldn’t tell him or anyone else. He’d often wondered why Rosie appeared afraid of Billy, and against his wishes, he’d found himself questioning the things people said about him. Were they true?

But God didn’t judge, and nor should he, he kept reminding himself.

Everyone had a cross to bear. Some had several.

‘What do you think, Rev?’ The voice jumped into his thoughts, and Chris turned sharply. Eric was standing beside him, eyebrows raised, appearing to be waiting for a response.

‘Oh, sorry, Eric. Miles away. Say again?’ He picked his pint up and took another sip.

‘We were just discussing what to do with Billy. What do you reckon?’

Chris felt his insides contract. Getting dragged into such talk would not be a good idea. He allowed the silence to stretch, pretending he was considering the question. He made a mental note to avoid The Plough in future – he’d be better off buying alcohol from the shop and drinking alone in the comfort of the rectory. He had a sudden feeling of affinity with Billy Cawley.

‘I’m not sure what you mean, do with him?’ Although Chris could make an educated guess. Eric was a meddler, the same as his wife, Muriel – he hadn’t reached her level as yet, but together with the other husbands, the group of men were always keen to make their mark. Ensure their presence was felt and to drive home the fact their wives might well hold the Mapledon Meetings, but it was they who were really in charge. Some of them were also on the local board of councillors, which only added to their self-inflated sense of power. As much as Chris would like to assert his own authority as a man of the cloth, he also did not wish to get on the wrong side of the Mapledon Mafia. That was a place of nightmares, and he couldn’t afford to be in that particular position.