Father Riordan could feel the sweat dripping from every pore in his body as Michael Flynn watched him closely. He knew that he had no right at all to stand in judgement over another human being, but the knowledge of the young man’s crimes was something he couldn’t forget about. It was on his mind every waking hour. He had listened to adulterers and wife beaters, he had made himself listen to people’s deepest, darkest secrets, and he had always been able to tell himself that they had not told him – they had been confiding in the Lord God Himself. But not this time. This was something he couldn’t find it in his heart to overlook. This was murder. It could never be rectified.

Now here was Michael, with young Josephine Callahan, listening to him eagerly as he talked about the importance of the marriage vows, about it being a blessed sacrament, and how they were expected to always remember that they had been joined together in Holy Matrimony by God Himself, when all the time he knew that Michael Flynn was a killer. Even worse, thanks to him, Michael had no guilty conscience about his act. It was over with, he had been forgiven. And Father Riordan had been the one to hear his confession. It was torturing him.

‘Are you all right, Father? You look a bit peaky.’

Josephine seemed genuinely concerned about him and, as the priest looked into her lovely face, he saw the kindness there. This was a girl who was going to marry a man he knew was a murderer. He forced himself to smile at her and act normally.

‘I’m not feeling too good to be honest, Josephine. I think I’m coming down with the flu.’

Josephine was instantly contrite, sorry that they had bothered him when he was obviously feeling unwell. ‘Oh, listen, Father, we can do this another time. You get yourself off to bed. You know that we are both more than ready to be married. It’s not long now, is it? I can’t wait.’

Father Riordan was still smiling. ‘You’re right, Josephine, I shouldn’t be here at all tonight. The last thing you two need is the flu! I’ll see you both soon, OK?’

Michael stood up slowly and, grinning happily at Josephine, he said jovially, ‘You go on, darling. I want to talk to Father Riordan in private for a minute.’

Josephine nodded, then she kissed the priest gently on his cheek. As she left the pew, she blessed herself before the altar, and the two men watched as she walked sedately out of the church.

Michael Flynn looked at the priest for long moments; he could almost feel the man’s fear emanating from him. He was annoyed that Father Riordan, his confessor, his parish priest, was acting so oddly.

‘What exactly is your problem, Father?’