As the man draws nearer, Thomas makes a point of turning away, watching him only from the corner of his eyes. Livia, four steps to his side, has slumped into exhaustion; is listing sideways and forward, her head drooping to mirror the angel’s. At the bottom of the stairs, the man swerves and disappears into the alleyway by the side of the church. For a fraction of a moment Thomas hesitates, unwilling to rouse Livia, struck by the blankness of her resting features, the thinness of her sloping neck. Then he jumps over and taps her awake with a flick of his shoe.

“The angel’s back. Let’s follow him.”

She makes to rise then drops back onto the step. “You go. Someone has to be here. For Charlie.”

It strikes Thomas that Livia fears him more than she fears being left defenceless and alone.

ф

There is a second entrance to the church. Halfway down the alley a narrow staircase of some four or five steep steps climbs the church wall. At its top is a door so small one has to duck through. Thomas does not actually see the stranger go in. All he sees is the door close, four feet above the ground. A moment later he himself is pulling the crude handle. Inside, a deep gloom reigns, taking little heed of the cluster of candles that burns at one end of the nave. The church is in a dismal state. Its pews are gone, robbed for their wood perhaps, and the stone floor littered with mud and rubbish. A great wooden cross rises above the altar, plain unadorned lumber, painted white.

A figure is sitting on a little stool in a side chapel. The folding table next to him holds a candle, a jug, and a cup of wine. Thomas has stepped over to him before realising the figure is not the one he followed. The priest is a smaller man, weasel-faced, his hair a patch of stubble. He looks up at Thomas and fills a second cup. Thomas ignores the gesture that invites him to sit.

“I’m looking for the man who just came in here.”

It comes out gruff, commanding. He has no patience left, no interest in this stranger. The stranger, for his part, is looking closely at Thomas, as if measuring his intent. A pale face, his; Soot-rouged at the cheeks. Broken veins thread the nose.

“Is that so?”

“Where did he go? I want to talk to him.”

“Talk to me instead. That’s what I am here for.”

Thomas frowns at this, looks about himself, suspicious of the man’s collar, his jug of wine, the long smock of his office.

“Your church is a mess,” he says at length.

The priest shrugs. “What use does the Lord have for pretty windows?”

“And you are drunk.”