All at once Miss Thorby cried, ‘Stop!’ and like automatons they stood still.

‘There is a barrier. Are we all of one mind? Has any been unfaithful?’

This was no part of the ritual, for she spoke in English and with some agitation.

Miss Mayfield thought, washed over with a wave of fear, Can it be my presence that is preventing whatever it is they wait for? If they can smell me out, then this isn’t just nasty nonsense. She knew again the fear she had felt at Puddler Pond – the fear of the manifestation of evil, which had turned out to be a frightened flock of sheep. She remembered her feelings about the cat.

Dear God, she prayed from her heart, forgive me. I’m a very weak adherent; I keep over-estimating the power of the enemy, which is a form of treachery.

‘It is the font,’ Miss Thorby said. ‘I sense resistance from that direction. Used and blessed and not emptied since, I suspect.’ She spoke as a housewife might of a saucepan put away unwashed, and she said ‘blessed’ as any normal person might say ‘thrice-accursed’.

The font stood at the tower end of the church, within a few feet of the doorway where Miss Mayfield was. So nearly right. Her mind wavered again. They had power. She remembered that Lucifer, Ahriman, the Devil, name him how you would, had, before his fall, been an angel, powerful enough to be jealous of God. And it was possible – it was logical, in fact – to see in all this parody, this business of the wafer and the sacramental wine, a continuance of the age-old defiance. Like rebels tearing down a flag and stamping and spitting on it.

They surged towards the font.

I must hide the camera. I’m going to be caught. I’ve been a fool and must pay the price of my folly. But I’ll try first. I’ll say I wanted to join. It might even work. Minorities always welcome a convert. I’ll lie and lie. But I must hide this camera.

The stairs – they ran up, hugging the wall, built into it. Below and behind the lowest one was a dark, cavern like space. She pushed the camera into it as far as it would go, and then went and stood by the door, waiting to be pounced on, accused.

But they were all engrossed with the font.

‘It is as I thought. The mark is there. And he is waiting. Defile it, quickly.’

They made their circle around the font; they spat into it; they used it as old Mrs Rigby had used the Communion cup.

And once that is done, thought Miss Mayfield, they will detect the real focus of resistance, the spy in their midst.