"Higgins, Jack - Prayer For The Dying" - читать интересную книгу автора (Higgins Jack)

There was silence for a moment and then she said, "But I can't promise I won't see him again."

"I'm not asking you to," da Costa said. If you feel you owe me anything, find another job, that's all I ask. We'll leave the rest up to God."

There was the longest pause of all now and he waited, desperately anxious for the right answer, aware of an unutter-able sense of relief when it came. "Very well, Father, I promise."

"Good. Evening Mass is at six o'clock. I never get more than fifteen or twenty people. You'll be very welcome."

The door clicked shut as she went and he sat there feeling suddenly drained. With any luck, he'd said the right thing, handled it the right way. Only time would tell.

It was a change to feel useful again. The door clicked, there was the scrape of the chair being moved on the other side of the grille.

"Please bless me, Father."

It was an unfamiliar voice. Soft. Irish - an educated man without a doubt.

Father da Costa said, "May our Lord Jesus bless you and help you to tell your sins."

There was a pause before the man said, "Father, are there any circumstances under which what I say to you now could be passed on to anyone else?"

Da Costa straightened in his cloak. "None whatsoever. The secrets of the confessional are inviolate."

"Good," the man said. "Then I'd better get it over with. I killed a man this morning."

Father da Costa was stunned. "Killed a man?" he whispered. "Murdered, you mean?"

"Exactly."

With a sudden, terrible premonition, da Costa reached forward, trying to peer through the grille. On the other side, a match flared in the darkness and for the second time that day, he looked into the face of Martin Fallon.

The church was still when Anna da Costa came out of the sacristy and crossed to the choir stalls. The Braille transcripts were where she had left them. She found what she was looking for with no difficulty. She put the rest back on the stand and sat there for a few moments, remembering the stranger with the soft Irish voice.

He'd been right about the trumpet stop. She put out a hand and touched it gently. One thing putting everything else out of joint. How strange. She reached for her walking stick and stood up and somewhere below her in the body of the church, a door banged and her uncle's voice was raised in anger. She froze, standing perfectly still, concealed by the green curtains which hung beside the organ.

Father da Costa erupted from the confessional box, flinging the door wide. She had never heard such anger in his voice before.

"Come out - come out, damn you, and look me in the face if you dare "I"

Anna heard the other door in the confessional box click open, there was the softest of footfalls and then a quiet voice said, "Here we are again then, Father."

Fallon stood beside the box, hands in the pockets of the navy blue trench coat. Father da Costa moved closer, his voice a hoarse whisper.

"Are you a Catholic?"

"As ever was, Father." There was a light mocking note in Fallon's voice.

"Then you must know that I cannot possibly grant you absolution in this matter. You murdered a man in cold blood this morning. I saw you do it. We both know that." He drew himself up. "What do you want with me?"

"I've already got it, Father. As you said, the secrets of the confessional are inviolate. That makes what I told you privileged information."