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

Not for the first time the banality of what he was saying struck him. How could he explain to any mother on this earth that God needed her eight-year-old daughter so badly that it had been necessary for her to choke to death in the stinking waters of an industrial canal. To drift for ten days before being found.

The coffin descended with a splash and the gravedigger quickly pulled the canvas sheet back in place. Father da Costa said a final prayer, then moved round to the woman who was now crying bitterly.

He put a hand on her shoulder. "Mrs. Dalton - if there's anything I can do."

The father struck his arm away wildly. "You leave her alone I' he cried. "She's suffered enough. You and your bloody prayers. What good's that? I had to identify her, did you know that? A piece of rotting flesh that was my daughter after ten days in the canal. What kind of a God is it that could do that to a child?"

O'Brien moved forward quickly, but Father da Costa put up an arm to hold him back. "Leave it," he said calmly.

A strange, hunted look appeared on Dalton's face as if he suddenly realised the enormity of his offence. He put an arm about his wife's shoulders and he and her brother hurried her away. The two funeral men went after them.

O'Brien helped da Costa on with his coat. Tm sorry about that, Father. A bad business."

"He has a point, poor devil," da Costa said, "After all, what am I supposed to say to someone in his position?"

The gravedigger looked shocked, but O'Brien simply nodded slowly. It's a funny old life sometimes." He opened his umbrella. Til walk you back to the chapel, Father."

Da Costa shook his head. Til take the long way round if you don't mind. I could do with the exercise. I'll borrow the umbrella if I may."

"Certainly, Father."

O'Brien gave it to him and da Costa walked away through the wilderness of marble monuments and tombstones.

The gravedigger said, "That was a hell of an admission for a priest to make."

O'Brien lit a cigarette. "Ah, but then da Costa is no ordinary priest. Joe Devlin, the sacristan at St. Anne's, told me all about him. He was some sort of commando or other during the war. Fought with Tito and the Yugoslav partisans. Afterwards, he went to the English College in Rome. Had a brilliant career there - could have been anything. Instead, he decided to go into mission work after he was ordained."

"Where did they send him?"

"Korea. The Chinese had him for nearly five years. After-wards they gave him some administrative job in Rome to recuperate, but he didn't like that Got them to send him to Mozambique. I think it was his grandfather who was Portu-guese. Anyway, he speaks the language."

"What happened there?"

"Oh, he was deported. The Portuguese authorities accused him of having too much sympathy with rebels."

"So what's he doing here?"

"Parish priest at Holy Name."

"That pile of rubble?" the gravedigger said incredulously. "Why, it's only standing up because of the scaffolding. If he gets a dozen for Mass on a Sunday he'll be lucky."

"Exactly," O'Brien said.

"Oh, I get it." The gravedigger nodded sagely. It's their way of slapping his wrist."

"He's a good man," O'Brien said. "Too good to be wasted."

He was suddenly tired of the conversation and, for some strange reason, unutterably depressed. "Better get that grave filled in!"