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bedclothes, and a small metal crucifix nailed to the wall above. The speckled linoleum was worn into holes, but there was a cheap newish brown rug. A washstand with a brightly tiled back and a grey marble top was strewn with Cato’s shaving tackle. On the floor was his suitcase, packed, unpacked, packed, now once more disgorging its contents conspicuous among which was a bottle of whisky. The dusty wainscot was decorated here and there by eccentric forms of flattened soup tins which a previous tenant had nailed over the mouse holes. There were two upright chairs and a number of overflowing ash trays. The room smelt of damp and tobacco and the lavatory next door. Cato switched on a one-bar electric fire which stood in the corner, the element emitted a shower of sparks, then settled to a dull glow. He sat down on the divan and lit a cigarette. He was trying to give up smoking again, though really now it scarcely mattered.
    After the first few heavenly puffs the cigarette began to lose its charm. He leaned forward covering his face with one hand and letting the hand holding the cigarette drop down until his knuckles touched the floor. He sat there waiting, trembling a little with a kind of excitement which was a kind of misery; and the despair which had surrounded him like a cloud all day, and from which he had sometimes literally run, hoping to leave it behind like a swarm of flies, settled quietly upon him. The surface of his body crawled and twitched all over, his mouth twitched, his teeth clicked noiselessly together, his breathing was like that of a deep sleeper, his eyes, wide with apprehension, moved slightly as if surveying the room, though he saw nothing. He waited.
    Cato was a tall man, broad shouldered and now a little stout, with a big head, thick pouting lips and plump cheeks, large brown eyes, and thick straight brown hair which, since he had become a priest, he hacked jaggedly short. Because of his plump cheeks and rather rubbery nose he had been called Fat Face Forbes at school, or sometimes just Funny Face Forbes or ‘old pudgie’. It was now three years since he had been ordained. Much of that time had been given over to theology. The elite order to which Cato belonged worshipped God also with the intellect. The ‘Mission’, now failed and defunct, had been his first attempt at full-time pastoral work.
    There was a faint click downstairs, the sound of a key cautiously inserted in a lock. Cato sprang up. A door opened and closed. Cato moved across the room. A boy of about seventeen was coming quietly up the stairs.
    â€˜Father—’
    â€˜Hello.’
    â€˜You were expecting me?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    Cato went back to sit upon the bed his legs giving way. The boy pulled up a chair and sat near, smiling compulsively. This was Joseph Beckett, known to his friends and enemies as Beautiful Joe. He was very thin and at first sight looked odd rather than beautiful. He wore hexagonal rimless glasses which slightly enlarged his light hazel eyes. His blond hair was very straight and fine, quite long, cut in a neat bob with a side parting and always recently and carefully combed. He had a short straight nose and a long thin mouth with sensitive humorous lips. His cheeks were smooth and rosy, and with his bright attentive slightly quizzing air he looked like a young American scholar or perhaps a very clever school-girl.
    â€˜You’re all wet,’ said Cato.
    The boy had no coat and his jeans and shirt clung in wrinkles to his body. His hair, darkened now by rain, clung to his head like a cap.
    â€˜Been wet all day. Soon dry. Got a towel?’
    â€˜Here.’
    â€˜Got a drink?’
    â€˜Have you taken anything?’ (This meant drugs.)
    â€˜No, course not, that’s all over with.’
    Cato sat watching as the boy first carefully dried his glasses and set them on his knee, then dried his face and neck and rubbed his hair vigorously, resumed his glasses and, with a