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until she had tricked him out of his key to the church and so allowed the Committee to lock and bar the place against him; and there, hanging back, his black housekeeper, Joyce, who had joined them quite suddenly one night. Simply abandoned the dinner she was cooking for him and left his steak smoking on the stove and went over to his enemies. Maureen and Duggie Kreta carried a large banner: PINK PRIEST MUST GO! They waved the poles and flapped the banner at him when they saw him at the window.
    PINK PRIEST MUST GO! Priest? The use of the singular case annoyed him. Not that it was intentional, but merely echoed the Kretas’ way of speaking. Maureen, round and determined with thick, rather greasy dark hair, and Duggie, some years younger, sharp face, thin mouth and full, blond hair. They rode everywhere on an ancient Puch autocycle wearing white peaked crash helmets and dark blue macs. They spoke to him as if he were a not very intelligent puppy. Thus Maureen: ‘Father want to watch out for some of the guys in this parish who don’t give a button on Sunday, look at the plate like it was something the dog brought in. In fact some of ’em only look in it at all like they’re wondering what they can pull out. Father got to watch ’em like a hawk.’ And Duggie, parish treasurer’s briefings about lack of funds: ‘Not two cents torub together most times. You have to raise some funds. The father before Father was a hot shot at raising funds. Charity walks. Charity runs. That was Rischa. Running priest.’
    PINK PRIEST MUST GO!
    Blanchaille wished to pull down the window and shout at them: ‘Yes, pink priest going! White priest come, pink priest go. Green priest yes, black priest no!’ It was like living in a bloody nursery. Well, he was going to oblige. With pleasure.
    He was getting out just as fast as he could.
    The need to escape had become for Blanchaille an obsession: if he asked himself what it was he wanted, he answered – rest, peace. Now at the time of the Total Onslaught this feeling was naturally strong, as it always is at the time of killing and much blood, among people of all colour and political persuasions, sad to say. The dead were to some extent envied. They were out of it at least. Those who had disappeared were considered to be fortunate also. Nobody knew where they had disappeared to and no one cared. It was whispered by some that those who had vanished were perhaps also dead but this was widely discounted – they were said to have ‘gone pilgrim’, meaning they were believed to be travelling overseas, thus distinguishing them from the truly dead soldiers who were said to have ‘joined the big battalion’. In war time, said Father Lynch, morphine for the wounded, euphemisms for the survivors. So people bravely pointed out that in war time casualties must be expected and it was best not to question too deeply. It was devoutly to be hoped that the dead and those who had disappeared had gone to some happier place where they would at least be at peace. Now, when asked where this place was, some would have replied vaguely that it was somewhere overseas, others would have given a religious answer and pointed to the sky; a few very brave souls would have whispered quietly that perhaps they’d gone to ‘that shining city on the hill’ or to ‘that colony of the blessed’; or to that ‘rest-home for disconsolate souls’, which legend held President Paul Kruger established for his homeless countrymen somewhere in Switzerland early this century. Despite threats of imprisonment issued regularly by the Regime, the legend of Kruger’s heritage persisted, a holy refuge, a haven, funded with the golden millions he had taken with him when he fled into exile. The Regime scoffed at these primitive, childish beliefs and punished their public expression with prison terms. They were joined by the academic historians who regularly