He settled the travelling rug round his knees and produced his rosary beads. ‘He’ll make a great priest, mark my words. One that will lead the Irish people out of the dark ages and back to the true church. I feel it in my bones. A year or two under the unique services of the good men in Derry, in their bracing northern climate, will make a man of him.’
‘You might be right.’ She sounded doubtful.
‘Of course I’m right,’ he snapped, closing the conversation. ‘I’ve never been wrong yet.’
The outriders hung on grimly as the charabanc swung round in the road, righted itself and the convoy moved off through the lanes. Frank was wedged between Schnozzle and Concepta, unable to move a muscle. A lethargy beyond tiredness, beyond hunger, was stealing over him. The conversation of the Archbishop and his bodyguard seemed to be coming to him from across an echoing chasm. Their words reverberated in his head, fighting for his attention with other noises that he was powerless to control. He could feel the enormity of what had happened welling up inside his brain. He fought the images away, forcing himself to stare at the scenery, to concentrate on the words of the rosary he was chanting automatically.
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