Confessional. Jack Higgins

       PROLOGUE 1959

      When the Land Rover turned the corner at the end of the street, Kelly was passing the church of the Holy Name. He moved into the porch quickly, opened the heavy door and stepped inside, keeping it partially open so that he could see what was happening.

      The Land Rover had been stripped down to the bare essentials so that the driver and the two policemen who crouched in the rear were completely exposed. They wore the distinctive dark green uniforms of the Royal Ulster Constabulary, Sterling submachine guns held ready for instant action. They disappeared down the narrow street towards the centre of Drumore and he stayed there for a moment, in the safety of the half-darkness, conscious of the familiar odour.

      ‘Incense, candles and the holy water,’ he said softly and his finger reached to dip in the granite bowl beside the door.

      ‘Is there anything I can do for you, my son?’

      The voice was little more than a whisper and, as Kelly turned, a priest moved out of the darkness, an old man, in shabby cassock, his hair very white, gleaming in the candlelight. He carried an umbrella in one hand.

      ‘Just sheltering from the rain is all, Father,’ Kelly told him.

      He stood there, shoulders hunched easily, hands thrust deep in the pockets of the old tan raincoat. He was small, five feet five at the most, not much more than a boy, and yet the white devil’s face on him beneath the brim of the old felt hat, the dark brooding eyes that seemed to stare through and beyond, hinted at something more.

      All this the old priest saw and understood. He smiled gently, ‘You don’t live in Drumore, I think?’

      ‘No, Father, just passing through. I arranged to meet a friend of mine here at a pub called Murphy’s.’

      His voice lacked the distinctive hard accent of the Ulsterman. The priest said, ‘You’re from the Republic?’

      ‘Dublin, Father. Would you know this Murphy’s place? It’s important. My friend’s promised me a lift into Belfast. I’ve the chance of work there.’

      The priest nodded. ‘I’ll show you. It’s on my way.’

      Kelly opened the door, the old man went outside. It was raining heavily now and he put up his umbrella. Kelly fell in beside him and they walked along the pavement. There was the sound of a brass band playing an old hymn, Abide with Me, and voices lifted, melancholy in the rain. The old priest and Kelly paused, looking down on to the town square. There was a granite war memorial, wreaths placed at its foot. A small crowd was ranged around it, the band on one side. A Church of Ireland minister was conducting the service. Four old men held flags proudly in the rain, although the Union Jack was the only one with which Kelly was familiar.

      ‘What is this?’ he demanded.

      ‘Armistice Day to commemorate the dead of two World Wars. That’s the local branch of the British Legion down there. Our Protestant friends like to hang on tight to what they call their heritage.’

      ‘Is that so?’ Kelly said.

      They carried on down the street. On the corner, a small girl stood, no more than seven or eight. She wore an old beret, a couple of sizes too large, as was her coat. There were holes in her socks and her shoes were in poor condition. Her face was pale, skin stretched tightly over prominent cheekbones, yet the brown eyes were alert, intelligent and she managed a smile in spite of the fact that her hands, holding the cardboard tray in front of her, were blue with cold.

      ‘Hello, Father,’ she said. ‘Will you buy a poppy?’

      ‘My poor child, you should

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