A shape materialized from, it seemed, the ditch.
“Good evening,” Fludd said. “Mr. McEvoy, isn’t it?”
She imagined, though she could not see, that the parishioner gave him a look: as if to say, yes, young fellow, you will learn who I am. But when McEvoy approached, and took out a pocket torch, and shone it, his face wore its normal expression, amiable but knowing.
“Taking my constitutional,” he explained.
“In the dark?”
“It is my habit,” said McEvoy. “I seem, Father, better equipped than you and Sister Philomena, although by venturing the observation I mean no breath of criticism. Would you care to borrow my pocket torch?”
“Father Fludd can see in the dark,” she said.
“Handy,” said McEvoy. His tone was sardonic. His torch beam travelled downwards; it came to rest on her leg, and slithered over it, as if her stocking had fallen down.
“Come, Sister,” Fludd said. “Don’t stick there. Hop over.” He held out his hand; but the tobacconist was there before him, courtly but insistent. “I should never like to see a Sister struggle,” McEvoy said. “You will find me always at your service, a strong arm and a willing heart.”
He seemed to know it was effusive, uncalled-for; backed away under Fludd’s sharp look, and then touched his cap. His exit was as sudden as his entrance: sucked away into the murk.
She shuddered. “Father Angwin says he is the devil.”
Fludd was surprised. “McEvoy? Why, but he’s a harmless man.”
She felt the distance between them increase; a shaft of cold, as he moved from her side.
“Has Father Angwin never spoken to you of it? Of meeting him one afternoon?”
“Yes. He has spoken of something of that kind. But he did not say the man’s name.”
“I don’t know why he thinks it. I saw the devil myself when I was seven. He was nothing like McEvoy.”
“Seven,” Fludd said. “The age of reason. What was he like?”
“A beast. A great rough thing. Breathing outside my bedroom door.”
“You were a brave girl to open it.”
“Oh, I knew I must. I had to see what was there.”
“Did he come another night?”
“He had no need.”
“No. Once is enough.”
“But now,” she said, “if Father Angwin is right, the devil has come much closer.”
“Indeed. He has taken your arm. He has proffered his assistance. Any time, he seemed to say. At your service. Does that alarm you?”
“The way he rose up just now, out of nowhere it seemed to be …”
“I can do that myself,” Fludd said indifferently. “I have my exits and my entrances. It is cheap. A conjuror’s trick.”
“How do I know that it is not you who is the devil?” She came to a halt; they could see the convent below them, and a light burning in an upstairs room. Her voice came out stubborn, hostile. “A man who pretends to be a priest? Hears confession? Gets people’s confidence …” And she thought, what if the white flame I felt in my chest was the first flame of that gnawing Hellfire, the fire that renews as it consumes, so that torture is always fresh? What if the unaccountable heat that wrapped me in the shed were from the first blast of Satan’s bellows?
“You must choose,” Fludd said, his tone practical. “I cannot tell you what to think. If you think I am bad for you I will not try to talk you out of it.”
“Bad for me?” She was aghast at his choice of word. Man or devil, she thought, devil or devil’s pawn, you’ll only damn my immortal soul. That’s all you’ll do.
“But if I were a devil,” Fludd said, “I would have a relish for you. It is strange that though you would think the devil a man of fiery tastes, there is nothing he likes better at his banquet than the milk-toast soul of a tender little nun. If I were the devil, you would not be clever enough to find me out. Not until I had dined on you and dined well.”
A long-drawn wail came from Sister Philomena, a wail of shock and distress; then she began to cry. She put her fist in her mouth, and cried around it, her mouth working around the knuckle, bleats escaping from around the bone. In the convent parlour Mother Perpetua waited for her, sitting upright by the dead fire, smiling in the dark.
SEVEN
Purpit thumped her. “Going about like a hoyden,” she said. “Traipsing through the fields. Out in the night like a tinker.”
She knew it was the fields, and not the roads, because of the burrs and dead leaves that clung to the girl’s habit, and because of the mud on her shoes. She did not know the girl had been with Father Fludd. If she did, I would get worse, Philly thought. She’s jealous of me, wants him to pay her some attention. No nun, she. Ought to be ashamed. Goes after men. Priests. Tried it with Angwin. Chased her out of the presbytery. Sister Anthony said so. Never forgiven him.
So she kept her own counsel, while Purpit ranted and thumped. This is a sick province, she thought, they’re
