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on the table and leaned towards me. ‘If it had been you on the gravel instead of Harold, would you have come to the same decision?’
    I didn’t have to think too hard about that one. ‘Sure. It’s a straight numbers game, isn’t it? One down, the rest stay standing.’
    Father Mart’s right forefinger came off the table and jerked towards me, like he was about to accuse the woman next door of being a witch. ‘Exactly!’
    I’d thought these guys were supposed to be filled with the Holy Spirit.
    ‘So, if it had been you instead of Harold, would you have wanted him to feel this bad?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Then why are you?’
    I racked my brain for an answer.
    ‘In your own time.’ He waved at my brew. ‘Please, drink your tea.’
    Father Mart never stood in judgement, even when a stewards’ enquiry didn’t go his way. He never pretended to have the answer to the mysteries of the universe. And he hadn’t tried to become the dad I’d never had, or any of that shit. He wasn’t in the business of miracle cures either. He concentrated instead on reminding dickheads like me what was what, and hoped they’d get the message.

PART TWO
    1

East Grinstead, West Sussex
    Monday, 23 January 2012

23.15 hrs
    I flew in on the late-evening easyJet from Zürich and took a cab from the Gatwick South Terminal rank to the Church of the Most Holy Redeemer.
    The Catholic Church didn’t advertise its garaging facilities, but Father Mart had mentioned a mate with an empty lock-up when I’d needed to get to the French Alps at warp speed in March last year and was trying to find a place to drop my dark blue Porsche 911.
    I had only seen Father Gerard for about ten minutes at that point, before I’d had to leg it, but knew immediately that he was my kind of priest. I wasn’t surprised. Father Mart chose his racing mates wisely.
    I expected the wagon to be up on bricks after all this time, but it was sitting outside the rectory with a warm engine and a very smiley Father Gerard in the driving seat. He bounced out to say hello, and took me on a guided tour of the bodywork, in case I hadn’t spotted the showroom shine. ‘I took her for a little spin, after you called to let me know you were on your way …’
    Judging by the sparkle in his eye, that little white lie was going to cost Father Gerard a few Hail Marys. I was prepared to bet good money that his flock had sought spiritual comfort on a regular basis at Lingfield and Plumpton, and that he’d have needed the Porsche to help him spread God’s word as far afield as Ascot and Cheltenham too.
    As I swapped places with him, he told me that Father Mart sent his blessings, and needed me to drop by his cottage.
    I asked when. He gave me a slightly pained expression. ‘Tomorrow morning, Nick. If you could manage it …’

2

Abergavenny, Monmouthshire
    Tuesday, 24 January

11.17 hrs
    Father Mart wasn’t on my speed dial. He didn’t need to be. His job was to be around whenever he was needed to do God stuff. But I had dropped by once every few years to say hello. It didn’t seem to matter whether the gap between visits was months or years, the welcome was always the same.
    Sure enough, he was standing on his doorstep to greet me, as if I’d only nipped down to the corner shop to replenish his stock of Yorkshire Tea five minutes ago. But when I’d parked alongside his mud-streaked Land Rover and walked up the path I could see he was far from happy. His handshake was as warm as ever, but his gaze was troubled and the skin was taut across his temples.
    We went through the usual rituals, and I took the piss about his beard having turned white enough for him to take a part-time job as a Tesco’s Santa if business got slow. Then, as soon as he’d fixed us both a brew and motioned me towards my usual chair at the table opposite his Rayburn, he started to let me know what was on his mind.
    ‘It’s Trevor. He needs your help.’
    It was clear from his tone and uncharacteristically