Broken Faith by James Green

sinners. Although as I see things today it seems that for most people –’
    But the example hadn’t helped and Jimmy decided he wanted to move on.
    â€˜Did you get the impression he was or ever had been a Catholic?’
    â€˜Oh no, he was definitely not a Catholic nor ever had been. Catholics aren’t interested in how sin works, or about the tension between its attractive and destructive powers. In fact most Catholics don’t think about sin or religion at all. They go to Mass on Sunday, if that, and are the same as everyone else for the rest of the week. I sometimes think that –’
    â€˜But Jarvis came to Mass at your church when he first came to Santander.’
    Fr Perez, reluctantly it seemed to Jimmy, finally accepted that Jarvis, rather than the state of world, or the Catholic Church, or football, was the subject of this visit.
    â€˜Yes, I remember him when he first came to Santander. He made a point of making himself known to the few English people who came to Mass and when he found I spoke English he seemed to want to strike up a friendship.’
    Fr Perez paused.
    â€˜Yes, Father, you’ve remembered something?’
    â€˜No, not remembered. It was something I found odd. His attempt at friendship was forced, it was an act. At the time I wondered what it was about, what it was he wanted from me, but he persisted and as it enabled me to talk English I co-operated. I was a parish priest and busy so we didn’t meet often or for long and then he stopped.’
    â€˜Stopped?’
    â€˜Yes. He stopped coming to see me.’
    â€˜Was this before or after he had moved here?’
    â€˜Before. He’d turn up at Mass, we’d arrange to meet and talk and then he’d go back to England. It happened four or five times, then it stopped.’
    â€˜Did you ask anyone about him, any of the English who came to your church?’
    â€˜No, why should I? He came, he went, people do. It was none of my business.’
    â€˜But he came back. He came to see you here.’
    â€˜Yes, when I retired. He came to see me and then began to visit. As I say, I have very few visitors so I let him come and we talked.’
    â€˜His friendship had become real, not an act any more?’
    â€˜No, I don’t think so. My part was more that of some sort of informal confessor. No, not confessor, guide perhaps.’
    â€˜Guide?’
    â€˜Through the world of sin and guilt, forgiveness and redemption. I told you, he seemed fascinated by the consequences of evil and its attraction. I didn’t mind. We spoke English and I have plenty of time so I let him talk about anything that suited him. He was never a parishioner, nor even a Catholic, so the state of his soul was his own business. I never enquired as to his private life which was, I presume, the source of his interest. That again was his own affair.’
    â€˜Didn’t it strike you as odd that someone who wasn’t a Catholic should have come to Mass at your church?’
    â€˜No, not particularly, not at the time. When he had come to Mass he received communion so I assumed he was a Catholic. It was only later, when he came here and we talked, it became clear he was not and never had been a Catholic.’
    â€˜Could it have been an academic interest, something he thought about, studied, a sort of hobby?’
    â€˜Oh no, it was firmly rooted in reality. I have talked to too many troubled people not to recognise the difference between academic interest and lived experience. But whatever it was that troubled him we merely talked, he never asked me for my advice or help. If he had I would have told him that he was playing a dangerous game. A very dangerous game.’
    â€˜Sorry, I don’t understand, what sort of game?’
    â€˜There are two kinds of evil, Señor Costello, rational evil and spiritual evil. Rational evil seeks personal gain or advantage without regard for the good or ill of