and restless, move across his back and chest.
What happened next was unpredicted and unrehearsed. It was rather as if he had been staring at one of those trick pictures, the sort psychologists use to test perception, in which a duck becomes a rabbit or a beautiful woman reveals herself as an old crone.
An almost imperceptible shift occurred between one breath and the next. He looked round to see that the fire had burnt low and the room was now bathed in candlelight. He could not even be sure it was the same room. There were heavy hangings on one wall where there had been none before. Outside, the sound of traffic had vanished. It was chillier than it had been a moment earlier.
He was still naked, still tumescent, still crouched above the form of a naked woman on the floor. But the woman was not Ruth. Her hair was jet black, tousled, in heavy braided folds across her face. She was small-breasted, with narrower hips and more abundant pubic hair. Even as he looked, she brushed back the hair from her face.
‘In ainm De, a Phddraig, lean ort! For God’s sake, Patrick, don’t stop now,’ she said.
He did not know how he knew, but the language was Irish, Leinster Irish of the eighteenth century. But that was impossible - she could not be speaking Irish. He knew her, knew her as well as he knew himself: it was Francesca. Only that was impossible
too: Francesca was dead, she had been dead twenty years.
He stumbled back, slipping, then raised himself on one hand.
‘Cad ta ort, a Phddraig? Cad ta ort, a stor? Patrick, what’s wrong? What is it, darling?
Standing, he felt his head spin. The candles moved and the room lurched. He was falling, he could feel himself spinning through space, then the floor crashing against him and the breath pumped out of his body.
When he came round, Ruth was standing over him, a wet sponge in her hand, a look of deep concern on her face.
‘Patrick, what’s wrong? What is it, darling? How do you feel?’
He put his hand to his head. Out of nowhere he had a pounding headache. His stomach felt queer. It reminded him of migraines he had experienced in his teens.
‘I’m ... all right,’ he murmured. ‘Just ... blacked out. My head feels terrible: I think it’s a migraine.’
She raised him to a sitting position against the sofa.
‘Shall I get a doctor? Has this happened before?’
‘It’s all right. I’ll be okay. This used to happen when I was younger. I’ll be better after a sleep.’
But nothing like this had happened before: a hallucination, blacking out. His body was covered with sweat and he had started to shiver.
‘Stay there,’ Ruth said. ‘I’ll fetch a blanket.’
He shifted himself to a more comfortable position. As he did so, he noticed something on his stomach, a long, fine line. He took it between finger and thumb and lifted it. It was a hair, a black hair about two feet in length.
THIRTEEN
Archbishop Pasquale Balzarin stood at the window of his second-floor study, watching the shadows lengthen on the lawn. Sunlight lay plaited through blades of untrampled grass. A bird soared overhead, lost in circles of its own making. On the lawn, a peacock passed, precise and shadowless, its feathers warm against the twilight. It walked through its own world, untouched by the worries of the man who watched it, a thing of beauty merely.
Why now?’ he thought. ‘Why now?’ Arthritic fingers pressed nervously on the white beads of his rosary, investing the question with an element of prayer. Outside, the peacock screamed, turning its fan against the encroaching darkness.
Balzarin had been Papal Nuncio to the Republic of Ireland for three years now. During his last visit to Rome, he had heard whispers. Fazzini was certain to step down from his Curial office on his seventy-fifth birthday. If Balzarin sat tight a few months more, he would step into Fazzini’s shoes and, of course, his cardinal’s hat. He wanted that more than he had ever wanted anything.
Correction.
What happened next was unpredicted and unrehearsed. It was rather as if he had been staring at one of those trick pictures, the sort psychologists use to test perception, in which a duck becomes a rabbit or a beautiful woman reveals herself as an old crone.
An almost imperceptible shift occurred between one breath and the next. He looked round to see that the fire had burnt low and the room was now bathed in candlelight. He could not even be sure it was the same room. There were heavy hangings on one wall where there had been none before. Outside, the sound of traffic had vanished. It was chillier than it had been a moment earlier.
He was still naked, still tumescent, still crouched above the form of a naked woman on the floor. But the woman was not Ruth. Her hair was jet black, tousled, in heavy braided folds across her face. She was small-breasted, with narrower hips and more abundant pubic hair. Even as he looked, she brushed back the hair from her face.
‘In ainm De, a Phddraig, lean ort! For God’s sake, Patrick, don’t stop now,’ she said.
He did not know how he knew, but the language was Irish, Leinster Irish of the eighteenth century. But that was impossible - she could not be speaking Irish. He knew her, knew her as well as he knew himself: it was Francesca. Only that was impossible
too: Francesca was dead, she had been dead twenty years.
He stumbled back, slipping, then raised himself on one hand.
‘Cad ta ort, a Phddraig? Cad ta ort, a stor? Patrick, what’s wrong? What is it, darling?
Standing, he felt his head spin. The candles moved and the room lurched. He was falling, he could feel himself spinning through space, then the floor crashing against him and the breath pumped out of his body.
When he came round, Ruth was standing over him, a wet sponge in her hand, a look of deep concern on her face.
‘Patrick, what’s wrong? What is it, darling? How do you feel?’
He put his hand to his head. Out of nowhere he had a pounding headache. His stomach felt queer. It reminded him of migraines he had experienced in his teens.
‘I’m ... all right,’ he murmured. ‘Just ... blacked out. My head feels terrible: I think it’s a migraine.’
She raised him to a sitting position against the sofa.
‘Shall I get a doctor? Has this happened before?’
‘It’s all right. I’ll be okay. This used to happen when I was younger. I’ll be better after a sleep.’
But nothing like this had happened before: a hallucination, blacking out. His body was covered with sweat and he had started to shiver.
‘Stay there,’ Ruth said. ‘I’ll fetch a blanket.’
He shifted himself to a more comfortable position. As he did so, he noticed something on his stomach, a long, fine line. He took it between finger and thumb and lifted it. It was a hair, a black hair about two feet in length.
THIRTEEN
Archbishop Pasquale Balzarin stood at the window of his second-floor study, watching the shadows lengthen on the lawn. Sunlight lay plaited through blades of untrampled grass. A bird soared overhead, lost in circles of its own making. On the lawn, a peacock passed, precise and shadowless, its feathers warm against the twilight. It walked through its own world, untouched by the worries of the man who watched it, a thing of beauty merely.
Why now?’ he thought. ‘Why now?’ Arthritic fingers pressed nervously on the white beads of his rosary, investing the question with an element of prayer. Outside, the peacock screamed, turning its fan against the encroaching darkness.
Balzarin had been Papal Nuncio to the Republic of Ireland for three years now. During his last visit to Rome, he had heard whispers. Fazzini was certain to step down from his Curial office on his seventy-fifth birthday. If Balzarin sat tight a few months more, he would step into Fazzini’s shoes and, of course, his cardinal’s hat. He wanted that more than he had ever wanted anything.
Correction.
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