Night Music by John Connolly Page B

chair beside Angela’s desk, while Manus remained standing.
    â€œI knew you were coming,” said Angela. They were the first words she had spoken since the priests entered her room.
    â€œWell, it was no secret,” said Manus.
    â€œNo, I knew you were coming tonight . I sensed it.”
    Manus glanced at Faraldo, who merely nodded and smiled as though this, too, he had anticipated. He was counting the beads on his rosary, feeding them through his thumb and index finger like a man shelling peas.
    â€œYour parents have told us a lot about you,” said Manus. “It sounds like you’re a very special young woman. You wouldn’t be fooling people now, would you, or playing tricks?”
    â€œI ate Kathleen Kelly’s cancer,” said Angela. “It tasted like old liver. I took the ulcers from Tommy Spance’s stomach and turned them into pips that I spat into the toilet. They were no tricks.”
    â€œThen children like you are rare,” said Manus. “Very rare.”
    Angela regarded him with eyes that were more knowing than any teenager’s eyes should be.
    â€œIt won’t make any difference, you know,” she said.
    â€œWhat won’t?”
    â€œWhat you’re going to do. You think you can stop it, but you can’t.”
    â€œYou’re just a child, Angela. You have no idea what we can and cannot do. Aren’t you afraid?”
    â€œNo,” said Angela, as Faraldo rose from his chair, the beads shining like dark eyes in the lamplight. “I’m not afraid.”
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    Manus and Faraldo came down the stairs and returned to the kitchen. Manus looked grimmer than before, and Faraldo’s smile had faded. They asked for more tea, and for the next half hour they detailed to the Laceys the likely course of their investigation. This would probably be the first visit of many. There would be more doctors who would examine those who claimed to have been cured by Angela. Panels of clerics and theologians would be assembled. It might even be the case that Angela would be required to travel to Rome, he said, and when Mrs. Lacey replied that they couldn’t afford to go to Rome, something of Manus’s old spirit returned, and he grinned and told her the Vatican would pay for it all, and they would be well looked after.
    â€œDo you think we might meet the pope?” she asked.
    â€œWe’ll arrange for you to be part of a general audience,” Manus replied, “and we can take it from there.”
    Mrs. Lacey glowed.
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    It was shortly after eleven when the priests finally left. The rain had eased off a little, and a car was waiting for them at the end of the lane: a black Mercedes, with a man in a suit sitting behind the wheel. Lacey offered them the use of a couple of umbrellas to keep them dry until they got to the car, but Manus politely declined.
    â€œIt’s only a few yards,” he said. “We won’t melt. We’ll see you in the morning, and thank you again for your hospitality.”
    The Laceys watched them get into the car and drive away. Mrs. Lacey went to check on her daughter, but Angela was already asleep, so she said a quiet prayer for her and followed her husband to their bed.
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    Dawn came, bringing with it clear blue skies, although the morning was cold, and a dampness hung in the air. Lacey woke first, and washed and shaved. He dressed in his new shirt, knotted a tie, and slipped into a cardigan to keep out the chill. He put the kettle on to boil as he heard his wife moving around upstairs. They had slept later than normal, so it was already after eight when he began laying the table for breakfast. He’d bought some fresh bacon, and thought that he might fry some eggs with it. They usually only had a fry on Saturdays, but this was likely to be a long, busy old day, and he thought