Father Cleary was early sixties – I’m not referring to his age. He had that aura of optimism and stupidity. You just knew he hummed the Beatles. Couple that with the air of the professional beggar and you’d a near-lethal cocktail. He approached me with gusto and I thought, ‘Watch yer wallet.’

His greeting, ‘Ah, Mr Collins I do declare.’

‘It’s Cooper.’

‘Really?’

He sounded as if he’d never quite reconciled himself to liars, then, ‘Are you sure. Ho ho, listen to me, course you’re sure. I wanted to thank you for the generosity of your donation from the firm.’

‘It’s nothing.’

‘Too modest Mr C. You’re not of our persuasion, I take it, which makes it even more magnificent.’

‘That’s one word for it.’

‘You’re not an atheist I trust.’

‘Presbyterian.’

‘Same thing.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Just joking, some ecclesiastical humour.’

‘Is that what it is. My father was a God-fearing man.’

‘And passed over has he – the poor creature.’

‘Took off actually.’

He gave a look round, time up for me but I figured I’d hold him a bit as he gave his exit line.

‘Laura had a grand send off.’

‘I thought you guys, the R.C.’s, frowned on suicide.’

He prepared his smile, more of the e-humour: ‘Naturally we don’t encourage it but an air of leniency exists nowadays. For example, we don’t insist on ceremony or titles so much. You needn’t call me Father, you can call me Pat.’

‘Why on earth would I wanna do that?’

And he hadn’t a reply. His smile dissolved, so I gave him a playful push, a forceful one, added, ‘Hey, lighten up Padre, that’s a little repo humour. Isn’t God after all, the ultimate repo man.’

And left him to it.

No doubt he could work it into a sermon. Very little got by him save the invention of dry cleaning. He’d had the shiniest black pants I’d ever seen, from pure wear. Made of Terylene, remember that. The sheen accessorised the spit in his soul.