`That's all right. It's a defence.’

`You're right, it is.’

Rebus knew this. It was the reason behind his many little jokes with Dr Curt. It was their way of avoiding the obvious, the undeniable. Even so, since last night Rebus had held in his mind the picture of that sad strung up figure, a young man they hadn't even identified yet. The picture would stay there forever. Everybody had a photographic memory for horror. He'd climbed back out of Mary King's Close to find the High Street aglow with a firework display, the streets thronged with people staring up openmouthed at the blues and greens in the night sky. The fireworks were coming from the Castle; the night's Tattoo display was ending. He hadn't felt much like talking to Mairie Henderson. In fact, he had snubbed her.

`This isn't very nice,' she'd said, standing her ground.

`This is very nice,' Father Leary said now, relaxing back further into his seat.

The whisky Rebus had drunk hadn't rubbed out the picture. If anything, it had smeared the corners and edges, which only served to highlight the central fact. More whisky would have made this image sharper still.

`We're not here for very long, are we?’ he said now.

Father Leary frowned. 'You mean here on earth?’

`That's what I mean. We're not around long enough to make any difference.’

`Tell that to the man with a bomb in his pocket. Every one of us makes a difference just by being here.’

'I'm not talking about the man with the bomb, I'm talking about stopping him.’

`You're talking about being a policeman.’

'Ach, maybe I'm not talking about anything.’

Father Leary allowed a short-lived smile, his eyes never leaving Rebus's. 'A bit morbid for a Sunday, John?’

'Isn't that what Sundays are for?’

`Maybe for you sons of Calvin. You tell yourselves you're doomed, then spend all week trying to make a joke of it. Others of us give thanks for this day and its meaning.’