itty slept in Sally’s house that night.

When they returned from Straffan to Kitty’s flat, that day’s newspaper article was rewarded with horse manure trailing up each step to her door on which it had been used to write the words ‘Dirty Sell-Out Whore’. Even after so much abuse, Kitty still managed to feel hurt. She contemplated taking a photograph of the door and sending it to Richie along with a note of thanks, but decided against it as it would probably be tomorrow’s news. The one thing she could be thankful for was that the attacks were never inside her home and never on her physically.

Kitty grabbed a change of clothes, in fact enough to last her a week, and then she turned on her heel to escape to Sally’s car.

Zhi, the landlord, blocked her path.

‘I’m sorry, Zhi, I’m in a massive rush. Can you please just—’ She stepped to the right to pass him but he blocked her, so she stepped to the left and he blocked her again. She gave up and sighed. ‘I’ll arrange for this to be cleaned as soon as I can.’

‘It is not good enough. Last week paint, toilet paper and shit, last night firework, today more shit. It is not good for my business.’

‘I know, I know. I really don’t think it will happen for much longer. They’ll eventually get tired and stop it.’

He wasn’t having any of it. ‘The end of month I get new tenant. You out. You find other place to—’

‘No no no no no,’ Kitty interrupted, hands together and desperately pleading. ‘Please, please don’t say that. This is just a blip. I have been a good tenant, haven’t I?’

He raised his eyebrows.

‘I won’t tell anyone about the PERC.’

His face darkened. ‘You threaten me?’

‘No! I said I won’t tell anyone about the PERC. I won’t.’

‘Then why you it bring up? End of month you out,’ he said, and stormed back down the stairs.

While Kitty was still on the stairs contemplating how much worse her life could get and where on earth she was going to find a place to live on a much lower income, Zhi reappeared with an item of clothing on a hanger, wrapped in plastic.

‘And your friend,’ he added, coming back up the stairs. ‘He no pay for his suit jacket. He supposed to pay this morning. You pay. Ten euro.’

‘No, no, he’s not my friend. I’m not paying for that.’

‘He your friend. I see you all kissy kissy. You pay. Ten euro. You pay.’

‘No way. It’s not mine. No way.’

He started to back away.

‘Okay, let’s make a deal. I’ll pay for his jacket if you let me stay in the flat.’

He thought about it. ‘You pay for jacket and I think about it.’

Kitty tried to fight her smile. ‘Perfect.’ She rooted in her bag for the money and handed it over. He gave her the jacket. ‘So I can stay?’

‘No,’ he barked. ‘I say I think about it and I think about it and answer is no.’ On that note he stormed back down the stairs leaving Kitty open-mouthed.

After leaving Sally’s responsible Rathgar home, with responsible furniture, her responsible husband with a responsible car and job, who’d talked to her over a responsible breakfast about his responsible golf trip away the previous weekend, Kitty left the responsible child-minder with Sally’s eighteen-month-old and walked with Sally into the city. At 7.30 a.m. it was already warm, with a light breeze in the air. Though there was no need for a coat, Sally was wearing a thick sweater, had a raincoat hooked over her arm and was holding the largest umbrella Kitty had ever seen.

‘Are you planning on providing housing for the homeless?’ Kitty asked, eyeing up the umbrella.

‘It’s Douglas’s golf umbrella.’

‘I see that. Do you also hire it out for marquee events?’

Sally ignored her.

‘It’s warm today.’ Kitty took off her cardigan.

Sally looked up at the clear blue sky. ‘Supposed to have torrential rain today.’

‘Not likely, though, is it?’

Sally smiled a knowing secret smile as if she alone held the country’s weather secrets in her head. ‘So what are you doing today?’

‘I’m having breakfast with an ex-convict, brunch with a personal shopper, an afternoon with a hairdresser to the sick, an evening at a nursing home and then a date tonight with manure and a bucket of bleach.’

‘Well, you can’t say your life isn’t boring.’

‘No, it’s definitely not that. And somewhere along the way I need to find a new place to live.’

‘You know you’re very welcome to stay with us for as long as you like,’ Sally offered.

‘I know that, and thank you, but I can’t. I need to sort myself out.’ Kitty tried to hide her worry. She wasn’t going to be able to afford anywhere by herself, she would have to revert to sharing accommodation, and just when she thought she was moving forward in life with a larger salary and a shared rent, she found herself with little money to survive on alone. She wasn’t sure if her job at Etcetera was in jeopardy, but assumed that it was despite the fact that Pete had been surprisingly kind and supportive the past two days, if not a little cosier than usual. She knew that the magazine was under pressure from advertisers not to print her stories. If she didn’t publish stories, she didn’t get paid, it was as simple as that, and she didn’t think there were many other publications queuing up for her freelance services.

Sally’s cheeks were flushed, she puffed a little and then rolled up the sleeves of her sweater. Kitty tried not to smile. Before they parted ways, Sally reached into her pocket, retrieved a business card and handed it to Kitty.

‘Daniel Meara. That name’s familiar,’ Kitty said, reading it.

‘He works at Ashford Private College.’ The college where Kitty and Sally had met five years previously. ‘He recently got in touch with me asking if I’d be interested teaching some night classes. I told him I couldn’t but that I’d send some people to him who were equally qualified.’

Kitty looked at the card and swallowed. It was as close to a handout as she could get and she didn’t like it, but knew that Sally, with her breezy attitude, was trying to make it sound like anything other than that.

‘I don’t have experience in teaching,’ Kitty said, still examining the card.

‘Doesn’t matter, you have experience in television. That’s all they need: someone who has first-hand experience and can tell them exactly what goes on behind the scenes. Besides, who cares? Let them be the judge of your teaching skills. It’s good money.’

Kitty nodded.

‘Just call him, give it a go, see if it’s for you. It might not be but you know, it’s worth a try.’

Kitty nodded again and finally looked up from the card. ‘You’re sure you don’t want to do this yourself?’

‘I can barely cope as it is,’ Sally smiled. ‘With work all day, and the occasional weekend shift at the station, I’m not seeing Finn enough already. Not to mention Douglas. You go for it.’

‘Thanks.’ Kitty hugged her friend.

‘Don’t worry,’ Sally hugged her tight in return, ‘we all have our blips. Remember when we first met?’

Kitty recalled Sally had just learned that Doug had had an affair, she was piecing her marriage back together, trying to do something new for herself in television and every day was a struggle for her.

‘See, we all go through it, now it’s your turn. It’s only fair.’ Sally kissed her on the forehead and they parted.

Kitty made her way to the Brick Alley Café in Temple Bar, excited to hear the remainder of Archie’s story, and found him sitting at the same counter on the same stool, half-turned so that he could keep an eye on the room and eat at the same time.

‘I suppose you expect me to pay for that again today,’ she said, sitting beside him.

He smiled.

‘Fruit and water?’ the waitress from the previous morning asked.

‘Yes, please,’ Kitty replied, surprised she remembered her order.

‘They’re a dying breed,’ Archie said, chewing the rind of his bacon. ‘Not enough places like this. They know what you want and they leave you alone. A winning combination.’

The door opened and the mousy woman from the previous day entered.

‘It’s like Groundhog Day in here,’ Kitty remarked.

The woman looked around, the hope visible on her face, then sat down, disappointed.

‘The usual?’ the waitress asked her, and the woman merely nodded.

‘Why don’t you just go over to her?’ Kitty asked.

‘What?’ Archie snapped out of his trance and pushed his plate aside, embarrassed to be caught.

‘The woman,’ Kitty smiled. ‘You’re always looking at her.’

‘What are you talking about?’ His cheeks flushed. ‘Always. Sure, you’ve only been here twice.’

‘Whatever,’ she smiled, and let the dust settle before she moved on to more serious topics.

‘I came prepared today,’ she said, taking out her notepad and recorder.

The way he looked at the apparatus made her nervous he would back out, and she could have kicked herself for her error. Many people became uncomfortable around recording equipment. If the camera was the asshole magnet, her recorder often brought the shyness out of people. Nobody liked the sound of their own voice – well, most people didn’t – and the recorder brought out the self-conscious realisation that their words were being listened to, less like a conversation and more of an interview.

‘I don’t have to use this if you don’t want me to.’

He waved his hand dismissively as if he didn’t care.

‘So we were talking about your daughter’s death—’

‘Her murder,’ he interrupted her.

‘Yes. Her murder. And how the guards focused on you during the case and you felt that it distracted them from finding the real killer.’

He nodded.

‘I thought we could talk a bit more about that. How you must have felt, how frustrating it must have been to have vital information that wasn’t being listened to.’

He looked at her with that amused gleam in his eye again. ‘You think that would interest people?’

‘Of course, Archie. It’s everyone’s worst nightmare and you went through it. People would be fascinated to hear about the reality of living through it, and I think it would help people to change their opinion of you too. You know, workwise, instead of seeing an ex-prisoner, they’d understand who you really are. That you were a father protecting his daughter.’

He looked at her and his eyes softened, his jaw, his shoulders, everything. ‘Thank you.’

She waited.

‘But the thing is, that’s not the story.’

‘Pardon?’

‘My daughter’s murder – sure that’s part of it, I think it has a lot to do with what has happened and it was my story then – but it’s not my story now.’

Kitty looked down at all her notes. She’d stayed awake working until three thirty that morning in Sally’s responsible spare bedroom. ‘So, what’s the story?’

He looked down. ‘I never believed in God. Not even at school when my priestly teacher drummed the fear and the guilt into us. I believed that he believed it, all right, but I thought he was mad. Delusional. I thought if somebody had to force you that much to believe in something then it wasn’t worth believing, that it wasn’t natural, you know?’

Kitty nodded.

‘I prayed at night before I went to bed as routinely as brushing my teeth. I believed in God as much as I believed in germs. It was something adults just scared you about, just habit, something I had to do. I didn’t believe in God when I was six years old and we buried my mother, or at seven when I made my first Holy Communion, or at twelve when I made my confirmation. I didn’t believe in Him when I stood in His house and promised Him I’d forever be faithful to my wife-to-be, but,’ he looked at Kitty, his eyes glassy, ‘I thanked Him the day my daughter was born.’

He went silent.

‘Now, why did I do that? How can you thank someone you don’t even believe in? But I did. Without thinking. Like it was natural.’ He pondered that for a while. ‘But then the sleepless nights began and I forgot about Him again. Occasionally, when she fell ill, ran a high temperature or bumped her head as a toddler and we had to fly her in to Temple Street for stitches I remembered Him again. But as quickly as her tears would dry and that beautiful smile of hers would come back to her face and light up my whole world, I forgot about Him again.

‘It was only when she went missing for one whole week and we started a public campaign to find her that I remembered Him again. I started praying to Him. Every morning just at first, at home, the very second I woke up. I’d pray for that day to be the day she came home. Then it became more regular, most minutes of every day. Then I started going to church. Every day. Thoughts of Him came as frequently as thoughts of her. I invested so much time and energy making pacts and promises, trade-offs: if You bring her back, I’ll do this; if You help us find her alive, I’ll do that. If You even help us find her at all I’ll be the best bloody person You’ve ever known. I begged Him. A grown man, down on his hands and knees, begging. I believed in Him so strongly, more than I ever had in my whole life.

‘But when her body was found battered and bruised, I not only stopped believing in Him, but believed so strongly in His non-existence that I felt sorry, irritated even, at those who did. I couldn’t spend a minute in their company, not one single second, and believe me they all came out of the woodwork when Rebecca was found, to help us. Their belief, their naïvety, their openness to such ridiculous theories reduced me to blood-curdling anger. I felt their belief was a cop-out, a passing of the buck, a failure to be able to achieve anything completely by themselves, a lack of responsibility and a carelessness. Their idea that they had a saviour, that somebody else would guide them, was reckless to me. They were weak, why couldn’t they just accept that their lives were their responsibility? I wanted nothing to do with them. Do you understand what I’m saying?’

‘I do. That you don’t believe in God.’ She offered him a small smile.

‘No. I didn’t. I didn’t believe in God. Then I did, and He let me down and I spent seven years hating His guts, hating the very idea of Him. But it’s the same as thanking Him, isn’t it? How can you hate somebody if you don’t believe in them?’

Kitty had been so lost in his words she hadn’t noticed her breakfast being placed before her. She took a drink of water, trying to assess where they were, trying to guess where this was taking her.

Archie watched her.

‘You’re not going to believe me.’

‘I believe you,’ she said.

‘I promise you, you won’t believe me.’

‘Let me be the judge of that.’

He looked down at his tea, which must have been cold by then; Kitty could see the thin layer of hard water from the kettle on the surface. He didn’t speak for a long time.

‘Do your family know about the thing you don’t think I’ll believe?’ She tried to get them back on the subject again.

He shook his head. ‘No one knows.’

‘So I’ve the exclusive.’

‘Ah, there she is, the old hack is back.’

Kitty laughed. ‘Are you in contact with your family?’

‘No,’ he said softly. ‘Well, they’re in contact with me but … I’ve a brother in Mayo. Frank. He’s fifty years old and he’s getting married, can you believe that?’

‘There’s no age limit on love.’ Kitty tried not to sound sarcastic but failed.

‘You don’t believe in love?’

‘This week I don’t believe in very much at all.’

‘And you’re telling me you’ll believe in me?’

‘You’ve been very open so far. Plus, my future depends on you.’

He smiled. ‘What do you think about God?’

‘I don’t believe in God,’ she replied honestly.

He accepted that. ‘Do you know what I think about love? I think love can change us beyond recognition, we become love-sick, soft-eyed jelly-bellied fools.’

‘You were never that,’ Kitty teased.

‘I was too. When I met my wife. Gorgeous, she was. I was a right eejit at the time too. Love can soften people, I believe that. But in me, now, love riles up an anger, a red-hot rage that crawls on my skin, seeps into my blood and brings out the worst in me. That’s why everyone I love is better off loving me from afar. From Mayo. From Manchester. Wherever.’

Kitty pushed him to talk about it more.

‘My love for people takes on negative forms,’ he explained. ‘Shadowy, threatening, it’s far from the soppy crap you read in cards or the sweet nothings that people whisper in each other’s ears. Love makes most people soar. For me it pulls me down. I’m a demon ready to defend, to protect, to do anything for the people that I love.’

‘That’s understandable considering what you’ve been through.’

‘Is it?’ He looked at her, surprised.

‘Of course it is.’

‘For the past seven years, I’ve felt like a monster that doesn’t know how to love in the right way. And I know that, and yet …’ he disappeared into his mind. She could see him building his barriers again, the tension was returning, the tough guy was coming back.

Kitty had to talk before she lost the loose-tongued Archie completely. ‘Archie, tell me what it is.’

He studied the blackboard for a long time and then he turned round to check on the woman in the café again. He sighed, conflicted.

‘Tell me,’ Kitty said firmly.

‘Sometimes,’ he paused, ‘I hear people’s prayers.’

Kitty raised her eyebrows and waited for him to laugh, to tell her he was joking, but his expression didn’t change. She analysed it all in the seconds she had to win or lose this story. The woman stood up and left the café and Archie’s eyes followed her. Then he turned back to Kitty, probably waiting for her to do the same. She took a gamble.

‘And what do you hear her pray about?’

For the second time he seemed surprised that her first question hadn’t been anything more negative, that she’d got straight to the point.

‘“Please”,’ he said, settling back down. ‘She sits here for twenty minutes every morning and says “please” over and over again.’

Kitty massaged her temples as she sat on the bus to her next destination. A man who hears people’s prayers? What on earth was she supposed to think of that? She could drop it right now, move on from Archie and speak to somebody else on the list. Someone normal. With such a tight deadline and Pete breathing down her neck, it was probably what she should have done, but it wasn’t her list to play with, it was Constance’s. Kitty remembered her old self, who used to crave meeting people like Archie and stories like his. She thought about Constance’s teachings and realised this was exactly the kind of story Constance believed in covering. This was the kind of story that twenty-three-year-old Kitty, just out of college, would have brought to her job interview, and one that Constance would have been intrigued by. Anything unusual and non-traditional would be the first thing she would want to investigate. Her heart raced as she thought about the possibilities. Perhaps Archie had heard Mary-Rose’s, Birdie’s, Eva’s or Ambrose’s prayers, perhaps he had a link to everybody on the list. She desperately needed to find out more.

She stared at the words she had written on her notepad.

Name Number Sixty-seven: Archie Hamilton

Story Title: Man of Pray – from the hunted to the haunted, to the hallowed