Stealing God by James Green Read Free Book Online Page B

they began walking.
    â€˜Tell me something, are you protected by God Almighty or do you just make it look that way?’
    â€˜Where are we going, to your nick?’
    â€˜No, I’m on sick leave, remember? I’m supposed to be getting ready to be told I’m dying. I can’t swan in and out of nicks. We’re going somewhere to talk, a bar, not far away but not one like that dump back there. Somewhere comfortable and quiet where you’re going to tell me all about yourself.’
    â€˜Fine, if you want to be bored to death that’s all right by me so long as you pick up the tab. The way you look I would guess we’re going somewhere expensive.’
    â€˜That shouldn’t worry a Duns student, not a real Duns student. And that’s what we’re going to talk about, not Jimmy Costello the priest in training, but another Jimmy Costello, the one who peeped out at me in the rector’s office. My guess is that’s the one who gets himself looked after by God Almighty.’ He paused and took a sideways glance at Jimmy walking beside him. ‘Or maybe it’s the Prince of Darkness. Either way, we’ll talk about that Jimmy Costello.’
    Jimmy didn’t like it. He had a strong suspicion that this was where it started to get messy. What should he do? Co-operate, try and be the new Jimmy, tell the truth and take the consequences or do what all his life had been the sensible thing and pull down the shutters? What was it Danny had said in the bar? Let the dead past bury its dead. It must be a quote. He was a clever bugger, Danny, probably read a lot. Jimmy decided not to think about it. Time enough to decide what to do when he found out what Ricci knew, what he wanted, and what he wanted it for. So they walked on, a crumpled, middle-aged man and a smart, youthful one.
    Another odd couple.

EIGHT
    The Campo del Fiori wasn’t the Piazza Navona. There were no film stars, Serie A footballers, or big-time celebrities. It was a square almost hidden away from the main tourist routes and today it was crowded with brightly covered market stalls selling fresh produce to Roman housewives. Around the sides of the square were the sun umbrellas and awnings under which the customers of the bars and restaurants could sit at their tables and sip their cocktails. These bars and restaurants were where locals with plenty of money hung out. The matrons at market stalls haggling over vegetables and fruit were separated from this serious money by flimsy, decorative fences. This was where Roman style put on a display, but only for its own amusement. In one corner, gazing out at the scene, was a bronze statue of a man with a tonsure wearing a long cloak. Some long-ago Dominican friar who had been burned to death for the unforgivable sin of being right at the wrong time. Eventually giving him a statue on the spot where he went up in flames was the Catholic Church’s way of making amends.
    Ricci was welcomed as a valued customer when they went inside his bar. Jimmy looked around. It obviously wasn’t the sort of spot that got crowded during the day so it must be more of a night-time place. Or maybe it was the sun. Drink inside on a sunny day and you missed all the action of the market, you saw no one and, more importantly, no one saw you. Ricci went to a quiet table and ordered a campari and soda. Jimmy asked for a beer.
    The waiter named a few foreign brands.
    â€˜Any beer, whatever the locals drink.’
    The waiter gave him a look, the sort of look he might give to a bag-snatcher who’d come in to chance his arm. The idea of beer-drinking locals at these tables obviously wounded his deepest feelings but, for Ricci’s sake, he managed to force politeness into his voice.
    â€˜Certainly, sir.’
    He left and the two men sat in silence until the drinks arrived. When they came Jimmy noticed the beer was imported, Tuborg. Ricci picked up his glass.
    â€˜I’m going tell you