Not one of the coarser manifestations: Uncle David would be a sophisticated devil, the sort who charms or terrifies according to his whim. ‘You’re being very foolish.’ The old priest’s voice was quiet but carrying; Uncle David had learned to fill the empty spaces of churches in the days before public-address systems. Wide-eyed, Sally stared up at him. St Michael’s filled with a blessed silence. Her mind had cleared as if a fever had receded, leaving her weak but in control. She concentrated on David Byfield, glorying in his ordinariness; he was real, safe and sane. He was wearing a dark, threadbare overcoat with a navy-blue scarf wound loosely round his neck, and between the woollen folds Sally glimpsed the white of his dog collar and old, sagging skin. He was neatly shaved. In the years since she had met him he had developed a stoop: his bony face curved over her like a gargoyle on a church roof. ‘At times like this,’ he went on, ‘you need company. You do not sit alone in dank churches.’ With a speed that took her by surprise, he placed his right palm lightly but firmly over the fingers of her left hand.
