The heat of the July day had lingered, the late afternoon light stretching in lines across the peach carpet. Dressed in his black watered silk with the magenta piping, Bishop Eamon Sinnott picked up the phone and dialled Fr Casey’s number. He drummed his fingers on the desk and watched the water in his glass ripple. At the nape of his neck, a bead of sweat escaped and trickled down his spine.

‘Now then, Bernard. No time for pleasantries. I’m sure you’ve seen the headlines.’

‘I have indeed, Your Grace.’ Eamon pictured the long face behind the slow, pondering voice.

‘I was hoping things might die down,’  he continued. ‘But here we are.’

He gave Bernard Casey his next assignment: St Joseph’s, with its elderly congregation and falling income. For an impacted parish, however, he needed a safe pair of hands. Eamon knew that the compliment of being selected for this not-insignificant task would outweigh the parochial nature of the work, although he also knew that Bernard  – with his sandals and yellow toenails – wasn’t a man of ego. Within a few minutes it was all agreed, set, and Eamon pressed the receiver down to end the call. Anticipation was always worse than doing the thing, he thought.

Feeling lighter, buoyed, he tapped in the Cathedral number, where Dermot put him on speakerphone so Peter and Glen could listen in. Next, he rang around the rural Durham parishes and then the towns. He worked his way ...