Frank MacAnally had successfully come this far in Lent without indulging in a single broadcast of The Pit, the late-night Tuesday radio show that had secretly captivated him for several months now. He'd been meaning to break the habit for most of that time; it was hardly the sort of entertainment he'd encourage his parishioners to take in.

It wasn't especially bawdy or disillusioning, exactly; it wasn't especially anything. It was a young man at the microphone, expert on nothing in particular, hosting guests who were experts in odd, seemingly useless things, and callers who had silly questions about those things. One week it was an improvisational comedienne, the next a vet who trapped and neutered feral cats, the next a distance runner. None of their interests appealed to Father Mac, none of their trivia lingered in his mind after the broadcast ended. He couldn't for the life of him figure out what compelled him to return to it. And yet, there he had been, whiskey in hand, glued to the speaker as the theme music poured into the damp quiet of his room.

Not this season. He could instead devote his Tuesday nights to odd jobs that needed his aid around the parish. It would be a good way to keep the curate's hands busy (ahem) as well. Frank shuddered at the memory of the needlessly detailed confession.

Tonight, the two priests were in the office at St. Joseph's, rolling coins from the collection boxes: sliding them into the colour-coded plastic funnels, jamming the paper wrappers down into the tubes, trusting that the measurements were correct about how many inches' worth of pennies equalled how much of a pound. The rhythmic jingling of the coins was pleasant to the older man's ears, as was his subordinate's relative quiet.

He did speak eventually. "Would it be all right if I bought out a few of these rolls meself?"

"I see no reason why not. Keeping a mite box of your own, I take it?"

Father Clifford nodded.

"How goes your other...area for improvement, by the way?"

"Um. Fine. Down to the occasional Sunday pint."

"Good. It's important for a priest to recognise when he's being tested, to take the proper steps."

Peter nodded again.

"Gave up a little vice of my own this year," Frank went on. "One of those radio call-in shows. It simply had too much hold over me. Now I'm devoting those hours to what needs doing."

"Must be quite a challenge to forego it," Peter said absently.

"That's the thing about bad habits, Father. They're seldom as significant as we treat them. I would be willing to bet that you hardly miss the pub - and its proprietress - anywhere close to as much as you thought you would."

"Right," Peter said, pairing wide eyes with a taut smile.

Frank nodded, superficially approvingly, thinking inwardly that Quigley was right about Father Clifford: the man couldn't act his way out of a bubble bath.

Or a cold shower.

Frank shuddered again.

The lip-licking parade through Hendley's was picking up speed and might. No longer was Niamh in every other day to glance at chocolates; now it was morning and night, strolling past the window, coveting jelly babies. So, too, Padraig and his tobacco, Brendan and his sandwiches, Siobhan and her lottery tickets, Ambrose and his puzzles, Michael and his instant coffee crystals. It was like this every spring, of course.

Only this time Kathleen couldn't talk to anyone about it.

When the other altar guild ladies dropped in on Wednesday for their usual scuttlebutt, it was harder than ever for the shopkeeper to bite her tongue, but bite she did. As the two-man rank-and-file of Quigley Developments appeared for their third "lunch break" of the day, Kathleen could only gnaw on a toffee to quiet herself and listen to the inevitable cross-pollination of the respective grapevines.

Liam examined an apple from the produce display. "Do you think it's true, Donal?"

"What now?"

"Did Father Clifford swear off the pub?"

The women froze in place.

"You said yourself he'd no reason for it," Donal recounted.

"Maybe he does, though."

"Money?"

"Or liquor."

Maggie could no longer help herself. "Flesh," she blurted out, eliciting a gravelly giggle from her friends.

"Nah," Donal said, "she's doing a Friday fish special. And Brendan's the one gave up red meat."

"Not that kind of flesh, you moron!"

Kathleen almost inhaled her toffee.

By Thursday midday, Michael's resolve had just begun to wear thin.

He had managed to keep the headaches at bay by keeping hydrated and downing a paracetamol as needed - no cheating with caffeinated menstrual formula, no feigning ignorance about green tea. He had resisted the less-than-intoxicating scent of the nurse's instant brew that morning, controlled the habitual reach for the ceramic mug that bore the crest of his alma mater.

When he dropped by the pub for lunch, it all came crashing down thanks to two different women named Fitzgerald - a dark one with a bright voice, playing on the stereo, and a pale one with a dark voice, grinning mercilessly as the lyrics began to register:

Black coffee
Love's a hand-me-down brew
I'll never know a Sunday
In this weekday room

"Assumpta, would you mind?"

"'Fraid I can't help you, Doc. Nobody negotiates with the late, great Ella."

"I like Sinead O'Connor's version," Brendan said, pointedly sipping his own cuppa.

"We Egan men are partial to the Ray Charles cover," Ambrose added, beaming at the baby in his arms. Niamh nearly grimaced at the sound of her husband's voice.

"You're in luck, gentlemen," said Assumpta. "Just so happens I've made a mix tape of them all."

Michael smiled wearily and shook his head. "Raking us over the coals."

"So this is how it'll be 'til Easter?" Siobhan chuckled.

"Just until someone falls off the wagon and we settle up," said Assumpta.

"Only one loss you're interested in," Padraig muttered.

"Everyone has a financial stake, true," said Assumpta.

"Not what I meant," Padraig blurted out, surprising even himself.

Niamh's grip tightened on the tap. For a moment the song hung alone in the air of the pub, as the punters silently inspected their watches and utensils.

"Oh, what?" snapped the publican, not waiting for an answer. She stormed into the kitchen, leaving Niamh to cover the bar.

"True Father Clifford gave up the pub, then?" Siobhan ventured.

"Only logical explanation," Brendan said.

"Go easy on her," Niamh warned under her breath. "Her pride's bruised, is all."

The regulars contemplated this against the warm, watery piano coming through the speakers.

All I do is drink black coffee
Since my man's gone away...

The drive to St. Gertrude's required leaving early Saturday morning, and rehearsing a confession as condensed as possible beforehand. Father Morrison was something of an unknown quantity, robust and ruddy in a way that evoked a sanguine personality, but with a surprisingly high tenor voice that suggested meekness.

In their moment of confidence, Peter got a sense that the man was a bit of both: warm and kind, but unassuming. Peter didn't even know if the other priest knew who he was. It seemed wrong to ask outright, but worse still to bury the lead.

"How does a priest know if he's losing his grip?"

Father Morrison chuckled sympathetically. "Define 'grip,' if you would?"

"On his vocation. On reality."

"Dunno. Fact you're worried is a good sign. Are you hallucinating?"

Something in the absurdity put Peter at ease. "Not so far as I know."

"Do you think everyone else around you is crazy?"

Peter smiled a little at this. "Not most of them."

"What's troubling you?"

"Dreams. Obsessions."

"About violence?"

"No."

"Good. Children?"

"No!"

"Good. Livestock?"

Perhaps he wasn't so meek. "What?!"

"Forgive me. Little levity seems to help draw it out sometimes. A woman, then?"

"Yeah." He could barely vocalise it.

"But it's all happening in your head?"

"Only that."

"Good."

"My superiour tells me to scrub her from my mind."

"Ah, the 'don't think of an elephant' method. Working well?"

"Should say not."

"Imagine that. Been avoiding her?"

"Every day but Sundays since the imposition of ashes."

"Not helping either, so."

"No."

"That's not so unusual."

"There must be more I can do."

"Been to a doctor?"

"What?"

"Make sure things are normal with your chemistry, that sort of thing."

"I assumed it was a spiritual matter," Peter said, carefully, as if it were obvious.

"Father," the older priest said, "I speak from experience: the stresses of this line of work can exact a staggering toll on a man's body. If you're sleeping poorly, if you can't concentrate..."

"Well, yes, but..."

"Father, butchers, bakers, and candlestick makers head straight to the doc for a miracle pill when they hit walls like this. Guess what priests do?"

"Go off the deep end?"

"Nailed it in one. Know why?"

"We feel like we should be infallible?"

"You want to frame it altruistically? You can't be fit to lead your congregation if you're in a living hell every waking moment."

"It's not just the waking moments," Peter admitted, though the sleeping moments were hardly unappealing.

"Like your GP in the village well enough?"

"Oh, very much."

"Talk to him. You can't blame yourself for these matters if you haven't investigated the possibility of a physical cause."

Peter left feeling as if he'd been handed a compass that might or mightn't really work.