Thanks to everyone who is reading, reviewing, following, or favouriting. I suspect we're in for a long haul; plenty of angst, but I hope there are some laughs as well. I trust that you're all following the other works-in-progress that have been cropping up? They're amazing, all of them.

MANCHESTER

Father Miles Randall put his loafers up on the edge of his cluttered walnut desk, and polished his eyeglasses with the hem of his untucked shirttail. "You know, Father Clifford, you still have a nickname floating round the parish."

Peter tried to look game, though he knew he was still pale and his eyes were still bloodshot. "Do I?"

Father Randall grinned as he put his spectacles back on, finally meeting the curate's eyes. "They call you 'the comeback kid.'" He steepled his hands over his ample belly; the pewter lawn on his head glinted in the incoming sunlight.

Peter managed a chuckle, but only just. "Not 'the prodigal son'?"

Father Randall smiled gamely. "Testament to your resiliency. Something of a legend at this point."

"All evidence to the contrary," Peter said.

Father Randall's smile turned serious. "Can we talk about what happened to you in the confessional?"

"I'm a bit embarrassed."

"It's nothing new for someone to keel over at St. Luke's, Father. You know that well enough."

"Yeah, I know. Octogenarians during a long gospel reading, choir sopranos who don't allow themselves breakfast."

"Altar boys who lock their knees during the Eucharistic prayer."

Peter flinched. "That was decades ago!"

"And," he fixed Peter with a look, "sometimes even young priests who've been handed a bombshell."

"Ambrose told you?"

"Your Irish friend? No, I only gathered. I've heard a few tales in that confessional that nearly knocked me over in my time. I'm here if you need to talk about it."

"I shouldn't discuss his confession."

"Nor should you think I've asked you to. You know better than that." Father Randall put his feet on the floor again and leant in over the desk. "But you can tell me why it meant so much to you."

"Father..."

"'Father!'" the older man parroted in falsetto. "I've met a few of our kind in my sixty-three years, you know. I've had curates who survived war zones, abuse as children, medical nightmares. Sooner or later they've all been triggered by a penitent. Not all of them keeled over, mind..."

Peter inhaled, imagining that what his throbbing head needed was oxygen. "Father, remember when you sent me to Ballykissangel?"

"Could hardly forget. On account of Jenny."

"On account of me," Peter corrected.

Father Randall eased back into his chair, inviting the younger man to spill it. "Something happened. You came back here. You were a bloody mess."

Peter shot a look at his superior. There was something mortifying about one Englishman pointing out that another wore his heart on his sleeve. Peter would have felt less exposed if the older man had taken naked pictures of him to put on the church website.

"I was in love."

Father Randall pokerfaced.

"And I fought it for three years, even took a retreat. She fought it as well. Even married someone else. Nothing could kill it." He stopped to collect himself, waiting for condemnation.

It didn't come. "In your own time," Father Randall whispered.

"Father, I was going to leave the vocation for her. Run away. Anything I had to do." Father Randall got up, and soon Peter noticed a bottle of mineral water had materialised before him. He nodded his thanks.

The parish priest took his seat again. "What happened, Peter?"

The familiar address caught him off guard. Gentle and paternalistic, it opened him like a key.

"She was electrocuted. They made me give her last rites. Her estranged husband came to town and picked a fight with me. We had a wake without her body - I guessed at the time he must've taken it - and then I just packed up and left."

Father Randall blinked. "This was right after your mother died?"

Peter nodded.

"And now you've learnt something new about this?"

Tears overtook Peter now. "Father, she faked her death, supposedly to save my vocation."

"Supposedly?"

"She hated the church!"

Father Randall didn't miss a beat. "But she loved you."

"Enough to abandon me! Enough to put me through Hell."

"Indeed. Sounds to me like you'd better go find her."

Peter nearly fell over again.

Father Randall pressed on, matter-of-fact. "In fact, I order you to do it."

"Have we both gone mad?"

"Father Clifford, we both know the only reason you still have this job is this woman's death, and we now both know it never actually occurred. Until you get some closure, find out what really happened, you're no good to me."

"And after that?"

Father Randall's eyes grew, but his voice shrank. "It'll depend on what you really want, I suppose."

"You're putting me on garden leave," Peter realised.

"For now," said the parish priest, "think of it as a sort of conditional retreat."

The curate felt his heart breaking. Then he felt sunlight on the inside of it for the first time in three years.

Ambrose had waited outside on the stone steps. Seeing his old friend emerge from the office wing of St. Luke's, he got to his feet. "Feeling better?"

"To be honest with you, I'm not entirely sure what I'm feeling."

Ambrose nodded. "You never did let me finish my confession."

"Sorry about that," Peter quipped, letting the nostalgia begin to intoxicate him. "Shall we pick up where you left off over a lager and some chips?"

"Your local?" Ambrose looked nervous.

"Problem?"

"A bit public."

"Ah." Peter thought for a moment.

And so it was to be a slightly different menu, in the sitting room of the Clifford house.

Peter gripped the handles of two brimming teacups in his left hand, the plate of Nice biscuits in his right. "Would you take yours, Ambrose?"

The Irishman snapped out of his funk. "Strange to be called by my real name," he said, relieving Peter of the plate, then a mug.

"What're you going by these days?"

"The neighbours in Cheltenham call me Bobby Aurelius. People down at the station, as well."

It took a minute for Peter to get the joke; it was good for a little smile. "The police station?"

"Oh, no, never again. I couldn't. I meant the television station."

Peter's eyes bulged. The biscuit en route to his mouth came to an abrupt stop.

Ambrose smiled a little now. "You've seen that programme where they hide the camera and do little pranks on streetcorners?"

"No..." He had, but it seemed unbecoming of a priest.

"Ah, well, I'm one of the ones doing naughty things in an animal costume."

Peter's eyes widened again. The hand holding the biscuit was beginning to flag.

Ambrose's grin melted into an indignant straight line. "Couldn't very well take a job where I might be recognised, could I? I'm dead. Just ask anyone."

Peter shook his head, and finally took a bite.