It was closing time at the gym. The thump-thump music was consigned to the depths of nowhere and someone was flicking the lights on and off. Boyd completed his warm-down, switched off the treadmill and hurried to the locker room.

Mike O’Brien was buttoning his shirt at the neck, twisting in his cufflinks, his face red, bulging from exertion. He had turned his back and was pulling on his jacket when Boyd’s phone rang.

Boyd checked the caller ID, swore and answered.

‘Boyd,’ he said and listened as Lottie spoke.

‘Father Cornelius Mohan,’ he repeated, searching his gym bag. ‘I can’t find a pen, hold on.’

O’Brien held out a ballpoint, extracted from his breast pocket. Boyd took it, nodding a thank you.

‘Go ahead. Yes, I have that. Ballinacloy. Very good. Yeah, straight away.’

He wanted to ask Lottie a whole lot more, but she had hung up on him.

‘And I love you too,’ he said sarcastically to the phone in his hand.

He handed the pen back to O’Brien, lifted his bag and left the gym without any small talk.

Ballinacloy, a village of almost two hundred souls or sinners – whichever way you wanted to look at it – was situated fifteen kilometres outside Ragmullin, on the old Athlone Road.

Out in the yard, Father Cornelius Mohan packed turf into a basket. A cigarette hung from his chapped lips. Proud of his agility at his age, he was frustrated with how the snow had debilitated him. He feared falling and fracturing a hip.

As he turned to go back inside, the light dimmed. Someone had walked in front of the door, blocking the glow of the bulb. The old priest raised his white head and looked directly into a set of dark eyes. He felt pain grasp his heart and his breathing laboured. The turf basket crashed to the ground and the cigarette fell from his mouth on to the snow, sizzling for a moment before the red butt blackened and extinguished.

‘Remember me?’ The voice echoed, distorted by a gust of wind.

The old priest looked at the face, partially shielded by a black hood. Though the face was older, the eyes held the same coldness from long ago; an emotionless being he himself had helped nurture. And he knew a day like this would come.

Turning away, he kicked the basket and tried to run. His old legs refused to move quickly.

‘Go away,’ he shouted. ‘Leave me be.’

‘So you do remember me.’

A hand grabbed his shoulder. The priest shrugged it off and hobbled to the corner of the house before he stumbled on an iron grill over a drain. As he fell backwards his assailant jumped on top of him, pinning him to the ground.

‘What do you want from me?’ the old priest croaked.

‘You stole from me.’ The tone was menacing.

‘I never stole anything in my life.’

‘You stole my life.’

‘Your life was already nothing,’ he spat. ‘You should thank me for saving you from evil.’

‘You introduced me to evil, you mad old bastard. All my life I’ve waited for this moment and now at last I can send you on your way to the eternal fires.’

‘Go to hell.’

Father Cornelius was already struggling for air when the cord tightened around his throat. He thought he heard the ringing of bells, before his world went black.

Boyd kept his finger pressed on the doorbell. It was bright inside and he could see the backyard light was on.

No answer.

‘Come on,’ he told Lynch and walked around the side of the house.

The yard was lit by a solitary bulb, too low a wattage to cast light any distance. The moon, though low in the sky, cast the trees in a soft silhouette.

Lynch tiptoed behind him. He was glad he’d called her. He needed the company.

At the rear of the house, a figure lay motionless on the ground. Boyd struck out his arm, stopping Lynch in her tracks.

‘What?’ she asked, bumping into him.

Boyd looked back at her, put a finger to his lips and listened.

‘Wait here,’ he whispered and inched towards the figure, careful not to walk on anything that might be evidence.

He crouched over the white-haired priest and held two fingers to his throat. He knew his action was fruitless when he saw the cord tight around the neck. The face was blue under the dim light, the tongue protruding and the unseeing eyes appeared to be staring straight through him. The rancid stench of defecation in death wafted up, obliterating all other smells. Boyd rose up and scanned his surroundings as far as the weak bulb allowed.

‘Lynch?’

‘What?’

‘The bushes . . . over there. I thought I saw something.’

‘I don’t see anything.’

‘There! Do you see it?’ Boyd ran through the garden in the dark.

‘Wait,’ Lynch shouted. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’

He vaulted the hedge and pressed on his phone light. It began to ring. He ignored the tone, concentrated on the dark figure running ahead of him, along the narrow lane.

‘Boyd, you eejit,’ Lynch yelled. ‘Wait!’

He ran fast, slipping and sliding, trying to keep the target in sight. Branches smashed into his face, wet leaves flew back and violently slapped into him. A thorn bush tore up his nostril and a branch scratched his head. He needed to catch his prey. It was the killer. He was sure. Adrenaline fuelled his legs and he subconsciously thanked the hours he’d spent sweating in the gym.

The moonlight was strong but it was difficult running on the slippery paving stones. His breathing rattled, fast and hollow. A wheelie-bin crashed across his path and the shadow sped up the alley. At the end, a wall. Boyd climbed over it in one movement and followed the spectre into the night.

Ahead of him, a field stretched into obscurity. He stopped, catching his breath. Which direction did he go? Boyd couldn’t see a thing. Frustration welled up and he swore.

Without hearing a sound, he felt something encircle his neck. He flung up his hands, grasping at nothingness, cursing his idiocy. He was strong but caught unawares he was at a disadvantage. Lottie would have something to say about this, he thought wildly. He elbowed the man behind him. The grip remained steadfast.

He kicked back. His foot crashed against bone. Good. The noose tightened. Bad. Blackness descended while the cold air waited in a dark chill around him. He felt powerless and hysterical, simultaneously. His throat constricted, his hands flailed, the cable tightened. He desperately fought the compression. But his knees weakened and snow seeped into his bones.

He couldn’t see anything but he sensed the man leaning over him. A knife sliced through his clothes, into his flesh. A sharp pain in his side. He gurgled a cry. His phone rang in a distant sphere. Lottie would be totally pissed off with him for dying on her. A knee bore into his spine. He gagged and the moon lit up the shadows for one second, before complete darkness plunged like a black veil over a widow’s face.

Darkness.