"That's a strange question."
"I know." We start walking again, turning off down a small cobbled street towards my flat. It occurs to me that maybe we are going to go back to my place and sleep together; maybe I could do that. But instead of my usual excitement I feel something else: the same feeling I got when I looked at my computer screen and saw how dirty it was earlier on. I'm dirty, and I'm busy doing something to help me escape. But we're walking on towards my flat, anyway.
"What do you want to know?"
"Um, well, all sorts of things, but mainly where I would get some."
"Get some?" I can't see his expression in the darkness but I can hear the frown in his voice. "Are you a Catholic?"
"No. I'm not religious at all. My mother believed in aliens."
"Ah."
"Yes. But why do you ask?"
"Only Catholics have holy water. You'd find it in any Catholic church."
"Not in the cathedral?"
"No. Not usually."
"I was sure I remembered fonts in the cathedral. I was going to go there before, but it was all locked up."
"There are fonts. But they're empty. The Anglican Church gave up on holy water centuries ago."
"Oh. So, presumably if you want to get holy water from a Catholic church you have to go in the day?"
"No. Not always. You..." He pauses. "Do you want to get some now?"
"Maybe. Yes. Maybe. I don't know."
"Can I ask why?"
"Probably best if you don't. It's, well, something you probably wouldn't approve of. Have you ever heard of the physicist George Gamow?"
"No. While you tell me about him shall we walk the other way? I'll show you where to find holy water."
"Really?"
"Yes. I've got a key to St. Thomas's. This way."
I follow him across a car park and through a small passageway onto Burgate. Burlem's house is just across the ring road, past St. Augustine's on a leafy residential road. I wonder what the house looks like now. I imagine it all boarded up and then realize that's silly: People don't board up houses nowadays. Maybe Burlem sold it. Maybe he's even there? I did go and knock on the door last year, but no one answered. Adam and I turn left and walk past the comic shop: a whole window display of superheroes and villains; good guys and bad guys. As we walk I put Burlem out of my head and instead tell Adam about George Gamow and how, when he was a kid, he once kept a Communion wafer instead of swallowing it and put it under his microscope to see if there was any difference between it and a normal wafer. I tell Adam that what I want with the holy water is somewhat similar to this—basically an experiment not at all in keeping with the spirit of Catholicism. Then we're at the church.
"I'll understand if you don't actually want to let me in now," I say.
"No. I like the sound of your experiment. And it doesn't matter to me, anyway."
Inside the church doors it's dark and smells of incense and cold stone. We don't go right inside: It turns out that the holy water is in a little font just inside the entrance. I notice that Adam crosses himself in front of an image of the Virgin Mary. I take out my vial.
"I'm sure this isn't something you should be letting me do," I say.
"It's only water," says Adam. "There are no rules to say you can't take some away with you. And like I said, all of this doesn't mean anything to me anymore."
But he doesn't watch as I dip the vial into the font. Instead he walks beyond me and starts fiddling with leaflets and copies of the Catholic Herald. There's a poster on the wall with the words Shrine of St. Jude on it. Adam lifts his fingers to it and touches it briefly. I don't think he realizes that I'm watching him. I look away.
"Can I ask why you have keys to the church?" I say to him as we leave.
"Oh, I'm a priest," he says. "Or, at least, I was. Can we go back to your place?"
Through someone else's eyes my kitchen must be a dark, fetid, oppressive space that smells of garlic and cigarettes. There's also a cursed book on the mantelpiece: a slim, pale volume that you don't even notice, if you are someone else.
"Sorry," I say to Adam, as we walk in.
But I'm not exactly sure what I'm sorry about. The thick gray dust on the top of the door frame? The broken arm of the sofa? The burn marks on the old kitchen work surfaces? The peeling green lino? I don't even see those things when I'm on my own. I want to open a window, but it's too cold. I want to turn on all the gas rings like I usually do, but I don't.
"Sorry it's so cold," I say.
"My place is freezing," says Adam. "I live on campus."
"Do you? Where?"
"I've got a room in Shelley College. It's tiny and smells of macaroni and cheese all the time. This is luxurious—believe me."
"Would you like some coffee?" I ask him.
"Just some water, please, if that's all right."
I fill a glass with tap water for Adam and then put on coffee for myself. A train goes past outside and the thin sash window rattles gently. I see a tiny movement in the corner of the room—there and then gone, like a phantom particle. A mouse.
"I like this place," Adam says, sitting down on the sofa.
When my coffee's ready I sit down on the old sofa next to him. I don't think I've ever actually sat on this sofa with another human being. It feels a bit like sitting on a train, our backs facing the direction of travel, both being careful not to let our knees touch.
"What's the Shrine of St. Jude?" I ask him.
"Oh, that. You noticed."
"I just saw it on the wall in the church. I've heard the name before: St. Jude. What's he the saint of?"
"Lost and hopeless causes. The shrine's in Faversham. I go there whenever..."
"What?"
"Just whenever things go wrong. You're not asking me the obvious question."
"What obvious question?"
"About me being a priest."
"I'm not very good at asking those questions," I say.
There's a pause. I should say something else; I know that it's my line next. And I do want to know. Usually I would want to know everything about being a priest and how it's possible to be a priest and then not be one. I want to ask why he still crossed himself in the church, for example. But now I've got the holy water and the Carbo-veg and it's just like those days when I kept a razor in a box and I just wanted everyone to go away so I could do what I wanted, on my own.
"Do you mind if I smoke?" I ask Adam.
He shrugs. "It's your flat."
"Yeah, I know, but..."
"Honestly. Don't mind me."
He sips his water while I light up. I see the slight shake of his left hand holding the water, and then I look away, my gaze moving over the scarred kitchen surfaces: the time I burned the rice; the time I scalded myself; the time I cut my finger.
"What was it like?" I ask, forcing my thoughts to stop. "Or even what is it like?"
"What?"
"Being that religious; I mean, being religious enough to be a priest."
He puts his water down and sits forward, leaning his elbow on his knee and propping up his face with his right hand. He uses his forefinger to draw around the edge of his face, as if he was blind and wanted to know what his own face looked like.
"I've been thinking about this," he says. "I've been trying to put it into words but I didn't have anyone to tell and ... Now I've met you I think maybe you'll understand. In fact, I know you will."
"Why do you think that?"
Now he puts both his hands over his face and lets his head drop into them.
"I don't know."
"Adam?"
"I'm sorry. I'm not even sure I want to talk about what you want to talk about. I didn't even stop being a priest because I wasn't religious enough ... I was just being stupid back at Heather's. I didn't lose my faith because I wanted to have sex with little boys or old men or young women or anything like that. I studied the Tao Te Ching—years ago, now—and decided to follow The Way alongside being a priest. It's not unusual—lots of people do it. But it undermined my faith. I just wanted to desire nothing, but that was something that I desired, obviously, and it almost drove me mad. And then I couldn't stop thinking about paradoxes. I thought about the virgin birth and the mystery of faith and everything else. I didn't hate the paradoxes—they're the basis for the church, after all—but I started wanting more of them. I wanted to see what a pure paradox would look like. Eventually I realized that I simply needed silence, so I joined a silent order for two years and thought about nothing. Then I stopped. I can't explain this very well ... And you're right. Why am I telling you this? Where have I seen you before? Shit. I should go."