Patrick could see it was the same man. This was the brother with whom Patrick had shared a room on Walter Street for the first seven years of his life, shared a bath with every Sunday after tea. They had shared a bed for the six weeks they had spent in Aunty Maureen’s box room after their mother died. Until their eventual separation, they had slept in twin bunks at Providence House where the last thing Patrick remembered before he fell asleep each night in the long room was the faint impression of his brother’s shape, a familiar protective spirit curved into the mattress above him. A gap of more than thirty years didn’t mean you couldn’t recognize your own brother, no matter what he wanted to tell the rest of the world about being an angel called Saul, about having a dead man’s unenunciated mission to carry out.