XVIII I’m seventeen, eighteen, going on nineteen, working away at Easons, writing threatening letters for Mrs. Finucane, who says she’s not long for this world and the more Masses said for her soul the better she’ll feel. She puts money in envelopes and sends me to churches around the city to knock on priests’ doors, hand in the envelopes with the request for Masses. She wants prayers from all the priests but the Jesuits. She says,They’re useless, all head and no heart.That’s what they should have over their door in Latin and I won’t give them a penny because every penny you give a Jesuit goes to a fancy book or a bottle of wine. She sends the money, she hopes the Masses are said, but she’s never sure and if she’s not sure why should I be handing out all that money to priests when I need the money to go to America and if I keep back a few pounds for myself and put it in the post office who will ever know the difference and if I say a prayer for Mrs. Finucane and light candles for her soul when she dies won’t God listen even if I’m a sin- ner long past my last confession. I’ll be nineteen in a month.All I need is a few pounds to make up the fare and a few pounds in my pocket when I land in America. The  Friday  night  before  my  nineteenth  birthday  Mrs. Finucane sends me for the sherry.When I return she is dead in the chair, her eyes wide open, and her purse on the floor wide open. I can’t look at her but I help myself to a roll of money. Seventeen pounds. I take the key 354