I wasn't going to write this letter at all nor, for that matter, send it. In fact, it is more than likely that I will not send it (even if I do write it), but if, Father, you're reading this, you will know I must have changed my mind and made this mistake which I shall probably regret for the rest of eternity.

Please, please, do not blame Susie. She was only part of it. We both loved you, I suppose. Me because you were a man who could countenance no sin in others nor in yourself. You were my spiritual idol and figurehead. But you doubtlessly knew all along, as I must have done, Father, that sin can creep into the most sinless of us all. You and I loved each other man to man, as most men do. Could it have been more than that? Obviously I can't speak for you, but every time I let go of that handful of coppers into your plate on a Sunday, I dreamed of you partaking of bedtime tots of whisky. If I could provide you the simplest luxuries with my humble donation, I would feel that little bit nearer God.

If there is to be any culprit at all, it surely must be God. There, I've written it and I haven't been struck down by a lightning stroke of Godly pique. Who was guiding your hand when you blessed Susie and me each Sunday as we knelt before you at the communion bar? God of course. Who entered my head and stopped my moitherings when I imagined Susie's sessions with you being nothing but secretarial work for the Church? That selfsame God. What did Susie tell me about her relationship with you? That God Himself rested between you both, cheek to cheek to cheek. What did I myself tell Susie? That you, Father, was the finest man this side of God, almost in His exact image, merely tainted with humanity to get under our sinful skins and squeeze out our devils like a teenager's blackheads.

Susie smiled at my colourful language. I'd say, if you can't be colourful in religion, where else could you be? None of that tree bark methodism for me. In truth, my only purpose in writing this letter (even if I don't send it) is to lance the boil. I know its old history now, but when Susie went away, I blamed you. Yes, I blamed you. But I blame you no longer. In fact, if you were indeed the cause of her departure, you are to be congratulated, not blamed. It gives a new meaning to the word "blameworthy", does it not? Why are you, then, worthy of such honourable blame? Because God Himself now possesses the handmaiden of his dreams, one He has always deserved for His good works, but never had since eternity chose to began. You supplied the circumstances of preparation, the "dress rehearsal" we might say (or, in your case, "frock rehearsal", if such serious matters can be joked about), so that Susie would know how to give the fullest joy to her new master in Heaven. Therefore, your eventual place together with God and Susie up there is virtually assured.

But what about me? Where do I fit in? A handful of coppers per week is not exactly going to get me to the inner circles of Paradise, is it? I shall be doomed to remain an outsider, as I know now I must have always been within our own earthly triangle. I was strung along, wasn't I - you hiding behind the fragile veneer of celibacy, Susie dosed to the gills on communion wine and countless wafers of white bready flesh.

She cleaned her teeth three or four times a day, didn't she? I wondered why. She told me that spiritual and physical purity went hand in hand. Whatever she really meant, I believed her. I changed my underwear more than was good for anybody. I helped her change our sheets for new crisp ones every afternoon. Apparently, I've learnt since, she did the same for your sheets. Even interchanging them, hoping but not expecting that I would notice the different embroidered motif on the double-hemmed corner. O Dear Susie, her heart was in the right place. When I found her in the bathroom, her wrists still pumping out all the fruity wine of her veins, I did have the chance to call you for the performance of Last Rites. Why did I hesitate? I suppose that indeed is what this letter is all about. It was then I knew, I knew, I knew, Father, what you and Susie had meant to each other. It was a shaft of knowledge from God himself, the Angel of the Annunciation peering back at me from the mirror. It was then I saw Hell in the very back edge of my eyesight, because I contained the one deadly sin you had not managed to squeeze out - jealousy.

I loved you then, Father, I loved you, spiritually, passionately, and, yes, carnally. Trusting that you read letters like you do the parables, the end first, I beg you now to burn this particular epistle before you're tempted to read it. You know the outcome of the plot, so why bother to start at the beginning and trace it all through? Question the nitty gritty of Faith, and what do you have? Merely a handful of bread pellets and a defrocked priest.