Hope shivers and wraps her woollen coat more tightly around her. Shuffling blindly forward her fingertips find the cold metal encasement of the light switch. At a click, the interior of St Agnes church flickers under the bright lights, a husk of water stained white walls, oak beamed ceilings and lead rimmed windows flood into view. She makes her way across the transept and turns on the artificial Christmas tree lights, rehanging some fallen tinsel that has seen so many Christmases come and go. She checks the crib, rubbing the figurines ancient porcelain faces with her cuff before running her hand lightly across a radiator to check if there is any heat. It is cold.

In the entrance she unbolts the wooden door and drags it open, it's lopsided base squealing plaintively against the stone flagged floor. Face flushed red with the sudden gush of freezing air she surveys the scene laid out by winters hand during the previous of night. Outside the snow lies thickly furrowed across the graveyard under a sky that simmers Lapis Lazuli blue. The sharp sun lifts a million tiny glistening ice crystals off the winter landscape.

As she turns her eye is caught by a heap of cloth piled up on the seat under the lynch gate at the entrance to the church. Screwing her eyes up she squints into the sunlight. Undecided she shakes her head, kicks off her slippers and pulls on a pair of rubber boots. The early morning silence is stifling, not a bird sings, not a rustle of wind shifts the trees, just the soft scrunching of the snow as she approaches the gateway. The pile of sacking shifts as she approaches making her step back in surprise. 'Hello?'

'An angel!' The face appearing from the cocoon of cloth is emaciated, a mask of white and grey skin eaten from within by lack of food.

Hope pulls back and stifles a cry of shock and says softly. 'I'm not an angel, I'm Hope the Reverend here. You must be freezing. Come, come in.'

The face grunts, the cloth bundle unfurls itself to reveal a man gaunt and bent, a piece of sacking pulled over his head to shroud it from the snow. She steels herself and reaches out and takes his hand. It's desperately cold and the skeletal fingers press awkwardly into her warm skin. 'What's your name?'

'I am Malchus the wanderer, one of the many names you may know me by are Matathias, Buttadeus or Joseph.'

Her heart tightens. She knows the names, all of them.

'I see you've heard of me.'

'Those names are myths, if they are in any way true your real name would be Cartaphilus?'

He stares quizzically at her, wipes his nose on his sleeve, 'You are well read. That is a name I've not heard for so long. It's one I care to forget.'

Inside the church she pushes the door to and helps him down the aisle and sets him gently on the front pew. 'I'll try to get the heat on so you will soon warm up, let me get you some food.'

'Food will not help me. But thank you.'

'Food you should have especially if you have a journey ahead of you.'

'I have journeyed far and have far to go,' he replies haltingly.

When she returns with a bowl of soup and bread she find he has picked up the crib and is staring at the figure of Jesus with tears rolling down his face. 'Here,' she says, 'take this and eat. I'll hold this.'

He turns and places the food untouched on the pew beside him. 'Will you take my confession?'

She checks the church is empty, 'I cannot take confessions but if it will comfort you I will sit with you and we can talk.'

He sits hunched ignoring the food next to him, his waxen grey hair swept over his sallow eyes. 'You know of me, I saw it. But you cannot believe that I exist, for I am a myth, a legend.'

'I know the legend,' she says, 'if it makes you feel better tell me your story.'

'You are right, I am Cartaphilus the Wandering Jew. And I am real.' He closes his eyes as if remembering a long forgotten time.' I was born in Emmaus so long ago. I was the son of a shoemaker. When I was in my teens my father lost his business and I secured a lowly position in Pontius Pilot's household. I was there when Jesus was bought to be judged, I was there when he was condemned.'

'And?' She prompts studying his face closely as if the lines within its sagging skin will reveal to her his true past.

He blanches as if remembering a terrible secret. When he speaks his voice breaks into a sob. 'It is true what they say. I struck Christ as he was taken to his crucifixion.' At that he buries his face in his hands and murmurs. 'I did wrong and I am repentant. I truly am.'

'I know the tale. What happened after?'

'He cursed me, the Son of God cursed me! I am to live to the end of time when he returns. I cannot live that long, I cannot endure it!' He turns to face her, his eyes lit bright. 'At first I did not know it, the curse was a thing that meant nothing to me. I was young and bitter, the Romans were an occupying force and I was a traitor to my people who despised me. So at the time the act was a little thing, a thing of petty spite.'

'Even little seeds can grow into mighty trees. When did you realise something was wrong?'

'As I grew old, unnaturally old, people began to suspect something was wrong. I realised too, I had lost my fresh looks, those that might have served me well through the forthcoming years. I'd become old and dissolute with my lot, time had garnished me with a bad temper and an ill view of the world. Too late I realised that the curse had stuck. Suspected of some sort of majic I was driven from my home, a haggard fool with a limp, stinking breath and rotten teeth. I was badly fitted out for the journey ahead. You believe me don't you?'

Hope bites her lip. 'Where did you go?'

'I had become the man everyone wanted to avoid, a vicious fool,' he snorts with derision. 'Everywhere I went I was shunned. Even those who did reach out to me became cursed. They became ill or lost what little they had and soon became destitute like myself. I was a disease in their life, my ill fortune infectious. Soon I couldn't look at someone who offered me charity without knowing it would bring them to my level. My die was cast, why should I throw the die for others, to bring them misery as well.'

Hope nods. From the look on her face he sees she understands but understanding is not believing.

'I roamed the East through the demise of the Roman Empire into the degradation of the Dark Ages. I fled from town to town looking for some hope, some restitution I could make for my sins. Most of what I saw showed me men's propensity toward violence. I've rowed in barbarian slave ships, fought in Greek mercenary armies and seen the crusader hordes fill the plains outside Constantinople. I was with Nelson at the Battle of the Nile when the decks become slippery with the blood of men. I was stationed at Cemetery Hill during the slaughter of the Battle of Gettysburg, I watched helpless as troops were gassed in the bloodied mud at Passchendaele.'

He sighed. 'I've served countless masters, most cruel and unforgiving. I've been beaten, whipped, stabbed, shot but still I survived. I've witnessed every pleasure and endured every humiliation known to man. I know man like no other, I could tell you stories that would horrify, enthral and delight you but to me they mean nothing now. There is only one story I find I can now tell and that is the one of my own suffering at the hands of other men. It's a story two thousand years in the making. I'm haunted by my life in a way no one should ever be. I'm full of the fear that shakes the beaten dog hiding under the table, I see through eyes of the slave that jumps at his maters bidding for fear of losing a limb, I feel the desolation of the distraught man that seeks death but cannot find it. All I wish is an end to my life on this world.'

Suddenly he stops and turns to her and rests his hand on hers. 'Why, you are crying. You believe me?'

'You have suffered much, I can see that now.' Hope wipes the tears from her blotchy cheeks.

'Then please give me my penance.'

'I cannot take confession I have told you. Your remorse is enough.'

'Please I must do this.'

She relents. 'If it will make you feel better say the Lord's Prayer three times.'

'Thank you, thank you!'

She leans forward and listens to him. Under his breath he is saying his confession in Latin. He sits back, his face alive. 'I feel it, the curse is lifted! I feel it but it will soon return. Will you do something for me? Something I dare not ask, something unspeakable to you I've no doubt but I must ask.'

'You may ask Cartaphilus and I must weigh whether I will oblige you or not.'

The gaunt man and the young woman in the grey coat and wellington boots sit watching the tree decorations sparkle under the flashing lights.

'I have decided.' she says.

After it is done she kneels at the Altar. ' Lord, please save that man's soul for he has suffered enough and Lord please forgive me for I have taken a man's life today and now ask you to save my soul. For even I need forgiveness.' She crosses herself and prays.

When she is done she strides back down the aisle, turns off the tree lights and stands in contemplative silence in the darkness

And for a few moments the church fills with an ethereal light. And then she is gone.