The Healing Place

by Clare Nonhebel

CHAPTER 14

  He would have liked an excuse to go home but there was work to do. He should phone Ella too, but first he called the security firm and arranged for a guard to be sent tomorrow and every day during The Healing Place’s opening hours, as well as the usual night watch.

  How had Leroy known about the crack in the ceiling? How had he known about Ella? How much did that mean he knew about Franz?

  Wanting more information about the man, he leafed through the papers on the desk while he searched the internet for details of travel to Ireland.

  The letterhead of the Luciferians’ publicity gave an organizational address at a London W11 postcode - Notting Hill? Kensington? Thereabouts, Franz thought.

  The publicity material referred only to Luciferianism; satanism was not mentioned, though there was a reference to ‘the unfairly maligned so-called Dark Angel.’ Apart from that, the information was vague, evasive rather than expository. A seeker for a spiritual alternative to established church worship could read into it an offer of a freer type of religious faith, while a fitness-seeker might see it as a holistic health programme.

  It was cleverly worded, Franz allowed grudgingly; it gave the impression of having all the resources to meet any need, real or imagined, that any person might conceivably have. In that way, he had to admit, it was not so very different from the publicity for The Healing Place or the individual brochures produced for many of the therapies and philosophies it promoted. Most of them offered relief from every known symptom and most forms of human anguish and uncertainty.

  Not for the first time, he considered how difficult it was for a person to decide which form of help would benefit them. In a state of vulnerability it was hard enough even to know one’s own need, hard even to define precise symptoms of the restlessness and unease that assailed every human being at some time.

  Franz felt that in the first months of The Healing Place he had done more to help people find solutions, or at least panaceas, that were likely to suit their personality and need. Had he been more idealistic, had more integrity then, been less motivated by success and profit?

  He didn’t think that was it. As time had gone by, he had simply become overwhelmed by the scale of need, the depth of despair, the impossibility of rescuing people from their inescapable destiny to live their own lives and relinquish the hope of ever being somebody else. He had been overwhelmed, too, by the ever-increasing number of –isms and –ologies that evolved or were resurrected or redesigned and flooded the market with their remedies and their explanations for life.

  Scrolling down his computer screen he saw that Dublin was easily accessible by plane from any airport and not too hard to reach by boat from Holyhead to Dun Laoghaire. Boat would be better for Ella, if it wasn’t good to fly in the first months of pregnancy.

  He was taken aback by this thought, having planned that Ella would not go. He still hadn’t phoned her. That was probably because he didn’t know what to say.

  As if on cue, the phone rang.

  ‘Ella! I was going to get back to you.’

  ‘Franz, Sharma’s here, at the flat. He’s collapsed!’

  ‘What? I was talking to him a few moments ago!’

  ‘I know. He was trying to phone you back to see if you were okay. He was worried about somebody you had with you? But your phone was engaged and then he just passed out.’

  ‘What have you tried?’

  ‘Rescue Remedy and cold compresses. He isn’t responding. Shall I call an ambulance, Franz?’

  ‘Yes, you’d better. No – wait a minute. Let me think.’

  She waited.

  ‘Ella? Do you think this is medical, or something else?’

  ‘I don’t think it’s physical sickness, no - though he could be exhausted, as well as whatever it is.’

  ‘He said something to me on the phone about oppression. Did he get sleepy or vague or anything first?’

  ‘He started slurring his words and seemed lethargic, then kind of stunned.’

  ‘I don’t know if hospital is the right move. It could cause him more stress if they start doing tests on him in that state. I’m not sure – who’s the best person to call, if it’s psycho-spiritual?’ he said, more to himself than to Ella.

  There was a small silence before Ella said, ‘I phoned Phil. He’s on his way round.’

  Franz bit his lip. The last thing he wanted to do was upset her, especially on her own at home with Sharma out cold. ‘That’s cool,’ he said. ‘Tell you what: I’ll come home and if he’s come round by then I can ask him who he wants to call, himself. Okay with you?’

  ‘Are you sure you can come home?’

  He could hear relief in her voice. ‘Of course. You shouldn’t have to deal with this on your own.’ Or with the local vicar, he added silently, who will be worse than useless in these circumstances.

  He phoned Alison, told her he was going home for a short while and asked her to call a taxi for him. While he waited for it to arrive, he printed off details of travel to Ireland and car hire from Dun Laoghaire. Rail travel in Ireland, unless it had improved greatly since he had been there last, was not the simplest option.

  He might as well have walked home, or better still run. The taxi took a quarter of an hour to arrive at The Healing Place and spent another ten minutes stuck behind a tow-truck that kept stopping and starting.

  By the time he entered the flat, Phil was already there, kneeling beside Sharma on the kitchen floor. Ella had arranged Sharma in the recovery position, on his side. He looked like a sleeping child but his face was haggard.

  ‘Is he breathing?’

  ‘Yes. He half-surfaced once then went out again.’ Phil gave Franz a quick glance. ‘Tell me what happened.’

  ‘He rang me to say I was in danger,’ said Franz. ‘I thought he was. He’s been helping the police in their hunt for those two missing boys; he’s been up half the night and walking the streets for hours.’

  ‘Why did he think you were in danger?’ Phil asked.

  ‘I had someone with me, in my office. A satanist, I think. Calls himself something else but it seems the same thing. Sharma called me, out of the blue, and told me to get him out.’

  Phil sat back on his heels and exhaled. ‘Jan and I had some encounters with satanists in our last parish,’ he said. ‘They don’t pull their punches.’

  ‘What motivates them?’ Franz asked. ‘Rage? Hatred?’ He was still searching for the word that had eluded him when he was with Leroy. He bent down to take a closer look at Sharma’s face. He wasn’t sweating and didn’t seem feverish.

  ‘Usually rebellion of some kind,’ Phil said. ‘Against authority, church, God, law, any kind of restraint.’

  Rebellion. That word again!

  ‘Sharma mentioned oppression, in connection with this guy,’ said Franz. 'Do you think it affected him as well?'

  ‘I’d say that’s what this is,’ Phil affirmed.

  Franz swallowed his pride. ‘Can you do anything?’

  ‘I know someone who can. Jesus.’

  Franz stood upright again abruptly. ‘Well, that’s a fucking lot of use! About two thousand years too late!’

  ‘Franz!’ Ella said, but Phil shook his head at her.

  ‘I’m being straight with you, Franz,’ he said. ‘If you’re going to confront the powers of evil, which is what you and Sharma do, like it or not, then you need to submit the whole of your life to God, the safe way – via Jesus. Nothing else works. Sharma’s been trying to go it alone.’

  ‘He has ways of protecting himself,’ Franz said. ‘He told me that all psychics learn them.’

  ‘Ways that don’t work, when the crunch comes,’ Phil said.

  ‘They do!’

  Ella gave him an exasperated look. His retort sounded childish, even to his own ears, but he couldn’t believe this guy, kneeling in his kitchen beside Sharma who could be dying, preaching some exclusivist anachronism that didn’t have the power to raise a fly, let alone a man.
r />   Phil pointed at Sharma. ‘Does it look as though his self-help ways are working, to you?’ he asked Franz.

  ‘No,’ Ella answered for him. ‘Look, whatever you do, just do it, will you, Phil? Just get him well!’

  ‘Okay, but I’ll need your help. Both of you.’

  ‘Of course,’ Ella said. ‘Franz?’

  ‘Sure.’ He might as well go through the motions. ‘What d’you want us to do?’

  ‘Pray. I don’t care if you believe or not,’ said Phil. ‘Do it for Sharma. Kneel down here with me and ask God to intervene.’

  ‘I don’t play those games,’ Franz said, ‘pretending to believe things to humour somebody – however well-meaning you may be.’

  ‘Franz, if you don’t give this a try, I’m leaving you,’ said Ella.

  He knew she meant it. Ella never said things she didn’t mean. He would do it, and when it didn’t work he would call an ambulance.

  ‘You’ve got two minutes,’ he said.

  ‘Then you’d better make it heartfelt,’ said Phil smoothly.

  Awkwardly, Franz crouched down, ducking his head to avoid the kitchen table, and took hold of Sharma’s hand. Ella knelt down at Sharma’s other side, by Phil. We’re on opposite sides of the ravine and Sharma is the tightrope I’m walking, was the thought that flashed through Franz’s mind. He dismissed it instantly.

  Phil had his eyes closed and was mouthing words silently. Ella closed her eyes too. Franz kept his open, watching Sharma’s face. God, don’t let him die; I need him in my life. He wasn’t trying to pray and hadn’t intended to do more than fake it; the thought just arose in his mind. It surely didn’t count as prayer, anyway, being entirely selfish.

  He was scared now. How long could a man stay unconscious and be unharmed? God, I don’t understand what’s happening. You sort this one. And sort me out at the same time. The words forced themselves out of him, from some uncharted depth of his being to the surface of his mind.

  Sharma opened his eyes. Ella and Phil, still with their eyes closed, failed to notice. Franz waved his hand in front of Sharma’s face. Sharma’s eyes followed the movement.

  ‘What?’ he said, and struggled to sit up.

  All of them now had their eyes open.

  ‘Thank God!’ said Ella, and started crying.

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ said Phil quietly. ‘And thank you, Franz.’

  Franz pretended not to hear him. ‘Sharma,’ he said. ‘Lie still for a moment, man. We’ll help you up in a minute, okay?’

  ‘No, get me up! I have to get to the boys!’ Sharma said. ‘I can feel their panic.’

  ‘You’re going nowhere,’ said Phil firmly. ‘You’re no use to anyone in this state.’

  ‘Yes, take a break,’ Ella said. ‘He didn’t have anything to eat yet,’ she told Franz.

  ‘I’ll get him something. You sit down.’

  ‘I’ll make tea; you do the food, then. There’s chickpeas and rice on the hob. Phil, will you stay and have something?’

  ‘A cup of tea would be welcome, thanks. Nothing to eat.’

  ‘More tea, Vicar?’ Franz couldn’t resist the jibe.

  ‘Exactly,’ Phil said. ‘No cucumber sandwiches, though, thanks!’

  It was an amiable response to a routine jibe. Franz felt abashed. He set out four plates on the table.

  ‘Eat with us, anyway,’ he invited, ‘if you don’t mind veggie stuff.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Phil said. ‘If you have enough to go round, I’d be delighted to join you.’