Shrine

by Herbert, James

  Fenn marched between crammed desks, his gleaming eyes on the news editor. He stood over the hunched figure and resisted the urge to tap a finger on the enticing bald dome before him.

  ‘Leave it there, I’ll get to it,’ the news editor growled.

  ‘I think you ought to read it, Frank.’

  Frank Aitken looked up. ‘I thought you were on the midnight shift, Hemingway.’

  ‘Yeah, I am. Just a little special for you.’ Fenn jiggled the copy in his hand.

  ‘Show it to the sub.’ The bald man returned to his pencilling out.

  ‘Uh, just look through it, Frank. I think you’ll like the story.’

  Aitken wearily laid the pencil down and studied Fenn’s smiling face for several moments. ‘Tucker tells me you didn’t produce last night.’ Tucker was the night newsdesk editor.

  ‘I came in with a couple of things, Frank, but not much happened last night. Except for this.’

  The copy was snatched from him.

  Fenn stuck his hands into his pockets and waited impatiently while Aitken skimmed through the story. He whistled an almost soundless, self-satisfied tune. Aitken didn’t look up until he had read every word and when he did there was a look of disbelief on his face.

  ‘What is this shit?’ he said.

  The grin disappeared from Fenn’s face. ‘Hey, did you like it or not?’

  ‘You’ve got to be kidding.’

  Fenn leaned on the news editor’s desk, his face anxious, his voice beginning to rise. ‘It’s all true, Frank.’ He stabbed at the paper. ‘That actually happened to me last night!’

  ‘So what?’ Aitken tossed the typed sheet across the desk. ‘What’s it prove? The kid had a nightmare, went sleepwalking. So what? It’s no big deal.’

  ‘But she was deaf and dumb and she spoke to me.’

  ‘Did she say anything to anyone else? I mean, after, when you took her into the priest’s house?’

  ‘No, but—’

  ‘When the doctor got there? Did she say anything to him?’

  ‘No—’

  ‘Her parents?’

  Fenn stood up straight. ‘The quack brought her round to examine her while the priest fetched her parents. By the time they got there, the kid was asleep again. The doctor told them there was nothing wrong with her – slight temperature, that was all.’

  The news editor leaned his elbows on the desk and said with belaboured patience: ‘Okay, so she spoke to you. Three words, wasn’t it? Were those words normal or slurred?’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘I mean if the kid was a deaf mute, she wouldn’t know how to pronounce words too well. They’d be distorted if not incomprehensible, because she would never have heard them spoken before.’

  ‘They were perfect. But she hadn’t always been a deaf mute. The priest told me she’d only been that way since she was four years old.’

  ‘And she’s what now?’ Aitken looked at the typed copy. ‘Eleven? Seven years is a long time, Gerry.’

  ‘But I know what I heard,’ Fenn insisted.

  ‘It was pretty late, you’d had a shock.’ The news editor looked at him suspiciously. ‘And probably a drink or two.’

  ‘Not enough to make me hear things.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, so you say.’

  ‘It’s gospel!’

  ‘So what d’you want me to do with it?’ He held up the copy.

  Fenn looked surprised. ‘Print it.’

  ‘Get outa here.’ Aitken screwed the sheet of paper into a ball and dropped it into a bin by his feet.

  The reporter opened his mouth to protest, but Aitken raised a hand.

  ‘Listen, Gerry. There’s no story. You’re big and ugly enough to understand that. All we have is your say-so that the girl, after seven years of being deaf and dumb, spoke. Three words, kiddo, three fucking words, and nobody else heard them. Only you. Our star reporter, well-known for his vivid imagination, renowned for his satire on local council meetings . . .’

  ‘Ah, Frank, that was just a joke.’

  ‘A joke? Oh yeah, there’s been a few little jokes in the past. The hang-glider who loved to jump off the Downs and float around stark naked.’

  ‘I didn’t know he was wearing a skin-tight pink outfit. It looked pretty realistic to . . .’

  ‘Yeah, so did the photograph. The police weren’t too happy when they tore around the countryside waiting for him to land the next time he was spotted.’

  ‘It was an easy mistake to make.’

  ‘Sure. Like the poltergeists of Kemptown?’

  ‘Christ, I didn’t know that old lady had a neurotic cat.’

  ‘Because you didn’t bother to check, Gerry, that’s why. The clairvoyant we hired sold his story to the Argus. And you can’t blame them for going to town on the joke – they’re our biggest bloody rivals.’

  Certain reporters in the near vicinity had grins on their faces, although none looked up from their typewriters.

  ‘There’s more, but I don’t have time to go through the list.’ Aitken picked up his pencil and pointed it in the general direction of the office windows. ‘Now will you get out there and come back when your shift begins.’ He hunched down to his pencilling and his shiny bald pate defied Fenn to argue.

  ‘Can I follow it up?’

  ‘Not on the Courier’s time,’ came the brusque reply.

  For the benefit of his eavesdropping colleagues, Fenn waggled his tongue in the air and tweaked his ears at the preoccupied editor, then turned and walked back scowling to his desk. Jesus, Aitken wouldn’t recognise a good story if it walked up to him and spat in his eye. The girl had spoken. After seven years of silence, she’d said three words! He slumped into his seat. Three words. But what had she meant? Who was beautiful? He chewed his lip and stared unseeingly at his typewriter.

  After a while he shrugged his shoulders and reached for his phone. He dialled the local radio station’s number and asked for Sue Gates.

  ‘Where the hell were you last night?’ he said as soon as she came on.

  ‘Get off it, Gerry. We’ve got no fixed arrangement.’

  ‘Okay, but you could have let me know.’

  He heard the long sigh. ‘Okay, okay,’ he said quickly. ‘Can you make lunch?’

  ‘Of course. Where?’

  ‘Your place.’

  ‘Uh uh.’ Negative. ‘I’ve got work to do this afternoon. It’ll have to be a short lunch.’

  ‘The Stag, then. In ten minutes?’

  ‘Make it twenty.’

  ‘Deal. See you there.’

  He rang off, thought for a few moments, and went to the office telephone directory. He flicked through the pages, then ran a finger down a list of names, stopping when he found the number he was looking for. He soundlessly repeated it as he hurried back to his desk, where he dialled. No reply. He tried again. No reply. The priest must be out on his rounds or whatever priests did during the day. Housekeeper wasn’t there either. St Joseph’s seemed like a lonely place.

  Fenn stood and pulled his jacket from the back of his chair, glancing towards the windows which ran along the whole length of the large office. It was a sunny day of a mild winter. He made for the door and almost bumped into the sports editor coming in.

  ‘How goes it, Ace?’ the editor said cheerily and was surprised at the low-growled response.

  Sue Gates was late but, he had to admit, she was worth waiting for. At thirty-three, four years older than Fenn, she still had the trim figure of a girl in her twenties. Her dark hair was long, fluffed away from her face in loose curls, and her deep brown eyes could gain a man’s attention across any crowded room on any enchanted evening. She was wearing tight jeans, loose sweater and a short, navy blue seaman’s topcoat. She waved when she saw him and pushed her way through the crowded bar. He stood and kissed her when she reached him, relishing her lips’ moist softness.

  ‘Hi kid,’ he said lightly, enjoying the spreading glow which swiftly ran through him and came to rest arou
nd the region of his groin.

  ‘Hi, yourself,’ she said, squeezing into the seat next to him. He pushed the already ordered lager in front of her and she reached for it gratefully, taking a long appreciative swallow.

  ‘You eating today?’ Fenn asked her. Sue often went a couple of days without touching a scrap of food.

  She shook her head. ‘I’ll catch something tonight.’

  ‘Going fishing?’

  ‘Idiot.’

  He popped the last of his cheese and pickle into his mouth and grinned through bulging cheeks.

  Placing a hand over his she said, ‘Sorry I missed you last night.’

  Fenn had to gulp down the food before he could reply. ‘I’m sorry I was ratty on the phone,’ he counter-apologized.

  ‘Forget it. I did ring the Courier, by the way, just to let you know I wouldn’t be there. They told me you were out on an assignment.’

  ‘I rang your place, too.’

  ‘I was out . . .’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Reg took me to dinner.’

  ‘Oh, yeah.’ His voice was casual. ‘Good old Reg.’

  ‘Hey, come on. Reg is my boss – you know there’s nothing in it.’

  ‘Course I know. Does Reg?’

  Sue laughed. ‘He’s as thin as a drainpipe, wears glasses that look like the ends of milk bottles, is losing his hair and has a disgusting habit of picking his nose with his little finger.’

  ‘It’s the last bit that makes him irresistible.’

  ‘On top of that he’s married with three kids.’

  ‘I told you he was irresistible.’ Fenn drained his glass. ‘I’ll get you another while I’m up there.’

  ‘No, let me get you one,’ she insisted. ‘You can reflect on what a wimp you’re being while I’m at the bar.’ She reached for his glass. ‘Another bitter?’

  ‘Bloody Mary,’ he said smugly.

  He watched her weave through the crowd to the bar and told himself how much he admired her independence – he’d told himself, and her, many times – and wished he was convinced of his own admiration. Sue had been married and divorced before she was twenty-six, her ex being an advertising man in London – high-powered, high-living, hi, girls! – something on the creative side of the business. After just one-too-many indiscretions on his part, Sue had sought a divorce. She’d had a good position with a film production company – she and her husband had met when her company was hired to make a TV commercial for his agency – but after her divorce came through, she decided she had had enough of advertising people, enough of London, and enough of men.

  The big problem was that the marriage had produced a child, a son named Ben. He had been the reason for moving down to the south coast. Her parents lived in Hove, which was the other half (some said the better half) of Brighton, and they had agreed to become semi-permanent baby minders. Ben stayed with his grandparents most of the time, but Sue made sure they got together nearly every day and he moved in with her on most weekends. Fenn knew that she missed having the boy around all of the time, but she had to make a living (her fierce independence meant refusal of any maintenance, even for Ben, from the errant husband. Half the money from the sale of their Islington house was all she had demanded). She managed to get herself a job with Radio Brighton and had soon become a producer. But it took up a lot of her time and she was seeing less and less of Ben, which worried her. And she was seeing too much of Fenn, which worried her almost as much. She hadn’t wanted to become entangled with another man; casual acquaintanceships were all she would allow, necessary only for those odd times when a weak body needed something more than a pillow to cling to. Those odd times had become more frequent since she had met Fenn.

  He had urged her to give up her flat, to move in with him. It was ridiculous that they should feel so close and live so far apart (three blocks away, to be precise). But she had resisted, and still did; Sue had vowed never to become totally dependent on one single person again. Ever. Sometimes, and secretly, it was a relief to Fenn, for it gave him his own independence. Guilt hit him occasionally (the bargain seemed to be too much in his favour) but when voiced, she always assured him that the boot was on the other foot and it was she who was getting the better deal. A man to lean on when the going got rough, a body to comfort her when the nights were lonely, and a friend to have fun with when things were going right. A shoulder to cry on, a lover to spy on, and a wallet to rely on. And solitude when it was needed most. What more could any woman ask for? Plenty, Fenn thought, but he wasn’t going to prompt her.

  She was back, handing him the thick red cocktail with an expression of mild disapproval on her face. He sipped the Bloody Mary and winced: Sue had told the barman to go heavy on the Tabasco. He noticed she was trying hard not to smirk.

  ‘What are you doing here today, Woodstein?’ she asked. ‘I thought you’d still be tucked up in bed after your late shift.’

  ‘I ran into a good story last night. Well, it kind of ran into me. I thought it might make the late edition but the Ayatollah had other ideas.’

  ‘Aitken didn’t like it?’

  Fenn shook his head. ‘Like it? He didn’t even believe it.’

  ‘Try me. I know you only lie when it’s to your advantage.’

  He briefly told her what had happened the previous night, and she smiled at the excitement that gradually began to blaze in his eyes as the story went on. At one point, when he was describing how he’d found the little girl kneeling in the field, cold fingers had touched her spine, making her shiver. Fenn went on to tell her about the priest, the doctor, then the arrival of the distraught parents.

  ‘How old was the girl?’ Sue asked.

  ‘The priest said eleven. She looked younger to me.’

  ‘And she was just staring at the tree?’

  ‘She was just staring towards it. I got the impression she was looking at something else.’

  ‘Something else?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s kind of hard to explain. She was smiling, you know, like something was making her very happy. Rapturous, almost. It was as if she were seeing a vision.’

  ‘Oh, Gerry . . .’

  ‘No, that’s it! That’s just what it was like. The kid was seeing a vision.’

  ‘She was having a dream, Gerry. Don’t exaggerate the whole thing.’

  ‘How d’you explain her talking to me then?’

  ‘Maybe you were dreaming too.’

  ‘Ah, Sue. . . . Come on, I’m being serious.’

  She laughed and linked his arm. ‘I’m sorry, lover, but you get so het up when you think you’re sniffing out a good story.’

  He grunted. ‘Maybe you’re right. Maybe I did imagine that part of it. The strange thing was, I got the impression it wasn’t the first time. When the girl’s parents arrived, I heard the mother mumble something about Alice – that’s the kid’s name – going to the same place before. The priest nodded, but his eyes seemed to be warning her not to say too much in front of me. It was all kinda cagey.’

  ‘Did he know you were a reporter?’

  Fenn shook his head. ‘He didn’t ask, so I didn’t tell him.’ He sipped his drink thoughtfully. ‘He wanted me out of the way, though. Couldn’t wait to get rid of me once the mother and father got there. I pretended to be more shaken up than I really was, so he let me rest a while. Then, just before the parents took Alice away, he went through some ritual with her. Mumbled something or other and made the sign of the cross.’

  ‘He blessed her?’

  He looked at Sue quizzically. ‘If you say so.’

  ‘No. That’s what you’re saying. He must have blessed her.’

  ‘Why would he do that?’

  ‘A priest will bless a house, a holy medal, a statue. Even your car if you ask him nicely. Why not a child?’

  ‘Yeah, why not? Hey, how do you know all that?’

  ‘I’m a Catholic – at least I used to be. I’m not sure if I still am; the Catholic Church doesn’t actually approve of divor
ce.’

  ‘You never told me.’

  ‘It was never important. I don’t go to church any more, only at Christmas, and that’s mainly for Ben’s sake. He likes the ceremony.’

  Fenn nodded knowingly. ‘So that’s why you’re so wild in bed.’

  ‘Creep.’

  ‘Uh huh. That’s why you’re into flagellation!’

  ‘Will you stop. The day I let you beat me—’

  ‘Yeah, that’s why I have to undress in the dark . . .’

  She groaned and pinched his thigh under the table. Fenn yelped, almost spilling his drink. ‘Okay, okay, I lied, you’re normal. It’s a pity, but it’s the truth.’

  ‘Just you remember it.’

  He squeezed her thigh in return, but his touch was gentle as well as higher and further in. ‘You’re saying, then, that it would have been standard practice for him to bless the girl?’

  ‘Oh, no, it sounds unusual to me under those circumstances. But not especially so. It may have been to reassure the parents more than anything else.’

  ‘Yeah, could be.’

  Sue studied his profile, and was aware that she loved him some days more than others. Today was a more day. She remembered when they had first met, over three years ago. It was at a party given by the radio station for one of their announcers, who was leaving to join the mother ship, Great Auntie BBC, in London. Some of the friendlier Press had been invited; Gerry Fenn was considered aggressive but friendly enough.

  ‘You look familiar,’ she had told him when he skilfully got around to introducing himself. She had caught him looking her way several times before he edged his way round the room so that he could deliberately bump into her.

  ‘Yeah?’ he had said, eyebrows raised.

  ‘Yes, you remind me of an actor . . .’

  ‘Right. Who?’ He was grinning broadly.

  ‘Oh, what’s his name. Richard . . .’

  ‘Eastwood. Richard Eastwood?’

  ‘No, no. He was in that space thing . . .’

  ‘Richard Redford?’

  ‘No, silly.’

  ‘Richard Newman?’

  ‘Dreyfuss, that’s who. Richard Dreyfuss.’