Shrine

by Herbert, James

  Molly stood outside Alice’s door. Silence for a while then –

  . . . bid-dip bid-dip bip bip . . .

  The excitement of the last two days had been too much for Alice: it was the middle of the night and she could not sleep. She loved to watch the luminous green invaders descending the black screen of the microchip toy, destroying them with a quick stab at the red button, flicking a switch with the other hand so that her spaceship scuttled from side to side, dodging the invaders’ deadly bombs. Now she could hear the machine, hear the computered pipes of victory when the last invader had been vanquished from dark plastic space. It must seem like a new toy again to her.

  . . . bip bip . . .

  But she had to sleep. The doctors had insisted that she rested. And Molly did not want a relapse. That would be too harsh of God . . .

  . . . bip . . .

  She pushed open the door.

  . . . bi –

  Molly was not sure that she had seen the small green light vanish on the far side of the room. It had been just a flicker in the corner of her eye, and it could have been nothing at all. She looked towards Alice’s bed, expecting to see her daughter sitting up, eyes wide and happy, Galaxy Invaders in her hands. All she saw in the street light shining through the curtains was the little shape beneath the bedclothes.

  ‘Alice?’ Molly realized how naturally she had called her name, how swift was the acceptance of her daughter’s returned senses, as though she had never really accepted their loss. ‘Alice, are you awake?’

  There was no sound. Nothing from the child, nothing from the machine.

  Molly smiled in the gloom and moved towards the bed. Little faker, she scolded silently, teasing your mum.

  She bent over her daughter, ready to tickle her nose and end the pretence. She stayed her hand. Alice really was asleep. Her breathing was too deep and her face too much in repose for her to be faking.

  ‘Alice,’ Molly said again, softly, touching her shoulder. The child did not stir.

  Molly lifted the covers, searching for the electronic toy, expecting it to be cuddled in Alice’s arms. It wasn’t there. And it wasn’t on the floor beside the bed. But it had to be nearby, Alice couldn’t have scooted across the room to get back into bed before she had entered. It wasn’t possible.

  Molly knelt and ducked her head to floor level, peering beneath the bed. No plastic shape lurked there.

  She remembered the green fading light.

  No, that was ridiculous. Just not possible.

  But she looked anyway.

  The electronic game was lying on the small dressing table on the other side of the room, its switch in the OFF position, its screen black and lifeless.

  Molly knew she hadn’t imagined the familiar sound. She also knew it could not have been in her daughter’s hands. And there was no one else in the room. Just shadows and the sound of Alice’s steady breathing.

  11

  ‘Could you keep a secret, if I told you one? It’s a great secret, I don’t know what I should do if anyone found it out. I believe I should die!’

  Frances Hodgson Burnett, The Secret Garden

  Fenn rolled over in the bed and his own groan brought him awake. His head seemed to continue rolling.

  ‘Oh, Jes . . .’ He winced, one hand fumbling towards the throbbing lump that common sense told him really was his forehead. His fingers hardly eased the pain at all.

  Turning onto his back, a hand over his closed eyes, he endeavoured to control the spinning sensation. Another groan developed into a low, self-pitying hum, a sound which was in perfect harmony with the higher-pitched hum melodying around inside his head. A full minute later, the cadence began to ease and slowly, experimentally, he eased back the shutters over his eyes. It was another half-minute before he lifted his hand.

  The ceiling settled down when he stopped blinking and he considered sitting up in the bed. Consideration over, he lay there and groped a hand towards the bedside table, careful not to lift his head from the pillow, nor turn it in any direction. The searching fingers could not find his wristwatch and he cursed his necessary habit of keeping the alarm clock as far away from the bed as possible (necessary because it was much too easy to turn off the bell and go back to sleep; he found the distance covered to find the bastard was enough to arouse him from his usual morning-zombie state). Where the hell was his watch? He couldn’t have been that drunk last night. On the other hand, he could well have been.

  Fenn sighed, screwed up his courage, and let his head slide towards the edge of the bed. Head hanging over, blood beginning to pound at the slab of concrete inside like waves against a sea wall, he stared at the floor. No watch there. But one arm was hanging over the edge too, hand bent back limply against the floor.

  ‘Stupid, stupid,’ he muttered when he spied the leather strap around his wrist. He twisted his arm and squinted at the watchface. Six minutes past eleven. It had to be morning; that was light coming through the closed curtains.

  He drew himself back towards the centre of the bed, resisting the urge to lie down again. Head resting against the headboard, back propped up by the pillow, he tried to remember how he had come to this state. Beer and brandy was the answer.

  He scratched his chest and mentally – the physical act would have been too painful – shook his head at himself. You gotta cut it out, Fenn. A young drunkard could be fun, an old one just a bloody bore; and you’re not getting younger. Journalists had the reputation of being big drinkers, and it wasn’t true. They were enormous drinkers. Not all of them, of course; just those he knew personally.

  Fenn tentatively pushed himself further up in the bed. He called this slow method of reclaiming the day ‘gradual resurrection’.

  Memories of the night before came filtering through and he grinned once or twice, but ended up frowning and lifting the bedclothes to inspect his lower body as though suspecting something might be missing. He grunted with relief; still there although it was making no big thing of it. What the hell was the girl’s name? Boz, Roz, something like that. Or it might have been Julia. He shrugged, not really caring. So long as I’m not pregnant, he told himself.

  He eased the covers away, using his feet to kick them towards the end of the bed. Then slowly, and ever so carefully, he teased his body from the bed. His head weighed more than the rest of him and the trick was to keep it balanced on his shoulders as he made towards the window. He drew the curtains, sensible enough to keep his eyes closed against the glare which he knew would hit the room; the sun was especially partial to his bedroom at that time of day. He stood there, allowing the rays to warm his body, the worst of the day’s coldness blocked by the glass. When he finally opened his eyes he saw a woman trudging up the hill outside, pushing a supermarket trolley laden with shopping before her, staring up open-mouthed at his naked body. Her stride did not break, although her progress was slow, and her head swivelled round in an almost Exorcist turn. Fenn faded back into the room, smiling sheepishly and giving the shopper a friendly little wave to show there was no menace in him. He hoped her head would not lock into its unnatural position.

  Once out of the sunlight, coldness staked its claim with tiny, itchy goose-pimples, and Fenn grabbed his dressing gown from the end of the bed. It was short and loose, ending well above his knees, and looked much better on Sue. It had looked pretty good on Boz, Roz – or was it Anthea? – last night, too, but not as good as on Sue. Even that drunk he had noticed and noted.

  He went into the kitchen and filled the kettle, staring at the running water as though fascinated, but not really seeing it. He switched the kettle on and then ran both hands through his rumpled hair. I need a cigarette, he told himself, and was relieved he didn’t smoke. The note was propped up against the cornflakes packet and he pulled out a chair and studied the message for a few seconds without touching it. It was a telephone number and signed ‘Pam’. Oh yeah, that was her name. He briefly wondered whether she had tried to wake him before leaving the flat. Probably had, not kn
owing it would take a major earthquake to rouse him after a drunken binge. Only Sue could do it with sneaky groping hands, but then she had a technique all her own. He laid Pam’s note down on the table and tried to remember what she looked like. He remembered remarking to Eddy, his drinking-buddy from the sports page of the Courier, ‘Nice face, shame about the legs,’ when they saw her and a friend in the club, but couldn’t recapture her image. The legs, though. Yeah, they were coming back. They’ll crush your little head, Eddy had warned him; and Eddy hadn’t been far wrong, he now recalled. He gingerly touched his ears and wondered if they were as red as they felt. Could ears bruise? He went into the bathroom to check.

  When Fenn returned to the kitchen, satisfied at least that his ears had not been pressed flat against the sides of his head, but not too pleased with the bleary-eyed reflection that had sneered at him from the bathroom mirror, the room was filled with steam. He had taken time to ease the punishment on his bladder, senses suddenly sharp for any strange tingling sensation as the liquid flowed; you could never be too sure with girls you didn’t know. And some that you thought you did.

  Jesus, he missed Sue.

  He poured the boiling water into a cup, only remembering to add coffee when he was settled down at the kitchen table again. It burnt his lips when he sipped, but at least it was a clean, stinging pain, not like the droning ache in his head. He dipped his hand into the cornflakes packet and ate some, reflecting sombrely that it was just as well he was working the night shift; he was in no fit state this morning.

  He looked around the small kitchen and shuddered. He would have to make an effort today; he couldn’t go on living in such a pig-sty. Maybe he was a little untidy, but this mess was ridiculous. Time to get yourself back together, Fenn. No woman was worth it. Are you kidding? he answered himself. Every one was worth it – well, maybe with just a few exceptions.

  Fifteen minutes later he was still brooding over his third cup of coffee when the doorbell rang.

  He leaned out of the kitchen window and saw Sue standing in the street below. Either his hangover cleared instantly or racing emotions swamped the ill effects. She looked up and waved.

  He found it difficult to speak for a few moments, then stuttered, ‘Use your . . . your key, Sue.’

  ‘I didn’t like to,’ she called up.

  She fumbled in her shoulder-bag, then stuck the key into the lock. Fenn drew his head back inside, scraping the hair on the back of his head painfully against the frame. He rubbed the skin and couldn’t stop smiling. He hadn’t seen her for nearly three weeks, not since she’d walked out of the restaurant. They’d had several strained telephone conversations, but that was all. It had taken her absence to make him realize how hooked he was on her. He leaned against the cooker, still smiling, relieved, expectant.

  ‘Oh, shit!’ The smile vanished.

  Fenn scooped up the note still lying on the kitchen table and considered swallowing it; he shoved it into his pocket instead. Running into the lounge, he did a quick survey of the room. No incriminating evidence there. Then into the bedroom, lunging at the bed, scouring it for fallen hairgrips, strands of hair coloured differently to his own, smudges of lipstick or eyeshadow on the pillows. He made sure there were no other stains either. Sighing with relief, he allowed himself a few moments to collect his thoughts. Then Christ, did she smoke? He couldn’t remember. No ashtray beside the bed. The lounge! There’d be cigarette butts smudged with lipstick in the lounge! He ran back in just as Sue opened the flat door.

  ‘Sue,’ he said, sniffing the air for the stale aroma of cigarettes. The air seemed to be okay if just a little alcoholic.

  ‘Hello, Gerry.’ Her smile was not a full one.

  ‘You look terrific,’ he said.

  ‘You look awful.’

  He rubbed his unshaven chin, feeling awkward. ‘How’ve you been?’

  ‘Fine. You?’

  ‘Pretty good.’

  He stuck his hands into the pockets of the robe. ‘Why the hell didn’t you return my calls?’ He tried to keep his voice level, but the last word was on the ascendant. ‘For Christ’s sake, three weeks!’

  ‘Not quite. And I’ve spoken to you a couple of times.’

  ‘Yeah, you just haven’t said anything.’

  ‘I haven’t come to argue with you, Gerry.’

  He stopped himself from a retort, then said quietly: ‘You wanna coffee?’

  ‘I haven’t got long. I’m on my way to the university to tape some interviews.’

  ‘A quick one.’ He went into the kitchen and reboiled the kettle. He was fortunate to find one cup that was clean at the back of the cupboard.

  Her voice came through from the lounge. ‘This place is a mess.’

  ‘The maid’s day off,’ he called back.

  When he returned she was sitting on the settee, calmly watching him. He felt a tightness in his chest; she looked good. He placed the two cups on the glass coffee-table, then eased himself down into the other end of the small sofa. A two-foot gap separated them.

  ‘I called round once or twice,’ he told her.

  ‘I’ve been spending a lot more time at my parents with Ben.’

  He nodded. ‘How is he?’

  ‘Boisterous as ever.’ She sipped and pulled a face. ‘Your coffee hasn’t improved.’

  ‘Nor has my disposition. No shit, Sue, I’ve missed you.’

  She stared into her cup. ‘I needed a break from you. You were becoming . . . a little too much.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. It’s a habit of mine.’

  ‘I needed a breather.’

  ‘You said. Nothing personal, right?’

  ‘Stop it, Gerry.’

  He chewed on his lip.

  ‘And maybe you needed a break from me, too,’ she said.

  ‘No, babe, I didn’t.’

  She couldn’t help asking. ‘Have you been seeing anyone?’

  He looked squarely into her eyes. ‘No. I haven’t wanted to.’ His ears tingled sorely for a few guilty seconds. He cleared his throat and said, ‘How about you?’

  Sue shook her head. ‘I told you, I’ve been busy with Ben.’ She sipped her coffee again and he moved closer. He took the cup from her hand and placed it back on the saucer. His fingers travelled to her neck, beneath her hair. He kissed her cheek, then turned her head with his other hand to reach her lips.

  She was soft, yielding against him, returning his kiss with an emotion that matched his; but then she was pulling away, one hand held against his shoulder.

  ‘Please don’t. That’s not why I’m here.’ She seemed to have difficulty in breathing.

  He ignored her and tried again, a feeling that was more than just desire strong within him.

  ‘No, Gerry!’ This time there was anger.

  He stopped, having problems with his own breathing. ‘Sue . . .’

  Her glare stopped his words. And further action. Fenn struggled to contain his own anger. ‘Okay, okay.’ He turned away from her in a heavy sulk. ‘What the hell have you come for, Sue? Just to collect some of your things?’

  He heard her sigh. ‘Not to upset you, Gerry. I didn’t want that,’ she said.

  ‘Who’s upset? I’m not upset. I may break out in pimples any moment now, but that’s just late puberty. Christ, how could you upset me?’

  ‘You’re such a bloody baby!’

  ‘Go ahead, turn on your charm.’

  She had to smile, despite herself. ‘Gerry, I came to tell you about the church. The church at Banfield.’

  He looked at her curiously.

  ‘I’ve been back. I’ve taken Ben there on Sundays.’

  He opened his mouth to speak, but couldn’t find anything to say.

  ‘It’s wonderful, Gerry.’ Now her smile was full, and her eyes were shining with excitement. The transition was so swift it took Fenn by surprise.

  ‘So many people are flocking to St Joseph’s,’ Sue went on. ‘People are bringing their children, their sick, their handicapped. It’s
almost like a pilgrimage to them. And the happiness – it seems to hit you before you even reach the church grounds. It’s unbelievable, Gerry.’

  ‘Hey now, wait a minute. I thought it had all died down. I’ve rung the priest there – this Father Hagan – and he told me nothing more has happened. No more miracles, no more apparitions. Certainly nothing newsworthy or the Nationals would have been swarming over it like flies over a shit heap.’

  ‘You have to be there to see it! Of course there’s no more physical miracles, but the miracle is the atmosphere itself. That’s why I came today, Gerry. I want you to see it for yourself. I want you to experience it.’

  He frowned. ‘But I’m not a Catholic, Sue.’

  ‘You don’t have to be, that’s the joy of it. You only have to feel to know it’s a holy place.’

  ‘But why should the priest lie to me?’

  ‘He didn’t lie. Nothing is happening in the material sense; he told you the truth. He doesn’t want the situation exploited, can’t you see that?’

  ‘And do you?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Then why are you telling me?’

  She took his hand and clasped it tightly in both of hers. ‘Because I want some of that cynicism knocked out of that silly head of yours. If you could just see for yourself the effect the place has on people, I know you’ll begin to have some beliefs yourself.’

  ‘Wait a minute. You’re beginning to sound like a religious freak. You’re not trying to convert me, are you?’

  She surprised him by laughing. ‘I don’t think the Holy Ghost Himself could do that. No, I just want you to bear witness—’

  ‘Oh, definitely a religious—’

  ‘Just see for yourself.’ Her voice had become quiet.

  He drew in a deep breath and sank back against the sofa.

  ‘What about the girl, Alice? Is she still going to the church?’

  ‘That’s the other thing you have to see.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s hard to say.’ Her words were slow, deliberate, as though her thoughts were deep. ‘She seems to have changed.’