‘In what way?’
‘It’s difficult to describe. She seems – I don’t know – older, more mature. There’s a special kind of aura around her. Some people weep when they see her.’
‘Ah come on, Sue. It’s just some kind of hysteria. They’ve heard the story – their minds are doing the rest.’
‘See for yourself.’
‘Maybe I should.’ He had to admit, he was becoming curious about the whole affair once more. The contact with Sue might bring them back together again, too. ‘I could go there this afternoon,’ he said.
‘No. Wait ’til Sunday.’
He looked questioningly at her.
‘Come to the Mass with me, when the crowds will be there.’
‘You know it could have fizzled out by then. The place might be empty.’
‘I doubt it. But there’s another reason I want you to come on Sunday.’ She got to her feet, looking at her watch. ‘I’ve got to go or l’ll be in trouble.’
‘What? What are you talking about? You can’t just leave.’
Sue walked to the door. ‘I’m sorry, Gerry, I really do have to go. Pick me up on Sunday morning at my place. Ben will be staying with me so we can all go together.’ She opened the door.
‘But what was the other reason?’ he asked, still sitting perplexed on the sofa.
‘There’s a rumour that Alice has told the priest and her mother that the Lady wants to see her again. On the 28th. That’s this Sunday.’
Sue closed the door quietly behind her.
12
You parents all that children have,
And you that have got none,
If you would have them safe abroad,
Pray keep them safe at home.
Old Nursery Rhyme
This Sunday was different. It was cold, drizzling, and miserable. But Fenn’s senses keened to the excitement in the air as a rat’s nose twitches at the scent of distant blood.
Sue had been right: it hit you before you reached the church grounds. The first signs came as he drove through the village High Street: there was a bustling activity that was unusual for a Sunday morning in any town, village or city, particularly on a cold and damp one. And most of the people were heading in the same direction. Traffic, too, was far heavier than normal.
Ben, in the back seat, had become quiet, which was a relief at any time. His arms were resting against the back of the front passenger seat, his face close to his mother’s. Fenn quickly glanced at the eight-year-old boy and saw an expectant look in those large brown eyes; Ben’s mouth was open and half-smiling as he stared ahead through the windscreen.
‘Are you beginning to feel the atmosphere, Gerry?’ Sue asked, looking past her son’s head at the reporter.
Fenn muttered non-committally. He wasn’t prepared to admit anything yet. He slowed the car as they approached a zebra crossing and the gathering on the pavement waved acknowledgements as they scurried across. Small children clutched their parents’ hands, the elderly hung on to sturdier companions. A middle-aged man in a wheelchair came last, pushed by a younger man: their similarity in appearance indicated they were father and son. The cripple smiled at Fenn, then looked over his shoulder at his son, urging him to push faster.
Once the road was clear, Fenn eased his foot down on the accelerator, aware that traffic had built up behind him. The traffic moved off in convoy, Fenn’s Mini at its head.
He glanced into his rearview mirror, surprised at the swift build-up he had caused. ‘I hope we’re not all going to the same place,’ he commented.
‘I think you’re in for a surprise,’ Sue replied.
He was passing groups of people along the roadside now, the houses on either side becoming fewer until there were only fields and trees. Even the steady drizzle could not dampen the cheerfulness that seemed to exude from the walkers.
Soon there were cars parked by the roadside, all driven half onto the grass verge.
‘I don’t believe this,’ Fenn said as they were forced to drive past the church entrance.
‘I said you’d be surprised.’ There was no hint of smugness in Sue’s voice.
He scanned each side of the road, looking for a space. ‘Has it been like this every Sunday since?’
‘No. It’s been crowded, but not like this. The rumour has obviously spread.’
‘You didn’t tell me how you heard about it.’ He swerved the Mini to avoid an opening door. Two metal sticks stretched out from the other vehicle’s interior, followed by two ill-controlled legs. The driver was just emerging to assist his invalid passenger as Fenn’s car passed.
‘I was here at the evening service last Wednesday. I overheard some parishioners talking.’
Fenn risked a quick look at her. ‘You were at evening service? In the week?’
‘That’s right, Gerry.’
‘Right.’
He pulled in behind the last vehicle in the line. ‘I guess this’ll do,’ he said ironically. The Mini bumped onto the verge and another car pulled up in front almost immediately. ‘Okay, Ben, time to get wet.’
The boy was already pushing at the back of his mother’s seat, eager to get going. Sue stepped out and pulled the passenger seat forward, allowing Ben to scramble through. Fenn slammed his door shut and pulled up the collar of his raincoat. ‘Fine day for a bloody carnival,’ he muttered under his breath. He tucked his hands into the coat’s large pockets, conscious of the bulky object in one: this time, after moans from the Courier’s picture editor, who hadn’t liked his last pocket-camera efforts, he had borrowed an Olympus. If (and it was a big if ) anything happened, he was going to be prepared. In his other pocket he carried a micro-cassette recorder, a Christmas gift from Sue. They set off towards the church, Sue’s arm linked through his, Ben racing ahead.
More vehicles were slowing, then stopping just beyond his. The gate to the pathway leading up to the church was crammed with people and Sue had to grab Ben, holding him close to prevent him from being jostled. Fenn stared around at the eager throng, bemused and becoming excited himself with their mood. Even if nothing spectacular happened – and he was sure it wouldn’t – he now had a nice follow-up story to the previous one. It might take a little exaggeration on his part to say that St Joseph’s was being besieged by pilgrims, believers and the just-plain-curious, but it wasn’t too far from the truth. He shook his head in wonder: what the hell did they all expect to see? Another miracle? He suppressed a chuckle, delighted now that Sue had persuaded him to come. It wasn’t going to be a complete waste of time.
The three of them, Fenn, Sue and Ben, squeezed through the open gateway, bunched together by the shuffling crowd. Fenn noticed that a young girl on his left, no more than fifteen or sixteen, was trembling visibly, then quickly realized her spasmodic movements were something more than just excitement. The tight drooping of one side of her mouth gave him a hint, for he had seen the disorder before. Her movements were clumsy, her hands and arms twitching uncontrollably; she was flanked on either side by a man and woman, presumably her parents. If he was right, the girl was suffering from a form of chorea, most probably St Vitus’s Dance, for he had seen exactly the same symptoms in a young woman he’d interviewed in a Brighton hospital when covering the story of the hospital’s imminent closure because of government cuts. It was an assignment he hadn’t enjoyed, for the sick always made him feel unhealthy, but at least his article, with its many poignant interviews from the patients, had helped cause a stay of execution for the hospital. Its future was still uncertain, but that was better than positively no future at all.
He stood aside, allowing the small group more room for manoeuvring, and the father smiled gratefully. Once through the gate, the queue thinned out, although the line stretched up to the church doorway itself. There were several among the throng who, like the young girl, were helped along by others. They passed a small emaciated-looking boy in a wheelchair, chattering happily to his surrounding fami
ly, his eyes, large and bulging, shining with some inner exhilaration. Fenn saw the smiling sadness in the face of the boy’s mother; and there was hope in her expression, too, a desperate hope. It made Fenn feel uncomfortable, as if he were a voyeur into the private misery of others. Not just that, though: he was about to be a witness to their disappointment. He could sympathize with their desperation, but could not understand their gullibility. What had happened to little Alice Pagett had been a fluke of nature, an accidental triggering off of something in her brain that had over-ridden other, disobedient nerves, returning senses that she had never really lost physically; these people now thought the same chance process could happen to themselves or those in their care. It was, he had to admit, strangely moving. And he began to feel anger, for he resented having his protective wall of cynicism breached by such blatant stupidity, and that anger was turned towards the Church which nourished and encouraged such ignorance. His rancour had become seething indignation by the time they reached the porch.
Inside the church it was crowded, the rows of pews full to capacity. Fenn had expected it to be so because of the activity outside, but was nevertheless surprised by the size of the congregation. And the noise, the steady murmur of whispered conversations. A peaceful silence, he had always assumed, was the prerequisite of any church when not responding to the service taking place, but it seemed today the collective tenseness was difficult to contain.
Looking at his watch he saw that it was still sixteen minutes before the start of the Mass. If they had come any later, they would never have got inside the door.
Sue dipped her fingers into the font, making the Sign of the Cross in a quick, fluid movement and encouraging Ben to follow suit. The boy reached into the receptacle, but his ritual was slower, more solemn. One of the men obviously designated as ushers to control the inflowing crowd politely gestured for the three of them to move to the left of the church towards a side aisle where those unable to find seats were standing. Fenn resisted, for he already knew from which vantage point he wished to view the proceedings. He took Sue’s elbow and guided her towards the right. The usher opened his mouth to protest and decided it really wasn’t worth it.
Sue looked at Fenn in surprise as he urged her towards the spot they had occupied on his previous visit. There were a few disapproving stares as they jostled their way through, Ben anxiously clinging to his mother’s coat, but they reached the right-hand aisle without hindrance. She was puzzled as Fenn stood on tiptoe, craning his neck towards the front of the church, then realized he was looking for Alice Pagett, whom he no doubt assumed would be sitting beneath the statue of Our Lady again. There was no way of telling if she was there, for the aisle was too full. Sue noticed there were more wheelchairs alongside the benches and emotion swept through her, feelings aroused in her that had been held in check for many years. Those emotions had been growing over the last three weeks and now she felt them unleashed, flowing through her and outwards, joining with others, uniting. She wasn’t sure what these feelings were, but they had much to do with compassion, love for others. She felt like crying and knew she was not alone in that feeling. There was an anticipation inside her that exulted yet frightened her.
Even now, she was still uncertain as to whether or not Alice’s cure had been miraculous, although she wanted to believe with all her heart. After years in a spiritual wilderness, clinging by only a thin thread to her religion, something had happened here at this church which had drawn her back, the absorption gradual at first, the link still tenuous, until her own will had strengthened the renewed acceptance. She had witnessed something extraordinary, be it a miracle or not, and that impression had rekindled her trust. And that was the feeling she shared with so many others gathered in St Joseph’s church. Trust. It pervaded the air like the accompanying smell of incense.
She hugged Ben close and tenderly touched Fenn’s arm, loving them both and wanting their love.
Fenn turned and winked and a small unpleasant shock made her hand drop away. The rushing compassion coursing through her almost stumbled to a halt, tripped by his wink of reality. No, not her reality, but his. His insensitivity, his mocking attitude. His only reason for being here was because there might be a story in it, a sequel to a feature that had enhanced his journalistic reputation. She thought he had come because he loved her and wanted to please; she had persuaded him because of her feelings towards him, wanting him to share her own acceptance. That one small gesture of his had dispelled her sentiment, made her realize they were two very different people, for it had contained the destructive contempt, no matter how lightly or how humorously disguised, of the detractor, the person who would never believe – never trust – because to do so would influence their own self-seeking opportunism. At that moment – and this was why her emotions had stumbled – she despised him.
He frowned as she stared at him, recognizing the sudden hostility in her eyes and confused by it. Sue averted her gaze, leaving him wondering.
More people were crowding in from behind, forcing them to move further down the aisle. Fenn tried once more to see the front bench, but there were still too many heads blocking his view. His initial excitement was now beginning to fade, the waiting and the claustrophobic atmosphere of the packed church taking effect. The tension was still around him, but he no longer shared it, or at least, not its particular brand of tension; his feelings were more of sharp curiosity. He examined the faces of those sitting in the benches. Were they all from the village or had word spread further afield? He recognized some, for he had spoken to them before on the day Alice had been cured. His gaze stopped on a particularly familiar face, this one seen only in half-profile, for the figure sat on the other side of the centre aisle, near the front. It was Southworth, the hotel owner. Well, Mr Southworth, it seemed, had been wrong: interest hadn’t completely died away. Maybe it would after today, though. The punters were expecting too much, and they could only be disappointed. In fact, he wouldn’t be at all surprised if there were some angry scenes after the service.
Fenn looked for the fat man, Tucker, whom he had met with Southworth at the hotel, but he was either hidden from view or not present. A disturbance at the back of the church drew his attention.
The doors were being closed, much to the annoyance of those still outside. Heads were turning as the dispute grew louder and a dark-suited man, wearing the unobtrusive collar of the modern-day cleric, rose from the front bench and strode purposefully up the centre aisle towards the source of the trouble. He was tall, well over six feet Fenn estimated, even though his shoulders were stooped, and he was painfully thin. Yet his face, with its high forehead and prominent nose, showed strength, a fact further confirmed by his vigorous stride. The priest’s cheeks were sunken, his cheekbones high ridges on shadowed valleys, and his skin had a jaundiced look that betrayed a past illness; yet even that failed to detract from the strength.
When he reached the end of the aisle, he raised a hand as if to gently scythe a way through the crowd gathered there, and Fenn was surprised at its size; from where the reporter stood, it looked as though the priest’s fingers could easily wrap themselves around a football. It may have been an exaggeration in Fenn’s mind, but the congregation back there seemed to agree, for they parted before the advancing limb like the sea heeding Moses. He followed the tall man’s progress, for he was easily seen above the heads of others, and wondered who he was and why he was there. Within seconds, the priest was walking back down the aisle, the disturbance behind having settled, the doors of the church left open wide, despite the chill, and Fenn had a chance to study the man’s face in more detail.
His eyes were cast downwards, the lids heavy, giving the appearance of being completely closed. His jaw was firm, though not prominently so, and the upper lip slightly protruding, spoiling what otherwise would have been dauntingly strong features. His brow was furrowed in deep lines, and further wrinkles were etched sharply around his eyes, curling both upwards and downwards like the splayed ends of a
wire brush. His eyebrows were grey and full, like his hair, shadowing his eye-sockets. His stoop was more than fatigue or negligent posture; the spine was curved unnaturally, though not badly. The priest genuflected, then took his seat once more. Fenn had the distinct feeling of just having witnessed a magnetic storm in human form. He realized, too, that the buzz of hushed conversation had come to an abrupt halt while the priest was on the move. The whispers began again now that the intimidating figure had disappeared from view.
The crowd at the rear swelled into the centre channel and the three ushers forced their way through to form a human barrier, preventing the overflow from filling the aisle completely. Fenn was intrigued by everything that was happening and already regretting not having followed up his story in the ensuing weeks. Evidently an undercurrent of interest and speculation had developed in the area, culminating in today’s little turnout. They wanted to see the trick done again. Maybe a bit more this time, though. We’ve had the triple somersault, now let’s see the quadruple. That was why they had brought their sick along. Great trick last time, but what’s in it for me? Or: Sorry, missed the last show – can we have a repeat?
His story, the angle, the view it would take, was already forming in his mind and it had much to do with gullibility, superstition, avarice – and, yes, maybe even duplicity. The meeting with Southworth and Tucker, whose motives leaned more than overtly towards exploitation, gave a good indication of what could be behind the spreading rumours. They had tried to recruit him into their campaign and had been disappointed, but probably not discouraged. And how culpable was the Catholic Church itself? Just how much had they done to dispel the story of a miracle? Or had they encouraged it? Fenn felt grimly satisfied: there was the makings of some nice investigative journalism here. Not enough to set the world on fire, but controversial enough to sell a few extra copies in the southern counties. Then he glanced at Sue and fingers of guilt pushed at his thoughts.
Shrine Page 11
