Shrine

by Herbert, James

  And all were excited by the prosperity this dramatic and awesome incident could bring them.

  Southworth smiled again. It was difficult not to.

  Wednesday, early evening

  She pulled the covers up to her neck and lay there staring at the ceiling, waiting for him to come out of the bathroom. That was one of Rodney’s good points: he was clean. He always washed himself before and after. His mind wasn’t as clean, but that didn’t bother Paula too much; her own thoughts could be just as raunchy.

  She rubbed her hands over her stomach, the feeling sensuous, almost as enjoyable as if it were another’s fingers probing the flesh. Paula, still single, knew well the pleasures of her own body. She checked her nipples to see if they were erect, wanting to be at her most desirable for her employer, tweaking them both for full projection. The toilet flushed and she became a little impatient with Rodney’s ritual. Keep cool, Paula, she told herself, tonight wasn’t the night for upsetting him. Tonight was progress night. She’d given him enough to worry about over the past few weeks, now was the time for a little mercy, a little loving, a little giving on her part. It was a fine balance, keeping him anxious and keeping him interested.

  He was in a buoyant mood, for his plans were going well. The village was stirring, at last awakening to the big world beyond its semi-rural confines. Things were moving and Tucker was moving with them.

  Paula’s fingers probed lower, sliding their way through tough dark hair like snakes through undergrowth, middle finger, the leader of the pack, finding the dip below. She opened herself, knowing Rodney liked to find her wet and waiting, and caught her breath at the stab of pleasure. There was something sordidly exciting about making love in a motel bedroom, the kind of self-abasement that went with self-abuse, and Paula was partial to both. She would have preferred a candlelight dinner for two, followed by a night of love in a plush hotel suite, energy and ideas sustained by an ice-bucket containing Dom Perignon (there were several things she could do with a linen towel packed with ice). But failing that, a gin and tonic and a motel fuck had some merit.

  She heard Rodney splashing at the bathroom sink and worked a little more vigorously at herself, only too aware that her employer was not the most lingering of lovers. Too many times she had lost the climax race to him; nowadays she made sure she had a head start. She moaned a little and closed her eyes.

  Tucker watched her from the open doorway, enjoying the view. He loved her to do it to herself, so long as she held back on the best bit for him. It saved him a lot of preliminary work.

  Paula confused him, for her moods seemed to change from day to day. It was worrying too: on her really bad days there was more than just a hint of hysteria in her actions. When she shouted at him she didn’t seem to care who heard and twice she had suggested that it night be better in the long run if Marcia found out about their affair. She was fed up with being treated like a trollop. He wondered how the hell else you treated a trollop.

  But today and yesterday she had been all sweetness and light and genuinely pleased at his personal good fortune (or imminent good fortune). Maybe she had just caught the village’s carnival atmosphere. Or maybe she wanted a part in his new schemes.

  Tucker’s freshly washed penis indicated its impatience by pressing uncomfortably against his underpants. Never one to keep a personal friend waiting, he made for the bed where Paula’s movements were becoming a little too frantic. She opened her eyes and smiled lasciviously at him, her hand slowing to walking pace.

  ‘Enjoying yourself?’ he said, unbuttoning his shirt and placing it neatly over his trousers draped on the back of a nearby chair. The ginger hair on his floppy chest stuck through his string vest like stuffing from an old sofa.

  ‘Just waiting for you, lover,’ she replied and slowly drew back the covers for him. She allowed him a titillating glance at her naked body, then let them fall back over her. ‘Take your vest off, lovey,’ she said as he clambered in next to her. Paula didn’t relish having the criss-cross pattern all over her breasts and stomach.

  He squatted in the bed and struggled out of his vest, the released blubber swimming around the waistline of his underpants for a second before finding its level. My God, Paula thought, it was like being fucked by a whale.

  Switching off the wall-light on his side of the bed, but leaving hers on, he wriggled down under the blankets. Without preamble a cold hand closed around her right breast like a metal claw in an amusement arcade’s lucky dip.

  ‘Wait, Rod,’ she said pleadingly. ‘There’s no rush.’ Paula squirmed against him to make sure he realized there was no rebuke or rejection in her words. ‘Besides . . .’ she giggled ‘. . . I’ve got a little treat for you.’

  Tucker’s ears pricked up and his penis took a new interest. Paula’s ‘little treats’ were usually worth delaying the action for.

  Her hand roamed around his chest, over his belly, then round to his fleshy back. Delicate fingers surfed through the tidal wave of fat to swoop down beneath the stretched elastic of his underpants and splay out over his buttocks. He nuzzled her neck in appreciation.

  She murmured something and he said, ‘What?’

  ‘I said, did you see Southworth this morning?’ Her teeth chewed his nipple.

  He grunted and she took it as an affirmative.

  Paula drew away when he said nothing more and looked into his face.

  ‘Well?’ she said.

  ‘Well what?’

  ‘What happened at the council meeting? What was decided?’

  ‘Oh bloody hell, I don’t want to talk about that now.’ He yelped when she dug in her long fingernails.

  ‘You know I’m interested in your affairs, Rodney.’

  ‘You are my affair, precious.’

  He yelped again.

  ‘You know what I mean,’ she scolded. ‘You’ve got ideas, Rod. You could do things in this town.’

  ‘That’s true enough. Anyway, I think it’s all set.’ He turned onto his back, sex forgotten for the moment, ambitions elbowing the physical need aside.

  ‘They’ve given the go-ahead for another shop?’

  ‘No, no, they don’t move that fast. But they’re listening to Southworth now; he’s shifting them off their backsides. And the way it’s going, my lovely, it might mean more than just another shop. It might mean a bloody big supermarket, bigger than the one I’ve already got.’ He chuckled and she joined in.

  ‘So you’d probably need me to run this one on my own, then, so you could get on with organizing everything,’ she said slyly.

  ‘Uh. Well, yes . . . I suppose I would. It’s early days though, pet. You know, anything might happen.’ She couldn’t see the frown on his face.

  Too bloody right it could, Paula thought. Tourism was going to hit the town in a big way if this shrine business came off, and a lot of money was going to be made. She knew Tucker well enough to realize he would be at the front of the queue, arms spread wide to receive the benefit. And she intended to be there right alongside him, Marcia Tucker or no Marcia Tucker.

  His frown was replaced by a smile as he went over the meeting with Southworth in his mind. The hotel owner wasn’t one for over-exuberance, but even he couldn’t contain his delight. New development plans would be pushed forward to the Horsham District Council over the next few months with an incautious speed that had never before been allowed. Expansion – rapid expansion – was a necessity. The village was already jammed solid with sightseers and even if another ‘miracle’ never occurred again, the legend was already born. The incredible amount of worldwide publicity had seen to that.

  He chuckled again. It was only because the motel manager knew Tucker would not require the room all night that he had kept it free for him. The motel was packed, almost every room taken by media people, the rest by tourists, and he and Paula had to be out by ten so that a camera crew from Holland could move in.

  ‘What are you laughing at?’ Paula asked, giggling herself.

  ‘Just the thoug
ht of glories to come, my darling. Banfield won’t know what’s hit it.’

  She wasn’t cold, but Paula shivered. It was almost as if something icy had touched her. She shrugged off the peculiar feeling.

  ‘You won’t be too busy for me, will you, Rod?’ Her voice was wheedling again and her hand was tugging at his underpants.

  ‘You, my love? No way. I’ll always have time for you.’ He moaned as she yanked the pants down and lifted his fat bottom so that they would go all the way. Physical need was back on top again. ‘Hey, what’s my special treat?’ he reminded her.

  Paula sat up, her thrusting breasts bouncing together with the sudden movement. Tucker couldn’t resist nipping at her well-rounded bottom as she turned from him and stretched down beside the bed. She gave a little screech and wriggled her rump; he kissed it better, wondering what she was reaching for.

  She came up with a paper-wrapped bottle and he guessed its contents immediately. He couldn’t stop grinning as Paula unwrapped the Freezomint. ‘Have you been raiding the store again?’ he asked without malice.

  ‘I know you don’t mind me helping myself to this, Rodney. Not when it’s for your benefit.’

  She unscrewed the top and took a deep swig of the crème de menthe, gargling it around her mouth and throat until they were coated with the green liquid. She swallowed, then drank again, her tongue burning as she wriggled it in the cold, stinging liquid. Her eyes were seductively half-closed when she placed the bottle on the bedside unit and Tucker’s were wide open in anticipation.

  His penis, short but stocky, was already tingling, but he knew it was nothing like the shocking tingling it would feel when her lips and tongue closed around it.

  He was smiling again, as she lowered her head towards his body. All in all, it had been a good day.

  Thursday, early morning

  Alice stood in her nightdress staring out of the window. The sun hurt her eyes although there was little warmth from it. Behind her, the bedclothes on the nun’s cot were rumpled as though her sleep had not been easy. As yet, there were no other sounds in the convent, for the sun had not long risen. Soon though, the nuns would be gathered for prayer in the room used as a chapel and Alice’s mother would be among them, thanking God for the honour he had bestowed upon her and her daughter.

  There was no expression on Alice’s face.

  Only twelve nuns lived in the convent, for it was merely a large house, acquired ten years before from a retired theatre actor who had moved abroad to sunnier climes. Its walls were painted cream, doors and window frames white. A high brick wall assured the nuns their privacy and beyond the heavy black gates, which were as high as the wall itself, was a spacious yard where they parked their Morris 1100 and minibus. The minibus was used during the week to collect the village children who attended the Catholic school four miles away and in which the nuns taught.

  The high gates, solidly forbidding, and the surrounding wall had been a formidable defence against the hordes of reporters that had descended upon Banfield during the past week, for it had soon become known that little Alice Pagett was being kept at the convent for her own privacy and protection.

  The convent was situated at the southern end of the town, close to a sharp bend where the main road turned left for Brighton and another, minor road continued straight on into the Downs. A garage was on the bend itself and the nuns knew the proprietor was hiring out the offices above to camera crews and photographers so that they could film over the convent wall. There was little the nuns could do about the situation but pray that Alice’s mind would not be too disturbed by the frantic attention.

  Alice’s spartan room overlooked the courtyard at the front of the convent. Apart from the small bed, it contained only a chair, a straw rug, and a small sink in the corner. A plain wooden crucifix hung on the wall. Two of Alice’s favourite dolls shared her bed at night, but each morning her mother found them thrown into the far corner of the room.

  Molly Pagett slept next door, close to her daughter, and had spent most nights since moving in with the Sisters lying awake mumbling prayers and listening for any disturbance in Alice’s room. Her eyes were red-rimmed through lack of sleep and her face and stance seemed to have aged ten years since the miracles had begun. A woman always devoted to the Church, it had now become her obsession.

  Alice did not appear to feel the chill as she stood at the window, nor did the birds that swooped into the courtyard interest her.

  She hated the convent, hated its sparseness, its lack of comfort. And she disliked the dull greyness of the nuns’ habits. She was frightened of the doctors who tested and probed her, who examined her body and asked her questions, questions, questions. And she was tired of the questions from the priests, from the nuns, from . . . from . . . just about everybody who spoke to her.

  She wanted to leave this place.

  She wanted to go back to the church.

  She wanted to see the tree.

  A movement below caught her attention. The cat had leapt from the high wall into an empty flower bed at the courtyard’s side. It stalked lazily across the damp cobbles, the birds having already flown. It stopped. Looked up. Saw the small figure in white watching it.

  It sat and gazed upwards.

  For the first time in days Alice smiled. Her hand unconsciously touched her side and rubbed at the small lump six inches below her heart. The doctors had shown great interest in the strange protuberance at first and her mother had explained it had always been there, although very tiny, and nothing to worry about so her local doctor had said. They had agreed it was nothing to worry about and did not mention nor probe it again.

  But it itched now and was bigger, though not much, than before. Alice rubbed at it as she watched the cat and her smile did not seem that of an eleven-year-old.

  17

  A slumber did my spirit seal;

  I had no human fears:

  She seemed a thing that could not feel

  The touch of earthly years.

  William Wordsworth

  ‘Hey, come on, Sue, open up!’

  Fenn put his head against the door and listened. He knew she had to be in there because he had rung from the call box on the corner just a few minutes earlier and put down the phone as she’d answered. Twice that week Sue had hung up on him and twice she had been out when he’d gone to her flat. It had given him no satisfaction to hang up on her in return, but he wanted to see her. It was time to stop frigging around. If she really wanted to end it, fine – but she would have to tell him to his face.

  It had been a heavy, glorious week. The Courier had syndicated his personal story of the ‘Banfield Miracles’ to most of the Nationals both in Britain and abroad, while magazines, periodicals and television companies were offering substantial amounts for follow-up stories and interviews. In just four days he had become what could only be termed as a ‘media figure’, the Alice Pagett phenomena inextricably linked with his own name, for it had been his first-hand coverage of both extraordnary events – the first vision and miracle experienced by Alice herself, and the subsequent five miracles on the second Sunday – that had caught the attention of millions around the world. He was riding high and enjoying the journey.

  There was movement inside.

  ‘It’s me, Sue.’

  Only silence.

  ‘Come on, Sue, I only want to talk.’

  The door-chain being slid back, the latch being turned. Sue peering through a six-inch gap.

  ‘There’s nothing much to say, Gerry.’

  ‘Oh yeah? That’s your considered opinion?’

  ‘Have you been drinking?’

  ‘Sure.’

  It looked as if she was going to close the door again, so he put his hand against it.

  ‘Sue, let’s just talk a little. I promise to leave within ten minutes if you want me to.’

  For a moment she was undecided and he lifted his eyebrows in a silent ‘please?’. Sue disappeared from view and with relief he pushed open t
he door. He followed her down the short hallway into the lounge. As always the room was comfortably neat, lit by a small lamp which cast intimate shadows. He saw she was in her dressing gown.

  ‘Bed so early?’ he asked. ‘It’s only just gone ten.’

  ‘It’s late to call on someone,’ she replied, sitting in an armchair. He realized she had carefully avoided the sofa. He was about to sit on the arm of her chair when she shook her head and pointed at the sofa opposite. With a sigh, he obeyed.

  Neither one spoke for several moments, then Sue said, ‘You’re making quite a name for yourself.’

  He cleared his throat, hating the awkwardness. ‘I was lucky enough to be on the spot. It’s a reporter’s dream.’

  ‘I’m glad you’re reaping the benefit.’

  ‘We went through this before, Sue. It’s my job.’

  ‘I’m not being sarcastic, Gerry. I really am pleased for you. And I like the way you’ve written your features; they’ve been factual, no gloss, no exaggeration. Not like your first story.’

  ‘There was no need for exaggeration. The truth was spectacular enough.’ He leaned forward, resisting the urge to kneel at her feet. ‘So what is it, Sue? Why haven’t you wanted to see me, to speak to me? What the hell have I done?’

  She looked into her hands. ‘I’m not sure if it’s you or just me. I’ve found my faith again, Gerry, and I don’t have time for anything else.’

  ‘You mean being a Catholic excludes being in love with someone.’

  ‘Of course not. I just think you’re probably not the right one.’