Shrine

by Herbert, James

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Father,’ she said, about to take the priest’s soup bowl.

  ‘It’s all right, I’ve finished.’

  The dish was taken away. Nobody spoke until the waitress had left and the head waiter had closed the door, abruptly cutting off the noise from the public restaurant and bar below. Southworth had deemed it wise to hold the dinner in a private banqueting room on the first floor, away from the hotel’s other guests, who that week were mainly visiting journalists.

  ‘Andrew?’ the bishop prompted.

  ‘It’s difficult, Bishop,’ the priest said quietly.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I said it’s difficult. Difficult to put my feelings into words.’

  ‘Do try.’ It was said kindly.

  ‘Something . . . something is wrong. I can’t say what it is, but something doesn’t feel right. The church . . . St Joseph’s . . . somehow seems . . . empty.’

  ‘Empty? I don’t understand.’

  ‘I think I know what Father Hagan means,’ said Monsignor Delgard. All eyes turned towards him. ‘I’ve been concerned over the atmosphere inside St Joseph’s for a few days now and I believe I understand what Father Hagan is trying to say.’

  ‘Then perhaps you’d enlighten us,’ said Bishop Caines.

  ‘It seems to me the church has become spiritually devoid.’

  ‘I’m very surprised at you, Monsignor,’ the bishop said coldly. ‘That remark could be regarded as sacrilegious. The House of God can never be spiritually devoid – it’s impossible, contrary to all our beliefs to hold such a view.’

  ‘A church is just a building made of stone, Bishop,’ the monsignor replied calmly.

  Bishop Caines’ face reddened and Fenn hid his smile behind his wine glass.

  ‘It might be better to confine our discussion tonight to the more, er, “material” aspects of the situation,’ Southworth cut in. ‘Don’t you agree, Gerry?’

  ‘Well, no. I—’

  ‘Yes, you’re absolutely right,’ Bishop Caines said, not wishing to hold a theological debate now in front of the reporter who could so easily misinterpret everything. ‘We can talk of this later.’ He looked meaningfully at the two clergymen.

  ‘As you wish,’ Delgard responded stiffly.

  Father Hagan opened his mouth to say more but, on seeing the stern expression on his bishop’s face, he refrained.

  Fenn was disappointed.

  Southworth allowed no respite. ‘One thing I’m sure the media will want, Bishop, is a statement on Alice’s health at this present moment . . .’

  ‘Haven’t I already told you?’ The bishop was still watching his two priests, but he turned to give Southworth a warm smile.

  ‘Yes, but I meant her state of health generally. Yesterday was an exception.’

  ‘Yes, that it was. A culmination of events, if you like. It had to catch up with the child sooner or later. The monsignor has the latest information from the medical team.’

  ‘A medical report is generally private to the individual,’ said Delgard. He nodded towards Fenn. ‘Why should it be made public by the Press?’

  ‘We have an understanding with Mr Fenn,’ Southworth said.

  Fenn looked at him in surprise. ‘Now wait a minute. The only understanding that we have is that I’ll write the truth.’ Then he added, ‘As I see it.’

  ‘Naturally, Mr Fenn,’ Bishop Caines assured him. ‘We would not expect otherwise. However we would expect, er, discreet journalism.’

  ‘Oh, I can be discreet. It’s secrets I can’t keep.’

  He caught the glance that passed between the bishop and Southworth.

  ‘Okay,’ he said, raising a hand, ‘I understand your dilemma. You want the story told without frills, without exaggeration, and truthfully. That’s good, that’s what I want to do. On the other hand, you want personal privacy respected and anything that could cause embarrassment smoothed over, if not scrubbed out.’ He paused to take a breath. ‘I’ll go along with you on the first count. No exaggeration, no exploitation. As for personal privacy, I’m afraid that went out the window when Alice saw her first vision. Not just for her. For you. And for the whole of Banfield. On the third count – revealing anything that could cause embarrassment – well, you have to leave that to me.’

  ‘I’m not sure that’s good enough,’ said the bishop.

  ‘It’ll have to be.’ Fenn grinned. ‘Look, I know Alice’s father is a drunken old sot, but at this stage, I don’t think it’s essential to the story. It’s not exactly a state secret, but I don’t intend to make anything of it. Discretion, right?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Fenn, but not much of a concession on your part.’

  ‘True enough. But it’s all I can offer.’

  It was Southworth who saved the situation. ‘Why don’t we rely on that good old journalistic standby, “off the record”? That way you can be intimate with the situation as a whole, but professionally bound to keep certain items to yourself.’

  It’s either that, or be blown out entirely, Fenn told himself. ‘Okay, so long as there aren’t too many “off the records”,’ he said.

  ‘Agreed, Bishop?’ Southworth asked.

  Bishop Caines was thoughtful. ‘You understand, Mr Fenn, that we do not want to veil anything. The Church doesn’t work that way.’

  Oh no? Fenn said silently. Get the Pope to tell the world the third secret of Fatima. Or disclose all the Church’s financial assets, exactly what companies and properties they’re into. And any other items of world interest that the Catholic Church is keeping to itself.

  ‘We want only the truth to be written,’ Bishop Caines continued, ‘but we do not wish any person to be harmed by it. If you take our view, then I’m sure there will be no problems between us. I’m sure there are many other journalists who would be only too pleased to understand.’

  You wily old bastard. You know I can’t refuse. ‘All right. But one proviso: if I really believe you’re holding back on something that needs to be told – I mean, if I think it morally wrong not to publish – then I go ahead and do so.’

  ‘Are you suggesting we would lie?’

  ‘Not at all. But you might want to withhold information that doesn’t suit the Church’s image.’

  ‘Then we’ll let you be our conscience, Mr Fenn.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Southworth breathed a sigh of relief as Bishop Caines and the reporter relaxed in their chairs. ‘You were going to tell us the medical team’s findings to date,’ he urged the monsignor.

  ‘Their report is very detailed and extremely technical in parts, so I’ll try to break it down as concisely and simply as possible. If you require the full text, Mr Fenn, I can obtain a copy for you.’ He sipped his wine, then set it to one side. ‘First let me deal with the findings on Alice’s previous infirmity. There has been no physical change in the organs of her ears and throat, which consolidates the long-standing opinion that her handicap had psychological origins. There never had been any discernible damage to the auditory nerves, no apparent disorder to the ossicles, cochlea or eardrum of either ear. There may well have been some infection due to her illness seven years ago, but there were certainly no signs that it had lingered. There had been no hardenings or formation of bones in the inner ear, no inflammation of the membranes. Mastoiditis, otitis media – I’m sorry, that’s middle ear infection – had been discounted long ago. As for her vocal cords, there was no damage or disease to the laryngeal nerve. Her condition was always thought to be a result of hysteria.’

  ‘You’re saying Alice was just suffering from prolonged hysteria all these years?’ Fenn asked incredulously.

  ‘It’s not quite that simple, nor is it as unusual as your tone suggests. There may very well have been other infections present that were not detected by her family doctor when Alice suffered mumps at four years of age, infections that could have been the root cause of her condition. The doctor considered it to be a routine childhood illness and looked no further i
n the early stages. Tests came later when the disastrous consequences became evident. I should add that there is no criticism levelled at the GP in the medical report – at the moment we’re dealing purely with conjecture.’

  ‘Has the family doctor seen this report?’ Fenn asked.

  ‘No. And, of course, he would undoubtedly deny any suggestion of negligence on his part. But I would hate you to draw any hasty conclusions – this is partly theory now, just an attempt to offer reasons.’

  ‘May I remind you of our discussion a short while ago,’ Bishop Caines said, looking directly at the reporter. ‘“Discretion” was the favoured word, I believe.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ve no intention of getting into a lawsuit with an aggrieved general practitioner over something that couldn’t possibly be proved after all these years. Anyway, the medical team could be entirely wrong.’

  ‘Yes, they could well be,’ said Monsignor Delgard. ‘The point they are trying to make, however, is that the shock of being unable to hear or speak was sustained psychologically by Alice in her own mind. The more afraid she was of her handicap, the worse her mental block became. Medical records are full of similar case histories: fears growing into phobias, phobias into physical infirmity. The subconscious mind has its own peculiar logic. It took an altogether different kind of shock to break down the mental block Alice had imposed on herself. The vision – be it imaginary or real – released Alice from her self-inflicted illness.’

  ‘You’re saying categorically, then, that there was no miracle cure in Alice’s case?’ said Fenn.

  ‘After seven years of silence she can speak, she can hear. Whether or not her disability was due to a mental or physical disorder, the result is still the same . . .’

  . . . the church . . . the church . . . everything that happened to Alice was centred around the church . . .

  Father Hagan put a soothing hand to his temple, pressing the thin flesh there, gently rubbing. The voices sounded distant again, somehow hollow, as if they were all in a vast cavern, the others far away on the other side. Or in a church . . . a vast, dark church. He was beginning to hate . . . the church.

  No! The church was the House of God! No one could hate it! Especially not a priest . . .

  ‘. . . general health?’ Bishop Caines was speaking. ‘How is she?’

  ‘It can be summed up very simply and without any medical jargon,’ Delgard replied. ‘Alice is a perfectly normal, healthy child. A little tired perhaps, and somewhat withdrawn but that’s to be expected after all she’s been through. There is one small abnormality, however, but it’s something she’s had since she was a baby according to her own doctor.’

  Fenn, wine glass halfway from the table to his lips, asked, ‘What’s that?’

  Delgard hesitated, regarding the reporter warily. ‘This has to be off the record. It’s not very important, but it could cause the child some personal embarrassment. I promise you it has nothing to do with her cure.’

  Fenn considered for no more than a second. ‘I wouldn’t want to hurt the kid.’

  ‘Very well. Alice has a small growth on her body. It’s on the left side of her body, a few inches below her heart.’

  ‘A growth? Good Lord . . .’ Bishop Caines began to say.

  ‘Don’t worry, it’s nothing serious,’ Delgard reassured them. ‘It’s what’s known as a supernumerary nipple . . .’

  . . .Supernumerary nipple . . . a third nipple . . . he knew something about that . . . had read something somewhere . . . oh God, what was it . . .?

  ‘. . . nothing at all to worry about. It has increased a little in size since her doctor examined her last, but then her body is developing naturally. There’s no reason to believe that it will grow any larger.’ Monsignor Delgard sipped his wine once more. ‘And there you have it. Alice Pagett appears to be healthy in every way, except for this slight, er, blemish.’

  ‘That’s very good news indeed,’ asserted Bishop Caines. ‘Thank you for your lucid report, Monsignor. Do you have any questions, Mr Fenn?’

  At that point the door opened and two waitresses entered laden with dishes.

  ‘Ah, our main course,’ said Southworth. ‘The hotel is rather busy tonight, gentlemen, hence the slight delay. A foretaste of the coming months, I believe,’ he said, beaming happily. And hopefully, the coming years, he thought.

  The conversation concerned itself with generalities as the food was served and Fenn found himself looking into the haunted eyes of Father Hagan. The priest averted his gaze and Fenn was puzzled. It was obvious that the priest was ill: there was a light sheen of perspiration on his sallow face, his eyes were dark and shadowy; there was something brittle in the movement of his long, delicate fingers. Bishop Caines should make the man take a rest. What was it they went into? Retreat. That’s what he needed, a complete break away from all this. And the going was only going to get worse once the publicity machine was rolling. That, he understood from Southworth when he had spoken to him earlier that evening, was going to be one of the items on the agenda. Fenn smiled down at the medallions of veal in herb sauce placed before him and sipped his wine while waiting for the vegetables to be served.

  He listened to Southworth as the hotelier tentatively broached the subject of publicity.

  ‘I’m sure we all realize by now, Bishop, that we have a situation here that private entrepreneurs from all over the country will endeavour to make money from. I really do think it’s time for us to seriously consider the setting up of an official publicity machine to monitor . . .’

  ‘. . . somewhat premature . . .’

  ‘. . . no, not at all. We must plan . . .’

  ‘. . . Lourdes is not the best example to follow, George . . .’

  . . . I can’t eat. The bishop shouldn’t have insisted . . .

  ‘. . . hired for the papal visit to England in ’82 . . .’

  ‘. . . but, goodness, that organization took something like twenty per cent of profits . . .’

  ‘. . . worth every penny . . .’

  . . . each night, the feeling gets worse . . . even with the monsignor nearby . . . the feeling of being alone . . . empty . . . yet there is something there!

  ‘. . . statues, T-shirts, records of the services . . .’

  ‘Andrew, you must try to eat. It will do you good.’

  ‘What? Yes, Bishop . . .’

  ‘Entrecôte steak Roquefort is one of the chef’s specialities, Father. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.’

  ‘Of course . . .’

  ‘. . . we cannot be seen . . .’

  ‘. . . I understand your feelings, Bishop, but the Church has to keep a shrewd eye on the commercial world . . . as it has always done in the past . . .’

  . . . her eyes . . . why did she look at me in that way . . . why was the Host unacceptable to her . . .?

  ‘. . . findings from the Institute for the Works of Religion, the Vatican itself, Bishop . . .’

  ‘. . . think not . . .’

  ‘. . . bank itself . . . I’m sure they’d accept a modest collateral from the Roman Catholic Church . . . already spoken with the manager . . . member of the parish council . . .’

  . . . meat . . . no taste . . . must eat, Bishop says must eat . . . her eyes . . . she knew . . . what are they saying . . .? Must stop them . . .

  ‘. . . design a centre-piece, something like the one designed for the papal visit to Phoenix Park in Ireland . . . stunning simplicity . . .’

  . . . can’t swallow . . . the meat . . . can’t swallow . . . oh, my God . . . it’s growing . . . the meat is growing . . . in . . . my . . .

  ‘Father!’

  Delgard rose from his seat, the chair clattering backwards onto the floor. He reached for the choking priest, alarmed at the bluey-redness of the man’s face, the wheezing breath squeezed from his open mouth.

  Fenn ran round to the other side of the table. ‘He’s choking!’ he cried. ‘For Christ’s sake, he’s choking on something!’

  . . . fillin
g me . . . can’t breathe . . . growing, growing . . .!

  Father Hagan twisted in his chair, hands tearing at his throat. He tried to speak, tried to scream, but his words were blocked by the meat that was expanding in his gullet. He fell forward on the table, his wine glass tipping, cutlery jumping with the impact. His dinner plate crashed to the floor as his upper body straightened and fell back into his chair, a terrible, anguished rasping sound coming from his throat as he tried to suck in air.

  ‘He’s having a heart attack!’ Bishop Caines cried. ‘His heart is weak. Quickly, he must have his pills on him!’

  ‘No, he’s choking!’ Fenn insisted. ‘Get him forward so I can reach his back.’

  Delgard held onto the squirming priest and Fenn brought his fist smashing down between the priest’s shoulder blades. Father Hagan jerked with the force. Only a retching sound came from him. Fenn hit him again.

  ‘It’s no use, it won’t shift!’ said Delgard.

  ‘I’ll get an ambulance.’ Southworth ran from the room, glad to be away from the priest’s agony.

  ‘It’s a heart attack, I tell you,’ said Bishop Caines.

  ‘Okay, let’s get him back and his mouth open.’ Fenn reached for the priest’s forehead and hauled him back into the chair. Monsignor Delgard cupped a hand beneath his colleague’s chin and held his mouth open. The priest tried to twist away, the pain, the yearning to draw air into his starved lungs, unbearable.

  Fenn looked into the open mouth, down into the darkness of the throat. ‘There’s something there, I can see it!’

  He stuck his fingers into the priest’s mouth, probing deep, desperate to reach the object lodged there. It took all his and Delgard’s strength to keep Hagan from rolling to the floor.

  ‘I can’t reach it! Christ, I can’t reach it!’

  . . . hands . . . hands on me . . . can’t . . . can’t breathe . . . help me, God . . . eyes, her eyes . . .

  His throat muscles were jerking spasmodically, but still the lump of meat would not dislodge. Instead it sank deeper. And grew larger inside him.

  His body arched in a paroxysm of fear and pain and choking. He fell to the floor, taking the two men who were trying to save his life with him.