‘I’m cold, Mummy,’ he complained.
‘Hush,’ Sue told him. ‘Mass’ll be starting soon.’ She looked around, amazed at the vast numbers. Here and there banners waved above the sea of pink faces, proclaiming districts and religious associations. Many in the row she sat in wore small badges denoting the wearers as pilgrims to Lourdes. A smart young man directly behind her bore a plastic identity card boasting that he was Anthony Roberts of St Peter’s Tours. Others around him sported different coloured badges than those on her bench. A leaflet lay in the churned earth at her feet, discarded with some disgust by a pilgrim further along who had received it from a young girl as he had entered the grounds; it asked for contributions towards the followers of the Rev Sun Myung Moon in order that the Unification Church might become an important economic force. A muddy heelmark had sullied the moon-face of the man beaming from the leaflet, reducing the image to that of a soiled oriental Mr Happy. A contingent of white-robed figures sitting a few rows back had puzzled her at first, their bright ribbons and cloaks unfamiliar to any ecclesiastical order that she knew of, until the woman sitting next to her had noticed her gaze and given her a nudge. ‘They’re just a lay society,’ the pilgrim had confided. ‘Knights of the Holy Sepulchre they call themselves. We often see them at Lourdes.’
She and Ben were fortunate enough to be seated close to the recently erected altar-piece, its platform raised five feet above the ground so that all the congregation could witness the ceremony; a young priest, acting as usher and who knew Sue as a voluntary helper, had made the pilgrims shuffle along the bench until there was room for her and her son. The only reserved area was the benches in front of her and that was now filled with a mixture of clergy, nuns and ‘civilians’, some of whom in the latter group she recognized. The man called Southworth was one and she could see him chatting and laughing quietly with Bishop Caines, giving the impression that they were waiting for an open-air concert to begin rather than a holy service.
Across the centre aisle from her a wide area had been left clear for stretchers and wheelchairs; members of the St John’s Ambulance Brigade, crisply-dressed young women who were obviously private nurses, and relatives of the invalids, sat on benches directly behind them. The Press had been given no special privileges, apart from being allowed early entry, and most had managed to find places near the front where they grouped together, some with notebooks poised, others who had seen it all before (though nothing quite like this, they had to admit) passing wry comments and wondering if it would be sacrilege to smoke. Cameramen were squeezed onto ends of benches, and many squatted on the grass in the central aisle, having already been moved back from directly beneath the altar. Television cameras had not been allowed inside the grounds, but cranes leered over the tall hedge along the roadside, zoom-lenses focused on the twisted oak tree and the simply decorated rostrum before it.
From certain sections of the congregation voices raised in gentle hymn could be heard; the chanting drone of prayers came from other groups.
Sue was tense and she sensed the people around her felt the same. If anything, the excitement that Sunday was at a higher pitch than on the previous week. The expectancy had somehow increased. Even Ben’s eyes were shining, his usual boredom with just ‘hanging around’ not voiced, nor even hinted at. He was cold, but she felt his shivering was more akin to hers than to the chill; it was pure exhilaration, a feeling shared with everyone present. There was a sudden hush, and then a low, wondrous moan rippled through the crowd. Alice had been seen emerging through a newly-created opening in the church’s boundary wall.
Molly Pagett held her daughter’s hand and the Reverend Mother from the convent led the way to the seats in front of the altar. There was white apprehension on Molly’s face, yet Alice was expressionless, her gaze only on the tree, not once looking at the crowds who watched her with reverent awe. Total silence descended.
Ben jumped to his feet, anxious to see what the grown-ups could see, but was too small to get a clear look over the heads and shoulders in front. Before his mother could stop him he clambered onto the bench. He saw Alice and was unimpressed.
Fenn descended the short flight of steps, careful not to slip on the moss-slimed surfaces, and inserted the long key into the door’s rusted lock. Surprisingly, the key turned easily. He pushed open the door and stood there for a few seconds, allowing his eyes to become accustomed to the gloom inside, remembering the old TV programme he used to watch as a very young kid. ‘Inner Sanctum’ it had been called, and the credits each week always began with an old crypt door slowly swinging open, the creaking sound classically drawn out. He’d had bad dreams about that door and the unknown thing that lay beyond, but morning had always brushed the memory aside like a hand sweeping back a drape. Only now it was morning and this wasn’t a dream. A damp, musty smell lurched out to greet him.
He smiled at his own nervousness. Delgard had assured him that St Joseph’s no longer kept its dead below stairs.
His hand groped around the wall just inside the door, feeling for the light switch, He found it, clicked it down.
‘Wonderful,’ he muttered. The poor light barely reached the chamber’s four walls.
He moved in and felt a fresh – no, a dank – coldness creeping under his skin. Something scuttled away into some dark recess. Cardboard boxes littered the floor. An old table with heavy Michelin legs and battered surface stood in the centre, a wooden, paint-blotched ladder leaning like an inebriate against it. Other grey shapes loitered just beyond the circle of light.
Fenn looked around, hoping to find the chest without searching. A low, squarish object covered by a dust sheet caught his eye and he cautiously headed towards it. The floor was uneven and his shoes became wet as he walked through puddles that had formed in the dips. He squatted and reached towards the mildewy cover.
Monsignor Delgard turned to the congregation, his large hands resting on either side of the lectern, eyes looking into the expanse of expectant faces rather than the missal before him. He drew in a sharp breath, his stooped shoulders almost straightening.
Dear God, there are thousands, thousands.
Why have they come here? What do they want of the child?
His heart grieved for the sick among them, the cripples and invalids who regarded him with shining eyes, with lips that were parted, smiles of anticipation lightening their haunted features. Oh dear Lord, please help them in their faith; don’t let disappointment taint it. What happened before with the child cannot be repeated, they must realize that. Let today be the end of all this! Show them there are no miracles here.
The two microphones skilfully fitted into the lectern whined disconcertingly for a few moments.
A small breeze licked at the pages of the missal.
The emotions of the congregation seemed to sweep over him in euphoric waves and his head felt light with its directed energy. Flushed faces spread out before him, pink pebbles on an undulating beach, reaching back, beyond the point where there were no more benches, the change in level resembling a tide-caused step, stretching to the entrance of the field, the high hedges that bordered the road a green, containing sea wall. It’s madness, he told himself. A foolish delusion in which the Catholic Church should take no part. Bishop Caines was smiling encouragingly below him. Southworth had his head turned, watching the crowds. There were many other priests out there, their presence giving credence to the deception. But no, there was no deception! Alice Pagett was a sincere child! There could be no deep, grievous sin on her young soul. Perhaps it was he, the priest, who was in sin with this doubt, this refusal to accept that which he himself had witnessed. Perhaps he lacked the humility to believe that a child could evoke such spiritual power. Perhaps . . .
He raised his hands to shoulder level, palms outwards, and began the service. Alice was watching him intently, her eyes staring yet somehow glazed, expressionless, looking right through him . . . looking . . . looking not at him . . . but at the tree . . .
The
cover felt clammy to his touch and Fenn had to force himself to grip the material and pull it away. A wooden box lay beneath and tiny black things fled across its surface from the exposing light. He knew immediately that it wasn’t the chest he sought – it was too small and not ancient enough – but decided to open it anyway; the relevant documents might well have been transferred to it some time in the past. There was no lock; he lifted the lid.
Swirling dust particles caused him to sneeze and he looked down at the old books and papers with watery eyes. The lid fell backwards as he reached inside and grabbed a book. It was a well-worn Parish Mass Book, the words inside in Latin. Dead. Defunct. Only to be used by religious diehards since the Vatican had decided that modern-day native language was flavour-of-the-month. The book beneath was the same, the one below the one beneath also the same; the box was full of them. The papers were yellowing hymn sheets, nothing more. He closed the lid, disappointed. That would have been too easy.
Fenn stood and, hands on hips, scanned the underground chamber once more. Christ, it was cold! He moved to the centre, the light bulb, with its heavy metal shade, just six inches above his head and casting black shadows beneath his brow and nose. Two insects flickered around the light, unknowingly seeking death in their personal sun.
How many ancient bones were beneath this floor? Fenn wondered. Pagan bones, heathen remains. Did their spirits linger when their bodies were done? He realized he was spooking himself unnecessarily and mentally kicked his own shin. Get on with it, Fenn, and then get out!
He followed his own advice and strode over to a pile of boxes behind a stack of chairs in one corner of the crypt, whistling tunelessly as he began pulling at them. A quick look-through should suffice, no need to examine anything too closely, it was an old chest he was after, quite big, too big to hide itself away easily. A discarded radiator, disturbed by his searching, began to slither down the wall it had been leaning against; it crashed to the floor with a thunderous clang, the noise echoing off the damp stone walls.
Fenn froze, shoulders hunched, until the reverberations died away. Sorry, he apologized to the ghosts, then continued looking.
He went over to the grey shapes that had been silently watching throughout. They stood like stunted spectres, and he winced at their disfigurements as he drew close. There were four of them and two still had some faded colour left in their chipped plaster clothes; the other two had begun life as white, but now were almost as black as the darkness around them. You’ve got a pal upstairs who’ll be joining you soon, he silently told them, thinking of the crazy-paved Madonna. The nearest was a noseless/chinless Christ, who appeared to be holding something in one curled arm; its other arm was broken off at the elbow. Fenn bent slightly, curious to see what was the strange looking object he held. ‘Nice,’ he murmured when he discovered it was a stone heart with a little cross protruding from the top like a faded strawberry stalk.
The statue behind was taller, its surface discoloured and grimy. This one was presumably a sculpture of Jesus too, although, without a head and just part of a beard above a ravaged neck, it was hard to tell. The next was as small as the first and its form was slightly bent, the man depicted carrying a child on his shoulders. The staff was missing and both faces, the child’s and the bearer’s, had been mutilated, but Fenn easily guessed it was St Christopher and the Christ-boy.
He turned quickly towards the light as it dimmed momentarily. ‘Don’t you bloody dare,’ he snapped. It grew bright instantly.
Fenn returned his attention to the damaged statues. There was something familiar about the one at the very back. He narrowed his eyes, wishing the light were stronger; the metal lampshade cutting out half its beam didn’t help much either. Squeezing past the first statue, he peered between the two blocking his way. The face that stared back sightlessly was the same as the face upstairs in the church. It was Mary and she looked serene.
He frowned in puzzlement. From across the chamber, this figure had looked in as bad shape as the others, soiled, cracked and parts missing; it must just have been the poor light throwing deceptive shadows, for no mutilations or grime were evident that close. He tried to get nearer; there was something about the blind staring eyes . . .
Resting one hand on the headless statue to his right, he leaned forward. The white face was smiling. And he had the uncanny feeling that the eyes could see him. His other hand touched the St Christopher and the child-burdened figure wobbled dangerously. He steadied the statue and eased his body closer to the shadowy Virgin. It had to be a trick of the light: the smile on the stone lips seemed to have broadened. He blinked. They seemed to have parted, too.
There was a numbness in his mind as though pain freezer had been sprayed onto certain brain cells. The pupil-less eyes were mesmerizing. Fenn’s breathing was shallow, but he hardly noticed. He had to get closer, had to touch the statue, had to touch those parted lips.
The light was dimming. Or did it appear to be, because he could only focus on those moist lips, those piercing eyes? There was a faint sputtering noise behind, but he barely registered the sound or noticed the flicker.
He was only a foot, perhaps just inches away, and he could get no further; the other two statues held him in check. He stretched forward, craning his neck towards the soft lips, the two guardians beginning to tilt.
He could not move any nearer, but just before the light disappeared, the statue of Mary moved towards him.
PRIEST
My brothers and sisters,
to prepare ourselves to celebrate the sacred mysteries
let us call to mind our sins.
The wind stirred headscarves and banners and ruffled the hair on uncovered heads. People coughed above the silence. Somewhere a baby howled.
PRIEST
Lord, we have sinned against you:
Lord have mercy.
RESPONSE
Lord have mercy.
On top of a crane overlooking the field, a cameraman looked quizzically at his machine.
‘Hey, what’s going on down there?’ he shouted, heedless of the Mass in progress. ‘The power’s fluctuating. Do something before the whole thing’s messed up!’
PRIEST
Lord, show us your mercy and love.
RESPONSE
And grant us your salvation.
A press cameraman quietly cursed the motor on his Nikon. ‘What a bloody time to pack up.’ He didn’t notice that several of his colleagues were having the same problem.
PRIEST
May almighty God have mercy on us,
forgive us our sins,
and bring us to everlasting life.
RESPONSE
Amen.
A woman reporter who had been quietly talking into her micro-cassette recorder shook it impatiently when the cogs slowly stopped turning. ‘Fuck,’ she cursed, keeping her voice low, and smacking the machine against the palm of her hand.
PRIEST
Lord, have mercy.
RESPONSE
Lord, have mercy.
PRIEST
Christ, have mercy.
RESPONSE
Christ, have mercy.
PRIEST
Lord, have—
Monsignor Delgard clapped his hands to his ears as the microphones shrieked violently, then went dead.
Through half-closed eyes he saw Alice rise from the bench and come towards him.
The statues on either side of Fenn crashed to the floor and he fell with them. He cried out, suddenly aware he was in total darkness, the smashing of stone joining the cry. Something crushed his fingers, but the pain was hardly felt. A heavy weight fell on his shoulders, bearing him down, stunning him with the blow. Instinctively he tried to roll away and something to his right prevented him. He thrashed out, terribly afraid, remembering the Madonna statue, how it had moved, how it had wanted him . . . the desire in her eyes . . .
‘No!’ he shouted, his voice ringing around the corrupt-smelling chamber, and the sound increased his panic. He
kicked out, pushed, shoved, heaved. The statue was unreasonably heavy, pressing hard against him. He managed to half-turn and his hand grasped at the cold stone. It was wet with slime and his fingers slid along its surface; at points his hand ran into what could only have been lichen but which felt like soft, rotting flesh.
He could almost feel hot, fetid breath warming his skin.
Fenn managed to pass an arm beneath the cumbersome weight and roared as he pushed. The statue slowly slithered off his body; a grating noise as it hit the floor. He turned, elbows beneath him, gasping in the foul air, his chest heaving. He had to get out, the very darkness was closing in! Reason told him the cellar was filled with dead, inanimate things; imagination insisted they could move, could breathe, could see. Could touch.
His feet slipped in wetness as he scrabbled to rise. He blinked against the blackness, afraid he would be smothered by it. The doorway, there was grey daylight coming from the doorway. He had to reach it.
He began to crawl, over dead, mutilated figures, through the sticky puddles formed on the uneven floor like stagnant underground lakes, knocking aside boxes, anything that got in his way, trying to gain his feet but still too unsteady, desperate to reach the light, desperate to get away from cold, lifeless fingers that stretched towards him from the darkness . . .
Only the light could return those fingers to stone. But now there was a shadow in that grey rectangle of open doorway, a mass of blackness that devoured the light as it moved closer to Fenn. As it reached out to him.
Shrine Page 31
