The overall lighting was dim, enhancing the startling vividness of the centrepiece with its bank of floodlights and dramatic single searchlight, which gave the tree and its upper branches a peculiar flatness against the night sky. This central blaze of luminescence dominated the field, a focal point to which every worshipping mind would be drawn.
As he watched, two figures in white cassocks mounted the platform and began to light rows of tall devotional candles that had been placed behind the altar. The question struck him again, as it had repeatedly over the past few days: why had the Church acquiesced to Alice’s strange request for a candlelight procession through the village of Banfield? She had told them that the Lady had asked for this to be done in memory of Father Hagan and Monsignor Delgard, and that a divine revelation was soon to come. Bishop Caines had been restrained in his announcement that a procession was to take place, playing his now-familiar public role of reluctant advocate. He had stressed that the ceremony was more in the way of a tribute to two fine priests, one of whom had been assassinated by what would appear to be an anti-religious fanatic’s bomb, than compliance with the wishes of a young girl who may or may not have had a vision of the Sacred Virgin. But why had the bishop been so vehement in his attack on Fenn when the reporter had tried to persuade him that there was no goodness in what was happening, only evil? Ambition – for oneself, for one’s cause – could be a great blinker to truth, and a formidable dismisser of argument – religions and ideals had succumbed to its influence throughout time – yet he had expected more of this Church representative. He, the unbeliever, wanted more from those who professed to believe. At any time, the disillusionment would have been bitter, but could have been accepted with a cynic’s shrug; now it provoked a deeper resentment, a desperate anger whose root cause was fear.
He moved down the aisle as if attracted by the bright light, the soft layer of churned mud beneath his feet sucking weakly at each step.
The field was filling up fast and he vaguely wondered how so many people – those in the vehicles that he had passed, those who were to walk in the procession, and those still milling around the entrance, eager for a ringside seat – were to be accommodated. And where would they all run to?
‘Fenn!’
He stopped and looked around.
‘Over here.’
Nancy Shelbeck was rising from a bench in a section marked PRESS.
‘I didn’t expect to see you here,’ Fenn said as she approached.
‘I wouldn’t have missed it.’ There was an excitement in her eyes, although trepidation was just behind it.
‘After what happened to you? Didn’t it scare you off?’
‘Sure, I got spooked. I still have to make a living though. Can you imagine what my chief would say if I flew back without a report on the main event?’
‘The main event?’
‘Can’t you feel it? The tension? The air’s thick with it. It’s like everybody knows something big’s gonna happen.’
Fenn’s voice was low. ‘Yeah, I can feel it.’ He suddenly clasped her arm. ‘Nancy, what did you see in the church the other day?’
They were jostled as people pushed by, eager for seats near the front.
‘Didn’t Sue tell you?’
‘I haven’t seen her since I took you to her flat. I’ve been pretty busy the last few days.’
‘She tried to reach you – we both did. No reply to our phone calls, no one there when we went to your place. Just what have you been up to?’
‘I’ve been trying to get this show called off. Now answer my question.’
She told him and was surprised he wasn’t shocked. ‘Is that what you saw, too, in St Peter’s?’ Nancy asked when she had finished.
‘I guess so. To tell the truth, I didn’t take too close a look. But it all fits.’
‘Fits into what?’
‘It’s too complicated to explain now.’ He looked around and was surprised to see just how full the field had become in the few moments he had been speaking to the American. ‘Is Sue here?’ he asked her.
‘I saw her just a little while ago. She had her kid with her. They’re somewhere near the front, I think.’ She pulled his face around towards her. ‘Hey, are you okay? You look kinda rough.’
He managed to smile. ‘A couple of restless nights, a few bad dreams. I’ve got to find Sue and Ben.’
She held onto him. ‘I had a long chat with Sue, Gerry; she knows about us.’
‘It’s not important.’
‘Thanks.’
‘I didn’t mean it—’
‘That’s okay, I know what you mean. She wants you, schmucko, you know that? I think she’s reached some kinda decision about you.’
‘It’s taken a long time.’
‘It would have taken me longer. And then I think I’d have dumped you.’
‘You trying to make me feel good again?’
‘I figure it’d have been hard to live with you; we’d be a bad combination.’
He shrugged. ‘I’m relieved I didn’t ask you to.’
‘I’m not saying I couldn’t change my mind, you understand?’
He held her and kissed her cheek. ‘Take care of yourself, Nancy.’
‘I always do.’ She returned his kiss, but on the lips.
Fenn broke away and she watched him disappear into the crowd. The tension showed in her face once again. She was frightened, badly frightened, and only her professionalism had brought her back here. She knew that she would never have returned to the other church, St Peter’s, not for a million bucks or her own network chat show. For those around her, the atmosphere must have been vastly different; their faces revealed only shining expectancy, a willingness to believe that the Holy Virgin had blessed this field with her presence and that, if they wished it enough, she would appear again. Or, at least, the child would perform more miracles.
Nancy stood aside to let an old woman, assisted by a younger one, both bearing a vague resemblance to each other – mother and daughter perhaps – shuffle by. The reporter turned away, desperate for a cigarette but not sure it was proper in such a place, and made her way back to the Press section. To hell with it: Alice had given these people a new hope in a sick world where optimism was considered banal, trust in a higher goodness misguided. While it was true that the shrine had proved a rewarding commercial venture for opportunists, it had also succoured the faith of thousands – maybe even millions throughout the world. But the nagging doubt persisted: should the word have been suckered? Nancy sat in the reporters’ bench and pulled her coat tight around her; the desire for a smoke took second place to her yearning for a stiff bourbon on the rocks.
Paula helped her mother down the aisle, hoping to get her as close to the altar-piece as possible. She had been told at the gate that spaces had been provided beneath the central platform only for the very sick, those brought on stretchers and in wheelchairs; those who could walk, whether assisted or not, had to take their place among the other members of the congregation. An arthritic hip and hypertension were not considered severe enough ailments, even as a combination, so her mother could be given no special treatment. Having seen the number of walking wounded that had turned up, Paula was hardly surprised. God, it made a person feel ill just to look at them all.
‘Not far to go, Mother,’ she coaxed her burden. ‘We’re quite near the front row now.’
‘What’s all the bright lights?’ came the querulous response. ‘Hurts my eyes.’
‘It’s just the altar. They’ve lit it all up with floodlights and candles. It looks lovely.’
Her mother tutted. ‘Can’t we sit down now? I’m tired, dear.’
‘Nearly there.’
‘I want to see the girl.’
‘She’ll be here soon.’
‘I’ve suffered enough.’
‘Yes, Mother. But don’t expect too much.’
‘Why not? She’s cured all them others; what’s she got against me?’
‘She doesn’t e
ven know you.’
‘Did she know them others?’
Paula groaned inwardly. ‘This’ll do, Mother. We can sit on the end of this bench if this gentleman will kindly move up a bit.’
The gentleman seemed reluctant, but the squinty stare of Paula’s mother encouraged him to do so.
The old lady groaned aloud as she sat, assuring those in close proximity of her disability. ‘This cold weather isn’t going to do my hip any good, is it? When’s it all start, when’s it all over?’
Paula was about to give an impatient reply when a familiar face caught her attention. Tucker was standing by a bench just a dozen or so rows ahead and he was calling to someone. Paula’s eyes narrowed when she saw a plump hand tugging at his elbow, obviously urging him to sit down. She half-lifted herself from the seat to peer over the heads of those in front, and her eyes frosted when she recognized the bulky fur-coated shape next to Tucker. So the fat slug had brought the fat she-slug along with him. Dear, pampered Marcia. Trust her not to want to miss anything! Well maybe tonight she’d learn something new about the pig she was married to. A little confrontation between them, mistress and wife, might offer some compensation for the scare she, Paula, had suffered under Tucker’s podgy hands! She hadn’t been into the supermarket since – hadn’t even sent in a sick note – and her boss was too much of a coward to ring and find out how she was. Well tonight, in front of Miss Piggy’s ugly sister, she would tell him exactly how she was! Let’s see how he coped with that.
Paula’s mother was muttering something about the dampness from the ground creeping into her boots and the man beside her hadn’t moved up far enough and she was being squashed and wasn’t that Mrs Fenteman in front who never went to church except at Christmas and Easter and wasn’t she carrying on with the man in the hardware shop?
Paula did not even look at her mother. She said slowly and evenly: ‘Just . . . shut . . . up.’
Tucker ignored his wife’s tugging and pushed his way past knees to reach the side. ‘What are you doing here, Fenn?’ he said loudly when he reached open space.
Fenn turned back and recognized the fat man. ‘My job,’ he said, ready to walk on.
‘You’re not working for the Church any more, I hear.’
‘No, but I’m still working for the Courier.’
‘You sure of that?’ The question was accompanied by a sneering smile.
‘Nobody’s told me otherwise.’
‘Well you’re not very welcome here with all the lies you’ve been spreading.’
Fenn moved nearer to him. ‘What’re you talking about?’
‘You know very well. George Southworth gave me a personal account.’
‘Yeah, Southworth and the bishop must have had a good laugh between them.’
‘We all did, Fenn. Pretty lunatic, wasn’t it? Witchcraft, nuns coming back from the dead. Did you expect anyone to believe it?’
Fenn waved his hand towards the altar. ‘Do you believe all this?’
‘It makes more sense that what you’ve been saying lately.’
‘Financial sense, don’t you mean?’
‘So some of us are making a nice profit. It’s good for the village and good for the Church.’
‘But particularly good for you and Southworth.’
‘Not just us. There are plenty of others who’re reaping the benefit.’ Tucker’s sneer became more pronounced. ‘You haven’t done so badly yourself, have you?’
The reporter could think of no adequate reply. He turned away, forcing himself to ignore the chuckle of derision from behind.
He drew nearer to the centrepiece, the bright lights causing his eyes to narrow. A broad section before the platform had been kept clear and stewards were directing stretcher bearers and those pushing wheelchairs into it. He stopped beneath a squat, scaffold tower where a cameraman was aiming his television camera into the invalid section. Fenn was jostled from behind and he reached out towards the metal scaffolding to keep his balance. He quickly withdrew his hand as a tiny static shock tingled his fingers. He frowned and, as an experiment, touched the metal frame of a passing wheelchair. Again, a tiny shock crackled at his fingers. He knew that every possible safety precaution would have been taken with all the electronic machinery in the field, particularly bearing in mind the damp soil that the insulated cables would be buried beneath. He looked up into the night sky, at the dark, thunderous clouds, now so low and menacing. A storm was in the air, its charge already in the atmosphere. Sudden feedback from several of the amplifiers spread around the field made the gathering congregation gasp and good-humouredly rub their ears, laughing and smiling at their neighbours.
Fenn could see no humour in it at all; in fact, the peculiarities in atmospherics increased his dread. He looked ahead at the tree, the twisting of its gnarled limbs accentuated in the glaring light, and remembered the first time, just a few weeks before (it seemed a lifetime), when patchy moonlight had exposed its grotesqueness, hovering over the kneeling child like a monstrous angel of death. The sight of the oak had frightened him then and it frightened him even more at this moment.
He eased his way through the long line of invalids until his path was blocked by a man wearing a steward’s armband.
‘Can’t go through this section, sir,’ he was told. ‘Invalids only.’
‘Who are those benches for?’ Fenn asked, pointing at the rows behind the open space.
‘They’re reserved for special people. Can you move please; you’re blocking the way.’
Fenn spotted Sue sitting on the end of one of the privileged benches, the small figure of Ben next to her. He produced his Press card. ‘I just need to speak to someone in there – can I go through?’
‘I’m afraid not. You reporters have got your own section back there.’
‘Just two minutes, that’s all I need.’
‘You’ll have me shot.’
‘Two minutes. I promise. I’ll come back then.’
The steward grunted. ‘Make it quick, mate. I’ll be watching you.’
Fenn was through before the man could change his mind.
‘Sue!’
She spun round and he saw relief flush across her face. ‘Where’ve you been, Gerry? My God, I’ve been so worried.’
She reached out for him and Fenn quickly kissed her cheek.
‘Hi, Uncle Gerry,’ Ben greeted him cheerfully.
‘Hi, kiddo. Good to see you.’ He tweaked the boy’s nose as he squatted down by Sue. The rest of the bench was occupied by nuns from the convent and they looked down at him disapprovingly. He drew Sue close and kept his voice low.
‘I want you to leave,’ he said. ‘Take Ben and get out.’
Sue shook her head, consternation in her eyes. ‘But why? What’s wrong, Gerry?’
‘I don’t know, Sue. I can only tell you something bad is going to happen. Something nasty. I just don’t want you two around when it does.’
‘You’ve got to tell me more than that.’
His grip tightened on her arm. ‘All these things, Sue, these strange events, there’s something evil behind them. Father Hagan’s death, the fire in the village, these miracles. Alice isn’t what she seems. She caused Monsignor Delgard’s death . . .’
‘There was an explosion . . .’
‘She caused that explosion.’
‘She’s a child. She couldn’t possibly—’
‘Alice is more than just a child. Delgard knew; that’s why he had to die.’
‘It’s impossible, Gerry.’
‘For God’s sake, all this is impossible!’
The nuns began to whisper among themselves, gesturing towards him. Several began to look around for a steward. He glanced at them and tried to keep his voice calm.
‘Sue, please trust me.’
‘Why didn’t you come to me? Why didn’t you ring?’
He shook his head. ‘I just didn’t have time. I’ve been too busy trying to stop this thing.’
‘And I’ve been bloody fr
antic! I’ve been so worried . . .’
‘Yeah, I know, I know.’ His hand brushed her cheek.
‘Nancy told me what had happened at Barham. That wasn’t true, was it, Gerry? It couldn’t have been.’
‘It was true. She saw something there – we both did. It’s all connected with the past; this whole business is the result of something that happened centuries ago.’
‘How can I believe you? It just doesn’t make any sense. You say something evil is happening, but look around you. Can’t you see how good these people are, how much they believe in Alice? All the good she’s done?’
He held both of her hands in his. ‘We found an old Latin manuscript in the church on the Stapley Estate. Delgard translated it and found the answer. That’s why he was killed, don’t you see?’
‘I don’t see anything. Nothing you say makes sense.’
‘Then just trust me, Sue.’
She raised her eyes slowly and looked deeply into his. ‘Is there any reason why I should? Are you really that trustworthy?’
Shrine Page 41
