He knew what she was referring to and became silent. Then he said, ‘If you love me, Sue, if you really love me, you’ll do as I ask.’
She jerked her head away angrily. ‘Why now? Why have you left it so late?’
‘I told you: for the last couple of days I’ve been running around like a lunatic trying to get this whole thing stopped. I didn’t get home till early this morning, and then I just slept and slept. And the dreams were clearer than ever.’
‘What dreams?’ she asked wearily, wanting to believe in him again, wanting to forget his opportunism, his unreliability, his infidelity, but telling herself she would be a fool to.
‘The priests, Hagan and Delgard, spoke to me. I saw them in my sleep. They warned me about this place.’
‘Oh, Gerry, can’t you see you’re deluding yourself? You’ve become so wrapped up in this thing that you don’t know what you’re doing, what you’re saying.’
‘Okay, so I’m going nuts. Humour me.’
‘I can’t leave . . .’
‘Just this once, Sue. Just do as I ask.’
She studied him for long seconds, then grabbed Ben’s hand. ‘Come on, Ben, we’re going home.’
Her son looked up at her in surprise and Fenn’s head slumped with relief. He kissed her hands and when he lifted his head again his eyes were sparkling with unshed tears.
Fenn stood and pulled her up with him. It was at that very moment that a hush fell over the crowd. The voices became whispers, the whispers fading, the settling of a breeze. Everybody was listening intently.
Voices could be heard in the distance. Voices singing in praise of God and the Virgin Mary. The strangely haunting sound grew in strength as the procession from the village approached.
Fenn looked back at the oak and he closed his eyes as though in anguish. His lips moved in silent prayer.
37
But the old woman was only pretending to be friendly. She was really an evil witch.
The Brothers Grimm, ‘Hansel and Gretel’
‘Okay Camera 1, let’s get a nice close-up. Slow zoom in on Alice. That’s good. Keep it slow. We’ll cut to 2 in a moment for the overall shot. Keep the CU coming, 2. Good, it’s a good one of the girl – what’s happening, 1? Picture’s breaking up. Oh for Christ’s sake, cut to 2. That’s better, keep on that. What’s happening, Camera 1? Where’s the interference coming from? Okay, sort it out. Stay on 2. We’ll cue Richard in five. Camera 3, that’s good on Richard. Slow pull-back to show congregation in field as soon as he starts speaking. I want a good shot of the altar and that bloody tree in the background. Okay, Richard – 4 – 3 – 2 – Camera 3.’
‘As the procession approaches the field, now called by many “The Field of the Holy Virgin”, the lights around are dimmed. Soon, the procession will enter this, what has become, open-air temple, led by the Bishop of Arundel, the Right Reverend Bishop Caines, followed by priests, nuns and of course, little Alice Pagett herself. It seems that thousands have joined this holy march, many from the village of Banfield, while others have journeyed from far and wide to be here today. Not all have held deeply religious beliefs before; indeed, when I spoke to many of them earlier in the day, they told me (static) in this small Sussex vill – Banfield that has made – realize a deeper truth—’
‘What’s happening with sound out there? John, we’re losing Richard’s voice. Keep talking, Richard, we’re having problems, but still receiving.’
‘Perhaps then, this vast gathering this evening is a symbolic gesture of people’s faith in a world – turmoil (static) – (static) prevails—’
‘Oh God, we’re losing picture now!’
‘. . . in memory (static) priest who was cruelly struck down – Thursday by (static) explosion – the perpetrators of such (static) – knows, but—’
‘Jesus bloody Christ! Everything’s gone!’
Fenn turned with the rest of the congregation as the leaders of the procession entered the field. Flashlights were popping from all points, casting strobe effects on the chanting leaders. Even from that distance he recognized Bishop Caines, who was flanked by robed priests on either side. The first candles were thick and high, held by young altar-servers, their small flames flickering with the breeze. The singing grew louder and the people already in the field joined in. Voices broke off as Alice entered and the worshippers and the curious alike rose to catch a glimpse of her. Fenn stood with them trying to peer over their heads. It was no use: all he could see were the raised candles and banners carried by the marchers. Sue stood by his side and Ben clambered onto the bench for a better view.
The emotions of the crowd seemed to swell like an ocean tide as the singing grew louder and the four lines of marchers drew deeper into the field, the bobbing candles a dazzling display of warm light. Fenn scanned the faces around him: even in the darkness he could see their eyes shining, their lips smiling in some deep-felt rapture. The same expression was on Sue’s face. He touched her hand and flinched as another tiny spark snapped at him. Staring at his fingers, he thought: The whole bloody field’s alive. He shook her gently, this time touching only the cloth of her coat.
‘Sue,’ he said quietly. ‘We’ve got to leave now.’
She looked at him blankly, then turned away.
Ben stifled a yawn.
Fenn tugged at her arm once more.
‘No, Gerry,’ she said without turning, ‘it’s too wonderful.’
The head of the procession had reached the centrepiece and Bishop Caines was mounting the steps, smiling down at the invalids spread out on blankets and in wheelchairs below. Alice Pagett followed him, her mother close behind, hands clasped tight together, head bowed in prayer.
Voices all around rose in a crescendo of sound, the hymn soaring into the sky as if to push back the low, brooding clouds. Fenn thought he heard the rumble of distant thunder, but couldn’t be certain. Bishop Caines took his seat by the side of the altar and beckoned Alice and her mother to sit next to him as priests and servers filed onto the platform. The benches in front of Fenn began to fill and many of the faces were familiar to him. Some were those cured by Alice in previous weeks, while others were local dignitaries and clergymen. He watched as Southworth took his place and saw the hotelier cast a long sweeping look around the congregation; his smile seemed to be one of satisfaction rather than blissful worship.
A movement on Fenn’s bench caught his attention: one of the nuns had fainted and her companions were gently lifting her onto her seat. He felt Sue beside him sway and he held her steady. Others here and there in the congregation were silently collapsing, their neighbours catching them before they could harm themselves.
Fenn drew in a breath. Hysteria was in the air like a rampant germ hopping from person to person.
The hymn singing reached its height, the voices ecstatically unified in the repetitious refrain. He felt strange: there was a lightness in his head, an unsettling in his stomach. This time it was he who felt dizzy and he clutched at Sue. She almost fell, but instead they both sank to the bench.
Ben knelt on the seat and put his arms around his mother’s shoulders, one outstretched hand brushing Fenn’s cheek. Immediately, the dizziness left the reporter; it was as though the uncomfortable weakness had been discharged into the boy. Yet there were no visible signs of distress in Ben.
The hymn came to its end and the sudden quiet was almost stunning in its effect. The silence was soon broken as the congregation sat, but it returned once they had settled. There were no coughs, no whispers, no shuffling of bodies. Just a hushed, reverential quiet.
The young priest who was to take the service stepped forward to the lectern with its array of microphones. He raised his arms towards the congregation, then made the Sign of the Cross in the air.
‘Peace be with you,’ he said and the vast crowd responded as one. The priest spoke for a few moments of Father Hagan and Monsignor Delgard, dedicating the special Mass to the two late priests, paying homage to the exemplary work they had c
arried out in the name of the Holy Catholic Church. He was forced to stop several times when the microphones whined and hummed, and seemed relieved when the preliminaries had been completed. He nodded towards the choir, which had taken its position in the specially erected tiers, and a fresh hymn began.
Candles all around the field were lit, creating a myriad star cluster around an effulgence that resembled the sun.
In the village of Banfield, less than a mile away from the church of St Joseph’s, an old man stumbled along the kerb-side. It had been a long walk for him, ten miles or more, but he was determined to reach the shrine before the service was over. Although walking had been his sole occupation for the past fifteen years – tramping the quieter roads of Southern England, surviving on the kindness of others, embittered by the non-caring of yet others – his feet were sore and blistered, his breathing laboured. Brighton was his base, for there were enough churches and charitable organizations in the seaside town to keep his belly fed and his body warm on the coldest of nights. Never too well fed, never too warm; enough to keep him alive, though. What had brought him to this level of existence was not important – not to him, anyway. At that moment, he was what he was; dwelling on the past would not make him or his circumstances different. On the other hand, dwelling on the future might do so.
The belief that he was not completely irredeemable had come to him only that morning when the word had spread along the reprobate grapevine, the efficient word-of-mouth communications system of his kind that never failed to report ‘easy pickings’. He had been told of the little miracle girl, of the service that night where thousands were expected to turn up, people of good will who would not reject the entreaties of those less fortunate than themselves. But curiously, it was the miracles of this child that the old man was interested in, not the chance to beg from others.
He had knocked on the door of a priest, a man of God who knew him, who had always shown kindness without reprimand towards him. The priest had told him it was true, that there was a young girl in Banfield who had performed certain acts that could be described as miracles, and that tonight there was to be a candlelight procession through the village. The old man had resolved that he would be there, that he would see this child for himself. He knew, as any man who was dying instinctively knew, that his death was not far away; yet he did not want the miracle of further life. He craved salvation. One last chance to witness something that was beyond this mortal and despicable world. A chance to believe once again, a positive sign that atonement would not be in vain.
Like thousands of others who flocked to the shrine, he sought the means of his own redemption, a physical symbol of the immaterial. A living saint who disproved omnipotent evil.
But would he get there in time to see her?
He leaned against a shop window, a hand resting against the cold glass. The High Street of the village was dimly lit, but there was a beacon in the distance, a bright light that pierced the sky, striking out from a suffused glow around its base. He knew that this was his first glimpse of the shrine, a brightness in the night that called him to observe the greater goodness.
And as he leaned there against the window, gathering his strength, a new gleam in his rheumy old eyes, something touched his soul and passed on. Something cold. Something that produced a shudder in his brittle bones. Something that made him sink to his knees, leaving him bowed. Something whose destination was his own. Had been his own.
His head sank to the pavement and he wept. It was some time before he crept into a dark doorway and curled up into a foetal position. He closed his eyes and waited.
The tall, bearded barman of the White Hart blinked glumly at his only customer. He sighed as he leaned on the bar. A bloody pint of mild and a packet of pork scratchings would last the old trouper all night. Two barmaids stood idly chatting at the far end of the bar, enjoying the quietness of the usually busy Sunday evening.
Still, the barman thought, the service can’t go on all night. They’d be piling in here in an hour or so, desperate for a drink, and he certainly couldn’t complain about the recent trade: his turnover had not just doubled – it had trebled! If he had had a bigger pub it would have quadrupled! The brewery could hardly refuse to put up the money for an extension at the back now. What a great little miracle worker that kid was.
He wiped the bar for the eleventh time with a damp cloth, then poured himself a bitter lemon. Cheers, he saluted the absent crowds. Don’t stay away too long.
Lifting the bar-flap, he crossed the floor and retrieved two glasses left by earlier customers.
‘Judy,’ he called to one of the barmaids, placing the glasses on the counter. Let the lazy cow do something for her money, he thought. He turned and, hands in pockets, strolled to the door. Standing in the opening, one foot jammed against the door, he surveyed the High Street. Empty. Not a blessed soul where, less than an hour before, it had been packed with marchers. Banfield was like a ghost town, nearly all its residents gone to the shrine. The village was empty without them, all right, he thought, then chuckled at his own irrefutable logic.
The chuckle ceased and the smile froze as something cold passed by him. It was like standing in a chilly draught, except that it seemed to cling to his body, searching out hidden crevices, covering every part of him like cold water before being sucked away, journeying onwards to who-knew-what destination. The lights in the pub behind him seemed to flicker momentarily, then gain their normal brightness.
He looked down the road towards the church and saw the sudden breeze as a shadow creeping towards the light.
The tall man shivered and quickly went back inside. He resisted the urge to lock the door behind him.
To the north of St Joseph’s, little more than a mile away, a motorist kicked at the deflated rear tyre of his Allegro. Nearly there and this had to happen, he complained bitterly to himself.
‘Is it flat?’ a woman’s voice asked from the passenger window.
‘Aye, it’s a bloody flat. All the way from Manchester and we get a blow-out now. The place must be just down t’road.’
‘Well you’d better just get crackin then. Our Annie’s fallin asleep already.’
‘Better that she is. It’s been a long journey for her. I just hope it’s worthwhile.’
‘Our John travelled to Lourdes with cancer.’
‘Yes, an a lot of bloody good it did im,’ the woman’s husband muttered quietly.
‘What did you say, Larry?’
‘I said he didn’t last long afterwards, did he?’
‘That’s not the point; he made the effort.’
Aye, an it finished im off a lot bloody sooner, the man thought. ‘Bring the flashlight out, will yuh?’ he said aloud.
His wife rummaged around the glove compartment and found the torch.
‘What’s wrong, Mummy?’ a voice came from the back seat.
‘You just hush now, pet, and go back to sleep. We’ve got a puncture and your father’s going t’fix it.’
‘I’m thirsty.’
‘I know. We’ll be there soon, never fear.’
‘Will I see Alice?’
‘Course you will, pet. An she’ll see you and make you better.’
‘An I won’t need sticks no more?’
‘That’s right, pet. You’ll be runnin like t’others.’
Their daughter smiled and snuggled back down beneath the blanket. She pulled Tina Marie’s plastic cheek close to her own and she was smiling as her eyes closed.
The wife left the car, guiding the flashlight towards her husband as he opened the boot and reached inside for the jack.
The errant wheel was off the ground when the light beam began to fade.
‘Hold bloody light steady,’ he told her.
‘It’s not me,’ she replied testily. ‘Batteries must be going.’
‘Eh? They’re fresh uns in.’
‘Bulb, then.’
‘Aye, appen. Get a bit closer, will yuh?’
She bent toward
s him and he searched for a spanner in the car’s tool kit.
Suddenly she dropped the torch.
‘Aw, flamin eck!’ he groaned.
Her hand clasped his shoulder. ‘Larry, did you feel that? Larry? Larry!’ She could feel him trembling.
At last, he said, ‘Aye, I felt it. It must have been the wind.’
‘No, it wasn’t the wind, Larry. It went straight through me. Right through me bones.’
His reply was slow in coming. ‘It’s gone,’ he said, looking towards the glow in the sky just about a mile away.
‘What was it?’
‘I don’t know, lass. But it felt like someone walking over me grave.’
From the car came the whimpers of their daughter.
In the Riordan farmhouse, on the land adjoining the field in which the night-time service was taking place, a dog yelped and ran helplessly around the kitchen. At the end of each circuit, Biddy would hurl herself at the door, desperate to get out into the open. Her owners had left her to guard the place – ‘too many strange people wandering around the area because of that blessed shrine’ – while they, themselves, took part in the Mass – ‘better than going to the pictures’ – and now the dog sensed the agitation from the cows in their stalls. Sensed and heard, for they were frantically kicking in an effort to break free, and their piteous bellowing was driving the dog into a frenzied fit.
Biddy scratched at the door, raking the paintwork with her claws, howling with the outside ululations, matching their pitch. Around the kitchen the dog ran, back to the door, jump, scratch, push, bark, yelp, howl, around the kitchen once more. Round and around, and round and—
The commotion had stopped. Had stopped more suddenly than it had started.
The dog stood in the centre of the darkened room, one ear cocked, head to one side. She listened. There were no more sounds. She sniffed the air. There were no strangers outside.
Shrine Page 42
