Shrine

by Herbert, James

  BISHOP CAINES

  She is under no detention order, Mr Fenn. She is at perfect liberty to leave when her parents want her to and when her doctor thinks it will be in her own interest.

  CATHOLIC HERALD

  Has Alice had any more visions since last Sunday?

  BISHOP CAINES

  She hasn’t spoken of any.

  DAILY MAIL

  Will she attend Mass this Sunday? At St Joseph’s, I mean.

  MONSIGNOR DELGARD

  (Pause.) Alice has expressed a desire to. We must consider the consequence to herself, however. We’re rather worried that with all the publicity these, er, incidents have been given, St Joseph’s will be swamped with sightseers – and obviously the media itself. As Bishop Caines has just said, Alice is a fragile child and the continued excitement might be too much for her. She has to be protected.

  INTERNATIONAL HERALD TRIBUNE

  But she’ll have to face the public sooner or later.

  BISHOP CAINES

  That’s true, but I suppose that at this stage the medical team studying her case, her own doctor and the Church, would rather it were later. However, nothing yet has been decided regarding this coming Sunday.

  BRIGHTON EVENING COURIER

  But Alice does want to go to Mass this Sunday?

  BISHOP CAINES

  Alice is somewhat confused at the moment. I think that’s quite understandable.

  BRIGHTON EVENING COURIER

  But she does want to?

  BISHOP CAINES

  As the monsignor said, she has expressed a desire to.

  BRIGHTON EVENING COURIER

  So it’s a strong possibility?

  BISHOP CAINES

  I believe I’ve already answered that question.

  (Disordered questioning.)

  BISHOP CAINES

  I’m afraid we must bring this Press conference to a close, gentlemen. Thank you for your questions and I hope we’ve been able to clarify a few points. I’m sorry, no more questions. Our schedule is tight and we now have television and radio interviews to do. Thank you for your time, ladies and gentlemen.

  (Press conference ends.)

  Wilkes

  ‘If thy mother only knew,

  Her heart would surely break in two.’

  The Brothers Grimm, The Goose-girl

  He couldn’t sleep.

  His hair itched, the sheets on the narrow bed felt soiled, stiff and unwashed. He wasn’t hungry, he wasn’t thirsty; he certainly wasn’t tired. It was his own fault for staying in bed most of the day. He should have gone to the Job Centre, but what the fuck? They would only have offered him some poxy job waiting on tables like his last one, or digging bloody holes in roads, or working some machine in a factory. Or worse, Community fucking Service! Sod em! He’d have to blag the old lady for money tomorrow. Christ, how he hated going back there! Look at you! Why don’t you get your hair cut? You’ll never get a decent job like that. And look at your clothes. When was the last time that shirt was ironed? And can’t you at least polish your shoes?

  Worst of all: When was the last time you went to church? What would your poor father say if he were still alive?

  Shit on her! If he didn’t need the bread he would never go back.

  He turned in the bed, a crease in his vest irritating his skin. He stared out the window into the dark night. Christ, if only he could get a bird up here; that would warm him up, all right! They didn’t want to know, though. If you didn’t have money, then they just weren’t interested. If you were a nobody you were bloody nobody! He turned again and thumped the lumps from the pillow with an angry fist. He’d had a guy up there once, but that hadn’t been too good. The jerking off was okay, but all that fucking kissing had made him want to puke.

  He stared at the ceiling and pulled the end of the vest over his bare stomach.

  It was all a big bucket of shit. You fell into it and the bastards wouldn’t let you climb out. You just went round and round in the slime until you had to eat it to stop drowning. And then it poisoned you and killed you dead anyway.

  But at least they had kicked back! Those three had swallowed the shit and spewed it right back into the onlookers’ faces. They had found a way, and that was all it took.

  He grinned in the darkness. Yeah, they had found a way.

  He yanked back the covers and padded over to the wardrobe in stockinged feet. Standing on tiptoe, he reached up to the top of the wardrobe and found the box he was looking for. He brought it down, then took a small key from his jacket hanging over the back of the room’s only chair.

  Climbing back into the bed he inserted the key and opened the lid. He took a dark object out and pressed it to his cheek, smiling in the darkness. He placed the open box on the floor and covered himself.

  Lying there in the darkness, he pushed the object beneath the bedclothes so that its cold metal lay between his inner thighs. He sighed as he felt himself grow hard.

  19

  Here lies the Devil – ask no other name.

  Well – but you mean Lord – ? Hush! we mean the same.

  Samuel Taylor Coleridge, ‘On a Lord’

  Fenn yawned and checked his watch at the same time. 7.45. Jesus, so this was what the dawn was like.

  Another car was approaching him from the opposite direction and he gave the driver a tired wave as though they were both members of the same exclusive club. The other driver looked at him as if he were mad. Fenn hummed a tuneless tune, only the fact that he was tone deaf making the noise bearable to himself.

  He glanced at the South Downs to his left; the clouds were heavy over them, soft woolly bottoms scraping against the hilltops. It was going to be another cold, overcast day, the kind that dragged at the keenest optimism, muffled the most ardent enthusiasm. The kind of day to stay in bed until positive night-time darkness over-rode the negative dullness.

  The houses on either side of the road were few and far between, mostly big and set back with high hedges or walls protecting them from unsolicited attention. The road was normally quite busy as one of the main routes from the coast to the larger Sussex towns, scything through country villages like wire through cheese; but on a chilly damp Sunday morning – a chilly, damp, early Sunday morning – birds and rabbits were a more common sight than motorists.

  Fenn’s humming droned to a stop when he saw the outskirts of Banfield ahead and the dregs of tiredness evaporated as if hoovered from his head. He grinned, ready to enjoy the special privilege he had been allowed and to forget about the warm bed he had just left. It was regrettable that Sue’s naked body had not been in that bed (even though it would have been even harder to leave), but they were still not the close lovers that they had been. When they had slept together just three nights before, Fenn had imagined their relationship would be back on the same footing and had been disappointed to find on the following morning her new aloofness had only suffered a slight relapse. While not as cold as before, and certainly not as contemptuous, she had made it plain that she needed more time to think. She loved him, of that there was no doubt, but the confusion was still there and their love-making had not cleared it. Okay, it’s down to you, Sue. You know my number.

  Fenn was angry and frustrated at her change of moods, particularly at a time when things were happening for him, when he shouldn’t have had such distractions. He cursed himself for not being able to cut her from his mind. Christ, he was buying his ticket to Fleet Street and she acted as though he had forged the money! The invitation for that Sunday morning was an indication of just how
far he had advanced in prestige in a matter of a few short weeks. Only he and five other reporters shared the privilege, his colleagues chosen from the cream to represent the media world. So maybe he was over-rating his own importance a little, but the position he now found himself in was no mean thing.

  He eased off the accelerator as he entered the speed restricted zone. The road swung sharply to the right, joined by another minor road from the left, the round white bump of a tiny ‘mickey mouse’ roundabout helping (or hindering) the merger. The Convent of Our Lady of Sion was almost opposite, just to the left, and Fenn brought his Mini to a halt, checking that the roundabout was clear. From his position he could see the upper windows of the large cream-coloured house and for one brief moment thought he caught a small pale face peering down at him. Then it was gone and he wasn’t sure that it had been there.

  A lone policeman stood outside the gates, his panda parked half on the kerb further down the road. To one side was a group of reporters, damp and miserable looking. They eyed Fenn’s car suspiciously as he drove over the circle in the road. Fenn pulled into a nearby empty garage forecourt and parked. The garage was closed and, as it was Sunday, he guessed it wouldn’t be open at all that day. He left the car and walked back to the convent.

  The journalists and cameramen, pasty-faced, shoulders hunched, feet stamping the pavement, made ready to receive him into their midst, any newcomer welcome to break the monotony of their cold vigil.

  ‘Morning, hacks,’ he said, grinning and winking as he strode past them. He ignored their muttered replies as he walked up to the gates. The policeman on duty raised a hand.

  ‘I’m Fenn, Brighton Courier.’

  The uniformed man produced a folded piece of paper from his tunic pocket and quickly scanned the list of names.

  ‘Okay, in you go.’ The policeman pushed open one half of the gates just enough for Fenn to slip through. He chuckled at the indignant voices and groans of the other reporters.

  Across the courtyard and at the top of three broad steps was a black door, open and somehow forbidding. Fenn crossed the yard and took the first two steps in one. He stepped into a dark hallway and a hooded shape loomed up from the shadows.

  ‘You are Mr . . .?’ the nun asked.

  ‘Gerry Fenn,’ he told her, his heart skipping just a little, either from the leap up the stairs or her sudden appearance. ‘Brighton Evening Courier.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Mr Fenn. Shall I take your coat?’

  He slipped off his raincoat and handed it to her. ‘There’s no money in the pockets,’ he said.

  She looked at him, startled, then returned his smile. ‘If you’d like to go through, you’ll find nearly everyone has arrived.’ She pointed to a door near the end of the hallway.

  He thanked her and walked down the hall, his steps sharp against the shiny bare floorboards. The room beyond the door was large and on a sunny day would have been light and airy; today its natural brightness was muted grey. It was filled with people and hushed voices.

  ‘Mr Fenn, glad you could come.’

  He turned to find George Southworth approaching him.

  ‘Glad I was invited,’ Fenn responded.

  ‘Your other colleagues have already arrived.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘A rather small selection of élite journalists. You’re the sixth.’

  Fenn enjoyed being among the ‘élite’.

  ‘Associated Press, Washington Post, The Times – that sort of thing. I’m sure you know them all.’

  ‘Oh yeah, sure.’ Fenn shook his head. ‘I’m puzzled, Mr Southworth. Why me?’

  Southworth smiled disarmingly and patted Fenn’s arm. ‘Mustn’t be so modest, Mr Fenn. You’ve covered this story from the start. More than that, you brought it to the attention of the world. We could hardly have excluded you.’

  ‘Hardly.’

  ‘Quite. Would you like some tea?’

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll appreciate our reluctance in allowing young Alice to attend Mass at St Joseph’s this—’

  ‘Your reluctance?’

  ‘Well, to be honest, Bishop Caines’ reluctance. And the doctors, of course – they feel the hullabaloo might prove too much for her. The cameras, the television, the crowds, people wanting to get near her, to touch her – that sort of thing.’

  Fenn nodded. ‘So you decided on a private service, without the fuss.’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘A lot of people are going to be disappointed.’

  ‘I’m sure. Frankly, if I had had my way, I would have let Alice go to the church today as she wanted. But her well-being must come first.’

  ‘She wanted to go to St Joseph’s?’

  ‘Apparently so.’ Southworth lowered his voice. ‘I heard she became quite upset when Reverend Mother told her she couldn’t. Still, I’m sure it’s for the best.’

  ‘So you just invited certain members of the, er . . .’ he scanned the room ‘. . . public and the media here.’

  ‘Yes. My idea, actually. And the Bishop concurred. We’re well aware, you see, that the public has to know what’s going on. That’s their right. This way, they’ll see that Alice is being properly cared for.’

  ‘And they’ll know the Catholic Church isn’t locking her away, and that she’s not going through some modern-day Grand Inquisition.’

  Southworth chuckled. ‘That’s very astute of you, Mr Fenn. In fact, that was my argument to the churchmen. With the chosen few here, representatives of the people, as it were, and an excellent cross-section of the world media, public interest can be catered for without unnecessary but inevitable pandemonium.’

  And without loss of maximum publicity, Fenn guessed. It seemed that Southworth (and Fenn was sure other local businessmen were involved) had to walk the tightrope between exploitation (and so risk the resulting criticism), and ensuring that Alice Pagett was sheltered from the public eye (and making sure they were seen to be doing so). He, Fenn, was necessary to the idea not because he was a brilliant journalist, but because as instigator of the story, his articles were followed more closely than any other reporter’s. He was also ‘local’, therefore perhaps more in tune with local opinion. Well, don’t knock it, Fenn. It made sense. And it had got him here today.

  ‘In a moment,’ Southworth was saying, ‘I’ll introduce you to a few people. Your colleagues are already well known to them, but I’m sure they will want to speak to you as the man who was “on the spot”. Mass will begin at 8.30, so you’ll have just . . .’ he checked his watch ‘. . . just under half-an-hour to interview.’

  ‘Will I get to talk to Alice?’

  ‘We plan to have a brief question and answer session after Mass. Only twenty minutes, I’m afraid, and only if Alice feels up to it. I’m sure she will.’ He moved closer to Fenn and said in a conspiratorial whisper: ‘I’d like to invite you to dinner tomorrow evening. I think you’d be most interested in coming along.’

  Fenn raised his eyebrows.

  ‘I still haven’t forgotten our little chat at the beginning of all this business, Mr Fenn. By the way, it’s Gerry, isn’t it? Do you mind if I call you that? It’s far less formal. I think at the time you said the story would probably die out.’

  Fenn grinned wryly. ‘Someone once said that about Lennon and McCartney.’

  ‘I think your opinion was very fair. But you remember my offer? Yes, well, I think you may have suspected my motives at that time. You can see now that the publicity machine is in motion of its own accord and needs absolutely no impetus from myself, or the parish council. It may need just a little steering from the inside, though, and I think you could be helpful in that respect.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  We have enough confidence in you, having read all your articles in the Courier, to invite you to write the complete story of the Banfield Miracles.’

  ‘For my newspaper?’

  ‘For any newspaper you care to work for. Or for a book. We would mak
e you privy to all council meetings and any other decisions, discussions and plans concerning this whole affair.’

  Fenn’s eyes gleamed. It was too good to be true. The authorized chronicler of the Banfield Miracles. Any newspaper editor would jump at serialization rights and any publisher would give his right arm (or his marketing manager’s right arm) for the rights to the book. There had to be a snag. ‘Why me?’ he asked.

  ‘I believe you asked that question before, or something like it. The answer’s simple: because you were there at the beginning. You already have more inside knowledge than anyone else in this matter apart from the clergy. And even they – Father Hagan and Monsignor Delgard – were not there at the very beginning.’

  ‘Would the priests be agreeable?’

  ‘I’ve already broached the subject to Bishop Caines. He’s interested but wary.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘He’s pragmatic enough to realize the story has become almost exclusive to you. However, he is not altogether sure that, to use an old-fashioned phrase, your “intentions are honourable”.’

  ‘Are his?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘That’s the reason for my invitation to dine with us tomorrow evening.’

  ‘Bishop Caines will be there?’

  ‘Yes, along with Father Hagan and Monsignor Delgard. Our meeting initially is to talk about the development of a shrine at St Joseph’s and Banfield’s part in it. Bishop Caines is insistent that there should be full cooperation and liaison between the parish council and the Church.’

  ‘It’s moving things pretty fast for them, isn’t it? I thought it took years for the Church to allow a shrine to be authorized.’

  ‘Normally it would. Fortunately or unfortunately, whichever way you care to look at it, the pilgrims are going to come and nothing will stop them. The bishop wants to be prepared. Officially, the Church cannot declare St Joseph’s a shrine, but that won’t prevent the public from regarding it as such.’