Shrine

by Herbert, James

  He drew in deep mouthfuls of air, the burning stench still present but not to the same overwhelming degree. His eyes widened as he stared at the carnage before him.

  Balls of flame were rolling upwards into the smoke-filled air, their very brightness, let alone the heat, stinging his eyes. The tanker itself was completely engulfed in fire, only brief glimpses of its shape visible as the flames shifted and weaved; most of the garage forecourt was alight, the burning liquid still spreading, still greedily devouring anything in its path. The car showroom was totally hidden behind a blazing wall, the top part of the building, where the offices were, already scorched black. There were faces at the open windows, terrified, screaming faces, with eyes that beseeched the people below to help them, please, please help!

  The very ground shimmered with the heat and there were people crawling, dragging themselves away from the devasta- tion. The green bus was imbedded in the side of the petrol tanker, half its length a mass of flames; most of the windows were shattered and there were still some passengers left, those who had not been instantly burned to death or made incapable of moving by the initial blast, struggling through the flames, bodies cut by remaining glass fragments, flesh seared by the intense heat. The silver-grey Capri was several yards away from the two burning vehicles as though it had rebounded on impact, but there were flames all around, licking at the metal body, melting the glass of its windows.

  Fenn blinked his eyes against the glare. Had he seen something move in the back of the car?

  Everywhere there were people running, staggering away from the destruction, but one or two moving towards it as if fascinated by the danger, the mayhem. Those who were paralysed by fear crouched against walls, or cowered behind cars.

  A face was suddenly next to his, a tear-streaked, blood-smeared image that for a moment, through shock, he failed to recognize.

  ‘You did it, Fenn!’ Nancy shouted, her voice cracked and almost tearful. Her arm went around his neck and she pressed her cheek against his in a hug that made him wince. It also helped bring him to his senses. He pulled himself free and reached for the doorhandle. ‘We’ve got to get away!’ he shouted back at her. ‘There’ll be other petrol tanks below ground that the fire hasn’t touched yet! When the heat reaches them . . .’ He left the sentence unfinished, but Nancy understood the implication.

  The dry, scorched air hit them like a blast from an open furnace as they emerged from the car and both put up their arms to protect themselves. It was difficult to breathe, for the atmosphere was filled with choking fumes. Fenn turned his head away from the scene in a reflex action and immediately wished he hadn’t.

  The village grocery was to his left and its huge, plate-glass windows had shattered inwards. Bodies of women who had been thrown against the windows by the blast lay scattered among the wreckage inside, tins and packaged goods littered around them like fallen pieces of masonry. Some lay still, others squirmed in pain. He wondered why the legs of one woman failed to move in conjunction with her twisting torso, then realized they had been almost severed at the thighs by the shattered glass. Another woman, young, and who would have been pretty were her face not contorted in agony, sat upright before the window, back resting against the wall below the frame, her hands clutching a wide rent in her throat, desperately trying to squeeze the sides together to prevent her life’s blood from gushing out. Red liquid began to pump between her fingers as he watched.

  The noise, the confusion – the screams for help – battered against his reeling brain. He put a hand against the Rover to steady himself and the metal was hot.

  A hand tugged at his shoulder and Nancy was shouting, ‘Fenn, there’s someone moving in the other car!’

  He turned, shielding his eyes, looking over at the burning wrecks. She was right, and he had been right a moment or two before: there was someone moving in the back of the Capri, a pair of hands beating at the rear window.

  ‘Oh Christ, it’s Pagett.’ It came out as a low moan, for the knowledge struck a new fear into Fenn. Nancy was staring at him and he knew what she was going to say.

  ‘You’ve got to help him!’

  ‘It’s no good! I’ll never get near it!’

  ‘You can’t just let him burn!’

  ‘What can I do?’ He was shouting at her, almost screaming. What the hell did she want of him?

  ‘Something! Just do something!’

  ‘There’s a woman over there!’ He pointed desperately towards the supermarket window. ‘She’s bleeding to death!’

  ‘I’ll take care of her!’ Nancy pushed him roughly away from the Rover. ‘Please try, Fenn!’ she pleaded.

  ‘So much for Women’s fucking Lib!’ he yelled at her, then was running towards the fire, angry at her and shit-scared for himself.

  As he drew closer to the burning vehicles, an even more intense wall of heat hit him, forcing him to whip off his jacket and hold it in front of him. He thought he could smell singeing material. Fenn moved in, feeling stifled, his skin dry and hot. Breathing was difficult, walking was agony. Not just his legs felt on fire, but so did his lungs. He lowered the guard just enough to steal a glance at the Capri.

  Pagett’s face was pressed against the rear window, his features flattened, the palms of his hands white against the glass. He was trying to push himself through the tailgate which was obviously locked, his mouth open to suck in scant oxygen, his eyes bulging with terror.

  Fenn was forced to bring his jacket back up over his head, but even that made little difference. He felt hot air rushing round him, then he was in darkness as heavy black smoke swilled down to cover the forecourt in a dense fume-filled fog. Even the winter wind was playing its part in the havoc.

  He stumbled, his eyes streaming tears, his lungs heaving as they expelled the poisonous smoke. He fell and his back was scorched as he rolled over on the ground, exposing it to the worst of the heat. The skin of his face and hands felt incredibly tight as if it were shrivelling in on itself. He had to get away. It was no use. He couldn’t get any closer. He would be roasted alive if he tried.

  He pushed himself back, digging his heels against the concrete, using an elbow that was quickly rubbed raw to gain momentum. The jacket was held before him to protect his face, but it was smouldering fiercely as though about to burst into flames. After a few feet he raised himself to one knee and risked another look at the burning Capri. What he saw was so horrific he forgot about his own searing pain.

  He only caught brief glimpses through patches of swirling smoke and at first he could not understand what was happening. A strange, unclear shape was emerging from the back window of the Capri. It seemed to be blurred as though its form were distorted by Fenn’s own tears. He blinked his eyes and realized they were already dry from the scorching heat. Then he understood.

  Pagett was pushing his way out of the car, but the glass had not broken. It was melting, clinging to his face and hands like thick, viscous liquid, burning and moulding itself into his flesh, becoming a part of him. Pagett had become a writhing, ill-formed monster, a human larva prematurely struggling free from its shiny, clinging chrysalis, demented in his agony and that madness driving him on. His head twisted and his eyes were looking towards Fenn, but they saw nothing for the liquid glass had already burned its way through to the retinas. Part of his face and nose was still flattened, moulded into that shape and transfixed by the sticky covering. As he slowly, twistingly, emerged, the glass stretched, becoming thin, beginning to tear. A gaping rent appeared near his neck and shoulder, and smouldering smoke from his clothes mingled with steam from his body. He was screaming, but the sound was muted by the soft transparent screen covering his mouth.

  It wasn’t just the heat that made Fenn cover his eyes.

  He tried to rise, but was too giddy and too weak to gain his feet. He began to crawl away, choking and sobbing as he did so. He had to get away from the horrible, dying creature in the car.

  It was too much; the heat was drowning him. His hands gave way
beneath him and he rolled onto his back.

  Pagett was ablaze now. His arms thrashed in the air, one hand banging against the Capri’s boot as though in frustrated anger. His hair burned and the glass on his face was running down his skin in red-glowing rivulets into the flames from his clothes. He fell forward and was still moving, climbing from the window, an automated, charcoaled figure that had no reason, no clear driving force any more, just movement caused by pain.

  The petrol tank of the Capri exploded and the hideous sight was no more.

  The fresh wave of torrid air flattened Fenn and he quickly rolled onto one side, pushing with his legs in a frantic pedalling motion, expecting to burst into flames himself. There were others around him, those who had leapt from the bus windows, those who had been caught walking near the garage, those who had come too near the fire to help others. All were crawling or staggering away, all trying to reach some safe point where the heat could not touch them, where they could breathe fresh, moist air. But the fire was not diminishing. It had found fresh sustenance, more material to burn, more inflammable liquid to reinforce its energy. Vehicles within the garage itself began to explode; cans of oil and petrol flared into incandescent balls of fire. The heat in the remaining tanks below ground was building up to the point where combustion was inevitable.

  Fenn cursed himself for not having run away, for not ducking into cover until the danger was over. He pushed feebly against the ground.

  The cold air hit him and seemed to close every pore on his body. The heat was gone from his skin, the stinging from his eyes. He raised his shoulders from the ground, turned over onto one elbow to see what was happening, looking back at the flames, not believing what he saw.

  Smoke swirled down and across the scene, forced by the wind, obscuring everything one moment, lifting to reveal all the next. The flames were dying. They seemed to be shrinking, becoming small patches of fire, losing their strength by the second. Wavering. Disappearing. The wrecked vehicles were just burnt-out, smouldering shells, the petrol station a blackened, smoking ruin.

  And through the swirling smoke came a tiny figure, a small girl with blonde hair who walked slowly, unafraid, through the carnage. Her yellow dress was ruffled by the wind as she held out her hands, and what was left of the flames cooled and died completely.

  Part Three

  Come, hearken then, ere voice of dread,

  With bitter tidings laden,

  Shall summon to unwelcome bed

  A melancholy maiden!

  We are but older children, dear,

  Who fret to find our bedtime near.

  Lewis Carroll,

  Through the Looking Glass

  24

  And like a ravenous beast which sees

  The hunter’s icy eye,

  So did this wretch in wrath confess

  Sweet Jesu’s mastery.

  Walter de la Mare, ‘The Ogre’

  Television broadcast from ITN, all regions, early Sunday evening:

  ‘. . . the once peaceful village of Banfield in West Sussex today. Thousands gathered at the Roman Catholic Church of St Joseph’s, hoping to catch a glimpse of Alice Pagett, the eleven-year-old schoolgirl who has been proclaimed a miracle worker. There was a two-mile-long queue of cars and coaches from both directions into the village and extra police had to be called in from the surrounding area to control the crowds. For an on-the-spot report we go over now to Hugh Sinclaire, who has been at the church since this morning . . .

  HUGH SINCLAIRE: The scenes here today have been quite extraordinary. People began to gather outside St Joseph’s in the early morning hours – devout Catholics, many, but others who were just sightseers, curious to catch a glimpse of this little girl who, it’s claimed, can perform miracles. And perhaps they expected to see more miracles today.

  Alice Pagett came to world attention just a few weeks . . .’

  Television broadcast from BBC1, late Sunday evening:

  ‘. . . cured five people who were suffering from various illnesses. Three were said by the medical profession to be incurable. Alice herself was deaf and dumb until – she claims – she saw a vision of the Immaculate Conception. Although there has been much scepticism over her claim, particularly from the Catholic Church itself, the fact that she and five others have been cured cannot be denied.

  It’s estimated that at least two thousand people went to St Joseph’s this morning and that the numbers doubled throughout the day. Trevor Greaves is still in the village of Banfield tonight . . .

  TREVOR GREAVES: Although the crowds have thinned considerably, there is still a vigil being kept around the old church of St Joseph’s tonight. It’s as though the crowds were waiting for the same apparition that Alice Pagett alleges to have seen. Earlier today the atmosphere among the many pilgrims could only have been described as electric. There was no mass hysteria – something the authorities feared among such a gathering – but there was much fainting, much weeping and much praying.

  When Alice arrived for the Sunday service at 9.20 this morning accompanied by her mother and a bodyguard of priests and policemen, she found it difficult to get anywhere near the church, let alone inside. The Mass was delayed for forty-five minutes as her protectors struggled to get near this diminutive child, pale-faced and dressed in white, obviously distressed by the loss of her father, so tragically killed last Thursday . . .’

  Radio broadcast from LBC, after midnight:

  ‘. . . further interest in Alice Pagett was aroused only last Thursday when eyewitnesses say she quelled a fire which threatened to devastate a large part of Banfield village. The fire was started when a car in which Alice’s own father was passenger collided with a bus and a petrol tanker. The fire was spreading, fuelled by escaping petrol from the damaged tanker. The tanker itself had been refilling tanks beneath a garage’s pumps, and the danger was that the fuel below would ignite too, when Alice appeared and, eyewitnesses say, put out the fire. Ironically, Pagett was killed before his daughter arrived on the scene.

  How Alice Pagett could have stopped the fire nobody knows, but those who were there claim that the flames just seemed to extinguish themselves as soon as she appeared. Accident and Fire Prevention officers who have made a thorough examination of the wreckage maintain there is no logical explanation for the incident. There was little rain that day, although it was bitterly cold. Apart from the initial explosion when the petrol tanker was hit, there were no others big enough to have “blown out” the fire. The investigation officers found half-burnt timber which should have been totally charred had the fire followed a natural course, and petrol still awash on the ground which had not burned. Only small, scattered and relatively harmless fires were still alight when the local fire brigade arrived. A fuller report is expected within the next day or so but, for the moment, the experts are saying very little.

  Yesterday I spoke with people who had travelled from all over the country to St Joseph’s in Banfield, many of whom were infirm themselves, or had brought along sick relatives or friends to the place they now consider to be a holy shrine . . .’

  Extracts from interviews on Today, BBC Radio 4, UK, early Monday morning:

  ‘. . . we couldn’t get near the place. Somebody said the girl was there, but we didn’t see her . . .’

  ‘. . . yes, we were inside the church. There weren’t supposed to be cameras in there, but there were, going off all the time. The priests couldn’t control the newsmen, so I suppose they gave up in the end . . .’

  ‘. . . she’s a saint. I saw her. She looks like an angel. I suffer from chronic arthritis, but as soon as I saw her I felt better. It’s her, I know it’s her. She did it, no question . . .’

  ‘. . . well, we got into the field by the side of the church. We weren’t supposed to be there, the priests were trying to turn people back, but there were too many, you know? I carried my sister, I wanted to get her inside the church. She’s crippled. We couldn’t get anywhere near, though. Even the graveyard w
as swamped with people . . .’

  ‘. . . oh, no, I’m not a Catholic. No, I just wanted to see what all the fuss was about. I saw her in the car going up to the church, but that was all. Just a flash as she went by. Still it was a day out, the kids enjoyed it . . .’

  ‘. . . the village is chock-a-block. I couldn’t even get out of my shop doorway earlier for people. Business was good. As a newsagent I was open ’til lunchtime. Had to close up long before, though – ran out of stock. I think the other traders were upset. Couldn’t open up, you see, not licensed to. All the same, business should be good for the rest of the week . . .’

  ‘. . . I camped out all night. Myself and a few hundred others. We all wanted to get into the Sunday service. I managed to, me and the wife. Yes, we saw Alice. She’s got an aura about her, you know, like a saint . . .’

  ‘. . . she’s a holy child, you can tell just by looking at her. She smiled, even though she must have been dreadfully unhappy over her father. I’m sure she smiled directly at me. I felt her love go right through me, it seemed to fill every part . . .’

  ‘. . . I’m still blind . . .’

  Extracts from interviews on World at One, BBC Radio 4, UK, Monday lunchtime:

  ‘. . . people were pushing, shoving. A girl in front of me fainted. It was terrible. Just like the Beatles all over again . . .’

  ‘. . . everyone felt peaceful, everyone was serene. It was wonderful, like a wave of love flowing over us all . . .’

  ‘. . . somebody stood on my foot. I think a toe’s broken . . .’