‘. . . we didn’t want to leave. We just wanted to stay there and pray. Even though we didn’t get inside the church we could feel the Holy Spirit’s presence . . .’
‘. . . I brought my father down from Scotland. The journey was terrible for him – he’s got cancer. We only caught a glimpse of Alice, but father says he feels better, better than he has for months . . .’
‘. . . everyone – well, nearly everyone – in the home wanted to come. They insisted. As it’s a private nursing home, they paid for the trip. Three coaches in all. Only those who didn’t want to come and those too ill to be moved were left behind . . .’
‘. . . she was only tiny, but somehow, somehow she stood above us all. She seemed to shine with an inner radiance . . .’
‘. . . we were packed solid lunchtime and the evening trade is just as bad – just as good, I should say. Look around, you can see for yourself. I hear all the pubs in the area are just as busy . . .’
‘. . . perhaps people will now understand there is only one true faith. Alice is showing them the way . . .’
Standard, Tuesday, late edition:
MIRACLE GIRL’S FATHER BURIED
The funeral of Leonard William Pagett, father of Alice Pagett, the proclaimed ‘Miracle Worker of Banfield’, was held today. He was not a Roman Catholic and so was buried in a public graveyard just on the outskirts of the village. Pagett, 47, was killed in a car crash on Thursday of last week. His widow, Molly Pagett, 44, was visibly distressed, not just over the tragic loss of her husband, but over the hordes of onlookers and Pressmen who besieged the cemetery. Alice stood silently by the graveside, seemingly oblivious to the crowds and obviously shocked by the second tragedy in her short life, within a week – a few days before her father’s death, her parish priest, Father Andrew Hagan, to whom she was very close, died of a heart attack . . .
Transcript of interview on Nationwide, BBC1, all regions, Tuesday, early evening:
Q: Surely, Canon Burnes, after what happened last week, the Catholic Church cannot deny there is something rather extraordinary about the child?
A: I wasn’t there, so I can’t verify what took place.
Q: Yes, but there were many witnesses who say Alice Pagett stopped the fire. Some even say she walked through the flames.
A: The reports are confusing, to say the least. Different witnesses claim to have seen different things. Some say she appeared to walk through the flames while others say the flames died out as she approached them. And there are a few who say that Alice didn’t appear until the fire was almost extinguished.
Q: Nevertheless, she does seem to have an extraordinary effect, wouldn’t you say?
A: It would be hard to deny.
Q: And has the Church now reached any conclusions over the miracles Alice performed?
A: The ‘alleged’ miracles. They are still under investigation.
Q: Well, do you think the Church is the correct body to carry out such an investigation?
A: I’m sorry, I don’t follow.
A: Perhaps parapsychologists should be looking into the matter. Or at least there should be one or two included on your committee of inquiry.
A: We have several members of the medical profession—
Q: That’s hardly the same.
A: Our findings will be open to scrutiny from any recognized scientific institution that may be interested.
Q: But not to parapsychologists?
A: We would not wish to exclude any respectable organization. For the moment, however, we prefer to deal with the matter on a more rational basis.
Q: Why do you think there were no more miracles last Sunday?
A: I haven’t acknowledged that there have been any miracles at any time. Unfortunately, the media is creating a huge burden for this poor child. It’s they who are creating this image of a thaumaturge.
Q: A thaumaturge?
A: A miracle worker. People have come to expect it of her.
Q: Indeed, it seems St Joseph’s has become a holy shrine to many. But that’s hardly the fault of the media – we can only report on events that have happened.
A: And speculate.
Q: It’s certainly a matter for speculation. How will you cope with the thousands that are bound to visit the church after all this publicity? I gather there was a near-riot on Sunday.
A: That’s nonsense. The crowd was very well behaved, even though many must have been disappointed that they didn’t actually see Alice.
Q: Are you expecting a larger gathering this Sunday? And if so, will you be better prepared this time?
A: I think I must emphasize to the public that it would be quite pointless to travel to St Joseph’s. There really will be nothing to see.
Q: But it’s true that there is construction work in progress at this very moment.
A: Yes, yes, that is true. Although we are asking the public to stay away, we must be ready for any contingency.
Q: Then you are preparing for – forgive me – a siege?
A: I hope not a siege. But yes, we are making preparations for a large number of visitors, although we are doing our utmost to discourage them from coming.
Q: Thank for you answering my question. Can you tell us the kind of, uh, preparations you’re making?
A: We’re simply constructing an altar-piece in the field adjacent to St Joseph’s—
Q: Where Alice claims to have seen the Blessed Virgin?
A: Er, yes. Seating for as many as possible will be arranged around a central altar, but I’m afraid many will have to stand and endure the muddiness of the field itself. The Sunday service will take place there instead of inside the church.
Q: And one last question, Canon Burnes: will Alice Pagett attend Mass this Sunday?
A: That I can’t say.
Conversation between building contractor and Monsignor Delgard, Wednesday morning:
‘Does the tree stay, Monsignor? Shall we cut it down?’
‘No. You mustn’t destroy anything in this field. You have the plans. Build the platform around the tree.’
Telephone conversation between Frank Aitken, Editor of the Brighton Evening Courier, and Head Office, London, Wednesday morning:
AITKEN:
‘I don’t know where the hell Fenn is. He rang in last Friday, said he’d been burned slightly in the fire at Banfield the day before. Yeah, he saw the whole bloody thing – he was there, for Chris-sakes! No, I don’t know why he didn’t bring in the story. I told you that last week. He said he had some leave coming, so he’d decided to take it. Bloody minded? Sure it is. You want me to fire him? I’ll do it gladly. You don’t want me to fire him? Didn’t think you would. No, I’ve tried his home. No reply. I even sent someone round there. No one home. No, not since Friday. Hospitals? He wasn’t that badly burned, but yeah, we checked. He’s just disappeared, gone, vanished. Maybe he’s moonlighting on an offer he couldn’t refuse. Sure I raised his salary, soon as the story got big. I guess it wasn’t enough. Christ, I’ve had to instruct our switchboard to politely tell all our “friends” in the business trying to contact him to go to hell. No, Fenn didn’t say how long, but I’ll break his bloody legs when I see him. No, Mr Winters, I won’t break his bloody legs when I see him. Yes, sir, I’ll kiss his arse. Thank you. I’ll let you know soon as I hear.’
Extract from LBC interview, Brian Hayes Phone-In, London area, Thursday morning, with T. D. Radley, Professor of Eastern Religions and Ethics, University of Oxford:
‘. . . of course, western religions emphasize God’s uniqueness and regard him as a supernatural Being. Miracles can be worked by Him alone, although mere mortals may entreat Him by prayer to perform them on their behalf. Usually this is done through the personages of saints or mystics. Now, the eastern religions generally dismiss miracles altogether and this is because they tend not to draw the same distinction between God and mankind. To them, such happenings are all part of the total reality and obey a kind of cosmic law. But, of course, that cosmic la
w is outside the material order. Although the – let’s call them miracles, then – are exceptions to our laws of logic, our nature, if you like, their source is from Beyond and of course, the logic of Beyond is not of our understanding, but nevertheless logical in itself . . .’
Extract from article in the Guardian, Thursday morning, VISIONARY, FRAUD, OR SELF-DELUDED by Nicola Hynek, author of Bernadette Soubirous: The Facts Behind The Fallacy (Hodder & Stoughton, 1968):
. . . in his book Vraies et Fausses dans L’é glise, Dom Bernard Billet gives a complete list of Marian visions reported to have taken place around the world between March 1928 and June 1975. There were 232 in all, two of which were in England (Stockport, 1947 and Newcastle, 1954) . . .
From the Universe, Friday:
BISHOPS TO DISCUSS BANFIELD MIRACLE GIRL
The curious events surrounding the 11-year-old schoolgirl, Alice Pagett, will be discussed by cardinals and bishops in Rome next month. With unprecedented swiftness the Holy See has decided the conference must take place before completion of the Church Committee’s special inquiry. It is thought that there is some apprehension over the hysteria being caused by the girl’s claim to have received a Visitation, and her alleged ability to perform miracles.
Several high-ranking members of the clergy have stressed the urgency for such a conference, among them the controversial Cardinal Lupecci, prefect of the Congregation for Doctrine, who issued a statement yesterday in Rome: ‘In an age where religious values are under constant attack, the Roman Catholic Church must take a firm lead in maintaining, or restoring, the beliefs of its followers. The Church must constantly seek divine guidance, and will ignore any sign or portent from God at its own peril. To disregard the latter, or to fail to determine whether or not they are genuinely God-sent, would be to put the Holy Church, itself, at risk.’
Extract from Psychic News leader, Friday, IS IT REALLY EVOLUTION?:
. . . many prominent geneticists believe that we have now developed the biological capacity to carry ourselves forward to the next level of evolutionary achievement, and that Alice Pagett is merely a forerunner, an advance representation of that progress. Their contention is that genetically conditioned educability, which has always been mankind’s most consistently favoured quality in the process of natural selection, is now our most effective biological adaptation to our culture.
In a rapidly changing environment where cultures can adapt within a generation, whereas biological changes require thousands of years, man’s psychic senses are developing in a rapidly proportionate degree, conferring upon us such mental powers as witnessed in Banfield over the past few weeks. It should be clearly stated that Alice Pagett is not exceptional, or will not be thought to be so within the next generation or two. There have been thousands of other authenticated cases of mental phenomena involving psychokinesis, paradiagnostics, psycho-photography, psychometry; and, of course, faith healing and levitation have been with us through the centuries. Her experiences have been cunningly presented in a religious context, which those disillusioned with the overwhelming materialistic aspects of today’s society and the spiritually deflating discoveries of modern-day science have clung to . . .
Extract from conversation heard in The Punch Tavern, Fleet Street, Friday, early evening:
‘. . . it’s all a load of shit . . .’
25
‘I thought you were a ghost or a dream,’ he said.
‘You can’t bite a ghost or a dream, and if you scream they don’t care.’
Frances Hodgson Burnett, The Secret Garden
It was paper. Rough-edged, yellow parchment, the leaves filled with faded script. They were everywhere, floating in the air, scattered on the floor, filling his vision, everywhere, everywhere . . .
It’s okay, he told himself. I’m dreaming. I can stop this. I only have to wake.
But the ancient pages were beginning to curl, the edges beginning to smoulder. Brown stains caused by small flames crept inwards.
Wake up.
It was dark in there. Tomb dark. But the flames were growing higher, throwing light, casting dancing shadows. He turned, fell. Smooth stone bruised his knees. He reached out and his hand touched rough-grained wood. He pulled himself up, half-sitting on the bench that he had grabbed. In the flickering light he saw other benches, plain wood, functional, no elaboration. He saw the altar and he shuddered.
Wake up, Fenn!
The flames grew larger, snatching at the old manuscripts in bursts of fire. The church was St Joseph’s . . . yet, it wasn’t St Joseph’s. It was somehow different . . . smaller . . . newer . . . but older . . .
He had to get out! He had to wake up! He was conscious of the dream, so he had to be awake! But the flames were beginning to burn him and the smoke was filling his head. His outstretched foot was being singed.
He pushed himself erect and the fire rose with him. He backed away towards the altar and, as he did so, he looked down at the burning paper. One sheet lay at his feet, as yet untouched by the flames, although it was beginning to curl inwards. There were no lines of ancient script on its surface, just one word, written boldly, without embellishment. It said:
MARY
And the letters were being eaten by the flames and he saw that all around the other sheets of parchment bore the same inscription and these, too, were burning and the flames were ecstatic with their consummation.
Wake up!
But he couldn’t because he knew he wasn’t dreaming. He looked beyond the flames, down the aisle of the church that was St Joseph’s yet wasn’t, towards the door that was slowly opening. His skin was beginning to blister with the heat, but he could not move; he was locked into his fear. He knew he was burning, but he could only stare at the small white figure that had stepped through the door, watch her as she approached, her face passive, her eyes closed. She walked through the flames and they did not harm her.
And now her lips were smiling and her eyes were smiling. And she was looking at him and it wasn’t Alice, it was—
‘FOR CHRIST’S SAKE, FENN, WAKE UP!’
He wasn’t sure if he screamed in the dream, or screamed when he awoke. A face was peering down at him, long, dark hair resting over naked shoulders.
‘Jesus, Fenn, I thought I’d never wake you. Sorry for the shock, but I don’t believe in letting people sleep out their nightmares.’
‘Sue?’
‘Oh, shit, you’re terrific.’ Nancy rolled away from him and reached for cigarettes lying on the bedside table.
Fenn blinked his eyes and focused on the ceiling, the dream fading rapidly. He turned his head apprehensively towards the sudden flare as a match was lit. ‘Hi, Nancy,’ he said.
She blew a stream of smoke as she shook out the match. ‘Yeah, hi,’ she said moodily.
Fenn’s body felt sticky with perspiration and his bladder ached. He sat up and rubbed a hand over his neck and then his face. The stubble on his chin made a scratching sound. Lifting the covers, he swung his legs out onto the floor, then sat for a moment on the edge of the bed. He squeezed his eyelids tight and opened them again.
‘Excuse me,’ he said, almost to himself, then stumbled off into the bathroom.
Nancy puffed on the cigarette while she waited for him to return, the bedside lamp bathing her naked arms and breasts in a soft glow. What the hell was wrong with him? This was the second time that week she’d had to pull him out of a nightmare. Had the fire in Banfield frightened him that much? And what the hell had he been doing all that week, disappearing during the day, not letting her know where he was going, turning up late each night, half-drunk? She had let him move into her rented Brighton apartment because he wanted to get away from other newsmen – particularly from his own newspaper – to work on something special, something to do with the miracles in Banfield; but he wasn’t letting her in on the act. Sure, he was paying his way, but she had hoped they would be sharing the project by now. When she mentioned teamwork, he would just shake his head and say, ‘N
ot yet, babe.’ She was being used and that was all wrong; she should be using him.
The toilet flushed and after a few seconds he appeared in the doorway, scratching at an itch just below his armpit. She sighed and flicked ash into the ashtray beside the bed. He flopped down next to her and groaned.
‘Want to tell me about it?’ she asked, no softness in her voice.
‘Uh?’
‘Your dream? Was it the same as before?’
He raised himself on his elbows and studied his pillow. ‘It was something to do with fire again, I know that. It’s a bit fuzzy now. Oh yeah, there were lots of manuscripts—’
‘Manuscripts?’
He realized his mistake. She was staring curiously at him, the cigarette poised a few inches from her lips. Fenn cleared his throat, wishing his head could be cleared as easily. His mouth felt like something rancid had curled up inside and he silently cursed the demon booze. He made a quick decision, aware that Nancy was the kind of woman who would allow herself to be left out in the cold for only so long before snapping. He was sure she tried his briefcase every night (a case with a combination lock that he’d bought for the specific purpose of keeping snoopers out) when he was asleep, wondering what he had been up to during the day and just what was so precious that it had to be kept locked away. Well, the truth was, after a week of tedious research, there was nothing precious to be locked away. It was time to come clean with her, an easy decision because there was nothing to give away.
He sat up, resting his back against the headboard, pulling the covers over his naked stomach and legs. ‘Do you want to get my briefcase?’
‘Oh, you mean your portable wall safe?’ she replied, confirming his suspicions.
Nancy jumped out of bed without further bidding and padded over to the briefcase leaning against a compact working desk. The apartment was really a holiday studio/flat, one of the countless off-season empty apartments that winter months bestowed upon the seaside resort, and ideal for the likes of Nancy whose stay in the country was to be fairly brief, but too long to make a hotel financially viable.
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