‘What’s your name? Alice? Alice, thank the Lord for healing you. Show Him you can move. Bend and twist and dance for Him.’
The woman started moving, gingerly at first, just a few shy shrugs and shakings of her arms, then she touched her toes, started skipping round the stage, to a hail of ‘Alleluias!’ from the hall.
‘Someone else in the back part of the room has been deaf since childhood, deaf in her left ear. That ear has just popped open, praise the Lord! Can you hear me in both ears now?’
Two women shouted ‘Yes!’ at once. The healer barely paused this time, didn’t ask for names; seemed possessed by his own power, as he spoke faster and more urgently. ‘There’s a man who’s had a migraine since he first arrived, but it’s lifting, it’s lifting as I speak, and he’ll never have a migraine in his life again. Another man has cancer of the liver. In the name of Jesus, I command that tumour to shrivel up completely. Yes, it’s disappearing. The Lord is just breaking down that tumour. If you feel a cool breeze round your liver, Sir, that’s the Spirit.’
Hilary sat rigid and incredulous. Were these people truly healed, and from conditions as serious as cancer? What real proof was there? Doubting Thomas had asked for proof and been rebuked by Christ Himself. Yet even Christ had never worked miracles in such profusion and so quickly, one following the other with barely a pause for breath between.
‘There’s a man there on the left, who’s just been healed from asthma. Breathe freely in and out, Sir. Praise the Lord with every breath. And a woman further back is now free of all her allergies. You can eat cheese now, and chocolate, drink all the milk you want. Alleluia! The Spirit of God is moving in this hall. I can feel power flowing through my hands like an electric current of half a million volts. Many of you have been healed without me saying. If God has touched you, slip out of your seats and come up to the front, so that everyone can see our Saviour’s power.’
People began surging from their seats, crowding the aisles as they struggled to the front, shouting out, ‘Hosanna! Praise the Lord!’
‘Those with fears, come up now, as well. People scared of heights or lifts, or moths or mice or spiders, come up and be healed.’
Another tide of people started fighting their way out, squeezing past those still in their seats, tangling in the aisles with those already healed; the weeping and the fearful pushing past the brave and joyful. All eight healers began laying on their hands, their voices overlapping as they touched foreheads, shoulders, hands.
‘Lord, I command this fear to go.’
‘Vaia, vaia, vaia! Out, out, out! I drive every fear away in the mighty name of Jesus.’
‘Your fear of spiders has completely disappeared. When you leave this hall, you’ll be able to pick one up in your bare hands, have it run across your arm.’
Hilary shuddered, frightened not of spiders but of the whole disturbing uproar. Cries of terror mixed with cries of joy. Sudden chilling screams petered out in a storm of alleluias. Pictures of Christ’s miracles were still flashing on the screen, each greeted by a drum-roll. Violins and cellos were swamped in wild applause, as many of those healed were presented with a microphone and began testifying publicly.
‘I could feel this heat moving to my knees, and then a sudden click. The pain’s completely gone now.’
‘I can move my neck! I can even look behind me. Yet it’s been stiff and locked for years.’
‘I’m no longer scared of dying. I’ve been terrified since my mother died of cancer, but now I …’
There was a sudden disturbance in the rear part of the hall, as a grey-haired woman started running with a wheelchair, jostling people in her way, bumping and shaking the large and dumpy invalid who sat inside, clinging to the sides. As they neared the stage, several people helped heave the wheelchair up, pushed it right towards the Reverend Danny Greaves. The hubbub in the hall gradually subsided, as all eyes turned towards the pastor, who was conversing with the older woman, nodding vigorously. Suddenly, he seized the microphone, addressed the whole hushed audience.
‘Brothers and sisters, this is Ada in the wheelchair. She’s been in it thirty years. And this is Marjorie, who looks after her poor daughter when she’s not in hospital. Ada has multiple sclerosis. That’s a serious disease. But our God is a God of miracles. If He worked them two thousand years ago, why not now, as well? I ask you to join your prayers with mine, as we beg for healing for our sister.’ He stretched out both his hands, laid them on Ada’s shoulders. ‘Sickness, I bring the very power of Christ against you. I command you to go now.
‘Now! he repeated, louder and more vehemently.
The silence was electrifying, not a murmur from the audience, not a ripple from the band.
‘Brothers and sisters, Satan is present here, as well. I can feel him in this hall, trying to fight this healing, trying to keep this woman locked in her paralysis and pain. Pray, my friends, storm heaven.’
Hilary couldn’t pray, felt paralysed herself. Simon had cast doubt on Satan. Would he approve of this at all, or see it as hysteria? Ada was still passive in her chair, her mother looking haggard, close to tears. All eight healers were joining in the prayers out loud, all standing round the wheelchair, their hands stretched up to heaven, imploring and beseeching.
‘Lord, hear us …’
‘Mighty God …’
‘God of Signs and Wonders …’
Pastor Greaves let out a shout of triumph. ‘Yes, yes, yes! He hears us! Satan has been cowed. The Lord is working here. I can feel his healing flowing through my hands. Ada, I say to you, in Jesus’s name, “Get up from your chair and walk.” ’
Slowly, as if sleepwalking, Ada rose, took a few steps forward, unsupported. The entire hall boomed with triumph. Everyone was springing to their feet, as if copying Ada’s movement; laughing, crowing, exchanging hugs of jubilation. Hilary felt her hand seized, met Karen’s shining eyes. ‘A miracle! A miracle!’ She tried to babble back, doubt and wonder fighting in her mind. Was Ada truly healed, or was the whole thing just a hoax? Had she been paralysed at all, or able to walk anyway, at least a few short steps? She searched the stage for proof. If Ada were still walking, instead of slumped back in her wheelchair, then …
Impossible to tell. At least two hundred people were fighting to get close; to touch her, touch the pastor, have some part in the miracle. All she could see were tangled arms and legs, backs pushing, shoving, flowerpots overturned, nervous instrumentalists trying to protect their music stands.
Karen dragged her by the hand. ‘Come on,’ she urged. ‘Come up.’
Hilary let herself be led, joined the euphoric throng of believers in the aisles. Other hands kept grabbing at her, as people touched, embraced; everyone united by their rapturous sense of wonder. She lost Karen in the crush, found herself face to chest with a six foot man whose shirt was drenched with sweat. She pulled away, stood thunderstruck a moment as she caught a sudden glimpse of Ada, still walking unsupported on the stage, her face transfused with joy. She broke into a run – not towards Ada – the other way, towards the door, the exit. She must find Simon, find the crèche, seek individual healing. If even a true miracle could leave her doubting and uneasy, then she was in desperate need of help.
‘I must see Father Tovey. He said he …’
‘I’ve told you, he’s not here. Can’t I help instead? We’re all trained counsellors.’
‘Yes, I know, but …’
‘Okay, I understand. You need a priest. I’ll try to find him for you, but it might take a few minutes. You’d better sit in here.’
The tall woman in tweeds opened the door of what looked like a child’s classroom, with tiny desks, tiny chairs, children’s drawings on the walls. Hilary sank down on a yellow chair which had been constructed for a four-year-old. This building seemed more a full-blown nursery school than just a simple crèche. She’d passed several rooms already, some with pictures on the doors, cut-out cats and rabbits. She’d heard noises through the doors – weeping, sho
uting, singing. One group was singing still, women’s voices mainly, piercing the thin wall.
Thank you, Lord, for this fine day,
This fine day, this fine day …
Hilary glanced out of the window. The fine weather had broken. It was raining now, a heavy stinging rain, lashing the bare and bony branches of a beech. Penitential weather, fitting for Good Friday.
Thank you, Lord, for loving me, Loving me,
loving me …
A branch had broken off the beech, splintered at the end. The grass was bruised beneath it, slimy green. A cruel east wind was pouncing on the last dead leaves, left over from November. Hilary shifted on her chair. ‘Simon,’ she said, suddenly, out loud. ‘Please come. Please help me.’
The door opened. Two faces wreathed in smiles, four arms reaching out to her; a short man in his thirties, already balding, in neat grey flannels and a blazer with a badge on; an older woman with glasses and a bun. Hilary stood up. ‘I … er … wanted Father Tovey.’
‘He’s not well, I’m afraid. He’s lying down. We’ve come to help instead. I’m Olive. This is Ted.’ More smiles, a lingering squeeze from clammy hands. ‘We’re your prayer-team. There should be three of us, but Hannah’s just dropped out. She’s having problems. Don’t worry. Numbers make no difference. It’s faith that counts with Jesus. I’ve brought you this, dear.’ Olive held out a man’s handkerchief, a crumpled dingy white one, with a blue border round the edge. ‘It’s one of Danny’s prayer-cloths. He can’t heal everybody in person, so he prays over these cloths – sometimes hundreds at a time – and his power goes into them. If you put it on your head, your sickness will depart. Praise the Lord!’
‘But I’m not sick. I only …’
‘It works just as well for sickness of the soul. Praise the Lord! Just try it. Trust in Jesus.’ Olive levered Hilary back into her seat, then spread the prayer-cloth on her head. One end was drooping in her eye, so she could no longer see Olive and her smile. She longed to snatch it off, make a quick dash for the door, but Ted was standing just in front of her, with his hands stretched up and out. He was praying ostensibly, lips moving, eyes raised up, but he’d probably also read her mind and was positioned there to prevent her from escaping.
Olive rearranged the handkerchief, started rummaging in her bag, brought out a tiny tin. ‘Now we’re going to anoint you with this holy oil. Danny’s blessed that, too.’ Olive eased the top off with her thumbnail, dipped it in some greyish stuff which looked like rancid lard, dabbed a blob on Hilary’s hands and forehead.
‘Don’t look so worried, dear. I was healed myself, you know. Jesus gave me the Kiss of Life. I was living in a dark cave and He took my hand and led me to the light. All I said was “God, I hurt. Help me” – and He did. I was born again at Swindon, at a conference, baptised in the Spirit. I saw Jerusalem outside my window, all its spires and churches shining in the sun. Yet it was January in England in the snow. I’m so happy now, I feel I’m walking on water half the time. Jesus told me it was okay to be me, you see. And it’s okay to be you, Hilary. Even if you’re a sinner – and we’re all sinners, I’m afraid – you can still be a happy sinner. Have you given yourself a hug today?’
‘No, I …’
‘That’s all right as well. Even if you’re down, that’s okay with Jesus. He meets us where we’re at, accepts us as we are. But you have to let Him in first. If you let Him in big enough, He’ll change your whole life.’
‘Look, really, I’m all right. I’m not sad or sick or anything. I just wanted a brief word with Father Tovey.’
‘We’re priests as well, you know, spreaders of God’s love. Ted here joined the Ministry just three months ago. He lost his way last year. His youngest daughter died when she was only three. He couldn’t take it, was heading for a breakdown, but then Danny made him see that his daughter wasn’t dead, that she’d only gone to God. God wanted her, you see, wanted her so much, He couldn’t wait till she was sixty-five or seventy.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry. How awful. I …’
‘Don’t be sorry. Ted’s not, are you, Ted? He was proud to give his little girl to Jesus. Instead of a funeral, they had a Mass of celebration and afterwards …’ She broke off, listened through the wall. ‘It’s a shame about that noise next door. Are you finding it distracting?’
‘No, I’m not, but …’ Hilary tried to struggle up, find some excuse to leave. She’d been so unnerved by Olive, she’d hardly been aware that the voices were still shrilling on, the pelting rain now thrumming out a descant to the hymn.
Thank you, Lord, for setting us free,
Setting us free, setting us free …
She subsided on her chair again. Olive’s hands were hurting.
‘They’ll probably stop quite soon. I don’t know what they’re up to. Hymns don’t mix with private healings, not in my experience. I prefer to sing in tongues, and Jesus likes it, too. It’s His favourite form of praise, no question about that. I do it all the time now – in my car, in the supermarket, walking my two corgis. Right, my dear, if you close your eyes and bow your head, we’re both going to pray over you, okay? Ready, Ted?’
Ted moved in closer, seemed in awe of Olive, hadn’t said a word yet. He was a mousy shambling man, with a slight stoop to his shoulders, as if he were recoiling from a blow, but he had kindly doe-brown eyes, a mild and gentle face. Perhaps she could appeal to him, beg him to release her. She touched his arm nervously, kept her eyes on his blazer badge, which showed an owl above a shield. ‘Ted, I …’
Her voice was lost completely as Olive’s strong contralto bombarded both of them, singing strings of syllables with no sense to them, only shrilling sound. ‘Eu-wawa-vanni-loga-dani-eo-nadaahahahah.’ Olive nudged Ted in the ribs, to urge him to join in. He broke into a thin and piping wail, but soon ran out of breath and sounds, petered out uncertainly. He cleared his throat, began again, but his reedy tenor voice was cowed by Olive’s, and lagging way behind. At least Olive’s sounds had some power and mystery to them, and were always different, changing, as if some outside force were dictating what she sang, perhaps even inspiring her. But Ted was faltering, now desperately repeating the same word on and on: ‘Dora, Dora, Dora.’ Was that his wife, or the daughter who had died, or some coded evocation of the Spirit? Hilary tried to shut her mind off, force herself to pray. It was wrong to be so critical when this pair were trying to help her, had given up their time. Why did she keep finding fault with people, people far more charitable than she was? ‘Lord, take away my pride,’ she whispered silently. ‘My mocking way of …’
A sudden terrifying scream cut across her prayer. She jumped out of her chair, clutching at the prayer-cloth, which had almost fallen off.
‘Don’t worry, dear. It’s just the girl next door. She’s demonised.’
‘She’s what?’
‘Possessed by devils, maybe ten or twelve of them. They’ll drive them out, you’ll see. Jesus always wins. How are you feeling now yourself? Any better?’
‘Y … Yes, much better, thank you.’ Hilary held on to the wall, tried to edge away. ‘In fact, I think I ought to …’
Olive’s smile closed in on her, forced her to sit down again. ‘We praise you, Lord, for healing our lost sister. Thank you, Jesus, for dying for her today. Do you realise, dear, if you were the only person in the world, Christ would still have died for you alone? He loves you – so much you’d never grasp it in a billion billion years. His love for you’s so high, so deep, so great, so wide …’ Olive groped for adjectives, spread her arms apart, to indicate infinity. ‘And He’ll never leave you, ever. He holds your hand. He walks beside you, night and day.’
‘Yes, I know. Yes, thank you. But I’ve really got to go now. I …’
They couldn’t hear. Ted was muttering in a low and throaty monotone – ‘Praise Him, praise Him, praise Him’ – as Olive’s words poured on.
‘He’s prepared a pure white robe for you. I want you to put it on, as a sign of your rebirth. Slip it on r
ight now. No, don’t get up, don’t move. It’s just symbolical. What’s wrong, my dear? You’re very tense. If you feel still lost or sad, hold God’s hand, hold it very tight.’ Olive proffered her own hand, now damp with heat and sweat.
‘Jesus, Jesus, Jesus,’ Ted continued, the reiterated s’s sounding like the hissing of a serpent. Hilary suddenly felt scared. She was hot herself, sweating, with a strange throbbing in her head, a queasy feeling spreading through her body. Was she ill, about to faint, or just weak from lack of food? She had eaten nothing since her two small spoons of All-Bran, seven hours ago, and had missed both lunch and supper yesterday. She kept her eyes fixed on the wall, tried to calm herself, breathe deeply. She was staring at a lurid Crucifixion, a young child’s handiwork; the matchstick Christ lopsided, His mouth a crayoned blue line, vermilion blood pouring from His side.
‘Christ is dead,’ she whispered.
‘What, dear?’
‘I don’t believe. I don’t believe in anything. Perhaps I never did.’
‘Can you speak a little louder. With all that noise next door, it’s …’
Hilary hardly heard the screams resounding through the wall. She was deaf to everything save the screaming in her mind.
‘Ted, go and ask them if they can be a little quieter. It simply isn’t fair. They’re not the only pebbles on the beach.’
Pebbles on the beach. She could see the beach at Weybourne, the miles and miles of shingle, shining in the rain. She was just a random pebble, just a grain of sand. A nothing, with no Maker, something to be tossed away, worn thin by the tide. She heard Simon’s voice, booming like the sea. ‘I’ve come to see the price of faith is doubt.’ This wasn’t doubt, but cold and fierce conviction, as forceful, overwhelming, as her call to be a nun that Christmas Eve in 1965. There was no God. If anyone had called her, it was her own pride, or fear, or fantasy. Simon had been right in that respect: she had become a nun for all the wrong reasons – for security, for status, to replace her own bad-tempered father with a superior Heavenly one. But Simon was wrong in still believing. His kindly left-wing God was as much a myth as Jim Duck’s jolly pal, or Danny Greaves’s God of miracles, or Molly’s God of Bodies. They were dead, all dead; had died today, this afternoon, Good Friday, and there would be no Resurrection, no joyful empty tomb.
Devils, for a change Page 31