Shrine

  Her head was bowed, her hands clasped tightly on Ben’s shoulders. She was praying silently, a small frown of concen- tration on her forehead. Even Ben was still, lost in his own thoughts.

  Fenn was perplexed. Sue was no fool and certainly not naïve as far as religion was concerned. At least, not since he had known her. So why this change? What had happened to bring her back to the Church so swiftly and with such conviction? And how would she react to the exposé he was already planning? He tried to shrug off the uncomfortable guilt: perhaps his story would bring her to her senses. He hoped so, because there was no way he could back off now he’d bitten the bait.

  The tinkling of a bell startled him and a general movement swept through the church as those in the congregation lucky enough to have seats stood, and those already standing came to reverential attention. A door to the left side of the altar had opened and Fenn could just see movement between the heads of those standing at the front. The organ sounded its first chords, a brief clue as to which key the hymn was to be sung in, and throats were cleared and breaths drawn in. The start of the hymn was ragged, but quickly gained a unified momentum.

  The priest mounted the two steps to the altar and turned to face the congregation. Fenn was surprised and a little shocked by the change in Father Hagan’s appearance. The man seemed to have aged, to have become almost bowed. His eyes had the strange luminous quality of someone who was near death through hunger, and his skin had become sallow, stretched across his cheekbones. His tongue flicked across his lips in a nervous gesture and Fenn noticed that the priest’s eyes flitted around the church in swift movements as though the very size of the congregation was unsettling to him. Hagan’s vestments were no longer a shield; they merely emphazised the frailty beneath them.

  Fenn leaned closer to Sue to make a comment on the disturbing change in the priest, but realized she was too absorbed in the service itself to notice.

  Throughout the long Mass – drearily long, to him – he studied Father Hagan, gradually becoming aware that the man’s deterioration was not as drastic as he had first supposed (or it could have been that the priest was regaining more of his previous stature as the Mass continued). It might also have been the fact that Fenn had not seen him for some time, and the sudden confrontation had heightened the aspects of change.

  At the sign of peace, when everybody present shook their neighbour’s hand and bade them, ‘Peace be with you,’ Fenn offered his hand to Sue. She looked at him coldly before taking it and her grip had no firmness. When she released him, he held on, squeezing her palm in an effort to make some mental contact. Her eyes dropped downwards and it seemed as though a shadow crossed her features. Fenn could only stare until a tiny hand tugged at his raincoat and he looked down to see Ben thrusting his hand upwards, waiting to shake.

  ‘Peace be with you, Ben,’ Fenn whispered, glancing again at Sue. She was watching the priest on the altar.

  The Mass continued and, after the Eucharist Prayer, Fenn’s interest switched to the congregation itself. Those wishing to receive Communion surged forward with undignified (and perhaps unholy) haste, causing a bustling bottleneck in the centre aisle. Invalids in wheelchairs, others on crutches, came forward, and Fenn could not help but feel sorry for them. Their desperation was obvious and it renewed his anger to see them exploited so. There were children in the queue, none younger than seven years old, but several not far past that age. They were eager and wide-eyed, prob- ably not understanding exactly what was going on, but caught up in the excitement of it all. A youth of seventeen or more was being led towards the altar as if he were a five-year-old, and his shuffling gait explained why. The boy was severely retarded and Fenn could see the brimming hope on his mother’s face.

  Father Hagan’s expression was one of anguish as he surveyed the long treble line of worshippers and the reporter grudgingly sympathized. He felt sure that none of it was the priest’s doing and that Hagan was just as appalled as he, himself.

  There were several nuns among the slow-moving procession, their heads bowed, hands clasped tightly together. The hymn being sung reached its conclusion, the verses running out long before the queue, leaving only the noise of scuffling feet and echoing coughs. Returning communicants were pushing their way along side aisles to their seats, causing those standing to crush against their neighbours to allow them through. A small figure suddenly appeared before Fenn, and the reporter winced when he saw the boy’s hands were covered in unsightly verrucas. In the centre aisle another child, this one a boy also, was being carried towards the priest, his legs wrapped in a heavy blanket. It was the same child whom Fenn had seen in the wheelchair on the path leading to the church. The boy, coaxed by the man holding him, opened his mouth to receive the Host and the priest’s eyes were filled with fresh sadness.

  The procession went on, a constant human stream that seemed to have no end, and twice there was a delay while Father Hagan prepared more wafers. Finally, his reserves were depleted and the priest was forced to announce the fact to those still waiting.

  Fenn took grim amusement in their disappointment as the remains of the queue shuffled mournfully back to their places. It was like a bloody pub with no beer, he told himself.

  The Mass ended soon after and the congregation looked around at each other as if expecting more. The priest and his white-frocked entourage disappeared into the sacristy, and the sense of anticlimax was almost tangible. Murmurs ran around the church and heads peered towards the right-hand side of the altar, to the pew beneath the statue of Our Lady. The whispers came back over the rows of seats: the little girl wasn’t there. Alice Pagett had not attended Mass that morning. There were a few audible moans, a few muttered complaints, but because they were in the House of God, most of the congregation kept their grievances to themselves. They left the church, clearly feeling they had been let down, but having no recourse to take (which increased their frustration).

  People were pushing against Fenn, and Sue looked up at him questioningly, ready, herself, to leave the church.

  ‘Take Ben out with you, Sue, and I’ll meet you back at the car,’ he told her.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ she asked as she was jostled from behind.

  ‘I just want to have a few words with the priest.’

  ‘You can’t go into the sacristy, Gerry.’ She was almost forbidding him to.

  ‘They gonna burn me in oil? Don’t worry, I won’t be long.’

  Before she could protest further, he eased past her into the advancing crowd.

  It was hard going, but churchgoers were not generally arrogant as a crowd and they made way for him where they could. The benches were emptying and he used one as a channel to reach the centre aisle. He stopped briefly to catch a closer look at the statue of the Madonna, the stone image that had fascinated Alice Pagett so, and briefly considered taking a quick photograph. Deciding it might be better to snap a few later when the church was empty – he didn’t want to upset anyone present, especially the clergy – Fenn resumed his journey.

  Once in the main aisle, the going was easier, for the crowd was more concentrated towards the church exit by now. He crossed the front of the altar, heading for the door at its side, finding it slightly ajar. He hesitated before entering. There were voices coming from inside.

  ‘. . . why, Monsignor, why do they listen to these rumours? What have they expected—’

  ‘Calm yourself, Father. You must behave as on any normal Sunday by going to the door of your church and conversing with your parishioners. If you wish to discourage them from such idle wishful-thinking, then show them that everything is normal.’ The second voice was deep, commanding.

  Fenn pushed open the door, deciding not to knock first. Father Hagan’s back was to him, but the other cleric, the tall dark-suited man with the hunched shoulders, was facing the doorway. He stopped in mid-sentence, staring at the journalist over the smaller priest’s shoulder. Hagan turned and his features stiffened when he saw Fenn.

  ‘
What do you want?’ he asked, the hostility evident in his voice.

  Not one to be easily intimidated, Fenn stepped inside. He smiled in pretended apology and said, ‘I wondered if I could have a few words, Father.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but you’re not allowed in here,’ the priest snapped back.

  The altar-servers, three boys and a man, who had been busy removing their cassocks, stopped and looked at the priest in surprise, his sharpness alien to his normally mild temperament.

  Fenn held his ground. ‘It won’t take a minute.’

  ‘I want you to leave right now.’

  The reporter’s smile dropped away as he returned the priest’s icy glare. It was the older priest, the tall one, who quickly stepped in to break the deadlock. ‘I’m Monsignor Delgard,’ he said. ‘Is there something we can help you with?’

  ‘He’s a reporter,’ Hagan interrupted as Fenn began to reply. ‘It’s largely due to him that this fuss has been created.’

  The older priest nodded and said pleasantly, ‘You are Mr Fenn? The man who found Alice in the church grounds when this affair began? I’m very pleased to meet you, young man.’ He offered his huge hand, which the reporter took cautiously. In fact, the cleric’s grip was firm but surprisingly gentle.

  ‘I didn’t mean to barge in . . .’ Fenn said and the priest smiled at the lie.

  ‘I’m afraid we are rather busy at the moment, Mr Fenn, but if we could be of some assistance later?’

  ‘Could you tell me why you’re here at St Joseph’s today?’

  ‘Merely to assist Father Hagan. And to observe, of course.’

  ‘Observe what, exactly?’

  ‘You saw how many people attended Mass today. It would be silly for the church to pretend the congregation has not placed some special significance on this particular Sunday.’

  ‘But have you, Monsignor?’ The tape recorder in Fenn’s pocket was running, flicked on by his thumb.

  The priest hesitated, but he was still smiling. ‘Let me just say we did not expect any phenomenon to occur. We are more concerned with our parishioners—’

  ‘There’s more than parishioners outside,’ Fenn broke in. ‘I’d say they’ve come from a larger area than Banfield.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure that’s the case,’ Hagan said coldly, ‘but that’s because your newspaper ran a grossly exaggerated story which played on the public’s susceptibility.’

  ‘I only reported what happened,’ Fenn retorted.

  ‘With some of your own speculation. And I might add, speculation that barely hid the cynicism behind it.’

  ‘I’m not a Catholic, Father. You can’t expect—’

  ‘Please.’ Monsignor Delgard stood firmly between the two protagonists, his big hands held at chest level as if to hold back their remarks. His voice was not raised, its tones barely hardened, but it was a voice to take notice of. ‘I’m sure this discussion should continue – you must have your questions answered, Mr Fenn, and you, Father, may benefit from listening to a more objective view of this whole affair – but now is neither the time nor the place. I suggest you leave, Mr Fenn, and return some time later today.’

  It was hardly a suggestion, more of a command. and one which the reporter reluctantly decided to obey. It would be better for the sake of his story to have Hagan’s cooperation rather than his antagonism, and their conversation at this point was going nowhere useful. However, always one to turn a situation to his advantage, no matter how small, Fenn said, ‘If I come back this evening will you give me an hour of your time?’

  Father Hagan opened his mouth to protest, but Monsignor Delgard spoke quickly. ‘As long as you like, Mr Fenn. We won’t restrict your time.’

  Fenn was taken aback. He’d expected half-an-hour, maybe twenty minutes. ‘It’s a deal,’ he said with a grin, then pulled open the door.

  The church was almost empty and it seemed much darker. He realized the rainclouds had become heavier, the light outside shining through the stained-glass windows poor and diffused, having no thrust. He closed the sacristy door and crossed the front of the altar towards the statue of the Madonna. The pupil-less eyes of the white statue gazed sightlessly down on him, its stone lips bearing the slightest traces of a benevolent smile. The sculptured hands stretched downwards, palms outwards, symbol of the Madonna’s acceptance of all who stood before her.

  It was just a block of stone to Fenn, a skilful effigy but one that had no meaning for him. The blank eyes were disturbing because they were blind; the look of compassion was meaningless because it was hand-made, not heart-felt.

  He narrowed his eyes. And the statue was flawed. There was just the faintest hairline crack barely visible in the poor light, running from beneath the chin down one side of the neck. Nobody’s perfect, he silently told the Madonna.

  He was reaching inside his raincoat pocket for the camera, having decided it was as good an opportunity as any to photograph the statue, when running footsteps made him turn. A young boy of fifteen or sixteen was hurrying down the centre aisle, making for the altar. He did not seem to notice Fenn as he swung around the front bench and headed for the sacristy door. He thumped against the door with the flat of his hand, then burst in.

  Fenn quickly hurried over and was just in time to hear the youth breathlessly say: ‘It’s Alice Pagett, Father. She’s here.’

  ‘But I instructed her mother to keep her away today,’ came Father Hagan’s voice .

  ‘But she’s here, Father. In the field, by the tree! And everybody’s following her. They’re all going into the field!’

  13

  ‘The Magic is in me – the Magic is in me. It’s in every one of us.’

  Frances Hodgson Burnett, The Secret Garden

  When Fenn entered the sacristy he caught just a glimpse of the two priests and the boy departing through another door leading to the outside. The altar-boys and the older altar-server were still too surprised to move. The reporter ran through the room, following the three who had just left. Outside he found himself in the section of graveyard at the back of St Joseph’s; the two priests and the youth were hurrying along a narrow path between the graves towards the low wall dividing the church grounds and the field beyond. He hurried to catch up, the eager gleam back in his eyes.

  He veered off when he saw that the wall was crowded with people, many of whom were anxious to see into the field, but reluctant, for reasons of their own, to enter it. A section of wall towards the corner of the graveyard was clear, and it was this he made for. The two priests were trying to push through the jostling onlookers, but were having difficulty in reaching the wall. Fenn scuffed the top of a molehill with his shoe as he raced towards his chosen spot. The grass was damp and slippery and twice his feet nearly slid from under him. He was soon at the wall, leaning over it, catching his breath. Then he was on the wall, balancing on its rough, uneven top, fumbling for the camera in his pocket, fingers trembling.

  Alice, wearing a blue plastic raincoat, was standing before the tree, staring up at its twisted branches, the light rain spattering against her upturned face. The clouds were dark and heavy, their full load having not yet been shed; the horizon was silvery white in contrast. The others stood further back from the girl as though afraid to approach her, afraid to go too near the oak. They stood in small groups, silent, watching. More were climbing over the wall, cautiously moving forward, but never beyond the groups behind the girl. Fenn saw the crippled boy, the one who had received Holy Communion earlier, being lifted over the wall, then carried through the waiting people towards the little girl. Just five yards from her, his father knelt and gently laid the boy on the ground, adjusting the blanket around the frail body to keep out the dampness.

  A young girl was led forward and Fenn recognized her from her clothes: she was the same girl he’d made way for at the church gate, the one suffering from chorea.

  Others were pushing their way through, bringing children with them, or supporting adults. Soon the groups were less obvious as the s
pace around them filled, and the sick were laid on the grass, no one caring about the ground’s wetness, or the chill in the air.

  Fenn estimated there had to be at least three hundred people present, many now in the field itself, the rest still nervously lingering behind the wall as though it were a shield. All were hushed.

  He could feel the tension and almost wanted to shout against it. It was building, passing from person to person, group to group, a rising hysteria that would reach a peak before breaking. He shivered, for it was uncanny, eerie.

  He focused the camera, trying to keep his hands steady. His vantage point on the wall gave him a good overall view and he hoped he had chosen the correct aperture for the dim light. The Olympus had a built-in flash unit, but he was reluctant to use it: he felt that the sudden light might somehow upset the mood of the crowd, might break the spell they appeared to be under. Spell? Get a hold of yourself, Fenn. It was no more than the atmosphere created at football matches or pop concerts. Just quieter, that was all, and that was what made it so spooky.

  He clicked the button, first photographing Alice and the tree. Then her and the crowd behind. The people at the wall next. Good shot, you could see the apprehension on their faces. And something more. Fear. Fear yet . . . longing. Christ, they were yearning for something to happen.

  He saw the two priests climbing over and took a quick shot. The picture could be great when blown up and cropped in around Father Hagan’s head, for he had rarely seen such an expression of pure anguish on another man’s face before.

  The priests moved through the gathering, but even they did not go beyond the fringe of people forming a ragged semicircle around the girl. Fenn jumped to the ground and made his own way towards the oak tree, approaching from the side, affording himself a good view of what was taking place. His shoes and the ends of his trouser legs were soaked by the time he reached the edge of the crowd, yet he did not feel the discomfort. He, like the others, was too fascinated by the diminutive figure standing perfectly still, gazing up at the tree. From his position he could see Alice’s profile and her expression was one of sheer happiness. Many of the children were smiling too, their joy not altogether shared by the adults with them, although even they were not showing the same fearful apprehension of moments earlier. At least, those nearest the girl were not. Fenn caught sight of Alice’s mother kneeling close to the group who had brought the crippled boy into the field and wasn’t sure if it was just rain on her face or if she was crying. Her eyes were closed and her hands were gripped tightly together in a gesture of prayer. The scarf she wore had fallen back onto her shoulders and her hair hung damply over her forehead. Silent words formed on her lips.