Nancy pushed him onto his back, using her shoulder to do so, not wanting to release him yet. She kept her fingers there, stroking, moving the soft skin against its rigid core in a steady motion, occasionally increasing the pace to heighten his excitement, then slowing the movement before it became too late for them both.
His hand slid down to her stomach, the muscles there quivering, then tightening, at his touch, but she pushed it away when it sought to reach lower. She raised herself to her knees, releasing his penis so that her hand could explore more of his body. Both hands felt their way across his stomach, moving upwards in small circular motions, gently kneading his skin, the pressure spread with open palms and outstretched fingers. She ran them across his chest, spending a little time around his nipples, bending to kiss, to suck, to make them wet, gently blowing on them before moving onwards, her hands smoothing themselves over his shoulders, around his neck, touching the backs of his ears with her thumbs.
He was smiling and she kissed his smile, shifting her body so that it was over him. She stretched herself down, resting her body against his, their skin touching and moulding together in a fusion that was comforting as well as exquisite, as though the pores of their flesh were opening themselves to each other, drinking in each other’s juices. Nancy writhed against his hard body, her own pleasure beginning to rise, feeling the sensation deep between her thighs, the moisture there beginning to flow. Her legs opened, her thighs spreading around him. His penis was against her stomach and he shifted his hips so that it moved against her. She took his hands that were clasped around the small of her back and pulled his arms upward, fingers curling through his, holding tight, pushing his hands over his head, pressing them into the pillow, pinning his body down with her own. She moved herself upwards so that her opening rested against his testicles, the risen root of her own pleasure pressing hard against the swollen base of his rod. She moaned as she squirmed and he used his body to give her more pleasure.
She brought up her knees as the sensation grew, but still crouched over him, still pinned his arms back. She stroked her vagina, so moist, so alive, along the length of his penis, then down again, her whole body shivering with its sensuality. She moved upwards again until his tip touched hers, and there she lingered, bringing on her own excitement, the tremor quickly becoming unbearable, but too good to release.
Her fingers untwined from his and reached down. She raised her body, touched his penis more firmly against herself, one hand pushing his protective skin down and up in the coaxing, teasing – exhilarating – movement of moments before; she teased herself with him, allowing his body only partial entry, using him to titillate the outer lips of her vagina.
He groaned, pushing himself upwards, but she went with him, a deep-throated chuckle that was almost a moan escaping her. She allowed him more, her own wetness making the entry smooth, no pain involved, only pleasure. Inner muscles tightened, closing around him, holding him there, her hand still fondling the rest of him, touching between his legs, curling around his testicles and gently squeezing. Her hips moved in a circular motion and his hands clutched at her thighs, spreading around them, reaching upwards, along her body, touching her breasts, holding them together, releasing them, running back down, touching the top of her opening with his thumb, teasing her, but pleasing her as she teased and pleased him.
It was too much for her. She sank lower and he rose into her, every part of his erection surrounded by warmth, by wetness, by muscles that sucked at the juices within him, drawing them out, skilful contractions that needed little movement from the rest of their bodies.
They were both covered in a light sheen of perspiration, Nancy’s hair hanging limply over her forehead. Her eyes were half-closed, the pupils rolled upwards, and her lips were parted just enough to show her teeth, her smile almost a grimace of agony.
Fenn looked at her and the sight increased his own sensations. He moved against her, but she controlled everything; the final pleasure would not be his until she was ready, until her own climax was ready to be fuelled. And that would be soon.
She gasped, the sound almost a tiny scream. Her whole body was moving now, pushing him into her, as much as she could take, which was all. He helped her movements, hands around her hips. He lifted her from the bed, his heels digging into the sheets, and she moaned sharply, wanting more, more. Her hands closed around his sides and pulled him upwards.
He felt the juices deep within begin their turmoil, erupting, pressure building for the moment they would break free.
She felt the change in him, the even stronger stiffening, his whole body becoming more forceful, more rigid, more intense. And she was ready for it. The tumult inside was ready to explode.
Her body tightened as though every sinew, every nerve, had drawn itself inwards. She could no longer draw in breath and her heart was straining with the exertion, its pace matching the rhythm of her own movements. And then the peak was reached and she was floating and soaring, reaching one great height and then another, the climax not just a single, exquisite burst, but a series of senses-reeling eruptions, the first two or three expanding in her mind so that it touched all of her, making each nerve part of the whiteness, part of her mind, its intensity diminishing slowly, leaving her panting, sensuously drained.
Her shoulders slumped forward, her arms bent, barely supporting her, long dark hair hanging down into his face. She gave a low, smiling sigh as the pleasure ebbed away until it was replaced by a deep satisfaction.
She slowly pulled herself free and lay down beside him, his fluid seeping from her to rest on her inner thigh. ‘That was better,’ she sighed.
‘You did all the work,’ he told her, wiping clinging strands of hair away from her damp brow.
‘Yeah, but your cooperation this time helped.’
They were silent for a while, their bodies relaxing, their thoughts beginning to drift. Nancy heard Fenn’s breathing become deeper, more regular, and she knew he was sleeping. She carefully eased herself from his arms and went to the bathroom, walking lightly, not wanting to disturb him. She washed herself and put on a bathrobe, then poured herself a glass of cold milk in the kitchen. Returning to the bedroom she gathered up Fenn’s fallen notes, taking them through to the lounge and placing them on the room’s sofa. She switched on a lamp, then went back into the bedroom to retrieve her cigarettes.
Nancy settled down on the sofa, lit a cigarette, shuffled the notes into three neat piles beside her, and began to read.
26
There was a little girl, and she wore a little curl
Right down the middle of her forehead
When she was good, she was very, very good,
But when she was bad, she was horrid.
Anon, ‘Jemima’
Monsignor Delgard’s stride had lost much of its briskness and his tall figure was more stooped than usual. The High Street was dark and quiet, the two public houses not having yet regurgitated their Saturday night trade onto the pavements; his footsteps sounded harsh and lonely along the concrete. Not many shop windows were lit, the lights from the few lamp-posts along the roadside feeble, creating shadows that were more menacing than natural darkness. It was bitterly cold again, no significant change in climate noticed as the borderline between February and March fast approached. The priest hugged the lapels of his overcoat tight around his neck, wondering if it was more than just age that allowed the night chill to penetrate his bones. He shuddered, feeling cold fingertips touch his nerves.
He could see the lights of the convent ahead, his eyes, beneath their heavy lids, usually keen, still having a clear vision that only disturbed thoughts or aching temples could sometimes blur. His head ached, the cool air no panacea, and his thoughts, too, were disturbed. The lights of the convent shone like a beacon, as though guiding him towards a friendly refuge, a place of Retreat, away from the brooding church. But was it a false refuge? What did he fear within its sanctuary? He shrugged off the doubts. There was only a child safe
ly lodged within those walls, a frightened, bewildered child. But perhaps a child that was being used . . .
Delgard had encountered the phenomenon termed as ‘possession’ many times in the past, had helped victims conquer the evil inside themselves, had helped their minds break free of schizophrenic emotions which chained and tormented. In later years, the effort of such psychological battles had been almost too much for his drained body, his mind (or soul) taking longer each time to recuperate. But then it took broken bones longer to heal as age crept into them. He suddenly turned his head as though a disembodied finger had tapped his shoulder.
An empty street. The sightseers had left for the day and the reporters and cameramen had retired for the night, eager for tomorrow, Sunday, a day of labour. He looked towards the convent once more, his pace becoming faster, refusing to accept he was fleeing from a frightening uncertainty behind to a disturbing uncertainty ahead.
He passed the burned-out shell of the garage and thought of Gerry Fenn. Delgard had received one agitated phone call from the reporter the day after the terrible accident, telling him what had happened, what Fenn had witnessed, then . . . nothing. The reporter had disappeared, informing no one, not even his editor, not even Susan Gates, of where he could be reached, what he was up to. Delgard was concerned for the reporter; had he led the man into something he could not comprehend and so could not regard with the respect (and fear) it demanded? The man was no fool and his very cynicism afforded him some protection. But only up to a point. Beyond that point he was as vulnerable as anybody else. Delgard breathed in the frosty air and expelled a white mist as if it were an escaping soul.
The panda car was parked half on the kerb outside the convent and the policeman inside watched the tall priest as he approached the gate. Headlights dazzled Delgard, freezing him in their glare like a paralysed rabbit.
‘Sorry,’ a voice said from the window. ‘It’s Monsignor Delgard, isn’t it?’ The headlights died, leaving the priest sightless for a few moments. He heard a car door open and could just make out a dark shape as the policeman approached him. ‘Didn’t expect any visitors this time of night,’ the voice said. The convent gate was pushed open and the policeman stood to one side to let the priest through.
‘Thank you,’ Delgard said as he entered the courtyard. ‘No journalists tonight?’
The policeman chuckled. ‘No chance. It’s Saturday. They’re either in the local pubs getting stoned or tucked up in bed waiting for the big day tomorrow. The former mostly, I’d say, knowing that crew.’
Delgard nodded and crossed the courtyard, mounting the three steps to the main door as the gate scraped closed behind him. He rang the doorbell and waited.
It seemed like a long time before the door was opened, the coldness reaching into him with deliberate intensity, punishing him because he dared to be still when only movement could keep the chill at bay. The nun peered out at him, her face barely discernible because of the light behind, her attitude cautious.
‘Oh, Monsignor,’ she said with relief. The door swung wide.
‘Reverend Mother is expecting me,’ he told her, stepping into the hallway.
‘Yes, of course. Let me show you into—’
‘I’m glad you could come, Monsignor Delgard,’ said a voice from the other end of the hallway. Mother Marie-Claire, the Reverend Mother of the convent as well as Head Mistress of the convent school, walked towards them, the silver cross she wore outside her grey tunic briefly flashing as it caught the light from overhead. She was a small woman, thin, and vulnerable in the way most nuns, even the more robust, seemed to be. Light-framed spectacles perched on a narrow nose and her unplucked eyebrows gave her a severity that Delgard knew was not in her nature. Her hands were clasped low before her as they always seemed to be; it was as if she were constantly praying, and he thought that that probably was the case. She stopped before him and he could see her anxiety behind the thin lenses.
‘I’m sorry I’m so late, Reverend Mother,’ he said. ‘There was much to do in preparation for tomorrow.’
‘I understand, Monsignor. It was good of you to come at this hour.’
‘Is she in her room?’
‘Yes, but not sleeping. She appears desperate to see you.’
‘Then she knew I would come?’
Mother Marie-Claire nodded. ‘May I offer you something hot to drink before you see her? You must be frozen.’
‘No, thank you. I’m all right. I think I’ll go straight up.’
‘You wouldn’t rather see her down here? In my study, perhaps?’
Delgard smiled. ‘No, she may feel inclined to speak more freely in the privacy of her own room, temporary though it may be.’
‘As you wish, Monsignor. I’ll take you up.’
He raised a hand. ‘I know where her room is, Reverend Mother. Please don’t trouble yourself.’ He made for the stairs, unbuttoning his overcoat as he went and handing it to the sister who had opened the door.
‘Monsignor?’
He paused and turned back to the nun.
‘Do you think it wise to allow Alice to attend Mass tomorrow?’
‘It’s what she wishes, Reverend Mother. She insists upon it.’
‘She’s just a child . . .’ The nun let the words trail off.
‘One who must be treated with great care,’ Delgard said kindly.
‘But the crowds. So many . . .’
‘We cannot keep her locked away. The public would believe some sinister motive, I’m afraid.’
‘But for her own good.’
‘How upset she gets when we try to keep her away from the church. I’m of the same mind as you, Reverend Mother, but this matter is not entirely in my hands.’
‘Surely Bishop Caines—’
‘No, it isn’t just the bishop who wishes Alice’s exposure to the public. None of these decisions are made by one man any more. Please, don’t concern yourself for her safety; she’ll be well protected.’
‘It’s her peace of mind I’m concerned with, Monsignor.’ There was no criticism, nor harshness, in her tone, just a caring sadness.
‘We all are, Reverend Mother. I promise you, we all are.’ He began to climb the stairs, his footsteps slow, almost as though he were reluctant to reach the upper floor.
Mother Marie-Claire unconsciously fingered the silver cross dangling from the chain around her neck, then walked back towards the tiny chapel beyond the hallway where she had been deep in prayer before the priest arrived. The nun who had opened the door to Monsignor Delgard now locked it and followed her superior down the hallway, stopping on the way to hang the priest’s overcoat on a coathook beneath the stairs. She glanced up at the tall, ascending figure before it disappeared into the gloom of the upper level, then returned to her duties in the convent’s kitchen.
Delgard paused at the top of the stairs, allowing his eyes to adjust to the poor light. There were doorways on either side of the corridor, each one a nun’s private, sparse cell. The room he sought was halfway down, to his right. He wondered why it was so urgent for her to see him that night and told himself he would soon know. He walked towards the door and tapped lightly on it.
There was no sound for a moment or two, but then a voice said: ‘Who’s there?’
‘It’s Monsignor Delgard,’ he replied, his voice soft, not wanting to disturb those sleeping.
The door opened almost immediately and the pale, tired face of Molly Pagett was peering out at him. ‘Thank you so much for coming,’ she said, and there was a tremor to her voice.
‘Mother Marie-Claire said you needed—’
‘Yes, yes, I needed to see you. I’m sorry you’ve had to come out so late. Please come in.’
The room contained a single cot bed, a sink, a hard-backed, uncomfortable-looking chair, a tiny wardrobe, and no other comforts, except a black crucifix on the wall. After the gloom of the corridor, the single ceiling light was harsh, ugly. Molly Pagett sat on the edge of the bed, her hands clasped together in her
lap, and Delgard took the chair from its position by the wall, placing it near to her. He sat, allowing himself a small groan of pleasure, pretending his bones ached more than they actually did, knowing she had some fear of him and wanting to appear less daunting.
‘I’m afraid the cold weather stiffens these old joints of mine,’ he told her, smiling.
She returned the smile, but it was short-lived, nervous.
He felt too tired for preamble, yet felt her need to be put at ease. ‘How are they treating you here at the convent, Molly? Not very comfortable by the looks of it.’
She looked down at her hands and he saw they were clenched tight. ‘They’re very good to us here, Father . . . I’m sorry, Monsignor.’
He reached forward and patted her troubled hands, his own large hand covering hers completely. ‘It’s all right. There’s no real difference between a monsignor and a priest; one’s just a fancier title, that’s all. You look tired, Molly. Haven’t you been sleeping?’
‘Not very well, Monsignor.’
‘Well, that’s understandable; you’ve been through so much. Hasn’t your doctor prescribed something for you? Something to relax you, help you sleep.’
‘Yes, yes, he gave me some pills. I don’t like to take them, though.’
‘I’m sure they wouldn’t do you any harm. Your doctor would only give you something if he thought it was for the best.’
‘No, it’s not that,’ she said quickly. ‘It’s Alice, you see. She might need me in the night. She might call out.’
‘I’m sure one of the nuns would tend to her.’
‘She’d want her mother. If she woke up in the middle of the night, she’d be frightened. She’d want her mother . . .’
He saw the tears beginning to well in her eyes before she bowed her head.
‘Don’t upset yourself, Molly,’ he said kindly. ‘I know there’s a huge burden on you at the moment, but I promise you it will ease. The loss of your dear husband, this strange thing that’s happening to Alice . . .’