Shrine

  And what made the priest’s iniquity even more unforgivable was that he had the gleamings of understanding in an age of superstition and ignorance. He had been aware of parapsychological forces, had been capable of differentiating them from misguided concepts of sorcery; yet he had encouraged and used his fellow-man’s false perceptions for his own purposes and, in so doing, had invoked a far worse power against himself. The people of that time believed they had destroyed a witch under the authority and incitement of their ruler, a queen called Mary. Mary Tudor. But they had destroyed something more than a mythical invention: they had destroyed someone whose extraordinary mental powers could transcend her own death. And eventually, when certain psychical elements came together, could possibly recreate her own physical being.

  Witchcraft, the name of Mary, the mental energy released by religious fervour: these were the strange, intrinsic ingredients. The latter-day priest who had sinned, the child who had been conceived in sin: these were the catalysts. And it was Alice who played the most important part in the metamorphosis, for she had been created in the same field where the nun had been butchered then burnt to death almost five hundred years before.

  Delgard leaned against the door, incredible, insane theories rushing into his head.

  Could a centuries-late metempsychosis, the migration of a soul at death into another body, have taken place? Had Alice been taken at the very spark of her existence? She had grown into a child guided by her mother, devoted to the church, worshipping the name of Mary, becoming severely handicapped at the age of four, an infirmity her doctors could not satisfactorily explain, to be inexplicably released from that disability seven years later. Miraculously. The cures to others had appeared miraculous, too. But were they really psychically induced?

  He shook his head against the jumble of thoughts.

  Alice had spoken in a tongue alien to her own, the voice mature, the words old-English, the content . . . disturbed, lustful. Had she been possessed? Or . . . or was she a reincarnation? As a Catholic priest, the idea should have had no validity to him, but it was a nagging thought he found impossible to push away.

  Yet even this was quelled by the question that over-rode all others: what was the purpose of it all?

  Foreboding dragged at him with such intensity that his body sagged and he was forced to cling to the door for support. The premonition of disaster was nothing new – the feeling of dread had been with him for weeks – but now he knew it was imminent. The brief insight was like a physical blow, striking at him and vanishing instantly, so that all he was left with was a feeling of total desolation, a distressing cognizance of . . . nothing. A void, absolute in its emptiness. It was the most frightening thing he had ever perceived.

  The need to be on hallowed ground sent Delgard staggering from the room. He had to pray, had to seek spiritual guidance to combat the impending evil.

  He threw open the front door and outside the night seemed as black as the void he had just briefly borne witness to.

  A cold draught of air found its way down the hallway and into the open room where the reporter slept. Fenn changed position restlessly as the drop in temperature touched him, but he slumbered on, his dreams no refuge, merely exten- sions of the daytime nightmare. The corners of the faded papers on the small desk stirred with the chill breeze.

  Sue glanced at her watch. Nearly eleven. What was taking Gerry so long? Was he going to leave Nancy Shelbeck here all night? He said he’d get back.

  She stirred the coffee and took it from the kitchen into the lounge. The door to her bedroom was slightly ajar and she stopped to listen for a few seconds. Nancy’s breathing seemed more regulated, deeper, the earlier disturbed panting having faded to small childlike whimpers before a more natural sleep had taken over. Sue went to the sofa and sat, placing the steaming mug of coffee on the coffee table before her. She sank into the soft cushions and closed her eyes.

  Abruptly she opened them and stood up; she walked to the window and drew the curtains together. For some reason she had felt the night intrusive. She returned to the sofa and absently stirred the coffee.

  What had happened to make them both so frightened? Earlier that evening Gerry had garbled something about finding the American at a church in Barham, in a state of shock, then pleaded with her to take care of the woman until he got back. He had hurried out, clutching his bag as if it contained his year’s salary, telling her he had to see Monsignor Delgard, that he had something important to show him. What could have been so important? Why had he and this woman gone to the church at Barham in the first place? And what were they so afraid of?

  Sue tapped at her chin in frustration. Why bring her here of all places? Was he so insensitive to the situation? It was obvious that something was going on between them. Yet Sue knew that Gerry’s insensitivity was often a put-on, that he was fully aware of the emotions he aroused in others, that he preferred reaction to inertia. But this time there was a desperation in him that dismissed any notion of lovers’ games; he needed Sue’s help and that it involved another woman with whom he had a relationship had no relevance.

  She sipped the coffee. Damn him! She had tried to fall out of love with him, had even tried to despise him for a while, but it had been no use. Her religion, the work at the church, the time spent with Ben, had all contrived to compensate, but the fulfilment had been short-lived and, if she were to be completely honest with herself, never entirely realized. She had found renewed spiritual awareness, but still it could not fill her emotional needs, could not replace or dispose of a different kind of love, the love of one person for another. At first, just weeks before, she had thought such physical love unnecessary; its traumas, the dependence on another (particularly when the other person wasn’t so dependable), the jealousies, the responsibility, was a trial she would be better off without; but it had gradually dawned on her that to love and be loved on equal terms, with all its hang-ups, was essential. For her, anyway.

  Sue frowned as she held the mug in both hands, her elbows resting on her knees. She had been trying to escape, thinking she had found another refuge, an alternative, only to discover that both were equally important. The realization had been there for the last few days, but it had taken their meeting earlier that evening for the fact to hit home. Perhaps it was his new vulnerability that had moved her. Or perhaps it was the thought that this other woman might mean something to him. The fear of losing had always been a prime motivator.

  Just what was she to . . .

  The scream caused her to spill the coffee over her hands. Quickly Sue slammed the mug onto the coffee table and ran for the bedroom. She fumbled for the light switch, flicked it on, and stared aghast at the woman who was trying to bury her head into the pillow. Sue went to the bed. ‘It’s okay, you’re safe, there’s nothing to worry – ’

  Nancy thrashed out, pushing her hands away.

  ‘Nancy! Stop! You’re all right now.’ Sue’s voice was firm as she tried to pull the American around to face her.

  ‘Don’t, don’t . . .’ Nancy’s eyes were unfocused as she struggled away from Sue.

  Sue grabbed her wrists as long nails tried to lash her face. ‘Calm down, Nancy! It’s me, Sue Gates. Don’t you remember? Gerry brought you here.’

  ‘Oh God, don’t touch me!’

  Sue pinned the frightened woman’s arms to her chest and leaned heavily on her. ‘Calm down. Nothing’s going to harm you. You were dreaming.’ She spoke steadily, repeating the words, and eventually, Nancy’s struggles became weaker. Her eyes began to lose their glazed look and came to rest on Sue’s face. ‘Oh noooo!’ Nancy moaned, and then she was weeping, her thin body wracked by the sobs.

  ‘It’s all right, Nancy. You’re perfectly safe.’

  Nancy threw her arms around Sue and clung to her as an upset child would cling to its mother. Sue soothed her, stroking her hair, feeling awkward, but compassionate enough not to pull away. Laughter drifted up from the street below, late-night revellers returning to their homes.
The bedside clock ticked away the minutes.

  It was some time before Nancy’s sobs ceased and her hands relaxed their tight grip around her comforter’s shoulders. Her body trembled as she mumbled something.

  ‘What?’ Sue pulled away slightly. ‘I didn’t hear you.’

  Nancy drew in a shuddering breath. ‘I need a drink,’ she said.

  ‘I think I’ve got some brandy. Or gin. Would you prefer that?’

  ‘Anything.’

  Sue left her and went into the kitchen, opening the larder where she kept her meagre supply of alcohol. She took out the squat bottle of brandy, then reached into another cupboard for a glass. On reflection, she brought down two glasses. Her nerves were jumpy too.

  She took the two brandies into the bedroom and found the American sitting upright against the headboard. Her face was white, its paleness made grotesque by the streaks of running mascara. She was staring blankly at the wall opposite, her hands twisting the edge of the bedsheets into a crumpled roll.

  Sue handed her one of the glasses which she grabbed with both hands. The amber liquid almost spilled over the sides as she raised the glass to her lips. Nancy drank and began to cough, holding the brandy away from her. Sue took the glass from her and waited for the choking to subside.

  ‘Try it more slowly this time,’ she said when Nancy reached out again. The reporter followed her advice and Sue sipped at her own drink.

  ‘Th – thanks,’ Nancy finally gasped. ‘You don’t . . . you don’t have a cigarette, do you?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘It’s okay. There’s some in my bag.’

  ‘I’m afraid you didn’t have a bag with you when Gerry brought you here. You must have left it in his car.’

  ‘Oh shit, no. It’s back there at the church, probably somewhere in the undergrowth.’

  ‘What happened? Why did you leave it there?’

  Nancy looked at Sue. ‘Didn’t Fenn tell you?’

  ‘He didn’t take time to. He said something about St Peter’s at Barham, asked me to take care of you, then dashed out. What were you doing at the church?’

  Nancy took a swallow of the brandy and leaned her head back against the wall, closing her eyes. ‘I was searching for something. I assume he came looking for the same thing.’ She told Sue about the chest and the historical records they had hoped to find inside. Her voice still shook with tension.

  ‘That’s what he must have had in his bag,’ Sue said.

  Nancy’s head came away from the wall. ‘He found them?’

  ‘I think so. He said he had to take something to Monsignor Delgard.’

  ‘Is that where he’s gone – to Delgard, to St Joseph’s?’

  Sue nodded.

  ‘I know this sounds odd,’ Nancy said, clutching Sue’s arm, ‘but what did I tell him? I . . . I just can’t remember anything after running from that goddamned church.’

  ‘I don’t know. You were in a state of shock.’

  ‘Yeah, I must have been.’ Her whole body shuddered. ‘My God, I think I saw some kind of ghost.’

  Sue looked at her in surprise. ‘You don’t look the type.’

  ‘Uh-huh, that’s what I thought. But something scared the shit out of me inside that church.’ She closed her eyes once more, trying to relive the memory. Her eyes snapped open as the image came to her. ‘Oh no,’ she said, then wailed, ‘Oh no!’

  Sue shook her gently. ‘Take it easy. Whatever it was, you’re safe now.’

  ‘Safe? That was a fucking dead thing I saw back there! How can you be safe from something like that?’

  Sue was stunned. ‘You must have imagined it. You couldn’t possibly have – ’

  ‘Don’t tell me that! I know what I saw!’

  ‘Don’t get upset again.’

  ‘Upset? I got a right to get fucking upset. I’m telling you, I saw something that’s never gonna leave me, something I’m never gonna forget.’ The tears were flowing again and the brandy glass clattered against her teeth as she attempted to drink. Sue steadied her hand for her.

  ‘Thanks,’ Nancy said when she had managed to swallow more of the alcohol. ‘I didn’t mean to yell. It’s just . . . you don’t know what the hell it was like.’

  ‘Do you want to tell me?’

  ‘No, I don’t want to tell you, I want to erase it from my mind. But I know I never will.’

  ‘Please, it might help you.’

  ‘Do I get another drink?’

  ‘Take mine.’ They exchanged glasses. It took two more sips – but at least they were just sips – for Nancy to speak again. Her words were slow, as though she were trying to control them, to rationalize them in her own mind.

  ‘I was inside the church – St Peter’s on the Stapley Estate. D’you know it?’

  ‘I’ve heard of it. I’ve never been there.’

  ‘Give it a miss. I’d found the chest – ’

  ‘You said you were looking for some historical records.’

  ‘Right. Fenn said a certain part of St Joseph’s history was missing. We tracked down the chest they might have been kept in. It was at St Peter’s.’

  ‘You went there together?’

  ‘No, separately. Fenn didn’t want me in on the deal. You know how he is.’

  Sue said nothing.

  ‘I’d found the chest – I was sure it was the right one. Then I heard – maybe I just felt – someone else in the church. I walked down towards the altar to take a look. There was someone sitting behind a kind of alcove, in a closed-in pew affair. It looked . . . it looked like a nun.’

  She gulped back more brandy.

  ‘Only it wasn’t a nun,’ she continued. ‘It wasn’t a nun . . .’ Her voice trailed off.

  ‘Tell me, Nancy,’ Sue urged quietly.

  ‘She was wearing one of those hooded cloak affairs, a habit of some kind, but not like those you see nowadays. It was old, I’m sure it was goddamned old. I couldn’t see her face at first.’ She was trembling again. ‘But she . . . it . . . turned towards me. Oh God, oh God, that face!’

  Sue could feel the bristling of her own hairs on the back of her neck, the sudden rising of goose-pimples down her spine and arms. ‘Tell me,’ she said again, horrified but peculiarly fascinated.

  ‘It was just a charred, cindered mess. The eyes were black, just slits with burnt gristle poking through. The lips and nose had been scorched away, the teeth were just burned-out stumps. There was nothing left to it, no features, nothing human! And I could smell the burning, I could smell roasting flesh. And she began to move. She was dead but she began to move, to rise, to come towards me. She touched me! She touched my face with her burned stubble of a hand! And she tried to hold me there. She breathed onto my face! I could feel it, I could smell it! Her fingers, just withered stumps, touched my eyes! And she was laughing, oh God, she was laughing! But she was still burning! Do you understand? She was still burning!’

  34

  And sleep shall obey me,

  And visit thee never,

  And the curse shall be on thee

  For ever and ever.

  Robert Southey,

  ‘Kehama’s Curse’

  When Fenn awoke he was shivering. He rubbed at his eyes, then peered around the room.

  ‘Delgard?’ he called out. The door was open, cold air sweeping into the room. He wearily pushed himself from the armchair and crossed the floor. Peering into the dark passageway, he called the priest’s name again. There was no answer. Fenn noticed the front door was open. Had Delgard gone over to the church? He stepped back into the room and checked his watch. Jesus! Nearly one in the morning!

  His eyes fell on the small writing desk and the scattered papers on its surface. With a final glance into the hall, he closed the door and went to the desk. He picked up a few sheets of the old parchment paper, realizing they were the same papers that had fallen from the vellum manuscript inside the church on the Stapley Estate. He studied them for a few seconds as though the words would translate
themselves, then returned them to the desk. The top pages of Delgard’s notebook were folded over as if the draught had disturbed them. He flicked them back and scanned the lines on the first page. He slowly sat, his eyes never leaving the words before him.

  Leafing through the pages, he saw that the monsignor had translated most, if not all, of the ancient papers, adding and initialling his own notes as he went along. His tiredness quickly dispersed as he read Delgard’s first note:

  (The script is unclear in parts, much of the writing almost illegible. The handwriting is erratic, scrawled, unlike the neat hand of the manuscript these papers were found in, even though author seems to be same. Translation will be as close to the original as possible, but own interpretation and meaning will have to be used to make sense of certain sections of text. Also, Latin is not correct in parts – may be due to disturbed mind of writer. D.)

  Fenn picked up a single sheet of parchment once more and frowned at the scrawl. A disturbed mind, or a frightened one?

  He looked over at the door and wondered if he should find Delgard. How long the priest had been gone, he had no way of knowing, but the translation must have taken hours judging by the amount of notes. Fenn was annoyed at himself for having fallen asleep. It was a strange time for Delgard to have gone into the church, but then he, Fenn, knew little of the lives of such men: perhaps it was normal for him to make his devotions at such a late hour. On the other hand, Delgard may have just gone out to check on the two young priests whose duty it was to keep an all-night vigil in the next-door field. With some of the crazy people around it would have made more sense to bring in Securicor but, he supposed, the Church had its own way of doing things.

  It was still cold in the room, even though the door was now closed. He noticed the fire was low, almost out, the burnt logs charcoaled with patches of white ash breaking the blackness. He went to the fireplace and threw on two more logs, cinders briefly flaring as they landed. He rubbed his hands together to clear the wood-dust and willed the logs to ignite, the chill beginning to sink into his bones.