James Herbert - The Shrine
THE SHRINE [02-05-4.9]
By: James Herbert
Synopsis:

  COME WORSHIP AT THE SHRINE
  If you are lustful, your most carnal desires will
  be fulfilled.
  If you are greedy, wealth will be yours for the
  taking.
  If you are holy, you will learn of a force greater
  than all your dreams of the divine.
  If you are a disbeliever, you will be converted or
  you will be destroyed.
  Bow before the shrine and little Alice, the angelic
  child who stands before it and casts her light over
  the world ...
  ... as the flames of hell leap up to conquer
heaven
  itself. . . .


ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
  The author and publishers gratefully acknowledge
permission
  to include the following extracts:
  From "The Little Creature," "The Ogre," and
"The Ghost"
  hv Walter de la Mare, by permission of the
Literary Trustees
  of Walter de la Mare and the Society of
Authors as
  their representative.
  From Alice's Adventures in Wonderland and I
hniu caret have the Looking
  Glass by Lewis Carroll, published
by Macmillan Ltd.
  Old Nursery Rhymes in The Oxford
Nursery Rhyme Book, published
by Oxford University Press.
  From "The Crystal Cabinet" by William
Blake, "A Slumber
  did my Spirit Seal" by William Wordsworth,
"Wake
  all the Dead!" by Sir William Davenant,
""I he Hag" by Robert Herrick, and
"Alison Ciross" and "bar emima" in The
  Vaber Book of Children's Verse, published
by Faber and Faber.
  From The Secret Garden by Frances 1 iodgson
Burnett, published
  by Frederick Warne Publishers Ltd.
  From "The Juniper Tree," "The Three
Golden Hairs of
  the Devil," "Rumpelstiltskin," ""I he
GggHggse Girl," "Pitcher's
  Bird," "Hansel and Gretel," and "Little
Snow White," in The Brothers Grimm:
Popular Folk Tales, translated by Brian
Alderson, by permission of Victor Gollancz
Ltd.
  From Peter Pan by J. M. Barrie,
                                       Page 1
                            James Herbert - The Shrine
by permission of Ho.cr
  and Stoughron Children's Books, copyright
[*copy] Great Ormond
  Street Hospital.
  From "The Little Mermaid," "The Emperor's
New Clothes,"
  and "The Snow Queen" by 1 fans Christian
Andersen in Hans Andersen's Fairy i8ales,
chosen by Naomi Lewis, published by Puffin
Books, copyright [*copy] 1981 Naomi
Lewis.
From "On bei Lord" by Samuel Tavlor
Coleridge, "Three
  Witches" (.8harms" by Ben Jonson,
"Look Out, Boys" by
  Oliver Wendell right-brace lolmedds, and
"Kehania's Curse" by Robert
  Southev in I'hc Heaver Buok of (disreepy
Verse chosen by lan
  and Zinka Wood backslash ard, published by
right-brace (nmlyn Paperbacks.
  From Pollyanna by Eleanor H. Porter,
by permission of
  Harrap Ltd.
  From "Shadow Bride" in The Adventures of
Tom Bombadil by J. R. R. Tolkien,
by permission of George Alien and
  Unwin.
  From "The Two Witches" by Robert Graves in
Collected
  Poems, published by Cassell Ltd,
by permission of Robert
  Graves.
  From "Grave by a 1 folm-oak" by Stevie
Smith in Collected
  Poems oj Stevie Smith, published by Alien
Lane, by permission
  of James MeGibbon, the executor of
Stevie Smith,
  and the publishers.
  From "The Curse Be Ended" in The Family
Reunion by 1. S. Eliot by permission of
Faber and Faber Ltd.
Red blood out and block blood in,
  My Dannie says I'm a child of sin.
  How did I choose me my witchcraft kin?
  Know I as soon as dark's dreams begin
  Snared is my heart in a nightmares tfin;
  Never from terror I out may win;
  So dawn and dusk I Dine, peak, thin,
  Scarcely knowing t'other from which-
  My threat grandma-She was a Witch.
  was The Little Creature," Walter de la .mare
  Alice! a childish story take,
  Andwitha childish hand
  Lay it where Childhood's dreams are twined
  In memory's mystic band,
  Like pilgrim's wither 'd wreath of flowers
  Plucked in a far-off land.
  Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, Lewis
Carroll
ONE
  Down with the lambs, L'f) with the lark,
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                            James Herbert - The Shrine
  Run to bed children
  Before it gets dark. Old Nursery Rhyme
  the SMALL MOUNDS OF DARK earth scattered
around the
  graveyard looked as though the dead were pushing their
way
  back into the living world. The girl smiled
nervously at
  the thought as she hurried from grave to grave. They
were
  molehills. Moles were difficult to get rid
of; poison one,
  another moved into its lodgings. She had often
watched
  the molecatcher, a round man with a pointed face,
and
  thought he looked like a mole. He grinned as he
delicately
  dipped stubby fingers into his baked-beans tin and
plucked
  out a strychnine-coated worm from its wriggling friends
  and relatives. He always grinned when she
watched. And
  chuckled when he held it toward her and she jumped
away
  with a silent shriek. His lips, ever wet, like his
dosed
  worms, moved, but she heard nothing. She hadn't
for as
  long as she remembered. A shudder as the
molecatcher
  mimed eating the writhing pink meat, but she always
  stayed to watch him push his metal rod into the earth
then
  poke the worm into the hole he had created. She
imagined
  the mole down there, snuffling its way through solid
  darkness, hunting food, searching for its own death.
Digging
  its own grave. She giggled and couldn't hear her
  giggle.
  Alice stopped and took withered flowers from a
mud-soiled
  vase. The headstone against which the flowers had
  rested was fairly new, its inscription not yet
filled with
  dirt nor blurred by weather. She had known the
old
  lady--was she just bones now?--and had found the
living
  corpse more frightening than the dead one. Could you be
  alive at ninety-two? You could move, but could you
live?
  I he time span was incomprehensible to Alice,
who was
  just eleven years old. It was hard to imagine your
own
  flesh dried and wrinkled, your brain shrunken
by years of
  use so that instead of becoming wise and all-knowing you
  became a baby. A hunched, brittle-stick
baby.
  She dumped the dead flowers into the red plastic
                                       Page 3
                            James Herbert - The Shrine
bucket
  she carried and moved on, her eyes scanning the
untidy
  rows of headstones for more. It was a weekly task
for her:
  while her mother scrubbed, dusted, and polished the
church,
  Alice removed the drooping tributes left
by relatives who
  thought those they had lost would appreciate the
gesture.
  The flowers would be emptied into the groundsman's
tip
  of rotting branches and leaves, there to be ritually
burned
  once a month. When this chore was completed,
Alice
  would hurry back into the church and join her mother.
  Inside, she would find fresh flowers ready
to adorn the
  altar for the following day's Sunday services, and
while her
  mother scrubbed, she would arrange the glass vases.
  Afterward, she would dust down the benches, skimming
  along each row, down one, up the next, holding
her breath,
  seeing how far she could get before her lungs
exploded.
  Alice enjoyed the work if she could make it a
game.
  Once this was accomplished, and provided her mother
  had no other tasks for her, she would head for her
favorite
  spot: the end of the front pew at the right-hand
side of the
  altar.
  Beneath the statue. Her statue.
  More fading colors caught her eye and she
skipped
  across a low mound--this one body-fength and not
mole-built--to
  gather up the dying flowers. Tiny puffs of steam
  escaped her" mouth and she told herself they were the
  ghosts of words that lay dead inside her, words that
had
  never themselves escaped.
  It was cold, although it was sunny. The trees were
  mostly bare, their naked branches seen for the
twisted and
  tortured things they really were. Sheep, their
bellies swollen
  with slow-stirring fetuses, grazed in the fields
just beyond
  the stone wall surrounding the churchyard. Across the
  fields were heavy woods, somber and greeny
brown,
  uninviting; and behind the woods were low-lying hills,
  hills that were lost completely on misty days.
Alice stared
  into the field, watching the sheep. She frowned, then
  turned away.
  More flowers to collect before she could go inside where
  the air was not quite as biting. Cold--the church was
                                       Page 4
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  always cold--but winter's teeth were less sharp
inside the
  old building. She wandered through the graveyard, the
  tilted headstones no bother to her, the decomposed
corpses
  hidden beneath her feet causing no concern.
  The sodden leaves and branches were piled high,
higher
  than her, and the girl had to swoop the plastic
bucket back
  and swiftly forward for its wasted contents to reach the
  top. She reached for stems that fell back down and
tossed
  them once more, satisfied only when they settled
on the
  heap's summit. Alice smacked her hands together
to dislodge
  the grime on her palms, feeling the sting, but not
  hearing the sound. She could once, but that was long
ago.
  When she listened intently and there were no
distractions,
  she thought she could hear the wind, but then Alice
thought
  that even when no breeze brushed her cheeks or
ruffled
  her yellow hair.
  The small, thin girl turned and began to walk
toward
  the ancient church, the empty bucket swinging
easily by
  her side. Back, forward, back, forward,
gleaming red in
  the cold sunlight. Back, forward, back--and
she looked
  behind her.
  The plastic bucket slipped from her fingers and
clattered
  to the ground, rolling in a tight semicircle
until it came to
  rest against a stained green headstone. Alice
cocked her
  head to one side as though listening. There was a
puzzlement
  in her eyes and she half-smiled.
  She stood still for several seconds before allowing her
  body to rurn fully, staying in that frozen
position for
  several more long seconds. Her half-smile
faded and her
  face became anxious. She moved slowly at
first, making
  for the rough stone wall at the rear of the churchyard,
then
  broke into a run.
  Something tripped her--probably the corner of a
flattened
  gravestone--and she tumbled forward, her knees
  smearing green and brown from the soft earth. She
cried
  out, but there was no sound, and quickly regained her
  feet, eager to reach the wall and not knowing why. She
  kept to the narrow path leading through the
                                       Page 5
                            James Herbert - The Shrine
cluttered
  graveyard and stopped only when she had reached the
  wall. Alice peered over, the highest stone on
a level with
  her chest. The pregnant sheep were no longer
munching
  grass; all heads were raised and looking in the
same direction.
  They did not move even when Alice clambered
over the
  wall and ran among them.
  Her footsteps slowed, her shoes and socks
soaked by the
  long grass. She seemed confused and swiveled
her head
  from left to right. Her small hands were clenched
tight.
  She looked directly ahead once more and the
half-smile
  returned, gradually broadening until her face
showed only
  rapturous wonder.
  A solitary tree stood in the center of the
field, an oak,
  centuries old, its body thick and
gnarled, its stout lower
  branches sweeping outward, their furthest points
striving
  to touch the ground again. Alice walked toward the
tree,
  her steps slow but not hesitant, and fell to her
knees when
  she was ten yards away.
  Her mouth opened wide and her eyes narrowed, the
  pupils squeezing down to tiny apertures. She
raised a hand
  to protect them from the blinding white light that
shimmered
  from the base of the tree.
  Then her smile returned as the light dazzled
into a
  brilliant sun, an unblemished whiteness. A
holy radiance.
TWO
  Another Maiden like herself, Translucent,
lovely, shining clear,
  Threefold each in the other closed-- O ,
What a pleasant trembling fear! "The Crystal
Cabinet," William Blake
  the WHITK VAN SLID TO AN
abrupt halt and the driver's
  head came uncomfortably close to the
windshield. Cursing,
  he pushed himself back off the steering wheel and
smacked
  the hardened plastic as though it were the hand of an
  errant child.
  The van's headlights lit up the trees on the
other side of
  the T-junction and the driver peered left and right,
grumbling
  to himself as he tried to penetrate the surrounding
  darkness.
                                       Page 6
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  "Should be right, got to be right."
  There was no one else in the van to hear, but that
didn't
  bother him: he was used to talking to himself. "Right it
  is."
  He shoved the gear lever into first and winced at the
  grinding sound. The van lurched forward and he
swung
  the wheel to the right. Gerry Fenn was tired,
angry, and a
  little drunk. The public meeting he had attended
earlier
  that evening had been dull to say the least, dreary
to say
  the most. Who gave a shit whether or not the more
remote
  houses in the area went on to main drainage? Not
the
  occupiers, that was for sure; a linkup with the sewage
  system meant higher rates for them. Nearly two
hours to
  decide nobody wanted drains. They preferred
their cesspools.
  As usual, Rent-a-Left had prolonged
proceedings. A totalitarian
  sewer network was good for the cause, Fenn
supposed.
  He hadn't intended to stay that long, hadn't even
needed
  to. The fact was, he had fallen asleep at
the back of the
  hall and only the noisy conclusion to the meeting had
  aroused him. "I'he agitators were angry that the
motion for
  had been defeated--good headline in that: local
sewer
  MOTION defeated. Too pithy for the
Courier, though.
  Pithy. That wasn't bad either. He nodded his
head in
  appreciation of his own wit.
  Gerry Fenn had been with the Brighton Evening
Courier for more than five years now--man and boy,
he told
  himself--and was still waiting for the big one, the story
  that would make world headlines, the scoop that would
  transport him from the seaside town's local
rag to the heart
  of the journalistic world: Fleet Street!
Kermit applause for
  Fleet Street! Yeeaaay! Three years'
indenture at Feaastboume,
  five on the Courier. Next step: leader of the
Insight team on
  the Sunday Times. Failing that. News of the World
would do.
  Plenty of* human interest there. Dig up the
dirt, dole out
  the trash. File the writs.
  He had phoned the newsdesk after the meeting,
telling
  the night news editor (who hadn't been
amused by Fenn's
                                       Page 7
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  instruction to "Hold the front page!") that the
meeting had
  ended in near riot and he had barely escaped with
his
  vitals intact, let alone his notebook. When
the news editor
  had informed him that the office junior had just
resigned
  because of an emotional crisis in his
sixteen-year-old life,
  so the vacancy was available, Fenn had modified
his story,
  explaining that the meeting really had been lively and
  maybe he should have left sooner but when the
wild-eyed
  Leftie had rushed the platform and tried to stuff
a turd (it
  looked like a dog's, obviously just used for
effect) into the
  nostrils of a surprised lady councillor, he
figured. . . .fenn
  held the phone away, almost seeing the spit
spluttering
  from the earpiece. Excited pips brought the
tirade to an
  end, and a fresh coin renewed the connection. The
news
  editor had gained control by then, but only just.
Since
  Fenn enjoyed the country route so much, there were a
  couple of little items he could cover in that area.
Fenn
  groaned, the news editor went on. A trip
to the local cop
  shop: find out if the Bov Scout
impersonators (bob-a-job,
  once inside, pension books, loose money,
small valuables,
  gone) were still impersonating Bov Scouts. Pop
into the Focal flea-pit: were feminists still daubing the
sexy posters outside with antirape graffiti and
chucking runny tomatoes
  at the screen inside? On the way back,
visit the trailer
  camp at Partridge (ireen: see if they've
got their power yet
  (the Courier had run a small campaign for the
residents
  encouraging Seeboard to connect the site
to the grid--so
  far it had taken six months). Fenn asked if
the news editor
  knew what the bloody time was and was assured of
course
  he bloody did and was Fenn aware that all his
night shift
  had produced for tomorrow's editions was one RTA
(road
  Traffic Accident) and one diabetic poodle
who went for
  checkups in a bloody Rolls-Royce? And the
R'FA wasn't
  even fatal.
                                       Page 8
                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   Fenn got mad and advised the news editor of his
agitated
   state and informed him that when he returned to the
   office he would show the news editor just how mad
he
   really was by shoving his copy spike right up his tiny
arse,
   wooden end first, and by stuffing the nearest typewriter
   into the fat mouth which was always full of shit but never
   kind shit, then brain-drain the Courier totally
by handing
   in his resignation. He told the news editor
good, but made
   sure the receiver was resting on its cradle before he
did so.
   His next call was to Sue to tell her to expect
him when
   he got there, but there was no reply from his flat.
Then
   none from hers. He wished for Chrissakes she would
move
   in with him permanently; it was a pain never knowing
   where she was likely to be.
   Thoroughly morose, he did what he was paid for.
The
   Boy Scout impersonators were now
impersonating jumble-sale
   collectors (one old lady had even lost her
false teeth--
   she'd left them on the kitchen table--but was
understandably
   reluctant to talk about it). The flea-pit had
been running Bambi for the past fortnight (expected
trouble next week when Teenage Goddesses of
Love and Sex in the Swamps were
   playing). He drove to Pat-ridge
Green and saw only candlelight
   through the trailer windows (he knocked on one
door
   and was toToday to piss off so didn't bother with any
more).
   He scraped in to the nearest pub just five
minutes before
   closing time and fortunately the landlord wasn't
adverse to
   afs once the main crowd--two domino players
and a
   woman with a cat in a wooden cage--was
cleared. Fenn let
   it slip that he was from the Brighton Evening Courier,
an
   admission that could have got him shown the door
pretty
   promptly, or engaged in an informative
after-hours drink.
   Landlords generally sought the good will of the local press
   (even the most drab were contenders for the Pub of the
   Year Award) unless they had some private
reason for
   feeling bitter toward journalists (exposed
marital upsets,
   too many voluptuous barmaids in the business,
or reported
                                        Page 9
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  unhygienic kitchens was usually the cause for their
distrust).
  This one was okay; he even allowed Fenn to buy
him a
  rum and pep, a gesture that had the reporter
mentally
  scratching his head--shouldn't the landlord be cozying up
  to him, not the other way around? He wasn't in
to investigative
  journalism tonight--Fleet Street and the world's
  wire services would have to wait until he was in the
  mood--so why the hell was he treating the landlord?
Oh,
  yeah, so he could drink after time, that was it. Fenn was
  tired.
  Three pints and forty minutes of unexciting
conversation
  later, Fenn found himself outside in the cold
night air,
  bolts snapping behind telling him the drawbridge
was up,
  the public house was no longer a refuge but a
stronghold,
  built to resist the strongest invaders. He
kicked the side of
  the white van before throwing himself into the driver's
  seat.
  The vehicle was an embarrassment. It carried his
  newspaper's name, white lettering in a brilliant
red flash,
  on both sides. Very discreet. Very undercover. The
Courier had fallen out with their usual fleet hire
company and now the journalists had either to use their own
cars, for which
  there was no gas allowance, or the one and only
spare
  delivery van. Great for tailing suspected
arsonists or dope
  peddlers. Great for keeping an eye on illicit
rendezvous
  between well-knowns who should well-know better.
Ideal
  for secret meetings with your favorite grass.
Would Woodward
  and Bernstein have met Deep Throat in a fucking
  white van with Washington Post emblazoned on
its sides?
  The headlights barely pierced the darkness
ahead and
  Fenn shook his head in further disgust. Bloody
things
  were never cleaned. Christ, what a night. Sometimes
the
  late shift could be good. A nice rape or
mugging. The
  occasional murder. Brighton was full of weirdos
nowadays.
  And Arabs. And antique dealers. Funny things
happend
  when they all got together. Trouble was, many of the
best
  stories never got into print. Or if they did,
they were
                                      Page 10
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  toned down. It wasn't the Courier's policy
to denigrate the
  seaside town's image. Bad for business.
Great for family
  trade, Brighton. Mustn't scare off the
punters. Unfortunately
  his earlier calls had produced nothing of interest.
  He always made the standard calls when he came
on duty:
  police, hospitals, undertakers, and
fire stations were all on
  his regular list. Even the clergy merited a
bell. Nothing
  much doing with any of them. The newspaper's
Diary, listing events of the day (and night) which had
to be
  covered, offered little to excite. If it had, he
could have
  probably ducked out of tonight's council meeting;
as it
  was, there wasn't much else to do.
  Lights ahead. What town was that? Must be
Banfield.
  He'd passed it on the way out. Not a bad little
place. Two
  pubs on the High Street. What more could anyone
ask? If
  the weather was nice on Sunday he might bring
Sue out
  for a drink. She liked country pubs. More
atmosphere.
  Real ale. Usually a fair selection of gum
boots, polo necks,
  and tweeds. With the odd diddicoi thrown in to lower the
  tone.
  He squinted his eyes. Bend ahead. So
bloody dark.
  Whoops. Brake. Downhill.
  The van leveled out at the bottom of the hill and
Fenn
  eased his foot off the pedal. Sure these brakes
are going, he
  told himself. Sometimes he suspected the delivery
men
  sabotaged the vehicle as a mild protest against
it being used
  by journalists. One day, someone was-- Christ,
what
  was that?
  He jammed his foot down and pulled the wheel to the
  left. The van skidded, turning almost a full
circle, front
  end coming to rest on the grass verge by the side of
  the road.
  Fenn pushed the gear into neutral and briefly
rested
  against the steering wheel. A sharp, quavering sigh
later,
  his head jerked up and he swiftly wound down the
window.
  He poked his head out into the cold night air.
  "What the bloody hell was it?" he asked himself
aloud.
                                       Page 11
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  Something had run out from the darkness straight across
  his path. Something white. Small, but too big
to be an
  animal. He'd almost hit it. Missed by a
couple of inches.
  His hands were trembling.
  He saw movement, a grayish blur.
  "Hey!" he shouted.
  The blur dissolved.
  Fenn pushed the car door open and stepped out onto
the
  damp grass. "Hold up!" he called out.
  Scuffling sounds came his way. Feet on
gravel.
  He ran across the road and was confronted by a low
  gate, one side open wide. His eyes were
swiftly adapting
  to the poor light, and the half-moon emerging from
slow-moving
  clouds helped his vision even more. He saw the
  tiny figure again.
  It was running away from him along a path
that was
  lined with trees. He could just make out some kind of
  building at the end of the path. He shivered. The
whole
  thing was spooky.
  It had to be a kid. Or a midget. Fenn
tried not to think
  of Du Maurier's dwarf in Don't Look
Now. He wanted to
  get back into the van. His jiggling sphincter
muscle could lead to an embarrassment. But if it was
a kid, what was it doing out at this hour? It would
freeze to death in this
  weather.
  "Hey, come on, stop! I want to talk to you."
  No reply, just slapping feet.
  Fenn stepped inside the gate, called out once
more, then
  began to run after the diminishing shape. As he
pounded
  down the path and the building ahead grew larger and
  more visible, he realized he was in the grounds of a
church.
  What was a kid running into a church for at this time

  night?
  But the figure, still just in sight, wasn't going to the
  church. It veered off to the left just as it reached the
big
  cavern doors and disappeared around the corner of the
  building. Fenn followed, his breath becoming
labored. He
  almost slipped, for the path was mu.v now, and narrower.
  He recovered and kept going until he reached the
back of
  the church. There he came to an abrupt halt and
wished
  he'd stayed in the van.
  A dark playground of silent, still, grayish
shapes spread
  out before him. Oh, Jesus, a graveyard!
                                      Page 12
                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   The blur was skipping among them, the only moving
   thing.
   The moon decided it had had enough. It pulled a
cloud
   over its eyes like a blanket.
   Fenn leaned against the side of the church, its flint
   brickwork rough against his moist hands. He was
following
   a bloody ghost. It would roll into a
grave at any
   moment. His instinct was to tiptoe quietly back
to the van
   and go on his uninquisitive way, but his nose,
which, after
   all, was a newspaperman's nose, persuaded
otherwise. There
   are no such things as ghosts, only good ghost
stories. Walk
   away from this and you'll always wonder what you missed.
   Tell your friends (not to mention your pal the editor)
you
   flunked out and they'll never buy you another drink.
Go
   to it. Ace. His nose told him, not his brain,
nor his heart.
   "Hey!" The shout cracked in the middle and the H
was
   overpronounced.
   He pushed himself away from the wall and strode
boldly
   in among the gray sentinels. He blinked hard
when he saw
   the conical-shaped mounds of dark earth at his feet.
They're
   making a break for it!
   He forced the explanation from himself. They're
molehills,
   you silly bastard. His weak smile of
self-contempt was
   perfunctory. Fenn caught sight of the wispy
figure flitting
   through the gravestones once more. It appeared to be
   making its way toward the back of the churchyard where
   large squarish shapes seemed to be lurking.
Oh, my God,
   they're tombs! Its a vampire, a midget
vampire, going
   home to bed! Fenn didn't find himself too
amusing.
   He crouched, suddenly afraid to be seen. The
moon was
   no friend; it came out for another peep.
   Fenn ducked behind a tilting headstone and
cautiously
   peered over the top. The figure was clambering
over a low
   wall. Then it was gone.
   Cold night air touched his face and he imagined
lonely
   souls were trying to gain his attention. He didn't
want to
   move, and he didn't want to stay. He
didn't want to look
                                        Page 13
                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   over that wall either. But he knew he was going to.
   The reporter crept forward, his knee joints
already stiff
   from the cold. Dodging around the graves, doing his
best
   not to disturb the "not-dead-but-resting," he made for the
   back of the churchyard, toward the tombs standing like
   ancient, cracked supermarket freezers, their
contents allowed
   to putrefy. He noticed the lid of one was
askew and
   tried not to see the imaginary hand clawing its way
out,
   skin green with age, nails scraped away,
bones glistening
   through corrupt flesh. Cut it out, Fenn!
   He reached the wall and knelt there, not overly
anxious
   to see what lay beyond. He was shivering, out of breath
   (kept forgetting to breathe in), and scared stiff.
But he was
   also curious. Fenn raised himself so that his shoulders
   were level with the top of the wall, head projecting like
a
   coconut waiting to be shied.
   There was a field, slate gray and flat in the
timid
   moonlight, and near the middle, some distance away,
stood
   a contorted black specter. Its multitudinous
twisted arms
   reached skyward while the thicker lower limbs were
bent
   in an effort to reach the ground from which it had sprung.
   The isolated tree provided a demonic
relief in an otherwise
   dull landscape. Fenn's eyes narrowed as he
searched for
   the little figure. Something was moving. Yes, there it
was.
   Walking directly toward the tree. It stopped.
Then walked
   on. Then--oh, Christ, it was sinking into the ground!
No,
   it was on its knees. It didn't move. Nor
did the tree.
   Feen waited and grew impatient. The beer he
had consumed
   pressed against his bladder. He continued to wait.
   At last he decided if he didn't make
something happen,
   nothing would happen. He climbed over the wall and
   waited.
   Nothing happened.
   He walked toward the figure.
   As he drew near, he saw that it wasn't a
midget.
   A little girl.
   And she was staring at the tree.
   And she was smiling.
   And when he touched her shoulder, she said, "She's
so
   beautiful."
                                        Page 14
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  Then her eyes rolled upward and she toppled
forward.
  And didn't move again.
THREE
  "Who are you?" he said at last in a
half-hearted whisper.
  "Are you a ghost?"
  "No, I am not," Mary answered, her
own whisper half-frightened.
  "Are you one?"
  The Secret Garden, Frances Hodgson
Burnett
  FATHER HAGAN LAY THERE IN the darkness,
forcing his
  senses to break away from sleep's gooey
embrace. His eyes
  flickered, then snapped open. He could just make
out the
  thin glimmer of night through the almost-closed
curtains.
  What had disturbed him?
  The priest reached for the lamp on the bedside table
and
  rumbled for the switch. His pupils stung with the sudden
  light and it was several seconds before he could open
his
  lids again. He looked at the small clock, his
eyes narrowing
  to a shortsighted squint, and saw it was past
midnight.
  Had he heard something outside? Or inside the
house? Or
  had his own dream disturbed him? He lay
back and stared
  at the ceiling.
  F'ather Andrew Hagan was forty-six years old
and had
  been part of the Church for nearly nineteen of those
years.
  The turning point for him had been two days after his
  twenty-seventh birthday when a mild heart
attack had left
  him dazed, frightened, and exhausted. He had been
losing God, allowing the materialism of a chaotic
world to con24
  fine his spiritual self, to subdue it to a point where
only he
  was aware that it existed. Four years teaching
history and
  divinity in a Catholic grammar school in
London, then
  three years in a madhouse comprehensive in the
suburbs
  had slowly corroded the outer core of his faith and
was
  chewing on the innermost part, the very center of his
  belief which had no answers but merely knew. He
had to
  retrieve himself the closeness of death was like a
prodding
  mother who would not allow her offspring to stay
  under the bedclothes for one moment longer.
  He no longer taught divinity in the
                                      Page 15
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
comprehensive school,
   just history, and occasionally he took an English
class;
   religion in that particular school was almost
defunct. Humanity
   had replaced the subject and the young teacher of
   humanity had been sacked in his second term for
blacking
   the headmaster's eye. English had soon become
Hagan's
   second subject. No longer able to discuss his
faith every
   day with curious, albeit often bored, young minds,
his
   thoughts of God had become more and more introverted,
   restrained by shackles of self-consciousness. The
heart attack,
   mild though it was, had halted the gradual but
seemingly
   irrevocable slide. Suddenly he was
aware of what he had
   been losing. He wanted to be among others who
believed
   as he, for their belief would strengthen his, their
faith
   would enhance his own. Within a year he was in Rome
   studying for the priesthood. And now he wondered if
the
   earlier corrosion had not left a seeping
residue.
   A noise. Outside. Movement. Father Hagan
sat upright.
   He jumped when someone pounded on the door below.
   The priest reached for his spectacles lying on the
bedside
   table and leaped from the bed; he went to the window.
   He drew the curtains apart, but hesitated before
opening
   the window. More banging encouraged him to do so.
   "Who's there?" Cold air settled around his
shoulders and
   made him shudder.
   "Just us spooks!" came the reply. "Will you get
down
   here and open up!"
   Hagan leaned out the window and tried to see into the
   porch below. A figure stepped into view, but was
indistinct.
   "I've got a problem--you've got a problem--
here!" the
   voice said. The man appeared to be carrying something
in
   his arms.
   The priest withdrew and quickly pulled on a
dressing
   gown over his pajamas. He forgot about slippers
and padded
   downstairs in cold, bare feet. Switching on
the hall light, he stood behind the front door for a
few moments,
   reluctant to open it. Although the village was
close, his
   church and presbytery were isolated. Fields and
                                       Page 16
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
woods
   surrounded him on three sides, the main road
at the front
   being the link with his parishioners. Father Hagan was not
   a timorous man, but living over a graveyard
had to have
   some effect. A fist thumping against wood
aroused him
   once more.
   He switched on the outside porch light before
opening
   the door.
   The man who stood there looked frightened, although
   he was making an attempt to grin. His face was
drawn,
   white. "F'ound this wandering around outside," the
man
   explained.
   He moved the bundle in his arms toward the
priest,
   indicating with a nod of his head at the same time.
Hagan
   recognized the frail little body in the
nightdress without
   seeing her face.
   "Bring her in quickly," he said, making way.
   He closed the front door and told the man
to follow
   him. He turned on the sitting-room light and
made for the
   electric heater, switching it on.
   "Put her on the settee," he said.
"I'll fetch a blanket.
   She must be frozen."
   The man grunted as he placed the girl on the
soft
   cushions. He knelt beside her and brushed her
long yellow
   hair away from her face. The priest returned
and carefully
   wrapped a blanket around the still form. Father
Hagan
   studied the girl's peaceful face for several
moments before
   turning back to the man who had brought her to his
house.
   "Tell me what happened," he said.
   The man shrugged. He was in his late twenties
or early
   thirties, needed a shave, and wore a heavy
thigh-length
   corduroy jacket, its collar turned up against
the cold, over
   dark blue trousers or jeans. His light-brown
hair was a
   tangled mess, but not too long. "She ran across
my path--I
   just braked in time. Thought I was going to hit her."
He
   paused to look down at the girl. "Is she
asleep?"
   The priest lifted one of her eyelids. The
pupil gazed
                                       Page 17
                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   back at him without flinching. "I don't think so.
She seems
   to be ..." He left the sentence unfinished.
   "She didn't stop when I called out to her, so
I followed
   her," the man went on. "She ran straight up
to the church,
   then round the back. Into the graveyard out there. It
   scared the bloody hell out of me." He shook
his head and
   shrugged again as if to relieve tension. "Any
idea who she
   is?"
   "Her name is Alice," the priest said
quietly.
   "Why did she run in here? Where's she from?"
   Father Hagan ignored his questions. "Did she . .
. did
   she climb over the wall at the back of the
churchyard?"
   The man nodded. "Uh huh. She ran into the
field. How
   did you know?"
   "Tell me exactly what happened."
   The man looked around. "D'vou mind if I sit
down for a
   minute--my legs are kind of shaky."
   "I'm sorry. You must have had a nasty shock,
her running
   out at you like that."
   "It was the bloody graveyard that shook me up."
He
   sank gratefully into an armchair and let out a
long sigh.
   Then his face became alert again. "Look,
hadn't you better
   get a doctor? The kid looks done in."
   "Yes, I'll call one soon. First tell me
what happened
   when she went into the field."
   The man looked puzzled. "Are you her father?" he
   asked, keen blue eyes looking directly into the
priest's.
   "I'm a father, but not hers. The church is
Catholic, I'm
   its priest. Father Hagan."
   The man opened his mouth, then nodded in understanding.
   "Of course," he said, managing a brief grin.
"I
   should've known."
   "And you're Mister . . . ?"
   "Gerry Fenn." He decided not to tell the
priest that he
   was from the Courier for the moment. "You live here
   alone?"
   "I have a housekeeper who comes in during the day.
   Otherwise, yes, I live here alone."
   "Creepy."
   "You were going to tell me ..."
   "Oh, yeah. The field. Well, that was weird.
I followed
   her in and found her just kneeling in the grass. She
wasn't
                                        Page 18
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  even shivering, just staring ahead, smiling."
  "Smiling?"
  "Yeah, she had a big beam on her face. Like
she was
  watching something, you know? Something that was pleasing
  her. But all she was looking at was a big
old tree."
  "The oak."
  "Hmm? Yeah, I think so. It was too dark
to see."
  "The oak is the only tree in that field."
  "Then I guess it was the oak."
  "What happened?"
  "Then came the strange part. Well, it was all
bloody--
  sorry. Father--it was all strange, but this was the
ringer. I
  thought she might have been sleepwalking--or
sleep-running
  to be more precise--so I touched her shoulder. Just
gentle,
  you know? I didn't want to frighten her. She just
went on
  smiling and said, 'She's so beautiful," like she
could see
  something there by the tree."
  The priest had stiffened and was looking at Fenn so
  intently that the reporter stopped speaking. He
raised his
  eyebrows. "Something I said?"' he asked.
  "You said the girl spoke, Alice
spoke to you?"
  Fenn was puzzled by the priests attitude. He
shuffled
  uncomfortably in the seat. "She didn't
actually speak to
  me. More like to herself. Is there something wrong, Father?"
  The priest looked down at the girl and gently
brushed
  her cheek with the palm of his hand. "Alice is a
deaf-mute,
  Mr. Fenn. She cannot speak and she cannot hear."
  Fenn's gaze turned from the priest's face to the
girl's.
  She lay there pale, unmoving, a rumpled
frail figure, small
  and so very vulnerable.
FOUR
  "But I don't want to go among mad people,"
Alice remarked. "Oh, you can't help that," said the
Cat: "We're all mad here. I'm mad.
You're mad."
  Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, Lewis
Carroll
  A 11AND LIGHTLY CUFFKD FENN'S
shoulder.
  "Hi, Gerry. Thought you had the graveyard shift
this
  week."
  He glanced up to see Morris, one of the
Courier's thirteen
  sub-editors, moving past him, his body
half-turned in
                                      Page 19
                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   Fenn's direction but his stride hardly broken as
he made
   for his desk.
   "What? Yeah, you don't know the truth of it,"
Fenn
   answered without elaborating. He turned his
attention
   back to the typewriter, quickly reading through the last
   line he had just two-finger-typed. He grunted in
satisfaction
   and his index fingers rapidly stabbed at the machine
   once more. He ignored the apparent chaos around
him: the
   clatter of other overused and badly kept
typewriters,
   the occasional curse or even less occasional
burst of raucous
   laughter, the hum of voices, machines,
and odors.
   The hubbub would grow steadily through the day, building
   to a restrained frenzy which broke without fuss when
   the evening edition was finally put to bed at 3:45
P.m.
   Every trainee reporter soon learned the art of
closing out
   the din, their thoughts, hands, and black type on
paper
   spinning their own frail cocoon of insularity.
   Fenn's right index finger punched a last period and
he
   ripped the paper with its three carbon copies from
the
   machine. He read through it quickly, his smile
turning
   into a broad grin. Shit-hot. Figure
appearing like a white
   banshee in the night. Running out in front of the
van.
   Chasing the apparition. Through the graveyard (could be
a
   little bit more creepy, but let's not overkill).
The girl
   kneeling in the field, staring at the tree.
She's small, dressed
   in white nightgown. Alone. She speaks. Our
intrepid reporter
   later finds out that she is--or was--a
deaf-mute.
   Terrific!
   Fenn marched between crammed desks, his gleaming
   eyes on the news editor. He stood over the
hunched figure
   and resisted the urge to tap a finger on the enticing
bald
   dome before him.
   "Leave it there, I'll get to it," the news
editor growled.
   "I think you ought to read it, Frank."
   Frank Aitken looked up. "I thought you were on
the
   midnight shift, Hemmingway."
   "Yeah, I am. Just a little special for you."
Fenn jiggled
                                       Page 20
                            James Herbert - The Shrine
  the copy in his hand.
  "Show it to the sub." The bald man returned
to his
  penciling out.
  "Uh, just look through it, Frank. I
think you'll like the
  story."
  Aitken wearily laid the pencil down and studied
Fenn's
  smiling face for several moments. "Tucker
tells me you
  didn't produce last night." Tucker was the
night newsdesk
  editor.
  "I came in with a couple of things, Frank, but not
much
  happened last night. Except for this."
  The copy was snatched from him.
  Fenn stuck his hands into his pockets and waited
impatiently
  while Aitken skimmed through the story. He
whistled
  an almost soundless, self-satisfied tune.
Aitken didn't
  look up until he read every word, and when he
did, there
  was a look of disbelief on his face.
  "What is this shit?" he said.
  The grin disappeared from Fenn's face. "Hey,
did you
  like it or not?"
  "You've got to be kidding."
  Fenn leaned on the news editor's desk, his
face anxious,
  his voice beginning to rise. "It's all true,
Frank." He
  stabbed at the paper. "That actually happened to me
last
  night!"
  "So what?" Aitken tossed the typed sheet across
the
  desk. "What's it prove? The kid had a
nightmare, went
  sleepwalking. So what? It's no big deal."
  "But she was deaf and dumb and she spoke to me."
  "Did she say anything to anyone else? I
mean, after,
  when you took her into the priest's house?"
  "No, but--"
  "When the doctor got there? Did she say
anything to
  him?"
  "No--"
  "Her parents?"
  Fenn stood up straight. "The quack
brought her round
  to examine her while the priest fetched her
parents. By the
  time they got there, the kid was asleep again. The
doctor
  told them there was nothing wrong with her--slight
  temperature, that was all."
  The news editor leaned his elbows on the desk and
                                       Page 21
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
said
   with belabored patience, "Okay, so she spoke
to you.
   Three words wasn't it? were those words normal
or
   slurred?"
   "What d'you mean?"
   "I mean if the kid was a deaf-mute, she
wouldn't know
   how to pronounce words too well. They'd be
distorted, if
   not incomprehensible, because she would never have heard
   them spoken before."
   "They were perfect. But she hadn't always been a
deaf-mute.
   The priest told me she'd only been that way
since
   she was four years old."
   "And she's what now?" Aitken looked at the
typed
   copy. "Eleven? Seven years" is a long
time, Gerry."
   "But I know what I heard," Fenn insisted.
   "It was pretty late, you'd had a shock." The
news editor
   looked at him suspiciously. "And probably
a drink or
   two."
   "Not enough to make me hear things."
   "Yeah, yeah, so you say."
   "It's gospel!"
   "So what d'you want me to do with it?" He held
up the
   copy.
   Fenn looked surprised. "Print it."
   "Get outa here." Aitken screwed the sheet of
paper into
   a ball and dropped it into a bin by his feet.
   The reporter opened his mouth to protest, but
Aitken
   raised a hand.
   "Listen, Gerry. There's no story.
You're big and ugly
   enough to understand that. All we have is your say-so that
   the girl, after seven years of being deaf and dumb,
spoke.
   Three words, kiddo, three fucking words, and
nobody else
   heard them. Only you. Our star reporter,
well-known for
   his vivid imagination, renowned for his satire on
local
   council meetings ..."
   "Ah, Frank, that was just a joke."
   "A joke? Oh, yeah, there's been a few little
jokes in the
   past. The hang-glider who loved to jump off the
Downs
   and float around stark-naked."
   "I didn't know he was wearing a skin-tight pink
outfit.
   It looked pretty realistic to--"
   "Yeah, so did the photograph. The police
                                        Page 22
                            James Herbert - The Shrine
weren't too
  happy when they tore around the countryside waiting
for
  him to land the next time he was spotted."
  "It was an easy mistake to make."
  "Sure. Like the poltergeists of Kemptown?"
  "Christ, I didn't know that old lady had a
neurotic cat."
  "Because you didn't bother to check, Gerry, that's
why.
  The clairvoyant we hired sold his story to the
Argus. And
  you can't blame them for going to town on the joke--
  they're our biggest bloody rivals."
  Certain reporters in the near vicinity had grins
on their
  faces, although none looked up from their
typewriters.
  "There's more, but I don't have time to go through the
  list." Aitken picked up his pencil and pointed
it in the
  general direction of the office windows. "Now will you
get
  out there and come back when your shift begins." He
  hunched down to his penciling and his shiny bald
pate
  defied Fenn to argue.
  "Can I follow it up?"
  "Not on the Couriers time," came the
brusque reply.
  For the benefit of his eavesdropping colleagues,
Fenn
  waggled his tongue in the air and tweaked his ears at
the
  preoccupied editor, then turned and walked back
scowling
  to his desk. Jesus, Aitken wouldn't
recognize a good story
  if it walked up to him and spat in his eye. The
girl had
  spoken. After five years of silence, she'd said
three words!
  He slumped into his seat. Three words. But
what had she
  meant? Who was beautiful? He chewed his lip and
stared
  unseeinglv at his typewriter.
  After a while he shrugged his shoulders and reached for
  his phone. He dialed the local radio station's
number and
  asked for Sue Crates.
  "Where the hell were you last night?" he said as
soon as
  she came on.
  "Get off it, Gerry. We've got no fixed
arrangement."
  "Okay, but you could have let me know."
  He heard the long sigh. "Okay, okay," he
said quickly.
  "Can you make lunch?"
  "Of course. Where?"
  "Your place."
  "Uh uh." Negative. "I've got work to do
                                       Page 23
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
this afternoon.
   It'll have to be a short lunch."
   "The Stag, then. In ten minutes?"
   "Make it twenty."
   "Deal. See you there."
   He rang off, thought for a few moments, and went
to
   the office telephone directory. He flicked
through the pages,
   then ran a finger down a list of names, stopping when
he
   found the number he was looking for. He soundlessly
   repeated it as he hurried back to his desk,
where he dialed.
   No reply. He tried again. No reply. The
priest must be
   out on his rounds or whatever priests did during the
day.
   Housekeeper wasn't there either. St. Joseph's
seemed like
   a lonely place.
   Fenn stood and pulled his jacket from the back of
his
   chair, glancing toward the windows, which ran along
the
   whole length of the large office. It was a sunny
day of a
   mild winter. He made for the door and almost
bumped
   into the sports editor coming in.
   "How goes it. Ace?" the editor said cheerily,
and was
   surprised at the low-growled response.
   Sue Gates was late, but he had to admit, she
was worth
   waiting for. At thirty-three, four years older
than Fenn,
   she still had the trim figure of a girl in her
twenties. Her
   dark hair was long, fluffed away from her face in
loose
   curls, and her deep brown eyes could gain a
man's attention
   across any crowded room on any enchanted evening.
   She was wearing tight jeans, loose sweater, and a
short
   navy-blue seaman's topcoat. She waved when
she saw him
   and pushed her way through the crowded bar. He stood
   and kissed her when she reached him, relishing her
lips"
   moist softness.
   "Hi, kid," he said lightly, enjoying the
spreading glow
   which swiftly ran through him and came to rest around
   the region of his groin.
   "Hi, yourself," she said, squeezing into the seat
next to
   him. He pushed the already ordered lager in front
of her
   and she reached for it gratefully, raking a long
appreciative
   swallow.
                                       Page 24
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  "You eating today?" F'enn asked her. Sue often
went a
  couple of days without touching a scrap of
food.
  She shook her head. "I'll catch something tonight."
  "Going fishing?"
  "Idiot."
  He popped the last of his cheese and pickle
into his mouth
  and grinned through bulging cheeks.
  Placing a hand over his she said, "Sorry I
missed you
  last night."
  F'enn had to gulp down the food before he could
reply.
  "I'm sorry I was ratty on the phone," he
counterapologized.
  "Forget it. I did ring the Courier, by the way,
just to let
  you know I wouldn't be there. They told me you were out
  on an assignment."
  "I rang your place, too."
  "I was out ..."
  "I know."
  "Reg took me to dinner."
  "Oh, yeah." His voice was casual. "Good
old Reg."
  "Hey, come on. Reg is my boss--you
know there's
  nothing in it."
  was "Course I know. Does Reg?"
  Sue laughed. "He's as thin as a drainpipe,
wears glasses
  that look like the ends of milk bottles, is losing
his hair,
  and has a disgusting habit of picking his nose with his
little
  finger."
  "It's the last bit that makes him irresistible."
  "On top of that he's married with three kids."
  "I told you he was irresistible." F'enn
drained his glass.
  "I'll get you another while I'm up there."
  "No, let me get you one," she insisted. "You
can reflect
  on what a wimp you're being while I'm at the
bar." She
  reached for his glass. "Another bitter?"
  "Bloody Mary," he said smugly.
  He watched her weave through the crowd to the bar and
  told himself how much he admired her independence--
  he'd told himself, and her, many times--and wished he
  was convinced of his own admiration. Sue had
been married
  and divorced before she was twenty-six, her ex being
  an advertising man in London--high-powered,
high-living,
  hi, girls!--something on the creative side of the
business.
  After just one-too-many indiscretions on his part,
Sue had
  sought a divorce. She'd had a good position with a
film
                                      Page 25
                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   E reduction company--she and her husband had
met when
   er company was hired to make a TV commercial for
his
   agency--but after her divorce came through, she
decided
   she had had enough of advertising people, enough of
   London, and enough of men.
   The big problem was that the marriage had produced
a
   child, a son named Ben. He had been the reason for
   moving down to the south coast. Her parents lived in
Have , which was the other half (some said the better half)
   of Brighton, and they had agreed to become
semipermanent
   baby sitters. Ben stayed with his grandparents most
   of the time, but Sue made sure they got together
nearly
   every day and he moved in with her on most weekends.
   Fenn knew that she missed having the boy around
all of
   the time, but she had to make a living (her fierce
independence
   meant refusal of any maintenance, even for Ben,
   from the errant husband; half the money from the sale
of
   their Islington house was all she had demanded).
She
   managed to get herself a job with Radio Brighton
and had
   soon become a producer. But it took up a
lot of her time
   and she was seeing less and less of Ben, which
worried
   her. And she was seeing too much of Fenn, which
worried
   her almost as much. She hadn't wanted to become
entangled
   with another man; casual acquaintanceships were
all she
   would allow, necessary only for those odd times when a
   weak body needed something more than a pillow to cling
   to. Those odd times had become more frequent
since she had met Fenn.
   He had urged her to give up her flat, to move
in with
   him. It was ridiculous that they should feel so
close and
   live so far apart (three blocks away, to be
precise). But she
   had resisted, and still did; Sue had vowed never
to become
   totally dependent on one single person again.
Ever.
   Sometimes, and secretly, it was a relief
to Fenn, for it gave
   him his own independence. Guilt hit him
occasionally (the
   bargain seemed to be too much in his favor), but
when
   voiced, she always assured him that the boot was on
the
   other foot and it was she who was getting the better
                                       Page 26
                            James Herbert - The Shrine
deal.
  A man to lean on when the going got rough,
a body to
  comfort her when the nights were lonely, and a friend to
  have fun with when things were going right. A shoulder to
  cry on, a lover to spy on, and a wallet
to rely on. And
  solitude when it was needed most. What more could
any
  woman ask for? Plenty, Fenn thought, but he
wasn't going
  to prompt her.
  She was back, handing him the thick red cocktail
with
  an expression of mild disapproval on her
face. He sipped
  the Bloody Marv and winced: Sue had told the
barman to
  go heavy on the Tabasco. He noticed she was
trying hard
  not to smirk.
  "What are you doing here today, W caret
oodstein?" she asked.
  "I thought you'd still be tucked up in bed after your
late
  shift."
  "I ran into a good story last night.
Well, it kind of ran
  into me. I thought it might make the late edition
but the
  Avatollah had other ideas."
  "Aitken didn't like it?"
  Fenn shook his head. "Like it? He didn't even
believe
  it."
  "Try me. I know you only lie when it's to your
  advantage."
  He briefly told her what had happened the
previous
  night, and she smiled at the excitement that
gradually
  began to blaze in his eyes as the story went on.
At one
  point, when he was describing how he'd found the
little
  girl kneeling in the field, cold fingers had
touched her
  spine, making her shiver. Fenn went on to tell
her about
  the priest, the doctor, then the arrival of the
distraught
  parents.
  "How old was the girl?" Sue asked.
  "The priest said eleven. She looked younger
to me."
  "And she was just staring at the tree?"
  "She was just staring towards it. I got the
impression she
  was looking at something else."
  "Something else?"
  "Yeah, it's kind of hard to explain. She was
smiling, you
  know, like something was making her very happy.
                                       Page 27
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
Rapturous,
   almost. It was as if she were seeing a vision."
   "Oh, Gerry ..."
   "No, that's it! That's just what it was like. The kid
was
   seeing a vision."
   "She was having a dream, Gerry. Don't
exaggerate the
   whole thing."
   "How d'you explain her talking to me, then?"
   "Maybe you were dreaming too."
   "Ah, Sue . . . come on, I'm being
serious."
   She laughed and linked his arm. "I'm
sorry, lover, but
   you get so hot up when you think you're sniffing out a
   good story."
   He grunted. "Maybe you're right. Maybe I
did imagine
   that part of it. The strange thing was, I got the
impression
   it wasn't the first time. When the girl's parents
arrived, I
   heard the mother mumble something about Alice--that's
   the kid's name--going to the same place before. The
priest
   nodded, but his eves seemed to be warning her not
to say
   too much in front of me. It was all kinda
cagey."
   "Did he know you were a reporter."
   Fenn shook his head. "He didn't ask, so I
didn't tell
   him." He sipped his drink thoughtfully. "He
wanted me
   out of the way, though. Couldn't wait to get rid of
me
   once the mother and father got there. I pretended to be
   more shaken up than I really was, so he
let me rest awhile.
   Then, just before the parents took Alice away, he
went
   through some ritual with her. Mumbled something or
   other and made the sign of the cross."
   "He blessed her?"
   He looked at Sue quizzically. "If you
say so."
   "No. That's what you're saying. He must have
blessed
   her."
   "Why would he do that?"
   "A priest will bless a house, a holy medal, a
statue.
   Even your car if you ask him nicely. Why not a
child?"
   "Yeah, why not? Hey, how do you know all that?"
   "I'm a Catholic--at least I used to be.
I'm not sure if I
   still am; the Catholic Church doesn't actually
approve of
   divorce."
   "You never told me."
   "It was never important. I don't go to church
                                        Page 28
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
anymore,
   only at Christmas, and that's mainly for Ben's
sake. He
   likes the ceremony."
   Fenn nodded knowingly. "So that's why you're so
wild
   in bed."
   "Creep."
   "Uh huh. That's why you're into flagellation!"
   "Will you stop. The day I let you beat me--"
   "Yeah, that's why I have to undress in the dark
..."
   She groaned and pinched his thigh under the table.
   Fenn yelped, almost spilling his drink. "Okay,
okay, I
   lied, you're normal. It's a pity, but it's the
truth."
   "Just you remember it."
   He squeezed her thigh in return, but his touch was
   gentle as well as higher and further in. "You're
saying,
   then, that it would have been standard practice for him to
   bless the girl?"
   "Oh, no, it sounds unusual to me under those
circumstances.
   But not especially so. It may have been
to reassure
   the parents more than anything else."
   "Yeah, could be."
   Sue studied his profile, and was aware that she
loved
   him some days more than others. Today was a more day.
   She remembered when they had first met, over three
years
   ago. It was at a party given by the radio station for
one of
   their announcers, who was leaving to join the mother ship,
   Great Auntie BBC, in London. Some of the
friendlier
   press had been invited; Gerry Fenn was
considered aggressive
   but friendly enough.
   "You look familiar," she had told him when he
skillfully
   got around to introducing himself She had caught him
   looking her way several times before he edged his way
   around the room so that he could deliberately bump
into
   her.
   "Yeah?" he had said, eyebrows raised.
   "Yes, you remind me of an actor . .
."
   "Right. Who?" he was grinning broadly.
   "Oh, what's his name. Richard ..."
   "F caret astwood. Richard Eastwood?"
   "No, no. He was in that space thing ..."
   "Richard Redford?"
   "No, silly."
   "Richard Newman?"
   "Dreyfuss, that's who. Richard Dreyfuss."
   His smile disappeared and his lips formed an O.
"Oh, yeah. Him." He beamed again. "Yeah,
he's okay."
                                        Page 29
                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   They had talked, and he had made her laugh with his
   swift changes of mood, his sudden intensity
broken by a
   wicked grin that would leave her wondering if he were
not
   joking when he looked so serious. That was three
years
   ago and she was still never sure.
   He turned to face her, that same wicked grin
on his
   face. "You busy this weekend?"
   "Not especially. I'll be seeing Ben, of
course."
   "Could you keep Sunday morning free?"
   "Sure. Any particular reason?"
   His grin broadened.
   "How would you like to go to Mass with me on Sunday?"
FIVE
   "Well, I don't," said the mother. "I've got
forebodings like
   there was going to be an almighty thunderstorm."
   "The Juniper Tree," The Brothers Grimm
   molly PAGETT LISTENED FROM "I HE
bottom of the stairs.
   It was a small, red-brick house, identical
to all the others
   on Banfield's public housing, and movement in
any of its
   rooms could be clearly heard from the bottom of the
stairs.
   The familiar bip hip of Alice's Galaxy
Invader came to her
   ears; her daughter spent hours playing the
battery-operated
   game, shooting down the descending green aliens with
an unerring skill that both baffled and impressed
Molly. She went into the kitchen and filled the
kettle.
   At least Alice had put away her crayons
for a while.
   Molly sat at the fold-away table, her
face, already thin,
   even more gaunt because of the increased anxieties of the
   past two weeks. Alice had been a constant
source of concern
   for Molly Pagett since the usual children's
illness at
   four years of age had left her daughter its
unusual legacy;
   the effects of mumps had turned Alice into a
deaf-mute.
   Molly drummed her fingers on the table and
resisted the
   urge to light a cigarette. Five-a-day was her
maximum:
   one, first thing in the morning; one, halfway through the
   morning; one, just before Len, her husband, arrived
back
   from work; and two, later in the evening while watching
   telly. Five-a-day was the most she could afford,
but sometimes
   she smoked ten. Other times she smoked twenty.
It
                                       Page 30
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  depended on Len. He could be such a bastard.
  Molly quickly crossed herself, an appeasement
to God
  for the profanity, but not for the thought: that was
  well-founded.
  Her frown increased when she remembered the night
  before. The priest had frightened her and Len, knocking
  on their door in the middle of the night, then standing in
  their hallway, his face white and anxious, a
black-garbed
  messenger of bad tidings. Nonsense, she'd
told him when
  he said Alice was up at the presbytery, a
doctor taking
  care of her. Alice is safe in bed, Molly
had insisted. She's
  been there since seven. Wanted to go Up early
because she
  was feeling tired.
  Father Hagan had just shaken his head and urged them
  to get dressed and come with him, but Molly had run
into
  Alice's room, knowing the priest wouldn't lie,
just sure he
  was making a mistake. Her bed had been
empty, covers
  thrown back, her doll hanging halfway out of the
bed
  staring lifelessly at the floor. Len and the priest
had followed
  and it was Father Hagan, not her husband, who
  tried to calm her. Alice was all right as far as
the doctor
  could tell. She had probably been
sleepwalking, that was
  all.
  All the way to the bloody church? Len had
asked, not
  caring that he was talking to a priest.
  Father Hagan had told them to find warm clothing for
  their daughter; she was only wearing a thin nightie.
By the
  time they had both hurriedly dressed, Len's
mood had
  turned into one of anger for, being an atheist, he
kept clear
  of churches (although he enjoyed the occasional
funeral,
  which he regarded as a social event) and to be
dragged out
  to one in the middle of the night--and a bloody cold
night,
  too!--was not much to his liking.
  Alice had looked so pale when they arrived there.
Even
  Len stopped his sullen muttering. Yet she
looked so peaceful.
  The doctor told them he had found nothing wrong
with
  her, but to keep her home for a day or two, make
sure she
  got plenty of rest. If she acted strangely,
or appeared not
                                      Page 31
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  to be her usual self, give him a ring and he
would come
  around. He was sure there was nothing to worry about,
  though. Young children often went for midnight jaunts,
  whether asleep or otherwise; Alice had just
jaunted a little
  farther than most.
  Molly was still frightened. Why had Alice gone to the
  tree again? She had been frantic when her
daughter had
  been missing two weeks before. She had searched the
  church and its grounds, twice running down
to the road to
  make sure Alice wasn't out there. In a
panic she had run to
  Father Hagan's house and he had helped search the
grounds
  again. It was the priest who spotted her daughter in
the
  field kneeling before the tree. Alice had been
smiling when
  they went to her, a smile that had vanished when she
  became aware of their approach. Then she had
become
  confused, disoriented. They had led her back, and in
sign
  language Molly has asked her why she had
gone into the
  field. Alice had merely looked puzzled, as
if she didn't
  understand. She had seemed fine after that (perhaps a little
  distant, but that wasn't too unusual for
Alice; it was easy
  to get lost in a world of silence), and Molly had
tried to
  forget the incident.
  Now, because of the previous night, the
anxiety was
  back with a vengeance. And the fear was mixed with
  something else. What was it? Apprehension? M.
Something
  more. The faint glimmer of hope. . . . No, it
was
  impossible. The man had been mistaken. He
had seemed
  so certain, though.
  She couldn't remember his name, the young man who
  had nearly run down Alice. He had been
sitting in an
  armchair looking a little worse for wear when she and
Len
  had arrived. The familiar stink of booze
permeated the air
  around him (familiar to her because that same
unpleasant
  odor was so much a part of her husband), although he
  didn't appear to be drunk. He said Alice
had spoken to
  him.
  The kettle changed its hissing tone and steam
billowed
  out across the kitchen. Molly switched the
gas jet off and
                                      Page 32
                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   dropped a tea bag into an empty cup on the
draining
   board. She poured undiluted lemon squash
into another
   cup for Alice and filled both with boiling water.
Molly
   stood looking down at the swirling yellow-green
liquid,
   thinking of her daughter, her only child, thinking that
   miracles never happened. Not to the Molly and
Alice
   Pagetts of the world, anyway.
   She put the cup and two biscuits into a saucer
and made
   her way from the kitchen. As she mounted the stairs,
her
   mind ran through a quick, silent prayer, but she dare
not
   let herself hope. Alice would soon be back at
the special
   school for the deaf in Have, and Molly, herself, would be
   back at her part-time job as a home-help, and
Len would
   be his usual disagreeable self, and everything
would be
   normal again in the Pagett household. She
prayed it would
   be so, yet she prayed also for something better.
   Alice did not look up when Molly entered the
bedroom.
   Even though she couldn't hear, her daughter could
always
   sense when someone had entered a room, but this time she
was intent on her drawing. The Galaxy Invader now
lay
   on the floor beside the bed and her crayons were near
at
   hand in a box on the bedside cabinet. Molly
stood over her
   with the hot lemon drink and still Alice did not
look up
   from the sketchbook.
   Molly frowned when she saw the picture. It was
the
   same one. The same one she had drawn day after
day for
   two weeks. Molly had shown them to P'ather
Hagan, who
   had dropped in earlier that morning and he,
too, had made
   no sense of them.
   Molly placed the cup and saucer beside the
crayons and
   sat on the edge of the bed. Alice looked
surprised when
   the yellow crayon was removed from her hand. For an
   instant, it was as though she did not recognize her
mother.
   Then she smiled.
   The rain was like tiny ice pellets striking at
Father Hagan's
   face. He stood at the wall, looking into the
field, watching
                                       Page 33
                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   the tree; the sky, after a bright start to the day, was
now
   dark overhead, a thin haze of silver between the
distant
   horizon and the brooding clouds.
   Nothing happened. Nor did he expect it to.
The tree
   was just a tree. A tired old oak. A silent
witness to passing
   time. He could see the sheep grazing in a far
corner of the
   field, their bodies yellow-gray and bloated,
concerned only
   for the next mouthful of grass and the growing heaviness
   in their pregnant bellies.
   The priest shivered and pulled the collar of his
dark-blue
   raincoat tight around his neck. His black hair
was
   damp, his glasses speckled; he had been standing
there for
   five minutes, paving no heed to the freezing
rain. There
   was a feeling inside him that he could not grasp, a
sense of
   unease that he could not define. He had not sfept
well the
   night before, after the doctor had left with the
Pagerts and
   Alice, and the man called Fenn had gone. A
peculiar
   loneliness had descended afterward, leaving him feeling
   vulnerable, isolated. In his years as a priest,
loneliness had
   become an acquaintance, and rarely an enemy.
But last
   night, the solitude was total, his room a
cell surrounded by
   impenetrable blackness, devoid of life, a
deathly vacuity
   separating him from the rest of humanity. He had the
   terrifying feeling that if he left his bedroom and
walked
   out into that darkness he would never reach its edge, that
   he would walk and walk and become lost in it, never
to
   find even his room again. The sensation was suffocating
   and he was afraid.
   He had prayed and prayer slowly forced back the
contracting
   walls of fear. His sleep had been restless, more
   exhausting than if he had staved awake, and the
barest
   glimmer of morning had been welcomed with immense
   gratitude. He had shivered alone in his church,
his early-morning
   devotions fervent, intense, and later, at morning
   Mass shared with four of his flock, he had begun
to shake
   off the nagging unrest. But not completely; it still
lingered
   through the day like an elusive tormentor, refusing
to be
                                       Page 34
                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   identified, content to stab, then hide.
   The tree was withered; the years had made it a
twisted
   thing. It dominated that part of the field, a
gargantuan
   guardian, innumerable arms thrown outward to warn
off
   intruders. A grotesque shape disrobed of
summer leaves,
   intimidating in its ugliness. Yet, he told
himself, it was
   just a centuries-old oak, its lower branches
bowed, bark
   scarred and dry, its vitality patiently stolen
by time. But
   why did the girl kneel before it?
   The Pagetts had always lived in the parish,
Molly Pagett
   a staunch, if quiet, member of the Catholic
community.
   She was paid for the work she did keeping the church
clean, but the wages were minimal; she would have
probably
   worked for nothing it Father Hagan had asked her to.
   He had not met Leonard Pagett often, and he
had reluctantly
   to admit that he cared little for the man. Pagett's
   atheism and ill-disguised dislike of the Church and
churchmen
   had nothing to do with his feelings toward him, for
   the priest knew and respected many such people. No,
   there was something, well, not good about the man. On
   the rare occasions when Father Hagan had called at
their
   home, Pagett had always appeared sullen,
uncomfortable
   in the presence of the priest. And in turn, the
priest felt
   uncomfortable in the presence of Pagett. He was
glad
   Alice's father had been absent when he called in
to see her
   that morning.
   Alice. A good child, a curious child. Her
disability had
   made her a solitary one. She was frail, yet
seemed to carry
   an inner strength within that small body.
She was happy
   at the church, helpful to her mother, respectful of
her
   surroundings. Alice didn't appear to have many
friends,
   but of course, her silence was frustrating to other children
   who had little pity for such things. She appeared to be
as
   intelligent as any other child of her age despite
the cruel
   affliction, although she was often lost in her own world,
in
   her own dreams, an obvious result of her
disability. That
   morning she had seemed almost completely lost in that
                                       Page 35
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  private domain, absorbed in her confused
scribblings.
  It was the memory of Alice's drawings that
turned him
  back toward the church.
  He walked through the bleak graveyard, his shoulders
  hunched against the stinging rain, his footsteps
hurried.
  Molly Pagett had shown him more pictures
drawn by the
  child over the past two weeks, and they had all
looked
  similar to each other, mostly in yellow and gray,
some
  with added touches of blue. Strangely, only one
was
  different, although not in style; the color had
changed. It
  was in red and black. All had looked vaguely
familiar.
  Alice was no artist, but her illustrations
endeavored to
  portray a figure, a person dressed in
white, the blue used
  infrequently, red just once. The figure was
surrounded by
  yellow and it had no face. It appeared to be a
woman,
  though the overall shape was not clear.
  He entered the church porch, relieved to he out of the
  rain. He fumbled for the key to open the big oak
doors, for
  the church was always kept locked nowadays because of
  increasing vandalism and theft. The holy sanctuary
   available to those in need only at appointed times.
The
   long key clicked in the lock and he swung one
side of the
   double doors open, stepping inside and closing it
again.
   The thud echoed around the walls of the gloomy church
   and his footsteps were unusually loud as he walked
to a
   side aisle after genuflecting and blessing himself.
   He paused before beginning the journey to the front of
   the church, gazing at the distant frozen figure
against a
   wall to one side of the altar. Could it be? Father
Hagan
   became more certain as he approached the statue: the
   outstretched arms, the head slightly bowed to gaze
at
   whoever knelt, sat, or stood before it. The
drawings made
   more sense when the image they represented was
viewed.
   Alice often sat here. Curiously, it came as
no relief to
   identify the object of her obsessive
drawings. Instead, it was a mildly unsettling
sensation.
   The priest stared up at the compassionate but stone
                                        Page 36
                            James Herbert - The Shrine
face
  ij of the Blessed Virgin and wondered at the acute
sense of
  despair he suddenly felt.
SIX
  "I say, how do you do it?" asked John, rubbing
his knee. He was quite a practical buy.
  "You just think lovely wonderful toughts," Peter
explained,
  "and they lift you up in the air."
  Peter Pan, J. M. Barrie
  sunday. .morning. SUNNY. BUT COLD.
  Fenn pulled his Mini in behind a long line of
cars, most
  of which were settled halfway on the grass verge
beside
  the road.
  "It's gone nine-thirty, Gerry. We're going
to be late."
  Sue sat in the passenger seat, making no
attempt to get out
  of the car.
  Fenn grinned. "They don't make you wear
sackcloth
  anymore, do they?" He turned off the engine.
  "I'm not sure I want to do this." Sue's
teeth chewed
  anxiously on her lower lip. "I mean, it's a
bit hypocritical,
  isn't it?"
  "Why?" Fenn looked surprised, although his eyes
were
  still smiling. "Prodigals always get a good
reception."
  "Cut it out, it's not funny."
  Fenn changed his tone. "Ah, come on. Sue, you
don't
  have to become a born-again Catholic. I'd feel
a bit lost if I
  went in there alone; I wouldn't know what the hell
to do."
  "Admit it: you're bloody scared.
W"'"hat do you think
  Catholics do to agnostics? Bum them at the
stake? And
  what makes you think you'd be noticed anyway?"
  Fenn squirmed uncomfortably. "I
guess I do feel like a
  trespasser."
  "A spy, don't you mean? And how do you think
I'm
  going to feel?"
  He leaned forward and put a hand around her neck,
  Jently tugging her toward him. "I need you with
me,
  disue."
  She looked into his face, about to rebuke him for
his
  blatant small-boy expression; instead she
groaned and pushed
  her way out of the car, slamming the door behind her.
  Fenn winced but couldn't repress the chuckle.
He locked
                                      Page 37
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  the car and hurried after Sue, who was stamping along
the
  tree-lined path leading to the church entrance. A
few other
  late arrivals hurried along with them, the sound of
organ
  music speeding their footsteps.
  "The things I do for you, Fenn," Sue muttered from
the corner of her mouth as they entered the
porch.
  "Yeah, but they're not all bad," he whispered
back, a
  sharp elbow making his grin disappear.
  The church was full and F'enn was surprised; he
thought
  clerics were complaining about the fast-diminishing number
  of churchgoers. There were plenty here. Too many, in
  fact; he and the other latecomers would have to stand at
  the back. He watched as Sue dipped her hand
into the font
  at the top of the center aisle and admired her
legs as she
  quickly genuflected. Remember where you are,
P'enn, he
  told himself. He decided he would feel too
self-conscious
  to follow her act and discovered he felt
self-conscious not
  following it. Shuffling to one side, trying to look
as unobtrusive
  as possible, he glanced around the church interior.
  The congregation ranged over all ages and all
shapes and
  sixes. Plenty of kids, some with
adults, others just with
  brothers and sisters or disfriends; plenty of women,
mostly
  middle-aged or older, a few teenage girls
here and there;
  and a good sprinkling of men, most of them family
types,
  one or two groups of teenage boys among them.
A hymn
  was being sung and mouths opened and closed, many not
  forming words--just opening and closing. The tune
wasn't
  bad, though, and the overall effect of all the
voices banded
  together by the rich strains of the wheezing organ was not
  unpleasant. Fenn hummed along with them.
  The hymn finished and there was the rustle of closing
  books and shifting bodies, a muffled sound like a
wave
  soaking the shore. I he congregation knelt and he
wondered
  what to do--the stone floor looked unreasonably
  hard. He snatched a look at Sue for
guidance and was
  relieved to see her merely bow her head
slightly. He did
  the same, but his eyes looked upward, roaming
over the
  heads of the people in front.
                                      Page 38
                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   The priest s monotone litany drew his
attention toward
   the altar and he barely recognized the man in his
dazzling
   uniform of office, a white cassock and bright
green and
   yellow vestment. Father Hagan had changed
identity; he
   bore little resemblance in both character and appearance
to
   the confused and anxious man in dressing gown and
bare
   feet of a few nights ago. The transition was as
dramatic as
   dark Kent changing into Superman. Or Popeye
after
   spinach. He wore his robe like a suit of holy
armor and it
   afforded him a calm strength. Fenn was just a little
   impressed, but cynically reminded himself that fancy
dress
   was the most camouflaging disguise of all.
   Father Hagan's face was expressionless, his eyes
cast
   down, almost shut, as he quickly went through the opening
   prayers. The congregation responded to his
solemn
   supplications in an almost-incoherent drone. Then
both
   priest and worshipers prayed as one; and as they
did so,
   Fenn noticed the priest's eyes were fully
open, his head no
   longer bowed. He kept glancing to his left as
though
   watching someone kneeling on that side of the church.
   F'enn followed his gaze but could only see rows
of bowed
   heads. He shifted his position to get a clear
view down the
   side aisle; still he saw nothing unusual. He
turned his
   attention back to the Mass, interested in the
service, but
   deriving no sense of well-being from it, no spiritual
uplift.
   Soon he became aware of a growing frustration, a
slight
   resentment.
   Maybe he just didn't like being part of the gathering,
   part of a crowd that seemed--to him--to be mindlessfy
   repeating words as though they were a magic formula, a
   collective petition of adoration. It began
to unnerve him.
   Fenn neither believed nor disbelieved in the
existence of
   God: either way, it meant little to him. F'ind your
own
   morality, your own code, then stick with it. So
long as
   nobody else got hurt (too badly), you were
doing okay. If
   there was a God, He was big enough to understand that.
                                       Page 39
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  It was man, mortal bloody man, who created
the myths.
  What Supreme Being could encourage, let alone
appreciate,
  this dogmatic repetitive ritual? What
Almighty Power would
  encourage His own creation (whom, so the rumor
went,
  He had created in His own image) to toady up
to Him so
  they could have a slice of the heavenly action when their
  number was called? It didn't make sense.
  Fenn glared defiantly toward the altar. There were
lots
  of other things to toss in for debate. Like
idolatry, theological
  misinterpretation, and naive symbolism. Like
birth
  control, confession and penance and absolution. Like
bigotry
  (who says you have to be a Catholic to get a
foot in
  the gate?), ceremony, solemnization, and
in-bloody-fallibility.
  Original Sin, for Christ's sake! And not
to mention the
  Church's view on fornication.
  He began to smile at his own indignation. Nothing
like
  a good church service to stir the emotions, for or
agin.
  As Father Hagan read from the Gospel, Fenn
looked at
  Sue and surreptitiously reached for her hand,
squeezing it
  softly; she ignored him, intent on the priest's
words. He
  let his hand drop away, surprised.
  The sermon began and Fenn paid scant attention,
although
  he studied Hagan with interest. It was strange:
the
  priest didn't look so invincible now. His face
looked strained
  and he still glanced toward the side, at someone
sitting in
  the front pew. Once again, the reporter tried
to see for
  himself, and this time he could just make out the back of a
  woman's head between the shoulders of a man and woman
  sitting in the second row.
  She was wearing a bright-pink scarf. Maybe the
priest
  didn't like pink.
  Fenn shifted his feet, becoming restless. If he
were a
  smoker, he'd be dying for a cigarette. Was it
sacrilege to
  chew gum in church? He decided it probably
was.
  The priest's words seemed hesitant, as though
even he
  were not convinced. But as he spoke and developed his
                                      Page 40
                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   theme, his words became stronger and Fenn could almost
   feel the sense of relief that passed through the
congregation;
   they obviously preferred their sermons hard and
unrelenting.
   Father Hagan's voice subtly rose in pitch,
at one moment
   accusing and the next coaxing, then reassuring,
returning
   to a more reproachful tone when things were getting too
   cosy. Fenn enjoyed his technique.
   The service went on (to Fenn, on and on . .
.) and he
   regretted having arrived for the full Mass. His
idea was to
   soak up the atmosphere of the Sunday service,
maybe chat
   to some of the people afterward; but the prime purpose
   was to get to the priest. He intended to have a long
talk
   with him when Mass was over, wanting to find out how
   the little girl was. Had she returned to the church?
Had
   she spoken again? Now he wondered if he
wasn't suffering
   too much for the sake of his craft.
   He sneaked another sideways peek at Sue,
feeling a
   trifle embarrassed by her obvious reverence toward
the
   surroundings. Once a Catholic, always a
Catholic. He
   hoped it didn't mean she was going to kick him out
of her
   bed that night.
   The church became particularly hushed. Father
Hagan
   was doing something with a highly polished chalice,
breaking
   what looked like a white wafer into it. The
Communion,
   that was it. Drinking of wine, breaking of bread.
Christ's
   blood and body. What did they call it. . .
his The Eucharist.
   All heads were bowed and the people standing around
   him sank to their knees as a tinkling bell rang
out. He
   looked down at Sue in alarm and she motioned with
her
   eyes for him to get down beside her. The stone floor
hurt
   his knees.
   He kept his head low, afraid to offend anyone
--particularly
   He who sees all--until he heard movement
around
   him. Looking up, he saw that people were stepping into
   the aisles and forming a double-line queue leading up
to
   the altar rail, where the priest waited with silver
cup and
   Communion wafers. An older man wearing a
                                       Page 41
                            James Herbert - The Shrine
white cassock
  attended him at one side. The procession of people
  shuffled forward and the organ wheezed into life once
  again.
  Several people were sitting now and a few of those at
  the back of the church had risen to their feet, not
prepared
  to suffer bruised knees any longer. Fenn
considered their
  judgment to be sound and rose himself; Sue remained
  kneeling.
  Singing began and the congregation moved down and
  around, approaching the altar from the center aisle,
returning
  to their places by the side aisles. Fenn saw the
pink
  scarf moving along the bench toward the center and
instantly
  recognized its wearer as the woman who had come
  with her husband to collect the little deaf and dumb
girl
  from the priest's house a few nights before. The
priest had
  been looking toward Alice's mother throughout the
service.
  The pink scarf joined the other bowed heads in the
  slow-paced procession and disappeared completely from
  view when the woman knelt to receive the host from the
  priest.
  It was then that a small figure rose from the spot
where
  the woman had been sitting throughout the
Mass. She
  stepped into the side aisle and looked up at a
statue before
  her; then she turned and walked toward the back of the
church. Fenn recognized Alice. Her yellow
hair was parted
  in the middle, two long plaits resting over her
shoulders;
  she wore a maroon raincoat, a size too
big for her, and
  long white socks. Her hands were clasped together
tightly,
  fingers intertwined, and her eyes looked straight
ahead and
  at nothing in particular.
  Fenn stared, aware that something was wrong. Her face
  was pale, her knuckles white. He realized the
priest had
  been watching her, not her mother.
  And Father Hagan was watching her now.
  The Communion wafer hovered tantalizingly above
a
  gaping mouth, the receiver's tongue, draped over a
lower
  Hp, beginning to twitch. Alice's mother,
kneeling beside
  her fellow-communicant, was too lost in her
own devotional
  prayers to notice the delay in proceedings.
  The priest looked as though he was about to call out and
  Fenn saw him visibly restrain himself. A few
                                      Page 42
                            James Herbert - The Shrine
other heads
  were turning to see what was provoking such riveted
attention
  from their priest, but all they saw was little Alice
  Pagett, the deaf-mute, walking toward the back
of the
  church, presumably to join the queue for Holy
Communion.
  Father Hagan realized he was delaying the Mass
and resumed
  the ceremony, but his eyes worriedly followed the
  girl's progress,
  Fenn was curious. He thought of stepping forward to
  block her way but knew that would be stupid: she
might
  just be feeling unwell and in need of fresh air.
Yet, although
  she was pale, there was a look of happiness on her
  face, a faraway joy in those vivid
blue eyes. She seemed
  to see nothing, only what was beyond her physical
vision,
  and the notion disturbed Fenn. Could she be in a
trance?
  She bumped into no one, nor were her footsteps
slow or
  dreamlike. He looked down at her as she
passed, and
  half-smiled, not knowing why.
  The organ played on and voices rose in
communal
  worship, emotions high at this particular point in
the
  Mass.
  No one seemed to notice the other children leaving the
  pews.
  Fenn looked from left to right in surprise. The
kids--
  some no more than six years old, others up
to twelve or
  thirteen--were slipping away from their elders and
making
  their way toward the church exit, the infant
exodus largely
  unnoticed because of the throng of people in the center
  aisle.
  Unlike Alice, there was nothing trancelike about
these
  children. They were excited, some giggling, as they
skipped
  after the deaf and dumb girl.
  A mother realized her offspring was trying to make an
  escape (a common enough occurrence with this one), and
  swiftly caught him. His howl of rage and
struggles to get
  free shocked the mother. People around her, other parents,
  began to realize what was happening. They were startled
  at first, then confused. Then just a little angry. One
father
  forgot himself and called out after his departing boy.
  Father Hagan heard the shout and looked up. He
was
  just in time to see the small girl in her maroon
                                      Page 43
                            James Herbert - The Shrine
raincoat and
  long plaits pull open the church door and
disappear into
  the bright sunlight. Other children rushed after her.
  The voices grew weaker as people became aware that
  something was amiss. Soon only the
plump nun at the
  organ, lost in her own raptuous praising of
God's benevolence
  toward mankind, was singing.
  Fenn suddenly became alert. Christ, he had
almost been
  in a trance himself; it had taken an effort of will
to snap
  out of it. He moved swiftly to the door and pushed
one
  side open. The light stung his eves for several
moments,
  but a few rapid blinks allowed him to see
clearly once
  more.
  The children were running through the graveyard toward
  the low gray-stone wall at the back.
  Fenn stepped from the porch and followed, his
footsteps
  quickening when he saw Alice clamber over the
wall. The
  other children began climbing over too, the smaller
ones
  helped by their bigger companions.
  A hand grabbed the reporter's arm.
  "Gerry, what's going on?" Sue stared after the
children,
  then at him as if he would know.
  "No idea," he told her. "They're chasing
after the little
  deaf-and-dumb girl. And I think I know where
she's going."
  He broke away, running now, anxious to get
to the wall.
  Sue was too surprised to move. Voices from
behind
  caused her to turn her head; bewildered parents were
  emerging from the church, looking around anxiously for
  their missing children. The priest pushed his way into the
  crowd, saw Sue standing on the path leading through the
  graveyard, then looked beyond at Fenn's
retreating figure.
  The reporter skipped over fresh molehills,
stumbling
  once but managing to keep his feet. He
practically fell against the wall, his hands smacking
its rough top. There he stood, drawing sharp breaths
into his belabored lungs,
  his eyes widening.
  The girl, Alice, was kneeling before the
crooked oak,
  just as she had on that dark chilly night less than
a week
  ago. The other children were spread out behind her, some
  kneeling as she was, others just staring. Several of the
  younger ones were pointing at the tree, laughing,
jumping
                                       Page 44
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
   little steps of delight.
   Fenn's eyes narrowed as he studied the object
of their
   attention. There was nothing else there! Just an old
tree! It wasn't even beautiful; in fact, it was
bloody awful. What was the fascination?
   Someone bumped into him and he looked around to see
   Sue had caughr up with him once more.
   "Gerry . . . ?" The question froze on her lips
as she saw
   the children.
   Hurried footsteps behind them, other bodies
brought to
   a halt by the low wall. Fenn and Sue were jostled
as
   parents pushed to see what had become of their
offspring.
   A mild shock ran through the gathering
crowd. Then a
   hushed silence. Even the organ had stopped
playing.
   Fenn became aware that the priest was standing beside
   him. They regarded each other for several moments and
   the reporter thought he detected a touch of
hostility in
   Hagan's gaze, almost as if he suspected
Fenn of having
   something to do with the phenomenon.
   Fenn looked away, more interested in the children than
   the priest. He reached into his pocket and drew
out a
   cheap, pocket-size camera; he clicked off
four rapid shots,
   then leaped over the wall.
   Sue, irrationally, tried to call him back; for
some reason
   she was afraid, or perhaps just shocked, and it was the
   sense of fear that kept her quiet. The people around
her
   grew restless when they saw him enter the field, and
they
   seemed reluctant to follow. Scared, like her,
or perplexed.
   Perhaps both.
   He approached the first child, a boy of eleven or
twelve
   in duffel coat and jeans. The boy was smiling, just
as Alice
   had smiled that first night. He appeared to be
unaware of
   Fenn, and the reporter waved a hand before the boy's
   eyes. A brief frown crossed the boy's
features and he
   jerked his head aside, trying to get a clear
view of the tree,
   Fenn left him, went on to another child. A girl
this
   time, squatting in the damp grass, a look of
bliss on her
   face. He crouched beside her, touching her shoulder.
   "What is it?" he asked softly. "What can you
see?"
   The girl ignored him.
                                        Page 45
                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   He moved on and watched a five-year-old
clap his hands
   together and sink to his haunches with glee; two
girls,
   twins, holding hands, both smiling; a
boy of about thirteen,
   on his knees, hands held together before his nose,
palms
   flat against each other, lips moving in silent
prayer.
   Another boy, this one in short trousers, his
knees smeared
   with mud from where he had obviously fallen, stood
hugging
   himself, shoulders hunched, a wide grin on his
face.
   Fenn stood in front of him, deliberately
obscuring his
   view. The boy stepped sideways, still grinning.
   Fenn bent down so that his face was level with the
boy's. "Tell me what you see," he said.
   One thing was sure: he didn't see Fenn.
Nor did he hear
   him.
   The reporter straightened and shook his head in
frustration.
   The little faces around him were all smiling. Some
   wept, but they still smiled.
   He noticed the priest was climbing over the
wall, others
   following his example. Fenn fumed and walked
swiftly
   toward the girl in the maroon coat, the
deaf-and-dumb
   child, who knelt some yards before the other children,
   close to the oak tree. He moved in front of
her, but to one
   side so that he did not block her vision of the
tree. Crouching
   slightly, he aimed the camera and shot two more
   frames. Straightening, he photographed the
rest of the
   children.
   Then he turned and photographed the tree.
   The parents and guardians were among the children,
   claiming their charges, taking them up in their arms
or
   hugging them close. A girl, not six yards
away from Fenn,
   swayed, then fell into a heap on the soft ground
before her
   distraught mother could reach her. Another younger girl
   followed suit. Then a boy. The
five-vear-old who had
   been clapping earlier broke
into hysterical tears as his mother and father approached him.
Many of the children
   began to weep, worried voices dispelling the
uncanny silence
   that had prevailed as the adults tried to comfort
   them.
   Fenn's eyes shone with bemused wonder; he had a
story,
                                       Page 46
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  a great story. He was witnessing the same kind of
hysteria
  that had swept through a crowd of over three hundred
  children in Mansfield a few years before; there had
been a
  mass collapse at the Marching Bands
Festival. This wasn't
  on the same grand scale, but the events bore some
similarity.
  These kids were being affected by whatever was going on
  inside Alice Pagett's mind. Somehow she was
transmitting her own hypnotic state to them, making
them behave in
  the same way! Jesus, some kind of telepathy!
It was the
  only explanation. But what had induced her
delirium--if
  delirium it be?
  Father Hagan strode through the concerned families and
  swooning children, making straight for Fenn.
  The reporter was tempted to snap off a quick
picture,
  but decided it wouldn't be the right moment; there was
  something daunting about the priest, despite his
worried
  manner. He slipped the camera back into his
pocket.
  The clergyman disregarded Fenn and knelt beside
Alice
  Pagett. He put an arm around her, his hand
covering one
  shoulder completely. He spoke to her, knowing she
could
  not hear, but hoping she would sense the kindness in his
  words.
  "Everything's all right, Alice," he said. "Your
mother is
  coming, you're going to be fine."
  "I don't think you should move her. Father," Fenn
  interrupted, crouching low again so he could look into
  Alice's eyes.
  7 he priest looked at him in a
strange way. "Weren't you
  the man who brought her to me the other night? Fenn,
  isn't it?"
  The reporter noddedeast watching the girl.
  "What's your game, Mr. Fenn?" Hagan's
voice was
  brusque. He rose, pulling Alice up with
him. "What have
  you got to do with this business?"
  F'enn looked up in surprise, then stood
himself. "Now
  look . . dis8he began to say when another voice
spoke.
  "She wants us to come again."
  Both men were shocked into silence. They stared down
  at Alice.
  She smiled and said, "The lady in white wants
us to
  come again. She says she's got a message,
Father. A message
  for all of us."
                                      Page 47
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  Fenn and the priest were not aware that the crowd was
  hushed again, that everyone had heard Alice's
soft-spoken
  words, even though it should have been
impossible over
  the frantic hubbub of anxious voices.
  The priest was the first to speak, his words hesitant.
  "Who, Alice?" Could she hear him? She had
spoken, but
  could she hear? "Who . . . who told you this?"
IF caret Herbert caret . The . , caret i,
"The lady, caret fc pointed toward the oak. caret
  his caret re told n caret caret caret
caret caret urned, caret
  caret caret So caret caret fe caret caret
every
  ,8ness less strong- , caret ,z? lllw r .
  IS-AISo caret 3-:2""
  ut tears pouHis"'caret 2 nd hair.
  .-caret caret caret caret s223aret
  pieces, wr*caret caret jun'p caret
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  rddoRather caret OT caret g6"8caret 103aret
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  aSE caret iSS-SSS caret So?"----
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  ted not g0"1-acaret caret "ron8 "caret
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  that much oioer caret caret i Let
  sssssess
  over in hls Inln I 59
  Alice pointed toward the oak. "The lady,
Father. The
  lady in white told me."
  "But there's ... no one there, Alice."
  The girl's smile wavered for a moment, then
returned,
  but was less strong. "No, she's gone now."
  "Did she say who she was?" The priest still
spoke
  slowly, keeping his voice low, gentle.
  Alice nodded, then frowned in concentration, as though
  trying to remember the exact words. "She said she
was the.
  Immaculate Conception."
  The priest stiffened, blood draining from his
face.
  It was at that moment that Alice's mother, her
bright-pink
  scarf hanging loose at the back of her head,
rushed
  forward and threw herself on her knees, pulling
Alice to
  her and hugging her tight. Molly Pagett's
eyes were closed,
                                      Page 48
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  but tears poured from them to dampen her daughter's
face
  and hair.
  .s the mother took the little lad and chopped him up in
pieces, threw him in the pot and cooked him in the
stew. "I he Juniper Tree," I he
Brothers Grimm
  hk CLOSED THK DOOR, NOT forgetting
to lock it. Then he
  switched on the light. It took no longer than
two seconds
  to cross the small room and slump onto the
narrow bed.
  Kicking his shoes off, he laid his hands across his
chest
  and stared at the ceiling.
  "Fucking people," he said aloud. Treating me like
scum,
  he added silently.
  His job as busboy in a trendy Covent Garden
restaurant
  had not gone too well that day. He had spilled
coffee,
  returned to tables with wrong orders, rowed with the
  barman--who was a fucking poof, anyway!--and
locked
  himself in the staff toilet for twenty minutes,
refusing to come
  out until he had finished weeping. The manager
had warned
  him for the last time-- "any more scenes and you're
out!"--
  and the joint owners--two fucking ex-advertising men
not
  that much older than himself!--had agreed.
  Well, he wouldn't go back! Let's see how
they get on
  without me tomorrow! Bastards.
  He picked his nose and wiped his finger under the bed.
  He tried to calm himself, repeating his mantra
over and
  over in his mind, but it had little effect. Visions of
his
  mother (as always, whenever he was angry) flashed into
  his mind, rudely elbowing his chosen soothe word
aside. It
  was because that cow had thrown him out that he'd had to
  accept such menial labor. If he had still lived
at home, he
  could have afforded to live on the dole like the other
three
  million or so unemployed.
  After a while he got up and went to a
white-painted
  chest of drawers on the other side of the bed-sit.
Opening
  the bottom drawer he took out a scrapbook and
carried it
  back to the bed. He turned the pages, and although it
did
  not relax him, a different mood descended. He
liked reading
  about them. Even now, nobody really knew why they
                                      Page 49
                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   had done it. The fact was: they just bloody
well had!
   He studied their newsprint faces, an
impatient hand
   brushing away the thick lock of blond hair that
fell over
   his eyes. He thought that one of them even looked like
   him. He grinned, pleased.
   All you needed was the right person, that was all. It
was
   easy if you found the right one. Someone famous,
that's all
   it took.
   He lay back on the hard, narrow bed, and as he
considered
   the possibilities, his hand crept to his lap,
where it
   fondled his own body.
SEVEN
   How cheerfully he seems to yin,
   How neatly spread his claws,
   And welcome little fishes in
   With gently smiling jaws!
   Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, Lewis
Carroll
   Monday, late afternoon
   tlckf.r IjSKDTO LOVF.EAMONDAY
stock-taking. Every empty
   shelf meant money in the bank. Every empty
carton meant
   his bills could be met. Every empty freezer meant
his
   smile was a little broader. But shelves,
cartons, and freezers
   were never so empty nowadays. Recession didn't
stop
   people eating and drinking--they just didn't do it so
well;
   the punters became careful with their money and
particular
   in their choice, the profit margin on a can of
asparagus
   was higher than on a can of peas, but the peasants were
more
   interested in substantiality than taste. He
understood their
   problem, for he was marking up new, higher prices
on
   virtually every product each week, but it didn't
mean he
   sympathized. He had to eat, too, and when his
customers
   ate less well, then so did he.
Maybe not yet, but eventually
   he would have to.
   However, there was still one small joy left
to Monday
   stock-taking, and that was Paula. Paula of the
lovely bum
   and thrusty rits. The face was a bit too
fleshy, but when
   you poke the fire you don't look at the
mantelpiece, he
                                        Page 50
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  always told himself, the old adage a serious
consideration
  to him, never an excuse or a witticism.
  Rodney Tucker owned the one and only
supermarket in
  Banfield's High Street, a smallish
store compared to the
  usual chain supermarket, but then Banfield was
a smallish
  town. Or village, as they liked to call it.
He had moved
  there from Croydon eleven years before, his grocery
shop
  having been forced out of business by the big combine
  superstores of the area. Not only had he
learned from the
  experience, but the money he had made by selling the
  premises had enabled him to join the competition.
Banfield
  was ripe for exploitation just then: too small for the
big
  chains, but just right for the big individual (he had
always
  considered himself a big individual). The two
grocery stores
  in the town had suffered in the way he had suffered,
  although not as badly--only one had been forced
to close
  down. Strangely enough, that particular shop had
been
  turned into a laundromat, as had his own shop in
Croydon.
  Recently, he had driven past his old
premises and had
  noted that it had now become a porn video
center; would
  that happen in Banfield now that washing machines were
  as common as toasters? He doubted it, somehow; the
  planning committees of such places were
notoriously hard
  to impress with the changes in twentieth-century
retailing
  requirements. Streuth, it had been hard enough
getting
  planning permission for his supermarket eleven
years ago!
  Such towns and villages had their own way of
carrying on.
  Even having lived in the area all these years, he
was still
  considered an outsider. He knew most of the
important
  men of Banfield, having dined with them, played
golf with
  them, flirted with their wives--no matter how
ugly--but
  still he wasn't accepted. You didn't just have to be
born
  and bred in the area to be considered one of them: your
  father and his father had to be born there! It wouldn't
  matter one iota to him, except that he would like to have
  been elected to the parish council. Oh, yes, that
would be
                                       Page 51
                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   nice. Lots of land going spare around
Banfield, and he had
   many contacts in the building trade. They'd be very
grate
   ful to any council member in favor of giving
certain plots
   over to development. Very grateful.
   One hand rubbed his bulging stomach as though his
   thoughts were food set before him.
   "Running low on grapefruit segments, Mr.
Tucker!"
   He winced at the shrillness of Paula's
voice. Add fifteen
   years and another four stone and Paula would be a
replica
   of Marcia, his wife. It would have been nice
to imagine that his attraction toward Paula was because she
reminded him of his wife when she was younger, before years
of
   marriage had exaggerated the weakness rather than
realized
   the promise. Nice, but not true. Pat, thin,
buxom,
   titless--it made no difference to I ucker.
Pretty (he should
   be so lucky), plain, experienced, virginal
(he could never
   be that lucky)--I ucker would take them all.
Age? He drew the line at eighty-three.
   Most of the bits he pursued had one thing in common
   with Marcia, though. They were all fucking dumb.
It wasn't a qualification he demanded, far from it;
it just
   helped his bargaining position. He was realistic enough
to
   know that physically he didn't have a lot to offer:
his girth was broadening by the month (despite lack of
sales), and his hair, it seemed, was thinning by the
minute (his parting was now just above his left ear, ginger
strands of hair, some nine inches long, swept over
and plastered down
   onto his skull). But he had a quick mind, a quick
wit, and
   the eyes of Paul Newman (a bloated Paul
Newman, granted).
   Most of all, and an attraction he had
to admire himself, he
   had a few bob. And it was an attraction he was
never
   modest about. Expensive suits,
made-to-measure shirts,
   Italian shoes, and a change disof
socks every day. Chunky
   gold jewelry on his fingers and wrist, chunky
gold fillings
   in his teeth. A flash bright yellow X-Js
Jag to drive, a
   beautiful mock-Tudor house to live in. A
fifteen-year-old
   daughter who won rosettes for horse riding and
certificates
   for swimming, and a wife--well, forget the wife.
He had a
                                       Page 52
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  bit of cash and it showed. He made sure it
showed.
  Tucker knew how to give the women in his life a
good
  time (forget the wife again), and because they were all
  fucking dumb, that was all they wanted. He could
spot a
  schemer a mile off and had sense enough to stay well
clear:
  no way did he want his comfortable boat rocked.
  The dummies were just right: give them a good time in
  Brighton--a tasty meal, a spot of gambling in
a casino or
  the dogs, disco afterwards--and round off the
evening in
  his favorite motel on the Brighton road. If
they were
  worth it, a trip up to London would be in
order, but they really did have to be worth it. Paula
merited two stays in the motel so far, but not a
trip up to town. Shame about
  the face.
  "Stacks of cannelloni!"
  The voice didn't help, either.
  Tucker sauntered down the rows of shelves, the
smell of
  cardboard and plastic bags strong in his
nostrils. Paula was
  on a small stepladder, clipboard in one hand,
her other
  hand reaching up to examine the contents of a carton.
The
  fashionable split at the rear of her tight
skirt revealed the
  backs of her knees, not always the most sensual of
sights,
  but on a late, wet Monday afternoon, enough to tug a
  nerve in tiie shadowy regions below the overhang
of his
  belly.
  Sidling up to her, he placed a chubby hand against
her
  calf muscle. His fingers slid upward and she
stiffened,
  annoyed because his heavy gold bracelet had
snagged her
  tights.
  "Rodney!"
  He pulled the bracelet free and let his hand
travel upward
  once more. He stopped where the panty hose joined
  in the middle, forming, in collaboration with her
panties
  underneath, an unbreakable seal, a nylon scab
over a
  soft, permanently moist wound. The man who
invented
  panty hose should have been strangled with his own
creation,
  Tucker thought soberly. His fingers played with the
round
  buttocks.
  "Rod, someone might come in!" Paula pushed
                                      Page 53
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
at his
   hand beneath the skirt.
   "They won't, love. They know better than
to interrupt
   whileeaI'm stock-taking." His voice still held
faint strains of
   a northern whine, hinting at his origins before
Banfield,
   before Croydon, and before London.
   "No, Rod, we can't. Not here." Paula
began to descend the ladder, her lips pursed with
resolution.
   "It's never bothered you before." He snatched his hand
   away lest his finger get crushed in the vice between
her
   thighs.
   "Well, it's a bit tacky, isn't it?" She
turned away from
   him, clutching the clipboard to her breasts like a
cha/y
   shield and looking thoughtfully at the shelves around
her
   as though concentration, too, was a protective force
field.
   "Tacky?" He looked at her in surprise.
"What's that
   bloody mean?"
   "You know perfectly well." She moved away,
ticking off
   items on the clipboard.
   Paula was Tucker's
secretary-cumsupervisorcumeasy-lay
   ever since the Christmas Eve after
the-store-closed party.
   He'd taken her on three months before because she
could
   type, add up without using her fingers, organize
staff (she
   had worked one season for Butlin's as assistant
to the
   entertainments manager), and had thrusty tits and
looked
   knockout against the three spotty-faced youti
comgreater-than and one
   failed double-glazing representative who had
applied for
   the position. Paula was twenty-eight, lived with
her
   widowed, arthritic mother, had a few boyfriends but
no
   steady, and wasn't bad at her job.
Since the Christmas
   Eve after-the-store-closed parry, their relationship
had
   been highly pleasurable: drinks after work, a few
nights in Brighton, a couple in the motel, swift
titillating gropes whenever the occasion allowed. Like
Monday stocktaking.
   What the fuck was the matter with her today?
   "Paula, what the fuck is the matter with you
today?"
   His words were whispered so that the cashiers in the shop
   could not hear, but his exasperation raised the tone to a
                                        Page 54
                            James Herbert - The Shrine
  squeal.
  "There's no need for that kind of language, Mr.
Tucker,"
  came the stiff reply.
  "Mr. Tucker?" He touched his chest pointing at
himself
  in disbelief. "What's all this Mr. Tucker?
What happened
  to Rod?"
  She whirled on him and the disdain in her eyes was
  intimidating. "I think, Mr. Tucker, we should
keep our
  relationship on a strictly business
basis."
  Why, Paula? What's happened? We've
  naa run togerner, haven't we?"
  Her voice softened, but he noticed her eyes
didn't.
  "Yes, we've had a lot of fun together,
Rodney. But ... is
  that enough?"
  Alarm bells began to clang in his head. "How
d'you
  mean exactly?" he asked cautiously.
  "I mean perhaps I think more of you than you do of me.
  Perhaps I'm just a good screw to you."
  Oh, yes, he thought, here we go. She's
building up to
  something. "Of course you're not, love. I mean,
you are,
  but I think more of you than just that."
  "Do you? You never show me!"
  He raised his hands, palms downward. "Keep
it quiet,
  lovey. We don't want the whole shop to know
our business,
  do we?"
  "You may not; I'm not particularly
bothered who knows.
  I wouldn't even care if your bloody wife found
out!"
  Tucker sucked in his breath and felt his heart go
thump. Oh, no, he may have misjudged Paula.
Maybe she wasn't
  so dumb. "We could have a night up in London,
if you
  like," he said.
  She looked at him as though he had slapped her
face.
  Then she threw the clipboard at him.
  He was more concerned with the clatter as it bounced
  off and then fell to the floor than any injury
to himself. He
  bent to retrieve it, one hand flapping at her in
a keep-thenoise-down
  gesture. A silent grope was one thing, a
hysterical
  row that could be heard outside was another: it could
  demean his position as ownerstmanager--and word could
  also get back to Marcia.
  He staggered against the shelves as Paula pushed
by.
  "You can finish the bloody stock-taking
                                       Page 55
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
yourself!" she told
   him as she marched toward the door leading into the main
   shopping are. She paused at the door as if
to adjust her
   emotions before stepping through. As she looked back
at
   him, he was sure there was calculation in those
tear-blurred
   eyes, just behind the distress. "You'd better think
   about our situation, Rodney. You'd better
decide what
   you're going to do about it."
   She disappeared through the door, leaving it open
wide.
   Tucker groaned inwardly as he straightened.
He'd misjudged
   her. She wasn't so dumb. Her next ploy
would be
   conciliation, get him panting again; then wham
right-brace --more
   histrionics, only more so. Something to really frighten
   him. Bitch! He knew the name of the game--he'd
played
   it once before--but not whether the blackmail would be
   emotional or financial. He hoped it
wouldn't be financial.
   He emerged from the stockroom an hour later and his
   mood was even blacker than before. He had already
known
   the weekend take was bad, but the untouched cartons
   piled high on the shelves always mocked him with the
fact.
   Not much to reorder this week, and the way things were
   going, there wouldn't be much the following week, nor
the
   one after that. Streuth, Monday, bloody
Monday!
   The sight of his customerless shop and his three
cashiers
   huddled together at one checkout increased his gloom.
His
   shelf-loader was sitting in a corner reading a
comic, index
   finger lost up to its first joint in his nose.
Tucker turned
   away in disgust, too gloomy even to shout at the
boy. He
   looked up at the office and saw through the long
plate-glass
   window that it was empty; Paula had
obviously gone
   for the day. Just as well. He was in no mood.
   "Come on, ladies," he said loudly, forcing himself
to walk briskly toward the cashiers. "Back to our
tills, get
   ready for the rush."
   The three women in their green overalls looked
up with
   a start. Hubble bubble, toil and trouble, he thought
as he
   approached them. God, there were some ugly women in
this village!
   "Ten minutes to closing time, ladies. Word
                                       Page 56
                            James Herbert - The Shrine
might get
  around there's threepence off the double-pack Kleenex
this
  week, so be prepared for the stampede."
  They giggled self-consciously at his oft-repeated
joke--he
  changed the product from time to time to keep the humor
  fresh--and one of the cashiers held something up in the
  air. "Have you seen the early Courier, Mr.
Tucker?"
  He stopped before them. "No, Mrs.
Williams, I haven't.
  Been far too busy to read newspapers, as you
well know."
  "We've made the big time, Mr. Tucker,"
another cashier
  said enthusiastically, causing her companions
to giggle like
  croaky schoolgirls.
  "Your syndicate's come up on the pools, has
it? I hope
  this doesn't mean you're going to leave the security
of a
  good job just because you've become millionaires."
  "No, Mr. Tucker," Mrs. Williams
chided. "It's about
  Banfield. We're on the map now."
  He looked at her questioningly and took the
newspaper.
  His lips moved as he silently read the main
story.
  "It's the church just up the road, Mr. Tucker.
Didn't
  you hear about it yesterday? My sister's boy was
there,
  you know. I don't go to church much myself, nowadays,
  but my--"
  "You've seen the little girl, Mr. Tucker.
Alice Pagett.
  She's often in here with her mother doing the weekly
  shop. Deaf and dumb, she is . . ."
  "Used to be deaf and dumb, Mr. Tucker. They
say she can talk and hear now. Some kind of
miracle, they
  reckon ..."
  He walked away from them, quickly scanning the
  columns. It was a good story, although the reporter
had
  obviously got carried away with himself. But it
claimed to
  be an eyewitness account, that the reporter was
present
  when it happened. miraclk cure banfield
girl the
  headline screamed. And underneath, the subhead
asked:
  Did Alice Pagett see vision of Our
Lady?
  He climbed the three steps to his office,
studying the
  article, and closed the door behind him. He was still
  rereading the story when the three cashiers
and the shelf-loader
                                      Page 57
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
   left.
   Finally he reached into his desk, took a cigar
from its
   pack, lit it, and stared thoughtfully at the exhaled
smoke.
   His gaze returned to the paragraph which compared the
   alleged "miracle" cure to the "miracle"
cures of Lourdes in
   the French Pyrenees. Tucker wasn't a
Catholic, but he
   knew about the holy shrine of Lourdes. A gleam
came into
   his eyes, and for the first time that day, excitement pierced
   his gloom like a laser through fog.
   He reached for the phone.
   ***
   Monday, early evening
   The priest left the Renault and walked back
to the white
   swing-gate he had just driven through. He pushed it
shut,
   gravel crunching beneath his feet, wind, spiked with
drops
   of min, whipping at his face. He
stepped back into the car
   and drove slowly up to the presbytery, eyes
constantly
   flicking toward the gray-stone church on his right.
The
   drive ran parallel to the church path, trees,
shubbery, and
   a small expanse of lawn between them. It seemed
appropriate
   that there should be a division between the two, one
   path leading directly to the House of God, the
other
   leading to the house of His servant. Father Hagan
sometimes
   wondered if his gate should bear a tradesmen
   only sign.
   He stopped the car and cut the engine. The church was
   just over a hundred yards away and its stout,
weathered
   walls looked bleak, so very bleak, in the gray
weather. Its
   image was mirrored in the newspaper lying on the
passenger
   seat. It was a bad reproduction, blurred at
the edges, a
   hurriedly taken photograph blown up as if
to emphasize
   the photographer's ineptitude. Below it was an
even fuzzier
   shot of Alice Pagett kneeling in the grass.
   Father Hagan looked away from the church and down
at
   the Courier. He didn't need to read the article
again, for it
   seemed engrained on his mind. The story, so
coldly objective
   in its telling, seemed wrong, distorted; yet it
reported
   exactly what had happened yesterday. Perhaps
                                        Page 58
                            James Herbert - The Shrine
sensationalism
  substituting for passion confused its truth. Had
there
  been a vision? Had everyone gathered at the church
witnessed
  a miracle? Was Alice Pagett really
cured?
  He smiled, but it was a guarded smile. Of the
last
  question there was no doubt: Alice was no longer a
  deaf-mute.
  Hagan had just driven back from the Sussex
Hospital in
  Brighton, where the girl was still undergoing tests.
Alice's
  sudden ability to both speak and hear had elevated
her
  from being an interesting case to an extraordinarily
interesting
  case. Years before, specialists, unable to find
any physical
  malformation in Alice's ears or throat, had
informed
  her parents that they believed the girl's condition was
  purely psychosomatic--her mind told her
body she could
  neither hear nor speak, therefore she neither heard nor
  spoke. Now her mind was telling her she could.
So, to the
  medical profession, there had been no miracle;
just a change of mind. If there had been a
"miracle"--and there had been cynical smiles when
the word was mentioned to the
  bewildered parents--then it was whatever had caused the
  change of mind. Even though the remark was
flippant, it
  was something Father Hagan could accept.
  The newspaper article had likened Alice
Pagett's experience
  to that of a young French girl, Bemadette
Soubirous,
  who claimed to have had a series' of visions of the
Blessed
  Virgin in 1858. The grotto, just on the
outskirts of the
  small town of Lourdes, where the visions had
allegedly
  taken place, had become a place of worship
with four or
  five million pilgrims visiting the shrine
each year. Many
  suffered from illnesses or disabilities and
journeyed there
  in the hope of being cured, while others went
to reaffirm
  their faith or merely pay homage. Of the former,
more
  than five thousand cures had been recorded,
although after
  stringent investigations by the Catholic Church's own
medical
  bureau, only sixty-four had been proclaimed
as miraculous.
                                      Page 59
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  But so many other pilgrims, not just the sick,
  were blessed by another kind of miracle, one ignored
by
   medical recorders, but noted by the Church itself:
these
   people received a renewal of faith, a calming
acceptance of
   what was to be, an inner peace which enabled them to
   cope with either their own disability or that of loved
ones.
   That was the true miracle of Lourdes.
Intangible, because
   it was an intimate, spiritual realization, an
enlightenment
   that could have no meaning to clinical registers,
to medical
   score sheets.
   Alice Pagett had undoubtedly undergone a
profound
   emotional, perhaps spiritual, experience, which had
caused
   repressed senses to function normally once more.
That, in
   itself, was the miracle. The real question for Father
Hagan
   was whether or not it was self-or
   divinely induced; no one
   was more wary than the Church itself of so-called
"holy"
   miracles.
   He folded the newspaper under his arm aod left
the car.
   The evening sky had grown considerably darker in the
last
   few minutes, as if the night was in a rude
hurry to stake its
   claim; or had he sat in the car for longer than
he imagined? His verger would be arriving soon to light
the church for evening service and the priest would welcome
the company. He let himself into the presbytery and went
straight through to the kitchen. If he had been a
drinking man--and he
   knew many priests who were--a large Scotch
would have
   been very welcome; as it was, a hot cup of
tea would do.
   He flicked on the kitchen light, filled the
kettle, then
   stcxxl watching it on the gas ring, only
vaguely aware that
   the longer he watched the longer the water would take
to
   boil. His thoughts were of Alice.
   Her mother was thrilled and tearful over the incredible
   recovery, her father still in a state of disbelief.
Not only
   could Alice speak and hear perfectly, but there was
a
   special radiance about her that was due to something more
   than just her physical mending.
   Father Hagan needed to speak with the girl
privately, to
   question her closely on her vision, to gain her
                                       Page 60
                            James Herbert - The Shrine
confidence
  so that there would be no invention in her story; but
  privacy had been impossible that day. The local
doctor
  had whisked the Pagett family off to hospital
late Sunday
  afternoon. So stunned was he at the abrupt change in
her
  condition that he insisted on an immediate examination by
  specialists. Alice had been kept
overnight for observation
  and'further examinations had been carried out all through
  the next day.
  For someone who had been given back the power of
  speech, Alice wasn't saying much. When the
doctors questioned
  her on the lady in white she professed to have
seen,
  her happy face became serene and she repeated
what she
  had told the priest.
  --The lady in white said she was the Immaculate
Conception
  (the difficult title had become easier for
Alice to
  pronounce)--
  --What did she look like?--
  --White, shiny white. Like the statue in St.
Joseph's,
  but sort of glowing, sort of ... of sparkling--
  --You mean shimmering?--
  --Shimmering?--
  --Like the sun does sometimes when it's a hazy
day--
  --Yes, that's it. Shimmering--
  --And what else did she say to you, Alice?--
  --She told me to come to her again--
  --Did she say why?--
  --A message. She has a message--
  --A message for you?--
  --No. No, for everyone--
  --When must you go back?--
  --I don't know--
  --She didn't tell you?--
  --I'll know--
  How?--
  --I just will--
  --Why did she cure you?--
  --Cure me?--
  --Yes. You couldn't speak or hear before.
Don't you
  remember?--
  --Of course I remember--
  --Then why did she help you to?--
  --She just did--
  A pause then, thoughtful, bemused, but good-willed.
  The medical staff was obviously pleased for
Alice, but
  something more was affecting them. Her quiet serenity
  was infectious. A psychologist,
familiar with Alice's case,
  broke the silence.
  --Did you like the lady, Alice?--
                                       Page 61
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  --Oh yes, yes. I love the lady--
  Alice had wept then.
  Father Hagan left the hospital, confused,
hardly touched
  by the elation around him. By that time the story had
  broken and he was stunned when he saw the banner
  headline in the Courier. It wasn't just the
attention his
  parish church would now undoubtedly receive that worried
  him so much, nor the publicity that would pursue
  Alice--it was a small price for her to pay
weighed against
  the loss of her affliction--but it was the comparison with
  the miracle cures of Lourdes. Hagan
dreaded the circus
  such news would create. And there was something more.
  A sense of foreboding, He was afraid and did not
know
  why.
  The kettle was steaming when he left the kitchen and
  went to the phone in the hallway.
  Monday, late evening.
  "How was the lamb, Mr. Fenn?"
  Fenn raised his wineglass toward the
restaurateur. "Carre
  cfagneau at its best, Bernard."
  Bernard beamed.
  "And yours, madam?"
  Sue made approving noises through the Crepe
Suzette in
  her mouth and Bernard nodded in agreement. "And a
  brandy with your coffee, Mr. Fenn?"
  Normally he allowed his clients plenty of time
to relax
  between courses, but by now he knew Gerry Fenn could
  never relax until the whole meal was over and a
large
  brandy was placed before him.
  "Armagnac, Sue?" the reporter asked.
  "No, I don't think so."
  "Come on. We're celebrating, remember?"
  "Okay. Er, Drambuie, then."
  "Very good," said Bernard. He was a small, neat
man,
  who took a genuine interest in his customers.
"You're
  celebrating?"
  Fenn nodded. "Haven't you seen the evening
edition?"
  The restaurateur knew that Fenn was referring to the
Courier, for the reporter had
  written a small piece in the
  newspaper on his restaurant. The French
Connection, a
  few years before, when he and his business partner (who
  was also the chef) had first opened in Brighton. It had
  provided a good boost for business at that time, for the
  seaside town was saturated with restaurants and
pubs, and
  from that time on the reporter had become a favored
  client. "I haven't had a chance to look at the
papers today,"
  he said apologetically.
                                       Page 62
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  "What?" Fenn feigned surprised horror.
"You've missed
  my big scoop? Shame on you, Bernard."
  "I'll catch it later." The restaurateur
smiled, then disappeared
  upstairs to ground level, where the small bar
was.
  Almost as if they were working on pulleys, a waiter
descended
  to the basement area to clear away the dessert
  plates.
  The restaurant was on three floors, sandwiched
between
  a picture framer's and a public house, such a
narrow
  building that it looked as if it had been hammered
into the
  position it occupied. To Fenn it was the best
restaurant in town, to be used only on special
occasions.
  "You're looking pretty smug, Gerry," Sue
said, one
  finger running around the rim of her wineglass.
  "Yep," he acknowledged with a grin. The grin
disappeared
  when he saw she was frowning. "Hey, it was a
  good story."
  "Yes, it was. A little over the top, though."
  "Over the--to Christ, what happened was over the
top!"
  "I know, Gerry, I know. I'm sorry, I'm
not getting at
  you. It's just that, well I can see the whole thing
getting
  blown up out of all proportion."
  "What do you expect? I mean, that was a weird
thing
  that happened out there. A deaf-mute suddenly
cured,
  claiming she had a vision of the Immaculate
Conception.
  Some of the other kids say they saw something, too,
when
  I spoke to them afterwards. T hat is, the ones
I could get
  to--their parents scooted them away so fast I
had a hard
  job catching any of them."
  "I was there, remember?"
  "Yeah, I do. You didn't look too clever,
either."
  Sue toyed with the napkin in her lap. "I had the
strangest
  feeling, Gerry. It was ... I don't know . .
. dreamy.
  Almost hypnotic."
  "Hysteria. Didn't you notice it was flying
around
  yesterday? I he kids picked it up from
the girl. Do you
  remember that story a few years back? The
Marching
  Bands Festival in Mansfield? Three
                                      Page 63
                            James Herbert - The Shrine
hundred kids collapsed
   together in a field while they were waiting to take part
in
   the contest; after a pretty thorough investigation the
authorities
   put it down to mass hysteria."
   "One or two of the investigating doctors
disagreed. They said the children could have been suffering from
organic poisoning. And traces of malathion were
found in the
   soil."
   "Not enough to cause that kind of result, but, okay,
let's
   call that an open-ended conclusion. Anyway, there
are
   plenty of other cases of crowd hysteria to prove
it happens,
   right?"
   She nodded, then said, "So you think that's what this
is
   all about. Mass hysteria."
   "Probably."
   "That didn't come over too strongly in your
story."
   "No, it was more implied. Look, people want to read
   about the paranormal nowadays. They're sick of
wars,
   politics, and the failing economy. They want
something
   more to think about, something that goes beyond mundane
   human activities."
   "And it sells more copies."
   Fenn was prevented from voicing a sharp retort by the
   return of Bernard.
   "Armagnac for sir, Drambuie for madame."
Bernard's
   smile wavered as he sensed the sudden icy
atmosphere.
   "7'hanks, Bernard," Fenn said, his eyes not
leaving Sue's.
   Bernard melted away to inquire how things were on
the
   next table.
   "Sorry again, Gerry," Sue said before Fenn could
form
   his reply. "I don't mean to pick a
fight."
   Easily appeased, F'enn reached across the table for
her
   hand. "What is it, Sue?"
   She shrugged, but her fingers entwined in his. After
a
   few momeaents, she said, "I think it's that I
don't want the
   whole thing cheapened. Something wonderful happened
   out there yesterday. Whether or not it was some kind of
   miracle isn't important; it was just something
good. Didn't
   you feel that? Didn't you feel something warm,
something
   peaceful washing over you?"
   "Are you serious?"
   Anger blazed in her eves. "Yes, damn it,
                                       Page 64
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
I am!"
   Fenn gripped her hand more tightly. "Hold it.
Sue,
   don't get upset. You saw I was busy; I
didn't get the
   chance to feel anything. I noticed one thing, though:
one
   or two of the people--those not worried about their
kids--
   were pretty cheerful over what had happened. They
were
   grinning all over their faces, but at the time I
thought it
   was just general amusement at the kids skipping
Mass.
   They weren't laughing or joking, though, just standing
   around looking happy. Maybe they felt what you
did."
   "Hysteria again?"'
   "I'm not ruling it out."
   "You don't suppose this little girl, Alice,
really did
   witness a visitation?"
   "A visitation?" The word startled Fenn
momentarily. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat,
then reached for the
   brandy. He sipped it and allowed the liquid
to singe the
   back of his throat. "I'm not a Catholic,
Sue. When it
   comes down to it, I guess I'm not anything
religious-wise.
   I'm not even sure there's a God.
If there is. He must be
   tuned to another channel. Now, can you really
expect me
   to believe the girl saw God's mother?"'
   "Christ's mother."
   "Same thing to Catholics, isn't it?"
   Sue let it go, not wanting to confuse the debate.
"How
   do you explain Alice's words? The
Immaculate Conception.
   Not many kids could pull that one together, particularly
if
   they'd been deaf for most of their lives."
   "She shouldn't have been able to pronounce anything
   coherently after all those years, but that's another
argument.
   She could have picked up that label in any
religious
   textbook."
   "And the drawings. In the paper, you say that
Alice's
   mother had told you her daughter had been drawing
pictures
   of Our Lady over and over again since her
previous
   vision."
   "Yeah, she said that. That was about all I got out of
   her before the priest interfered. He whisked them
away
   before I could get much more. But that doesn't prove
                                        Page 65
                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   anything, Sue, except that Alice was obsessed
by the
   image. And that she could get from any book on
Catholicism.
   There's even a statue of Mary in the church itself."
Fenn
   paused, drinking his brandy as the waiter poured
coffee.
   When they were alone again, Fenn said, "The point is
   this: Alice had a vision, to her it was real; but that
doesn't
   make it real for everyone else. My personal
view is that
   she's a suitable case for a psychiatrist."
   "Oh, Gerry ..."
   "Wait a minute! For her to speak so clearly and
so well
   after all these years, she must have been hearing words,
   sounds, for most of the time."
   "Unless she remembered them."
   "She was four years old when she was struck deaf
and
   dumb, for Christ's sake! There's no way she
could have
   remembered."
   Diners on the next table were looking their way, so
he
   leaned forward and lowered his voice. "Look,
Sue, I'm not
   trying to knock your religion--although I didn't
know you
   cared so much until now--but have you any idea of how
   many cases there are each year of people claiming
they've
   seen God, angels, or saints? Yeah, and
even the Blessed
   Virgin. Any idea?"
   She shook her head.
   "No, neither have I." He grinned. "But I know
it's on a
   par with UFO'S. And there are plenty of murderers
who
   commit the act because "God told them to."
Look at Sutcliffe,
   the Yorkshire Ripper. It's a
common-enough phenomenon."
   "Then why are you building it up to be something
   else?"
   He flushed. "That's journalism, babe."
   "It's sickening."
   "You're in the media business too."
   "Yes, and sometimes I'm ashamed. I want to go
home
   now." j,
   "Ah come on. Sue, this is getting out of hand."
   "I mean it, Gerry. I want to leave."
   "What's got into you? I'm sorry I took you
to the bloody
   church now; you're going holy on me."
   She glared at him, and for one gulp-making moment,
he
   thought she was going to hurl her glass at him.
Instead she
                                        Page 66
                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   wiped her lips with her napkin and stood. "I'll
see myself
   home."
   "Hey, Sue, cut it out. I thought you were staying
with
   me tonight."
   "You must be joking."
   Fenn looked at her amazed. "I don't
believe this. What's
   got into you?"
caret "y caret caret Knowledge caret
   78 James Herbert
   "Maybe I'm just seeing you for what you really
are."
   "You're being bloody ridiculous."
   "Am I? Perhaps you're right, but it's how I
feel at the
   moment."
   "I'll get the bill." Fenn drained the brandy,
then began to rise from the table.
   "I'd rather see myself home." With that she pushed her
   way past the table and clumped up the stairs.
   Fenn sat, too confused to protest anymore.
He reached
   across the table for the untouched Drambuie, raised it
   toward the other diners, who obviously found him
fascinating,
   and drained it in two swift gulps.
   Footsteps on the stairs made him turn in the
hope that
   Sue had relented.
   "Everything all right, Mr. Fenn?"
Bernard asked anxiously.
   "Terrific."
   Monday night
   He puffed his way up the hill, occasionally
muttering to
   himself about the perplexing instability of the female
   character. His "celebration" dinner had started out well
   enough, but the more he discussed the Alice Pagett
story
   with Sue, the quieter she had become. She had a
changeable
   temperament, volatile at one moment,
tranquil, or
   even indifferent, the next. The trick was
to predict her
   moods (and he cared enough to make the effort) and bend
   with them. Tonight, though, he had been unprepared for
   her attack. Unprepared and s-till
mystified.
   Why the hell had she been so offended? Had going
to
   Mass on that particular Sunday morning brought
about
   the resurgence of her past religious ideals?
Why should it?
   She took Ben to Mass at Christmas, and there
was never
   any sudden religious metamorphosis then. So
why now? It
   had to be because of the kids; maybe she just didn't
want
                                        Page 67
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  to see them exploited. And maybe she was right.
  But it was his job to report news, right? And
Jesus
  Christ, that was news. Even the nationals wanted
it. There
  was no question: the story would be his ticket to Fleet
  Street.
  With relief he finally stopped outside one of the
street's
  rising (or descending--it depended on which way you
  were going) terraced houses, a two-story,
excluding basement,
  Regency house, walls painted flaky white,
window- frames and door flaky black.
  Fenn inserted the key, his hand shaking slightly from
  pent-up frustration rather than the few pints he had
consumed
  in the pub next door to The French Connection.
He closed the door behind him and trudged
up the staircase
  to his flat, hoping that Sue would be waiting for
him,
  more than sure that she wouldn't.
  The ringing phone hurried his steps.
EIGHT
  "Will you, won't you, will you, won't you,
  will you join the dance?
  Will you, won't you, will you, won't you,
  won't you join the dance?"
  Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, Lewis
Carroli
  the SIZE OE THE CROWN Hotel was in
keeping with the
  village itself; small, intimate, the kind
favored by weekend
  lovers. The plaque on the reception wall
told Fenn it was
  once a sixteenth-century coaching inn which had
been
  extensively refurbished in 1953, when
additional bedrooms
  were added. The oak-beamed dining room comfortably
  seated fifty people and the hotel's sixteen bedrooms

  all well-appointed, some with private
bathrooms and all
  with television and radio. The sign also informed
Fenn
  that the management knew he would enjoy the good food
  and friendly service and had great pleasure in
welcoming
  him to the Crown Hotel. Thank you, he
acknowledged
  silently, but I don't think I'll be here that
long.
  He noticed the bar to his left was open and
decided that
  10:35 was a little too early for a beer. The
smell of morning
  coffee wafted through and the occasional elderly couple
  wandered in from the street and disappeared into the
  bar, the aroma a subliminal siren's song for
geriatrics.
                                      Page 68
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
   "Mr. Fenn?"
   F'enn turned to see a gray-haired but
youngish-faced
   man smiling at him from a doorway farther down the
hall.
   "Mr. Southworth?"
   "I am indeed." The gray-haired man stepped
into full
   view, one arm raised toward the open doorway as
an
   invitation for the reporter to join him within. Fenn
gave an
   appreciative nod toward the pretty
receptionist who had
   summoned the hotel manager for him, considering a
wink
   a little too frisky in full view of her
employer.
   "Very good of you to come, Mr. Fenn." Southworth
   offered a firm hand to the reporter, which he shook
briefly
   before entering the room. Another man rose from his
seat
   and stuck out his hand toward Fenn's midriff. He
shook
   the chubby hand and resisted wiping the transferred
dampness
   against his trou.ser leg.
   The hotel manager quietly closed the door,
walked around
   a large, leather-topped desk, and sat.
He wore a black suit
   with a light gray waistcoat and gray silk tie;
on closer
   inspection his face did not look so young, although the
   skin was smooth save for giveaway line clusters
around his
   eyes and the corners of his mouth. Fenn and the second
   man sat on two straight-backed chairs facing
the desk.
   "This fc Mr. Tucker," Southworth said.
   Mr. Tucker nodded and for one uncomfortable moment
   Fenn thought he would have to shake the sweaty hand
   again, but the paunchy man merely nodded in his
direction,
   his smile having little affiliation with the gimlet eves
   shrewdly sizing up Fenn.
   Southworth continued the introduction: "Mr.
Tucker
   has been a resident of Banfield for . . .
what, Rodney . . .
   ten years now?"
   "Eleven," Tucker corrected.
   "Yes, eleven years. A very highly regarded
member of
   the community, if I may say so."
   Tucker preened and Fenn secretly winced at the
ingratiating
   smile on the blubbery lips. He noted the
heavy gold chain
   on the thick wrists, the rings, one a sovereign,
on the
   fleshy fingers, and wondered how many extra pounds
                                       Page 69
                            James Herbert - The Shrine
they
  added to the already overweight load.
  "Very nice of you to say so, George." There were the
  barest traces of a northern accent in Tucker's
voice. He
  turned to the reporter. "I own the local
supermarket."
  "That's wonderful," Fenn replied.
  Tucker eyed him for a moment, not quite sure how to
  take the appreciation. He decided the reporter
was sincere.
  "I read your marvelous story in the Courier last
night, Mr.
  Fenn. First-rate bit of journalism."
  "Obviously that's why you wanted to see me this
  morning."
  "Yes, quite," Southworth said. "As you can
imagine,
  the news was all around town by Sunday evening, but it
  was your report which has given the news a greater
prominence
  in the region. For that, we are grateful."
  "That may be premature."
  "I'm sorry?"
  "You may find a lot of unwelcome visitors
to the town
  in the next few weeks now that the nationals have got
hold
  of the story too."
  Fenn noticed the look that passed between the two
men.
  Tucker's eyes gleamed briefly, but
Southworth's remained
  impassive.
  "Weeks, Mr. Fenn," the hotel manager
said, "but
  unfortunately, not months."
  "Unfortunately?"
  Southworth leaned back in his chair and picked up
a
  fountain pen lying on the desktop; he coolly
appraised the
  reporter while he toyed with the pen.
"Let me be perfectly
  frank with you, Mr. Fenn. I had heard of what
took place
  up at St. Joseph's, of course, but had not
given the story
  much credence, or even, I'm afraid, too much
attention. I
  had, naturally enough, assumed that the story was
wildly
  exaggerated or just--to put it bluntly--
misinformed. But
  when Mr. Tucker rang me yesterday evening and
I took
  the opportunity to read your account of the occurrence,
I
  must admit to giving the matter further thought. In the
  subsequent meeting with Mr. Tucker, I
became convinced
  that this event might well develop into major
proportions."
                                       Page 70
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  "Give it a couple of weeks, as I said, and
it'll blow over.
  The public is pretty fickle when it comes
to news; they
  like it fresh."
  "That's precisely the point."
  Fenn raised his eyebrows.
  South worth leaned forward, his elbows resting on the
  desk, the pen still held between the fingers of both hands
  like a delicately poised bridge across a
ravine. His words
  were slow, measured, as though it were important that
  their meaning be received in the correct spirit. "The
world,
  I need hardly tell you, is in grave
recession. Economic
  problems are not just confined to individual countries
  anymore; the concern is global. But it's
individual people who are suffering, Mr. Fenn, not
continents, nor countries. The common man has
to bear the brunt of world management
  failure."
  Fenn shifted in his seat. "Er, I don't see
the connection . . ."
  "Of course not, Mr. Fenn. I do
apologize. Let me be
  more direct. We are a small town--a
village, really--in a
  small country, and it's we, the small
villages and towns,
  that suffer under unfortunate government economic
policies.
  Nobody subsidizes our local industries
or businesses
  because, individually, their loss is insignificant
when com-Eared
  to the big combines or nationalized industries. Our
  (cal businesses are dying, Mr. Fenn.
Banfield itself is
  slowly dying."
  "It can't be that bad."
  "No, I may be overemphasizing to make my
point. It
  isn't that bad, but, given a few years, it will
be. Unless the
  decay is stopped."
  "I still don the see what this has to do with what
happened
  on Sunday." But Fenn had begun to; the idea
was just
  starting to glimmer through.
  Tucker moved his bulky figure around in his seat
and
  drew in a deep breath as though about to speak.
Southworth
  hastily cut in, as though fearing his colleague's
expression
  of their thoughts.
  "You may have seen enough of Banfield by now to have
  formed some opinion of the place, Mr. Fenn."
  "I can't say that I have. I've driven through it
once or
  twice before, but until a week or so ago when
                                       Page 71
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
I almost ran
   down the Pagett girl, I hadn't really given
it a second
   thought."
   "And now?"
   "It's a nice-enough place. Quite pretty . .
."
   "But unexciting."
   "Yeah, you could say that. There are plenty of other
   towns and villages in the south that are prettier,
more
   traditional."
   "And more attractive to the tourist trade?"
   Fenn nodded.
   "That's exactly it. We, as a community, really
don't
   have too much to offer. In summertime this
hotel is quite a
   busy place, but my guests use it only as a
base for traveling
   around the Sussex countryside or visiting
Brighton and
   the other south-coast resorts. The benefit
to Banfield is
   minimal. Yet, I personally, would be willing
to invest
   more money in the village if I thought it would
yield a
   reasonable return. I know Mr. Tucker
feels the same way,
   but is also reluctant to throw away good money."
   "It's not just us, Mr. Fenn," Tucker spoke
up at last.
   "There are plenty of other businessmen around here
looking
   for a good investment."
   "I'm sorry, I'm not with you. What kind of
investment
   are you talking about?"
   "For myself," said Southworth, "I would very much like
   to open a new hotel. A modem one, with more
amenities
   than the Crown can offer. Perhaps even a motel on
the
   outskirts; that would be most suitable for the amount of
   passing trade we receive."
   "And I'd like to open more shops," said Tucker
enthusiastically,
   "maybe a couple of restaurants--you know,
   the cheaper kind where parents on a day trip can
afford to
   take their kids."
   "And there is plenty of local land waiting to be
developed,"
   said Southworth. "The village could grow, spread
   outwards, become a real town."
   And make you and your friends some money in the
   process, Fenn thought ruefully. "Okay," he
said, "I see
   what you're getting at. I'm still not sure what
all this has
   to do with me, though. When my news editor rang
me last
                                        Page 72
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  night he said you, Mr. Southworth, wanted
to see me
  personally, that you had more information on the Banfield
  'miracle--your words, I believe, not
his. As you wouldn't
  pass anything on to him, he decided it might be
important
  for me to turn up this morning. Was he right?"
  Again, a look passed between the two men; this time it
was cautious.
  "We found your account of what happened at St.
Joseph's
  a first-rate piece of journalism, Mr.
Fenn. Accurate in
  detail, and imaginative in the questions it posed."
  Tucker made agreeing noises.
  Oh, yeah, Fenn thought. "What questions?"
  "Well, comparisons really. It was that which caused
Mr.
  Tucker to contact me in my role as chairman
of the parish
  council. You compared Banfield to Lourdes. In
fact, you
  posed the question: Could Banfield be another
Lourdes?"
  He placed the pen on the desktop and smiled
sweetly at
  the reporter.
  "I admit I got a little carried
away."
  "Not at all, Mr. Fenn. On the contrary, we
feel it was a
  very perceptive remark."
  The metaphorical light bulb above Fenn's
head flashed
  brightly. Me could see where it was all leading, but
wondered
  what part he was to play. "There's been more than
  one so-called miracle at Lourdes, Mr.
Southworth. In all
  seriousness, I hardly think Banfield
qualifies, do you?"
  "Oh, I think it does. Look at
Walsingham and Aylesford,
  both towns in England. They have become shrines to
  many thousands of pilgrims each year. As for
Aylesford,
  nobody is quite sure whether or not a visitation from
the
  Blessed Virgin ever took place there at all;
many believed
  it happened in France. Also, there have never been
any spectacular miracles in either of these towns,
yet the mystique is there, the people flock
to them in the true belief
  that they are holy places. At least we have
evidence that
  something quite extraordinary happened at St.
Joseph's,
  something that enabled a little girl to hear and speak after
  years of silence."
  "Extraordinary, yes, but not necessarily a
miracle," Fenn
                                       Page 73
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
   broke in.
   "Do you know one of the best definitions of a
miracle:
   'A divinely ordained exception." I think
that's rather appropriate
   in this case."
   was "Divinely ordained"? Don't you need some
evidence of
   that?"
   "The Church does, of course. But the girl
claimed she
   saw the Immaculate Conception. Why should she
lie?"
   "And why should you believe her?" Fenn came back
   quickly.
   "I think it's irrelevant whether we
do or do not. Perhaps
   as a Catholic myself, I'm more ready to believe
than Mr.
   Tucker here is, but as I say, that's besides the
point. The
   fact is, many thousands--who knows, perhaps
millions if
   the story is circulated wide enough--will
believe. And
   they'll want to visit St. Joseph's."
   "Giving a dying village a new life."
   "Is that so wrong?"
   Fenn paused before he answered. "No, it may not
be
   wrong. But you'll forgive me if I say it
sounds a little
   cynical on your part."
   Tucker could contain himself no longer. "This is the
   real world we're living in, Mr. Fenn.
Opportunities come
   along, you have to grab at them."
   Southworth looked embarrassed. "Come now,
Rodney,
   it isn't quite so black and white as that. I
deeply believe,
   Mr. Fenn, that something--I hesitate to use the
word, but
   I feel it's necessary--something divine has taken
place at the
   church. Something ordained by God. And if that is
so,
   there has to be a reason. Perhaps the real miracle
is that
   Banfield has been given the chance of a
rebirth, an opportunity
   to save itself from oblivion. And a chance for the
   people themselves to regain their beliefs. It was Shaw who
   wrote, "A miracle is an event which
creates faith"; why
   shouldn't faith be created or renewed here?"
   Fenn was confused. Southworth appeared to be
sincere,
   yet openly admitted he would benefit
financially if Banfield
   became revitalized. The fat man. Tucker,
made no bones
   about his motives: he was in it for the money. But
                                        Page 74
                            James Herbert - The Shrine
what,
  exactly, did they want of him?
  "I appreciate your frankness, Mr.
Southworth, but I'm
  still not sure why you're telling me all this."
  "Because we would like you to write more on what will
  become known as the Banfield Miracle."
Southworth's
  eyes fixed on Fenn's and his expression was
serious, almost
  grave. "Your story has already created enormous
interest.
  I don't know if you've had a chance to visit
St. Joseph's,
  this morning . . . ?"
  Fenn shook his head.
  "I went to see Father Hagan myself earlier,"
Southworth
  continued. "He wasn't there, but his house was under
  siege from a small army of your journalist
colleagues."
  "From the nationals?"
  "I believe so. I spoke to them, but
unfortunately, I'm
  very much in the dark about this incredible event. There
  wasn't too much I could tell them."
  I'll bet you managed somehow, Fenn mused
to himself, "Well, you can be sure the
Banfield Miracle will get good
  coverage now. Maybe too much." He was a
trifle aggrieved
  that the big boys were muscling in on what he
  regarded as his scoop, but knew--and had known--it
was
  inevitable.
  "I'm sure it will--for a day or so. As you say,
the public is fickle when it comes to news, and so
is the press itself."
  Tucker broke in once more: "This is too
wonderful a
  story to be allowed to die in a couple of days,
Mr. Fenn."
  The reporter shrugged. "There's nothing you can do
  about it. Unless, of course, something else happens
..."
  Unless something happens, unless something happens!
What
  was wrong with this idiot? Tucker's left heel
did an impatient
  jiggle on the red patterned carpet. He had
tried to
  persuade Southworth to deal with the biggies, not
mess
  around with the local rag. The nationals could give
maximum
  publicity now, when it was hot; Southworth was
too worried about declining interest afterward, when nothing
  more happened up at the church. He'd insisted that a
  steadily built and maintained awareness would give
more sustenance to the long-term plan, whereas massive,
sensationalist coverage would only benefit in the
short term. By
  patronizing the Courier they would, hopefully,
                                       Page 75
                            James Herbert - The Shrine
ensure
  that sustained interest. The newspaper was, after
all, a
  reflection of local affairs: it had a duty
toward its audience
  (and to itself in terms of circulation figures)
to consistently
  report (and, of course provide) any such
newsworthy stories
  that would generate interest (and trade) in the area.
  But was this man Fenn taking the bait or was he
too
  pea-brained to see the possibilities?
  "There's the problem," Southworth was saying. "There
  is no guarantee that anything else will
happen at St. Joseph's.
  Which is why we felt the Courier will give the
incident and
  caret 0
  its consequence more coverage than any of the other
media.
  We can promise you, personally, Mr. Fenn, every
cooperation,
  any assistance, you might need."
  Fenn was silent.
  "We do realise," said Tucker, "that your paper
probably
  isn't overgenerous with your expenses, so we would
expect
  to help you out ..."
  His words trailed off at the icy glares he
received from
  both the reporter and the hotel owner.
  "I'm sorry, Mr. Fenn," Southworth said
quickly. "What
  Rodney is trying rather clumsily to say is that
we would
  not want you to be out of pocket on this matter.
Indeed, as
  a member of the parish council, I shall
propose the setting
  up of a special fund to cover any expenses
on the development
  of this, um, project. It could cover initial
promotional
  material, personal expenses incurred
by council
  members, and any extra miscellaneous
costs."
  "And I'd come under any "extra
miscellaneous" costs?"
  asked F'enn.
  Southworth smiled. "Precisely."
  To Fenn, it didn't smell any sweeter than
the way the
  fat man had put it. He leaned forward, elbows
on knees.
  "Look, Mr. Southworth, Mr. Tucker, I
work for the Courier, it pays my salary, and my news
editor tells me
  what stories to cover. If he wants me
to write obits for a
  month, that's what I'll do. If he wants me
                                       Page 76
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
to cover garden
   fetes for the next month, I'll do that,
too. If he wants me
   to spend time delving into the strange happenings at the
   local church of a little country village, I'll
be only too
   happy." He took a deep breath. "What
I'm saying is, my
   editor calls the tune. He pipes, I dance.
I'm independent
   to a degree--and that's a small degree--but
there's no way
   he'll let me waste time on a story he
considers to be
   defunct. Now, like I said, if something more
happens,
   then I'll be back like a shot."
   Southworth nodded. "We appreciate your
position.
   However--"
   "There are no howevers to it. That's it, that's the way
it
   is."
   "I was merely going to say that the girl, this
Alice
   Pagett, mentioned that the figure she allegedly
saw has
   asked her to return."
   "She didn't say when."
   "But if she has another . . . another
visitation, you would
   consider that newsworthy."
   "I'm not sure. A prepubescent girl's
hallucinations don't
   warrant too much attention."
   "After what happened on Sunday?"
   "That was Sunday. Today's Tuesday. Tomorrow will
   be Wednesday. Things move on, Mr.
Southwonh, and we
   live in an apathetic age. What you need is
another miracle,
   then maybe you've got a continuation of the story.
For the
   next few days Banfield will get all the
attention it needs, so
   my advice to you is to make the most of it now.
Next
   week, it will be dead news."
   F'enn rose to his feet and Southworth rose with
him.
   Tucker remained sitting, a mixture of
disappointment and
   ill-disguised contempt on his face.
   Southworth walked to the door and opened it for the
   reporter. "Thank you for coming by, Mr. Fenn,
and thank
   you for being so frank."
   "Right. Look, if anything does happen, I'd
like to know."
   "Of course. Will you be Ebboing up to the church?"
   Fenn nodded. "And I'll have a look around the
village,
   get some reactions from the people."
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                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  "Very good. Well, I hope we'll see you
again."
  "Right"
  Fenn left the room.
  Southworth closed the door and turned to face the
fat
  man.
  "So much for involving the bloody local press,"
Tucker
  said scornfully.
  Southworth crossed the room and sat at his desk
once
  more. "it was worth a try. I'm afraid he got
the impression
  we were trying to bribe him into writing the story."
  "Weren't we?"
  "Not in the true sense of the word. We were just offering
  financial assistance."
  Tucker grunted. "What now?" I
  "We--I--make sure the parish council
becomes inter- I ested in our scheme. If not,
all we can do is hope--as Mr. . Fenn put
it--something else happens."
  "And if it doesn't?"
  The sun shone through the window in dusty rays,
highlighting
  one side of Southworth's face in a golden
hue.
  "Let's just pray it does," he said simply.
NINE
  And see ye not that braid braid road,
  I hat lies across that lily leven?
  That is the Path of Wickedness,
  "I'ho" some call it the Road to Heaven.
"Thomas the Rhymer," Anon
  bishop CAINES REGARDED THE PRIEST with
concerned
  eyes. "I have grave misgivings about this whole
matter,
  Andrew," he said.
  The priest found it difficult to look directly
into his
  bishop's face, as though his gaze would see what
lay beyond
  his own eyes. "I'm worried too. Bishop.
And I'm confused."
  "Confused? Tell me why confused."
  It was dark in the bishop's study, for the two
windows
  which overlooked the, tiny garden faced away from the
  morning sun. The deep wood paneling of the
walls added
  to the room's somberness and even the glow from the fire
  seemed muted.
  "If--he struggled with his own words--"if the girl
  really did . . . really did see ..."
  "The Blessed Virgin?" The bishop frowned at the
priest.
  Father Hagan looked up briefly and said,
"Yes. If she
  did and was cured because of it, then why? Why
Alice,
  and why at my church?"
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                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  Bishop Caines' tone was clipped,
impatient. "There is
  no evidence, Andrew, none at all."
  4.
  "The other children--they saw something."
  "No evidence," the bishop repeated slowly, and
his
  fingertips pressed against the polished surface of the
desk.
  He forced himself to relax, aware that the parish
priest
  somehow irritated him, and was even more vexed, not
  contrite, because of it. "The Church must tread
warily in
  such matters."
  "I know. Bishop, that's why I was so
reluctant to bring
  it to your attention. When I read the newspaper
report
  yesterday I knew I had no choice.
Foolishly, I had imagined
  that the incident would be contained."
  "You should have contacted me immediately." The bishop
  strived to keep the harshness from his rebuke, but did
not
  succeed.
  "I phoned you as soon as I saw the Couriers
article. It seemed so exaggerated."
  "Was it? The girl was cured, wasn't she?"
  "Yes, yes, but surely not miraculously?"
The priest
  looked at his superior in anxious surprise.
  "How do you know that, Andrew?" The bishop's words
  had softened, for he had no desire for the man before
him
  to be afraid. "The child claimed to have seen the
Blessed
  Virgin, after which an incredible transformation took
place.
  The girl could speak and hear."
  "But you said that was no evidence of a miracle." The
  priest looked away again.
  "Of course it isn the. But while we have
to reject the
  proposition as we see it now, we must not close
our minds
  to the faint possibility. Do you understand that, Father?"
  He didn't wait for a reply. "It has to be
looked into
  thoroughly before a judgment can be made. There are
  strict guidelines for such matters, as
you well know." The
  bishop smiled thinly. "Some say our
guidelines are too
  strict, that we eliminate all aspects of
faith. But that isn't
  entirely true; we endeavor to eliminate
doubts. The rules
  we follow for the discernment of a miracle date
back to the
  eighteenth century, and they were laid down by Pope
  Benedict XIV, a man who had many
progressive interests.
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                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  He realized the jeopardy in which the Catholic
Church
  could place itself by proclaiming miracles that later
could
  be proved false by scientific means. In an
age such as ours,
  where technological advancement is continually
explaining
  phenomena in rational, scientific terms, the need
to follow
  those rules is even greater."
  The priest's eyes were too intense and Bishop
Caines
  wondered why. There was something wrong with the
  man, something--what? Unbalanced, perhaps? No,
too
  strong a word. Father Hagan was disturbed by the
peculiar
  happening in his parish, on his own church's
doorstep,
  no less. And he was--yes, just a little frightened.
The
  bishop forced a smile, an encouragement for his
priest to
  open his heart.
  "Would these rules apply to Alice Pagett?"
Hagan asked.
  "They would have to, should we decide to take the
  matter further," Bishop Caines replied,
maintaining the
  smile.
  "Please tell me what they are. Bishop."
  "I don't think it's necessary at this stage. This
whole
  matter will be forgotten within a month, I can
assure
  you."
  "You're probably right, but I'd like
to know."
  Bishop Caines curbed his impatience, then
sighed. His
  eyes searched the ceiling as though scanning the
corners of
  his own memory. "The affliction or illness has
to be very
  serious, impossible or extremely difficult
to cure," he began.
  "The health of the person concerned should not be
  improving, nor should the nature of the illness be one
that
  might improve by itself No medication should have been
  given. At least, if it has, its inefficacy
must be clearly
  established. The cure has to be instantaneous,
not a gradual
  improvement." His eyes dropped toward the
priest
  again. "The cure shouldn't correspond to a
crisis in the
  illness brought about by natural causes. And, of
course,
  the cure should be complete; there should be no
recurrence
                                       Page 80
                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   of that particular illness." He stopped speaking and
Father
   Hagan nodded his head.
   "It would seem almost impossible to establish a
miracle,"
   the priest said.
   "Yes, it would, but I have to admit the rules have
been
   stretched just a little in the past. Generally though, they
   are adhered to." He smiled again, and this time his
warmth
   was genuine. "That's why some of our best miracles
get
   away."
   The priest did not respond to the humor. "Then
it
   would be too soon to make any judgment on the
child?"
   "Much too soon, and very unwise. Father, I'm a
little
   perturbed by your seriousness. Is there something else
   troubling you?"
   The priest straightened in the chair as though
surprised
   by the question. He did not answer
straightaway. He
   shook his head, then said, "It's just the change in
Alice
   herself. Not the fact that she can now hear and speak, but
   in her manner, her disposition. Her personality
has
   changed."
   "And so it should after such a wonderful cure."
   "Yes, yes, I know. It's something more, though,
something ..."
   His words trailed off.
   "Something you can't define?"
   Father Hagan's body seemed to slump into itself.
"Yes.
   it's more than just elation. She's serene--as though she
   really has seen the Mother of God."
   "It's not an uncommon apparition, Andrew.
Many have
   claimed to have seen Our Lady and, of course, there
is a
   great cult of Mariologists. But psychologists
say that children
   can often see what is not there. I believe the term
is
   "eidetic imagery." his
   "You're convinced she was hallucinating?"
   "At the moment I'm not convinced of anything, although
   I tend to lean towards that theory. You say the
   girl's favorite statue in your church was that of
Mary. If
   her affliction truly was psychosomatic, then
perhaps it was
   a hallucinatory vision which effected her cure.
Even the
   Church cannot deny the power of our own minds."
   Bishop Caines glanced at his wristwatch and
pushed his
   chair back, his portly shape making the action
                                       Page 81
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
an effort.
   "You'll have to excuse me now, Father; I have
to attend a
   meeting with our financial committee. It's the time
of
   month I dread." He gave a short laugh.
"It's a pity the
   Roman Catholic Church cannot run on faith
alone."
   Father Hagan stared up at the bulky figure,
aware for
   the first time that black cloth hardly
symbolized holiness.
   He was embarrassed by the thought: he knew his
superior
   was a good man, infinitely better than he,
himself. Why,
   then, had the thought jumped into his head? Was it just
   part of his own self-doubt, the unease that was
insidiously
   gnawing on his beliefs? His head ached, buzzed with
   thoughts that were unformed, fleeting--attacking. The
urge
   to lie down and cover his eyes was almost overwhelming,
   What in God's name was happening to him?
   "Andrew?"
   The voice was soft, tender almost.
   "Are you all right. Father Hagan?"
   The priest blinked, seemed bewildered for a moment.
   "Yes. I'm sorry. Bishop, my thoughts were
miles away."
   He stood as Bishop Caines approached around
the desk.
   "Are you not well, Andrew?"
   The priest tried to calm himself. "I may be coming
   down with a cold, Bishop, that's all. The weather
is so
   changeable."
   Bishop Caines nodded understandingly and led the way
   to the door. "You're not too worried over this
matter?"
   "I'm concerned, naturally, but no, I think it's
just a
   chill." Or a sense of foreboding. "Nothing
to worry over."
   He stopped before going through the open door into the
   outer office and faced his bishop. "What shall I
do. Bishop?
   About the girl?"
   "Nothing. Absolutely nothing." Bishop
Caines attempted
   to look reassuring. "Keep me informed of
developments,
   watch over the situation carefully. But have no pan
in the
   hysteria that may well arise during the next few
days. And
   keep away from the press--they'll exploit the
situation to
   the full without your help. I'll need a full
report for the
   Conference of Bishops, which will be held within
the next
                                       Page 82
                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   two months, but only as a matter of record.
I'm sure it will
   all have been long forgotten by then."
   He patted the priest's arm with an affection he
hardly
   felt. "Now you take care, Andrew, and
remember to keep
   me informed. God bless you."
   He watched the priest walk through into the outer
office
   and ignore the secretary, who bade him
good-bye. He
   waited for the other door to close before he said,
"Judith,
   would you be a dear and find me Father Hagan's
file. And
   then let the finance committee know I'll be five
minutes
   late."
   Judith, his secretary, a quiet but capable
woman in her
   early fifties, was not even curious about the
request. She
   never questioned anything her beloved Bishop
Caines
   asked of her.
   The bishop sat at his desk again, fingers drumming
on
   the desktop. Was it all nonsense? Had
t-ather Hagan exaggerated
   the situation? The priest had joined the diocese
   thirteen years before as an assistant priest in
Lewes, and
   then on to Worthing as active assistant priest.
Banfield was
   his first parish as senior priest. Was it proving
too much?
   His work had been exemplary, and while his devotion
to
   the Church was not remarkable among his peers, his
conscientiousness
   was; where every secular priest would try if
   possible to visit at least four or five
parishioners during the
   day, and spend ten or fifteen minutes with each.
Father
   Hagan would visit the same number, but spend
at least a
   half-hour with them; he taught for two
mornings at the
   local convent school; he joined in the many local
organizations
   such as the Self-Help Group, the Liturgy
Group, the
   Youth Group, as well as attending the monthly
fraternal
   meetings of all the Banfield ministers--the
Baptists,
   Anglican, Evangelical Free Church,
and the Christian Fellowship
   (quite a few for such a small place). And these
   were just fringe activities outside his normal
duties. Perhaps
                                       Page 83
                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   it was too much for a man with a weak heart.
   A light tap on the door, and Judith was
placing a buff
   file on the desk before him. He smiled his
thanks and
   waited until she had left the room before opening
the file.
   Not that there were any guarded secrets contained within;
   it was just that peering into a man's background was like
   peering into his soul, and both should be done in
private.
   There was nothing surprising, nor anything he'd
forgotten
   in the file. The schools he had taught at,
six years in
   Rome studying for the priesthood after his heart
attack,
   ordained in Rome, returned to England. Then
Lewes,
   Worthing, Banfield. But wait--there was something
he
   had forgotten. Father Hagan had spent six
months in a
   parish near Maidstone on his return from Rome.
His first
   assignment, as it were. Six months as
assistant priest in
   Hollingbourne. Only six, then moved on. It
wasn't
   significant; young priests made frequent
shifts to where
   they were most needed at any particular time. Why
did it
   concern him now? Had he already begun to lose
confidence
   in his priest's ability to cope with a
difficult situation,
   one which could so easily escalate into a major
phenomenon ...
   if handled correctiv? A miracle cure in his
diocese.
   Something extraordinary, proven beyond all doubt.
Bishop
   Caines was a pragmatist; the Holy Roman
Catholic Church
   would not l greater-than every harmed by such a miracle
in these cynical
   and antireligious times. I he Holy Roman
Catholic Church
   would benefit by it.
   Imagine: a holy shrine in his diocese . . .
   He pushed the thought away, ashamed of his own
vanity.
   But it lingered. And soon he knew what he had
to do. Just
   in case . . . just in case it really had been a
miracle . . .
TEN
   Once he was across the water he found himself at the
gates of
   Hell. It was all black and sooty in
there and the Devil wasn't at
   home, but his grandmother was sitting there in a big
                                       Page 84
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
armchair. "The Three Golden Hairs of the
Devil,"
  The Brothers Grimm
  bip U1P BIP-DIP . . .
  Molly Pagett's eyes flickered. Opened.
What was the
  sound?
  Her thin body lay stiff in the bed, her husband
sprawled
  leadenly beside her. She held her breath, listening,
wanting
  to hear the sound again, but dreading hearing it.
  . . . bip bip bif) bid-dip hip . . .
  It was faint. And familiar.
  She drew the covers back, careful not to wake
Len. Her
  dressing gown was laid across the end of the bed and she
  drew it across her shoulders to keep away the chill
of the
  night. Len grunted, turned over.
  . . . bid-dip . . .
  The sound, the familiar sound, was coming from Alice's
  room. Molly sat on the edge of the bed
for a few moments,
  collecting her thoughts, shooing away the remaining
dregs
  of a restless sleep. The day had been long, a
confusing
  mixture of joy and anxiety. They had wanted
to keep
  Alice overnight in the hospital again, but
Molly would not
  consent to it. Somehow she felt their tampering, their
  tests, their probing--their endless questions--would undo
  the miracle.
  . . . bif greater-than bip . . .
  And miracle it was. There was no doubt in her
mind.
  The Blessed Virgin Mary had smiled on their child.
  . . . bip . . .
  Molly rose from the bed, pulling the dressing gown
  tight around her. Quietly padding to the open
door, fearful
  of waking Len, she stepped into the hallway. She
had
  left the door open just in case Alice cried out
in the
  night--the joy of having Alice cry out
in the night! It was a
  sound Molly had not heard since her daughter was
very
  small. How she had listened in those early days,
alert for
  the slightest whimper, the beginnings of a cry.
Molly would
  scamper up the stairs, or rush along the
hallway, in a panic
  which her husband could only scoff at. But then he
had
  never appreciated just how much the new baby had
meant
  to Molly. Alice had filled a barren, empty
life, an answer
                                       Page 85
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  to years of prayer. God, through the divine
intercession of
  Mary, Mother of Jesus, to whom Molly had
fervently
  prayed, had blessed her with marriage and child.
  How cruel, then, to smite the child so young. (and how
  disappointing the marriage.)
  . . . hip bid-dip . . .
  Now once again. Our Lady had intervened. The
affliction
  had gone, just as suddenly as it had come. Molly's
  faith in the Blessed Virgin had not wilted during
the years
  of trial, and she had encouraged Alice
to worship Mary as
  she did. If anything, her daughter's adoration
for Christ's
  Mother was even greater. And the years of devotion had
  been rewarded.
  Molly stood outside Alice's door.
Silence for a while
  then--
  . . . hid-dip bid-dip bip bip . . .
  The excitement of the last two days had been too
much
  for Alice: it was the middle of the night and she could
not sleep. She loved to watch the luminous green
invaders descending the black screen of the microchip
toy, destroying
  them with a quick stab at the red button, flicking a
  switch with the other hand so that her spaceship
scuttled
  from side to side, dodging the invaders' deadly
bombs.
  Now she could heard the machine, hear the
computered
  pipes of victory when the last invader had been
vanquished
  from dark plastic space. It must seem like a new
  toy again to her.
  . . . bip btp . . .
  But she had to sleep. The doctors had insisted that
she
  rested. And Molly did not want a relapse.
That would be
  too harsh of God . . .
  . . . hip . . .
  She pushed open the door.
  . . . bi--
  Molly was not sure that she had seen the small
green
  light vanish on the far side of the room. It had
been just a
  flicker in the corner of her eye, and it could have
been
  nothing at all. She looked toward Alice's
bed, expecting to
  see her daughter sitting up, eyes wide and
happy. Galaxy
  Invaders in her hands. All she saw in
the streetlight shining
  through the curtains was the little shape beneath the
  bedclothes.
                                      Page 86
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  "Alice?" Molly realized how naturally she
had called her
  name, how swift was the acceptance of her daughter's
  returned senses, as though she had never really
accepted
  their loss. "Alice, are you awake?"
  There was no sound. Nothing from the child, nothing
  from the machine.
  Molly smiled in the gloom and moved toward the
bed.
  Little faker, she scolded silently, teasing your
mum.
  She bent over her daughter, ready to tickle her
nose and
  end the pretense. She stayed her hand. Alice
really was
  asleep. Her breathing was too deep and her face
too much
  in repose for her to be faking.
  "Alice," Molly said again, softly, touching her
shoulder.
  The child did not stir.
  Molly lifted the covers, searching for the
electronic toy,
  expecting it to be cuddled in Alice's arms. It
wasn't there.
  And it wasn't on the floor beside the bed. But it
had to be
  nearby; Alice couldn't have scooted across the
room to get
  back into bed before she had entered. It wasn't
possible.
  Molly knelt and ducked her head to floor
level, peering
  beneath the bed. No plastic shape lurked there.
  She remembered the green fading light.
  No, that was ridiculous. Just nor possible.
  But she looked anyway.
  The electronic game was lying on the small
dressing
  table on the other side of the room, its switch in
the OFF
  position, its screen black and lifeless.
  Molly knew she hadn't imagined the familiar
sound. She also knew it could not have been in her
daughter's hands.
  And there was no one else in the room. Just
shadows and
  the sound of Alice's steady breathing.
  "Could you keep a secret, if I told you one?
It's a great secret,
  I don't know what I should do if anyone found it
out. I believe
  I should die?"
  "I'he Secret Garden, Frances Hodgson
Burnett
  fenn ROLLED OVER IN THE bed and his own
groan brought
  him awake. His head seemed to continue roHing.
  "Oh, Jes ..." He winced, one hand fumbling
toward
  the throbbing lump that common sense told him really
was
                                       Page 87
                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   his forehead. His fingers hardly eased the pain at
all.
   Turning onto his back, a hand over his closed
eyes, he
   endeavored to control the spinning sensation. Another
groan
   developed into a low, self-pitying hum, a sound
which was
   in perfect harmony with the higher-pitched
hum melodying
   around inside his head. A full minute later, the
cadence
   began to ease and slowly, experimentally, he eased
back
   the shutters over his eyes. It was another
half-minute
   before he lifted his hand.
   The ceiling settled down when he stopped blinking
and
   he considered sitting up in the bed. Consideration
over, he
   lay there and groped a hand toward the bedside table,
careful
   not to lift his head from the pillow, nor turn it in
any
   direction. The searching fingers could not find his
wristwatch
   and he cursed his necessary habit of keeping the
   alarm clock as far away from the bed as possible
(necessary
   because it was much too easy to turn off the bell and go
   back to sleep; he found the distance covered to find
the bastard was enough to arouse him from his usual
morning-zombie state). Where the hell was
his watch? He couldn't
   have been that drunk last night. On the other hand,
he
   could well have been.
   Fenn sighed, screwed up his courage, and let his
head
   slide toward the edge of the bed. Head hanging
over,
   blood beginning to pound at the slab of concrete
inside like
   waves against a sea wall, he stared at the
floor. No watch
   there. But one arm was hanging over the edge too, hand
   bent back limply against the floor.
   "Stupid, stupid," he muttered when he spied
the leather
   strap around his wrist. He twisted his arm and
squinted at the watch face. Six minutes past
eleven. It had to be
   morning; that was light coming through the closed curtains.
   He drew himself back toward the center of the bed,
   resisting the urge to lie down again. Head resting
against the headboard, back propped up by the pillow,
he tried to remember how he had come to this state.
Beer and brandy
   was the answer.
   He scratched his chest and mentally--the physical
act
   would have been too painful--shook his head at himself.
                                       Page 88
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  You gotta cut it out, Fenn. A young drunkard
could be
  fun, an old one just a bloody bore; and you're
not getting
  younger. Journalists had the reputation of being big
drinkers,
  and it wasn't true. They were enormous drinkers.
Not all of
  them, of course; just those he knew personally.
  Fenn tentatively pushed himself farther up in the
bed.
  He called this slow method of reclaiming the day
"gradual
  resurrection."
  Memories of the night before came filtering through and
  he grinned once or twice, but ended up frowning
and
  lifting the bedclothes to inspect his lower body, as
though
  suspecting something might be missing. He grunted
   relief--still there, although it was making no big thing of
   it. What the hell was the girl's name. Boz,
Roz, something
   like that. Or it might have been Julia. He
shrugged, not
   really caring. So long as I'm not pregnant, he
told himself.
   He eased the covers away, using his feet
to kick them
   toward the end of the bed. Then slowly, and ever so
   carefully, he teased his body from the bed. His head
   weighed more than the rest of him and the trick was to
   keep it balanced on his shoulders as he made
toward the
   window. He drew the curtains, sensible enough
to keep
   his eves closed against the glare which he knew would
hit
   the room; the sun was especially partial to his
bedroom at
   that time of day. He stood there, allowing the rays
to
   warm his body, the worst of the day's coldness
blocked by
   the glass. When he finally opened his
eyes he saw a
   woman trudging up the hill outside, pushing a
supermarket
   trolley laden with shopping before her, staring up
   open-mouthed at his naked body. Her stride did
not break,
   although her progress was slow, and her head
swiveled
   around in an almost Exorcist rum. Fenn faded
back into the
   room, smiling sheepishly and giving the shopper a
friendly
   little wave to show there was no menace in him. He
hoped
   her head would not lock into its unnatural
position.
   Once out of the sunlight, coldness staked its
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claim with
   tiny, itchy goose pimples, and Fenn grabbed
his dressing
   gown from the end of the bed. It was short and loose,
   ending well above his knees, and looked much better
on
   Sue. It had looked pretty good on Boz,
Roz--or was it
   Anthea?--last night, too, but not as good as on
Sue. Even
   that drunk he had noticed and noted.
   He went into the kitchen and filled the kettle,
staring at
   the running water as though fascinated, but not really
   seeing it. He switched the kettle on and then
ran both
   hands through his rumpled hair. I need a
cigarette, he told
   himself, and was relieved he didn't smoke. The
note was propped up against the com-flakes packet
and he pulled
   out a chair and studied the message for a few
seconds
   without touching it. It was a telephone number and
signed
   "Pam." Oh, yeah, that was her name. He
briefly wondered
   whether she had tried to wake him before leaving
   the flat. Probably had, not knowing it would take
a major
   earthquake to rouse him after a drunken binge.
Only Sue
   could do it with sneaky groping hands, but then
she had a
   technique all her own. He laid Pam's
note down on the
   table and tried to remember what she looked like.
He
   remembered remarking to Eddy, his drinking buddy from
   the sports page of the Courier, "nice face,
shame about the
   legs," when they saw her and a friend in the club, but
   couldn't recapture her image. The legs,
though. Yeah,
   they were coming back. They'll crush your little head,
   Eddy had warned him; and Eddy hadn't been far
wrong,
   he now recalled. He gingerly touched his ears and
wondered
   if they were as red as they felt. Could ears
bruise?
   He went into the bathroom to check.
   When Eenn returned to the kitchen, satisfied at
least
   that his ears had not been pressed flat against the
sides of
   his head, but not too pleased with the bleary-eyed
reflection
   that had sneered at him from the bathroom mirror,
   the room was filled with steam. He had taken time
to ease
   the punishment on his bladder, senses suddenly sharp
for
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   any strange tingling sensation as the liquid flowed;
you
   could never be too sure with girls you didn't know.
And
   some that you thought you did.
   Jesus, he missed Sue.
   He poured the boiling water into a cup, only
remembering
   to add coffee when he was settled down at the
kitchen
   table again. It burned his lips when he sipped, but
at least
   it was a clean, stinging pain, not like the droning ache in
   his head. He dipped his hand into the com-flakes
packet
   and ate some, reflecting somberly that it was just as
well
   he was working the night shift; he was in no fit
state this
   morning.
   He looked around the small kitchen and shuddered.
He
   would have to make an effort today; he couldn't go on
   living in such a pigsty. Maybe he was a little
untidy, but
   this mess was ridiculous. Time to get yourself back
together,
   Fenn. No woman was worth it. Are you kidding?
he
   answered himself. Every one was worth it--well,
maybe
   with just a few exceptions.
   Fifteen minutes later he was still brooding over
his third
   cup of coffee when the doorbell rang.
   He leaned out of the kitchen window and saw Sue
   standing in the street below. Either his hangover cleared
   instantly or racing emotions swamped the
ill-effects. She
   looked up and waved.
   He found it difficult to speak for a few moments,
then
   stuttered, "Use your . . . your key. Sue."
   "I didn't like to," she called up.
   She fumbled in her shoulder bag, then
stuck the key
   into the lock. Fenn drew his head inside,
scraping the hair
   on the back of his head painfully against the frame.
He
   rubbed the skin and couldn't stop smiling. He
hadn't seen
   her for nearly three weeks, not since she'd
walked out of
   the restaurant. They'd had several strained
telephone
   conversations, but that was all. It had taken her
absence to
   make him realize how hooked he was on her.
He leaned
   against the cooker, still smiling, relieved,
expectant.
   "Oh, shit!" The smile vanished.
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                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  Fenn scooped up the note still lying on the kitchen
   and considered swallowing it; he shoved it into his
pocket
   instead. Running into the living room, he did a
quick
   survey of the room. No incriminating
evidence there. Then
   into the bedroom, lunging at the bed, scouring it for
fallen
   hairpins, strands of hair colored differently from
his own,
   smudges of lipstick or eyeshadow on the
pillows. He made
   sure there were no other stains either, Sighing with
relief,
   he allowed himself a few moments to collect his
thoughts.
   Then: Christ, did she smoke? He couldn't
remember. No
   ashtray beside the bed. The living room! There'd be
cigarette
   butts smudged with lipstick in the living room!
He
   ran back in just as Sue opened the flat door.
   "Sue," he said, sniffing the air for the stale
aroma of
   cigarettes. The air seemed to be okay if just
a little alcoholic.
   "Hello, Gerry." Her smile was not a full
one.
   "You look terrific," he said.
   "You look awful."
   He rubbed his unshaven chin, feeling awkward.
"How've
   you been?"
   "Fine. You?"
   "Pretty good."
   He stuck his hands into the pockets of the robe.
"Why
   the hell didn't you return my calls?" He
tried to keep his
   voice level, but the last word was on the
ascendant. "For
   Christ's sake, three weeks!"
   "Not quite. And I've spoken to you a couple of
times."
   "Yeah, you just haven't said anything."
   "I haven't come to argue with you, Gerry."
   He stopped himself from a retort, then said
quietly,
   "You wanna coffee?"
   "I haven't got long. I'm on my way to the
university to
   tape some interviews."
   "A quick one." He went into the kitchen and
reboiled the kettle. He was fortunate
to find one cup that was clean at the back of the
cupboard.
   Her voice came through from the living room. "This
   place is a mess."
   "The maid's day off," he called back.
   When he returned, she was sitting on the
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settee, calmly
  watching him. He felt a tightness in his chest;
she looked
  good. He placed the two cups on the glass
coffee table,
  then eased himself down into the other end of the small
  sofa. A two-foot gap separated them.
  "I called round once or twice," he told
her.
  "I've been spending a lot more time at my
parents' with
  Ben."
  He nodded. "How is he?"
  "Boisterous as ever." She sipped and pulled a
face.
  "Your coffee hasn't improved."
  "Nor has my disposition. No shit. Sue,
I've missed
  you."
  She stared into her cup. "I needed a break from you.
  You were becoming ... a little too much."
  "Yeah, I know. It's a habit of mine."
  "I needed a breather."
  "You said. Nothing personal, right?"
  "Stop it, Gerry."
  He chewed on his lip.
  "And maybe you needed a break from me, too," she
  said.
  "No, babe, I didn't."
  She couldn't help asking. "Have you been seeing
anyone?"
  He looked squarely into her eyes. "No. I
haven't wanted
  to." His ears tingled sorely for a few guilty
seconds. He
  cleared his throat and said, "How about you?"
  Sue shook her head. "I told you, I've
been busy with
  Ben." She sipped her coffee again and he moved
closer.
  He took the cup from her hand and placed it back
on the
  saucer. His fingers traveled to her neck, beneath her
hair.
  He kissed her cheek, then turned her head with his
other
  hand to reach her lips.
  She was soft, yielding against him, returning his
kiss
  with an emotion that matched his; but then she was
pulling
  away, one hand held against his shoulder.
  "Please don't. That's not why I'm here." She
seemed to
  have difficulty in breathing.
  He ignored her and tried again, a feeling that was more
  than just desire strong within him.
  "No, Gerry!" I his time there was anger.
  He stopped, having problems with his own breathing.
  llO his
  Sue . . .
  Her glare stopped his words. And further action.
Fenn
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                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  struggled to contain his own anger. "Okay, okay."
He
  turned away from her in a heavy sulk. "What the
hell have
  you come for. Sue? Just to collect some of your
things?"
  He heard her sigh. "Not to upset you, Gerry,
i didn't
  want that," she said.
  "Who's upset? I'm not upset. I may
break out in pimples
  any moment now, but that's just late puberty.
Christ, how
  could you upset me?"
  "You're such a bloody baby!"
  "Go ahead, turn on your charm."
  She had to smile, despite herself. "Gerry, I
came to tell
  you about the church. The church at Banfield."
  He looked at her curiously.
  "I've been back. I've taken Ben there on
Sundays."
  He opened his mouth to speak, but couldn't find
anything
  to say.
  "It's wonderful, Gerry." Now her smile was
full and her
  eves were shining with excitement. I he transition
was so
  swift it took Fenn by surprise.
  "So many people are flocking to St.
Joseph's," Sue went
  on. "People are bringing their children, their sick, their
  handicapped. It's almost like a pilgrimage to them.
And
  the happiness--it seems to hit you before you even reach
  the church grounds. It's unbelievable, Gerry."
  "Hey, now wait a minute. I thought it had
all died
  down. I've rung the priest there--this Father
Hagan--and
  he told me nothing more has happened. No more
miracles,
  no more apparitions. Certainly nothing newsworthy
or the
  nationals would have been swarming over it like flies
over
  a shit heap."
  "You have to be there to see it! Of course there's no
  more physical miracles, but the miracle is the
atmosphere
  itself. That's why I came today, Gerry. I want
you to see
  it for yourself. I want you to experience it."
  He frowned. "But I'm not a Catholic,
Sue."
  "You don't have to be, that's the joy of it. You
only have to feel to know it's a holy place."
  "But why should the priest lie to me?"
  "He didn't lie. Nothing is happening in the
material
  sense; he told you the truth. He doesn't
want the situation
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                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  exploited, can't you see that?"
  "And do you?"
  "Of course not."
  "Then why are you telling me?"
  She took his hand and clasped it tightly in both
of
   hers. "Because I want some of that cynicism
knocked out
   of that silly head of yours. If you could just see for
   yourself the effect the place has on people, I know
you'll
   begin to have some beliefs yourself."
   "Wait a minute. You're beginning to sound like a
religious
   freak. You're not trying to convert me, are you?"
   She surprised him by laughing. "I don't think
the Holy
   Ghost Himself could do that. No, I just
want you to bear
   witness--"
   "Oh, definitely a religious--"
   "Just see for yourself." Her voice had become
quiet.
   He drew in a deep breath and sank back against
the
   sofa. "What about the girl, Alice? Is she still
going to the
   church?"
   "That's the other thing you have to see."
   "What do you mean?"
   "It's hard to say." Her words were slow,
deliberate, as though her thoughts were deep. "She
seems to have
   changed."
   "In what way?"
   "It's difficult to describe. She seems--
I don't know--
   older, more mature. There's a special kind of
aura around
   her. Some people weep when they see her."
   "Ah, come on. Sue. It's just some kind of
hysteria.
   They've heard the story--their minds are
doing the rest."
   "See for yourself."
   "Maybe I should." He had to admit, he was
becoming
   curious about the whole affair once more. The
contact
   with Sue might bring them back together again, too.
"I
   could go there this afternoon," he said.
   "No. Wait till Sunday."
   He looked up questioningly at her.
   "Come to the Mass with me, when the crowds will be
   there."
   "You know it could have fizzled out by then. The place
   might be empty."
   "I doubt it. But there's another reason I
want you to
   come on Sunday." She got to her feet, looking
at her
   watch. "I've got to go or I'll be in
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                            James Herbert - The Shrine
trouble."
  "What? What are you talking about? You can't just
  leave."
  Sue walked to the door. "I'm sorry,
Gerry, I really do
  have to go. Pick me up on Sunday morning at
my place.
  Ben wilibe staving with me so we can all go
together."
  She opened the door.
  "But what was the other reason?" he asked, still
sitting
  perplexed on the sofa.
  "There's a rumor that Alice has told the
priest and her mother that the Lady wants to see her
again. On the
  twenty-eighth. That's this Sunday."
  Sue closed the door quietly behind her.
TWELVE
  You parents all that children have,
  A nd you that have got none,
  If you would have them safe abroad,
  I'ray keep them safe at home.
  Old Nursery Rhyme
  this SUNDAY WAS DIM'-l-.rf.nt.
tt was cold, drizzling,
  and miserable. But Fenn's senses keened to the
excitement
  in the air as a rat's nose twitches at the
scent of distant
  blood.
  Sue had been right: it hit you before you reached the
  church grounds. The first signs came as he
drove through
  the village High Street: there was a bustling
activity that
  was unusual for a Sunday morning in any town,
village, or
  city, particularly on a cold and damp one. And
most of the
  people were heading in the same direction. Traffic,
too,
  was far heavier than normal.
  Ben, in the backseat, had become quiet, which was
a
  relief at any time. His arms were resting against the
back
  of the front passenger seat, his face close
to his mother's.
  Fenn quickly glanced at the eight-year-old boy
and saw an
  expectant look in those large brown eyes;
Ben's mouth was
  open and half-smiling as he stared ahead through the
  windshield.
  "Are you beginning to feel the atmosphere,
Gerry?" Sue
  asked, looking past her son's head at the
reporter.
  Fenn muttered noncommittally. He wasn't
prepared to
  admit anything yet. He slowed the car as they
approached
                                      Page 96
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  a zebra crossing and the gathering on the pavement
waved
  acknowledgments as they scurried across. Small children
  clutched their parents' hands, the elderly hung on
to sturdier
  companions. A middle-aged man in a
wheelchair came
  last, pushed by a younger man: their similarity in
appearance
  indicated they were father and son. The cripple
smiled
  at Fenn, then looked over his shoulder at his
son, urging
  him to push faster.
  Once the road was clear, Fenn eased his foot
down on
  the accelerator, aware that traffic had
built up behind him.
  The traffic moved off in convoy, Fenn's Mini
at its head.
  He glanced into his rearview mirror,
surprised at the
  swift buildup he had caused. "I hope
we're not all going to
  the same place," he commented.
  "I think you're in for a surprise," Sue
replied.
  He was passing groups of people along the roadside
  now, the houses on either side becoming fewer
until there
  were only fields and trees. Even the steady
drizzle could
  not dampen the cheerfulness that seemed to exude from
  the walkers.
  Soon there were cars parked by the roadside, all
driven
  half onto the grass verge.
  "I don't befieve this," Fenn said as they were
forced to
  drive past the church entrance.
  "I said you'd be surprised." There was no hint of
smugness
  in Sue's voice.
  He scanned each side of the road, looking for a
space.
  "Has it been like this every Sunday since?"
  "No. It's been crowded, but not like this. The
rumor
  has obviously spread."
  "You didn't tell me how you heard about it."
He swerved
  the Mini to avoid an opening door. Two metal
sticks
  stretched out from the other vehicle's interior,
followed by
  two ill-controlled legs. The driver was just
emerging to
  assist his invalid passenger as P'enn's car
passed.
  "I was here at the evening service last
Wednesday. I
  overheard some parishioners talking."
  Fenn risked a quick look at her. "You were at
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                            James Herbert - The Shrine
evening
  service? In the week?"
  "That's right, Gerry."
  "Right."
  He pulled in behind the last vehicle in the line.
"I guess
  this'll do," he said ironically. The Mini
bumped onto the
  verge and another car pulled up in front almost
immediately.
  "Okay, Ben, time to get wet."
  The boy was already pushing at the back of his mother's
  seat, eager to get going. Sue stepped out and
pulled the
  passenger seat forward, allowing Ben to scramble
through.
  Fenn sTammed his door shut and pulled up the
collar of his
  raincoat. "Fine day for a bloody carnival,"
he muttered
  under his breath. He tucked his hands into the coat's
large
  pockets, conscious of the bulky object in one:
this time,
  after moans from the Couriers picture editor, who
hadn't
  liked his last pocket-camera effects, he had
borrowed an
  Olympus. If (and it was a big if)
anything happened, he
  was going to be prepared. In his other pocket he
carried a
  microcassette recorder, a Christmas gift
from Sue. They
  set off toward the church, Sue's arm linked through
his,
  Ben racing ahead.
  More vehicles were slowing, then stopping just beyond
  his. "I he gate to the pathway leading up to the
church was
  crammed with people and Sue had to grab Ben, holding
  him close to prevent him from being jostled. Fenn
stared
  around at the eager throng, bemused and becoming
excited
  himself with their mood. Even if nothing spectacular
  happened--and he was sure it wouldn't--he now had
a
  nice follow-up story to the previous one. It
might take a
  little exaggeration on his part to say that St.
Joseph's was being besieged by pilgrims,
believers, and the just-plain-curious, but it wasn't
too far from the truth. He shook his
  head in wonder: what the hell did they all
expect to see?
  Another miracle? He suppressed a
chuckle, delighted now
  that Sue had persuaded him to come. It wasn't
going to be
  a complete waste of time.
  The three of them, Fenn, Sue and Ben,
squeezed through
                                      Page 98
                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   the open gateway, bunched together by the shuffling
crowd.
   Fenn noticed that a young girl on his left, no
more than
   fifteen or sixteen, was trembling visibly,
then quickly realized
   her spasmodic movements were something more than
   just excitement. The tight drooping of one side of
her
   mouth gave him a hint, for he had seen the disorder
   before. Her movements were clumsy, her hands and arms
   twitching uncontrollably; she was flanked on
either side by
   a man and woman, presumably her parents.
If he was
   right, the girl was suffering from a form of
chorea, most
   probably. St. Virus's Dance, for he had
seen exactly the
   same symptoms in a young woman he'd
interviewed in a
   Brighton hospital when covering the story of the
hospital's
   imminent closure because of government cuts. It was
an
   assignment he hadn't enjoyed, for the sick always
made
   him feel unhealthy, but at least his article, with
its many
   poignant interviews from the patients, had
helped cause a
   stay of execution for the hospital. Its future
was still
   uncertain, but that was better than positively no
future at
   all.
   He stood aside, allowing the small group more
room for
   maneuvering, and the father smiled gratefully. Once
through
   the gate, the queue thinned out, although the
line stretched
   up to the church doorway itself. There were several
among
   the throng who, like the young girl, were helped along
by
   others. I hey passed a small,
emaciated-looking boy in a
   wheelchair, chattering happily to his surrounding
family,
   his eyes, large and bulging, shining with some inner
   exhilaration. Fenn saw the smiling sadness in the
face of
   the boy's mother; and there was hope in her expression,
   too, a desperate hope. It made Fenn
feel uncomfortable, as
   if he were i voyeur into the private misery of
others. Not
   just that, though: he was about to be a witness to their
   disappointment. He could sympathize with their
desperation,
   but could not understand their gullibility. What had
happened
                                       Page 99
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  to little Alice Pagett had been i fluke of
nature, an
  accidental triggering off of something in her
brain that had
  overridden other, disobedient nerves, returning
senses that
  she had never really lost physically; these people now
  thought the same chance process could happen again to
  themselves or those in their care. It was, he had
to admit,
  strangely moving. And he began to feel anger,
for he
  resented having his protective wall of
cynicism breached
  by such blatant stupidity, and that anger was turned
toward
  the Church which nourished and encouraged such
  ignorance. His rancor had become seething
indignation by
  the time they reached the porch.
  Inside the church it was crowded, the rows of pews
full
  to capacity. Fenn had expected it to be so because
of the
  activity outside, but was nevertheless surprised by the
size
  of the congregation. And the noise, the steady murmur of
  whispered conversations. A peaceful
silence, he had always
  assumed, was the prerequisite of any church when
  not responding to the service taking place, but it
seemed
  today the collective tenseness was difficult
to contain.
  Looking at his watch, he saw that it was still
sixteen
  minutes before the start of the Mass. If they had come
any
  later, they would never have got inside the door.
  Sue dipped her fingers into the font, making the
Sign of
  the Cross in a quick, fluid movement and
encouraging Ben
  to follow suit. The boy reached into the
receptacle, but his
  ritual was slower, more solemn. One of the men
obviously
  designated as ushers to control the inflowing crowd,
politely
  gestured for the three of them to move to the left of
  the church toward a side aisle where those unable
to find
  seats were standing. Fenn resisted, for he
already knew
  from which vantage point he wished to view the
proceedings.
  He took Sue's elbow and guided her toward the
right. caret he
  usher opened his mouth to protest and decided it really
  wasn't worth it.
  Sue looked at Fenn in surprise as he
urged her toward
  the spot they had occupied on his previous
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                            James Herbert - The Shrine
visit. There
  were a few disapproving stares as they jostled their
way
  through, Ben anxiously clinging to his mother's coat,
but
  they reached the right-hand aisle without hindrance. She
  was puzzled as Fenn stood on tiptoe, craning
his neck
  toward the front of the church, then realized he was
looking
  for Alice Pagett, whom he no doubt
assumed would be
  sitting beneath the statue of Our Lady again. There was
  no way of telling if she was there, for the aisle was
too full.
  Sue noticed there were more wheelchairs alongside
the
  benches and emotion swept through her, feelings aroused
  in her that had been held in check for many years.
Those
  emotions had been growing over the last three
weeks and
  now she felt them unleashed, flowing through her and
  outward, joining with others, uniting. She wasn't
sure
  what these feelings were, but they had much to do with
  compassion, love for others. She felt like crying and
knew
  she was not alone in that feeling. There was an
anticipation
  inside her that exulted vet frightened her.
  Even now, she was still uncertain as to whether or not
  Alice's cure had been miraculous, although she
wanted to
  believe with all her heart. After years in a
spiritual
  wilderness, clinging by only a thin thread to her
religion,
  something had happened here at this church which had
  drawn her back, the absorption
gradual at first, the link
  still tenuous, until her own will had strengthened the
  renewed acceptance. She had witnessed something
extraordinary,
  be it caret a miracle or not, and that impression
had
  rekindled her trust. And that was the feeling she shared
  with so many others gathered in St. Joseph's
church. Trust. It pervaded the air like the
accompanying smell of
  incense.
  She hugged Ben close and tenderly touched
Perm's arm,
  loving them both and wanting their love.
  Fenn turned and winked and a small unpleasant
shock
  made her hand drop away. The rushing compassion
coursing
  through her almost stumbled to a halt, tripped by his
  wink of reality. No, not her reality, but Ay.
His insensitivity,
  his mocking attitude. His only reason for being
here was
                                      Page 101
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  because there might be a story in it, a sequel to a
feature
  that had enhanced his journalistic reputation. She
thought
  he had come because he loved her and wanted to please;
  she had persuaded him because of her feelings towards
  him, wanting him to share her own acceptance. That one
  small gesture of his had dispelled her sentiment,
made her
  realise they were two very different people, for it had
  contained the destructive contempt, no matter how
lightly
  or how humorously disguised, of the detractor,
the person
  who would never believe--never trust--because to do so
  would influence their own self-seeking
opportunism. At that
  moment--and this was why her emotions had stumbled--
  she despised him.
  He frowned as she stared at him, recognizing the
sudden
  hostility in her eyes and confused by it. Sue
averted her
  gaze, leaving him wondering.
  More people were crowding in from behind, forcing
  them to move further down the aisle. Fenn tried
once
  more to see the front bench, but there were still too many
  heads blocking his view. His initial excitement
was now
  beginning to fade, the waiting and the claustrophobic
atmosphere of the packed church taking effect. The
tension was still around him, but he no longer shared it, or
at least, not its particular brand of tension; his
feelings were more of sharp curiosity. He examined the
faces of those sitting in
  the benches. were they all from the village or had
word
  spread further afield? He recognized some,
for he had
  spoken to them before on the day Alice had been
cured.
  His gaze stopped on a particularly familiar
face, this one
  seen only in half-profile, for the figure sat
on the other side
  of the center aisle, near the front. It was
Southworth, the
  hotel owner. Well, Mr. Southworth, it
seemed he had been
  wrong: interest hadn't completely died away.
Maybe it
  would after today, though. The punters were expecting
  too much, and they could only be disappointed. In
fact, he
  wouldn't be at all surprised if there were some
angry
  scenes after the service.
  Fenn looked for the fat man. Tucker, whom he
had met
  with Southworth at the hotel, but he was either hidden
  from view or not present. A disturbance at the
back of the
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                             James Herbert - The Shrine
   church drew his attention.
   The doors were being closed, much to the annoyance of
   those still outside. Heads were turning as the dispute
grew
   louder and a dark-suited man, wearing the
unobtrusive
   collar of the modern-day cleric, rose from the
front bench
   and strode purposely up the center aisle
towards the source
   of the trouble. He was tall, well over six feet
Fenn estimated,
   even though his shoulders were stooped, and he was
painfully
   thin. Yet his face, with its high forehead and
prominent
   nose, showed strength, a fact further confirmed
by
   his vigorous stride. The priest's cheeks were
sunken, his
   cheekbones high ridges on shadowed valleys,
and his skin
   had a jaundiced look that betrayed a past
illness; yet even
   that failed to detract from the strength.
   When he reached the end of the aisle, he raised a
hand
   as if to gently scythe a way through the crowd gathered
   there, and Fenn was surprised at its size; from where
the
   reporter stood, it looked as though the priest's
fingers
   could easily wrap themselves around a football. It
may
   have been an exaggeration in Fenn's mind, but the
congre-
   gation back there seemed to agree, for they parted before
   the advancing limb like the sea heeding Moses.
He followed
   the tall man's progress, for he was easily
seen above
   the heads of others, and wondered who he was and why
   he was there. Within seconds, the priest was walking
back
   down the aisle, the disturbance behind having settled,
the
   doors of the church left open wide, despite the
chill, and
   Fenn had a chance to study the man's face in more
detail.
   His eyes were cast downwards, the lids heavy,
giving
   the appearance of being completely closed. His jaw
was
   firm, though not prominently so, and the upper lip
slightly
   protruding, spoiling what otherwise would have been
   dauntingly strong features. His brow was furrowed
in
   deep lines, and further wrinkles were etched
sharply around
   his eyes, curling both upwards and downwards like the
   splayed ends of a wire brush. His eyebrows were
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                            James Herbert - The Shrine
gray and
  full, like his hair, shadowing his eye sockets.
His stoop
  was more than fatigue or negligent posture; the
spine was
  curved unnaturally, though not badly. The priest
genuflected,
  then took his seat once more. Fenn had the distinct
  feeling of just having witnessed a magnetic storm
in human
  form. He realized, too, that the buzz of hushed
  conversation had come to an abrupt halt while the
priest
  was on the move. The whispers began again now that the
  intimidating figure had disappeared from view.
  The crowd at the rear swelled into the center
channel
  and the three ushers forced their way through to form a
  human barrier, preventing the overflow from filling
the
  aisle completely. Fenn was intrigued by everything
that
  was happening and already regretting not having followed
  up his story in the ensuing weeks. Evidently an
undercurrent
  of interest and specufation had developed
in the area,
  culminating in today's little turnout. They wanted
to see
  the trick done again. Maybe a bit more this time,
though.
  We've had the triple somersault, now let's
see the quadruple.
  That was why they had brought their sick along. Great
  trick last time, but what's in it for me? Or,
sorry, missed
  the last show--can we have a repeat?
  His story, the angle, the view it would take, was
already
  forming in his mind and it had much to do with gullibility,
  superstition, avarice--and yes, maybe even
duplicity. The
  meeting with Southworth and Tucker, whose motives
leaned
  more than overtly toward exploitation, gave a good
indication
  of what could be behind the spreading rumors. They
  had tried to recruit him into their campaign and had
been
  disappointed, but probably not discouraged. And how
  culpable was the Catholic Church itself?
Just how much had
  they done to dispel the story of a miracle? Or had
they
  encouraged it? Fenn felt grimly satisfied:
there was the
  makings of some nice investigative journalism
here. Not
  enough to set the world on fire, but controversial enough
  to sell a few extra copies in the southern
counties. Then he
  glanced at Sue and ringers of guilt pushed at his
thoughts.
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                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   Her head was bowed, her hands clasped tightly on
Ben's
   shoulders. She was praying silently, a small
frown of
   concentration on her forehead. Even Ben was still, lost
in his own thoughts.
   Fenn was perplexed. Sue was no fool and
certainly not
   naive 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 expose
   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 less-than beyes 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 emphasized 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
                                       Page 105
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
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 neighbor'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
   downward 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 upward, waiting to shake.
   "Peace be with you, Ben," Fenn whispered,
glancing
   again at Sue. She was watching the priest at 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 unholv) haste, causing a bustling
bottleneck
   in the center 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, probably not understanding exactly what

   going on, but caught up in the excitement of it
all. A
   youth of seventeen or more was being led toward 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 worshipers and the
reporter
   grudgingly sympathized. He felt sure that
none of it
                                       Page 106
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  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
neighbors
  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
verrucae. In the
  center aisle another child, this one a boy also, was
being
  carried toward 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 a 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 toward 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
                                      Page 107
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  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 bum 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 center 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
i't 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 toward 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.
  "dis . . why, Monsignor, why do they
listen to these
  rumors? What have they expected--"
  "Calm yourself, F'ather. 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 discour-
  age 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
                                      Page 108
                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   tall dark-suited man with the hunched shoulders, was
facing
   the doorway. He stopped in midsentence, 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,
                                       Page 109
                            James Herbert - The Shrine
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," I lagan
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 barelv 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
                                      Page 110
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  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, I he
said with a grin,
  then pulled open the door.
  The church was almost empty and it seemed much
  darker. He realized that 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
toward the
  statue of the Madonna. The pupilless 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 downward, palms outward, symbol
of the
  Madonna's acceptance of all who stood before
her.
  It was just a block of stone to Fenn, a skillful
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 handmade, not heartfelt.
  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 center 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
                                      Page 111
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  everybody's following her. They're all going
into the field!"
  "The Magic is in me--the Magic is in me.
It's in every one of
  us."
  The Secret Garden, Frances Hodgson
Burnett
  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 toward 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 toward 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 toward 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
  farther 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,
                                      Page 112
                            James Herbert - The Shrine
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 toward
  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 F'enn 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 space 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
cre-
  ated 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
                                      Page 113
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  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 toward 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 (oy 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.
  And then everything became unnaturally still.
  Only the falling rain convinced Fenn that the world had
  not ground to a stop.
  There were not even any sounds. No birds, no
bleating
  of sheep on the far side of the field, no
traffic noise from
  the nearby road. A vacuum.
  Until the breeze ruffled the grass.
  Fenn shivered, for the sudden draft of air was more
  chilly than the drizzle. He pulled his
raincoat collar tight
  around his neck and nervously looked around, the
feeling
  of some unseen presence unreasonably strong.
There was
  nothing there, of course, just the field and its
bordering
  hedge. To his left was the crowd, the wall, the
church; to
                                      Page 114
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  his right the tree . . . the tree. . . . Beyond .
. . the tree . . .
  He could not focus beyond the tree.
  The wind--for it was no longer a breeze--was
rustling
  through the bare branches, stirring the deformed limbs,
  making them sway as though they were slumbering
tentacles
  suddenly come to life. The rustling became a low
  howling as the grotesque limbs shifted.
  The onlookers' clothes were whipped by the wind and
  they clung to each other or held up their arms
against it.
  Several began to back away, plainly frightened,
while
  others stood their ground, also afraid yet
curious--and for
  some, desperate--enough to stay. Many dropped to their
  knees and bowed their heads.
  Strangely, Fenn felt his own legs grow weak
and it
  became an effort to keep himself erect. He saw
F'ather
  Hagan begin to stumble forward in an attempt
to reach the
  girl, but the other priest caught his arm and held
him
  back. Words passed between the two clerics, but they
  were too far away and the wind was too loud for the
  reporter to hear. He lurched, feeling as though
something
  had pushed him from behind. He could feel muscles in

  back stiffening and his windblown hair had become
brittle.
  But it passed. The low howling ceased, the wind
died.
  The rain continued its drizzle, no longer blown
off course.
  The people looked relieved, several blessing themselves.
  They looked around at their neighbors, each
seeking comfort
  from the presence of others, turning to their parish
  priest for reassurance. Father Hagan could offer
none. His
  skin looked even more pallid as he stared at
Alice Pagett.
  Her arms were stretched out toward the now-still oak
  and she was speaking, although no one present could catch
  the words. She was laughing too, joy almost
visibly radiating
  from her small body. Yet there was nothing at the
tree,
  no form, no movement, nothing at all. A gasp
ran through
  the onlookers, a gasp that became a moan.
  Alice's feet were no longer on the ground. She
hovered
  two or three inches above the tallest blade of
grass.
  Fenn blinked, not believing what he was seeing. It
just
  wasn't possible. Levitation was just a trick
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                            James Herbert - The Shrine
performed by
  conjurers under contrived conditions. But there were no
  such conditions here, just an open field. And no
conjurer,
  just an eleven-year-old girl. Jesus Christ,
what was going
  on?
  He felt an electricity running through him, a
sharp,
  tingling flush that somehow jumped from his body to
  others, linking them all in a binding blanket of
static. He
  was mesmerized by the girl, not sure if he were
hallucinating,
  still refusing to accept the evidence before his eyes.
  Vaguely, somewhere in the more sane region of his
mind,
  he was reminded of the camera in his pocket, but he
could
  not find the strength nor, more important,
the desire, to
  reach for it. He shook his head, partly to clear it,
partly to
  feel some physical sensation. The dream, the
hallucination,
  the telepathic illusion, was still there in front of
him,
  refusing to obey that part of his brain that insisted it was
  all unreal. Alice Pagett was standing above the
ground and
  the grass was gently swaying beneath the soles of her
feet.
  Minutes passed and nobody dared move or
speak. There
  was an aura around Alice that, although it could not be
  seen, could be felt. A radiance that, if it were
visible,
  would be brilliantly white, golden-hued at its
periphery.
  Her position did not fluctuate: she neither
rose nor
  descended. And her body was immobile, arms still
outstretched,
  only her lips moving.
  Not many of those gathered there remained standing.
  Fenn's legs began to give way completely and
it was not
  reverence for what was taking place that caused him to
  sink to the ground. It was weakness, a peculiar
tiredness
  that assailed him; it was as though his body were being
  drained of energy. He felt so numb, so cold.
  He crouched on one knee, a hand resting on the
earth to
  keep himself balanced. The priests were still standing,
  although the monsignor had Father Hagan's arm
tighny
  gripped as if supporting him. They appeared
confused,
  bewildered by the incredible spectacle, and Fenn
thought
  with some grim satisfaction, they too now looked
afraid.
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                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   He turned his head to look at Alice once more
and saw
   that she was sinking, slowly, slowly descending,
grass
   blades bending beneath her feet, a pliant
cushion before
   she touched earth. She was down and she
turned to look at
   her audience, a rapturous smile on her
face.
   At which point the miracles began.
   A tiny boy ran forward, his outstretched hands a
mass of
   gray-black lumps. He fell at Alice's
feet, holding his hands
   aloft so that those watching from behind could see their
   ugliness. His tearful mother tried to join him, but her
   husband held her back, not knowing what was going to
   happen, just praying that it would be good for his son.
   The girl smiled down at the boy and the blackish
verrucae,
   with their edges of gray, began to fade.
   The mother screamed and broke free, rushing to her
son
   and hugging him close, tears streaming from her eyes
to mingle with the rain in the boy's hair.
   A cry from the crowd and all eyes turned in the
direction
   of the teenage girl whose facial muscles could not
be
   controlled, whose limbs twitched spasmodically and
incessantly.
   She had been kneeling with her family group, but
   now was on her feet, her expression serene.
Although she
   moved cautiously, there was no trembling, no
twitching;
   she stared down at herself, examining her hands, her
legs.
   The girl came forward, slowly but surely, her
chest beginning
   to heave with her joy. She knelt at the feet of
Alice
   Pagett and wept.
   A man stumbled forward, pushing through the kneeling
   people, his eyes clouded with cataracts. They cleared
a
   Eath for him, guiding him forward with gentle
pressure on
   is arms, urging him on, praying for him.
   He fell before he reached the girl and lay sobbing,
his
   face wretched with longing. The opacity in his eyes
Began
   to clear. For the first time in five years he began
to see
   color. He began to see shapes. He
began to see the world
   again, only his tears now blurring his vision.
   A young girl, who attended the same hospital
as Alice
   and whose parents had been given new hope ever
since the
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                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   latter's sudden cure, asked her mother why the man
on the
   ground was crying. The words were not too clear, but the
   girl's mother understood them. To her they were the most
   beautifully formed words she had ever heard, for her
   daughter had not spoken in all the seven years of
her short
   life.
   Many in the crowd were collapsing, sprawling on the
   ground, or falling against those nearest to them, like
marionettes
   whose strings had been cut. Fenn was forced to sit,
   his supporting knee giving way. His eyes were
wild, looking
   from the girl to the crowd, the girl to the crowd, the
   girl ... to the tree . . .
   Another cry, becoming a wail, from among the
rain-soaked
   people. A woman's moan of anguish.
   Fenn's eyes scanned the crouched bodies and
came to
   rest on the blanket-wrapped bundle lying on
the fringe of
   the semicircle. The boy was sitting upright; his
eyes shining
   with some newfound understanding. He pushed the
   blanket aside and hands reached to help him. He
didn't
   need their help, though. He was rising, his
movements
   stiffly awkward like a newborn lamb's. He was
on his feet
   and the hands steadied him. He moved forward,
ill-balanced
   but coping, staggering and eager to reach the girl. His
   father and another man quickly stood beside him, taking
   his arms. He walked, using the adults for
support, but the
   motion coming from his own legs. They helped him forward
   and it was not until he was within touching distance
   of Alice Paggett that he allowed himself to sink
to the
   ground. He half-sat half-lay there, his
knees together, thin
   legs almost hidden in the grass, his upper body
upright,
   his father holding on to his shoulders.
   They gazed at the girl with adoration on their
faces.
   Fenn was stunned. His strength was returning although
he did not yet feel steady enough to stand. Jesus
Christ,
   what happened here? It just wasn't possible!
   He looked toward the two priests, one dressed
totally in
   black, the other in the robes of the Sunday
service, green
   and yellow, white beneath. Father Hagan had already
   fallen to his knees, and the tall priest, the
monsignor, was
   slowly collapsing beside him. Fenn could not be sure
if
   r
                                       Page 118
                            James Herbert - The Shrine
  let
  they were suffering the same debilitating weakness that
  had assailed his own body or if their gesture was
one of
  homage. Father Hagan bowed his head into his hands

  rocked backward and forward. Monsignor
Delgard could
  only stare wide-eyed at the girl standing in the
field, her
  small body so vulnerable beneath the black twisted
tree
  that towered over her.
  "She's as tender and sweet as a fat little lamb.
Yum, yum! She'll
  make a tasty dinner!" She drew out a bright
sharp knife, which
  glittered quite dreadfully.
  "The Snow Queen," Hans Christian Andersen
  riordan WEARILY SHOOK HIS HEAD. It
made no sense.
  In his thirty-eight years as a farmer, nothing like
this had
  ever happened before. Not to his livestock. He
motioned
  the lorry to back farther into the field, then nodded
to his
  farm laborers to get busy with their shovels.
  The vet came over and stood by him, saying nothing,
  his face haggard. The call from Riordan had come
in the
  early hours of the morning, and when he, the vet, had
  arrived, he knew there was only so much he could do.
  Even those he had cut from their mother's stomachs, those
  he believed were well-formed enough to cope with
premature
  birth, had not survived. It was inexplicable.
Why
  should it happen to all of them at the same time? There
  had been a disturbance in the field the day before--an
  incredible event, from all the confused accounts he had
  heard--but the pregnant sheep had been far away
from it
  all, in a different section of the field. He
sighed and wiped
  a hand over his tired eyes as the laborers
scooped up the
  tiny glistening corpses on the shovels and tossed
them into
  the back of the lorry. The sheep, the mothers the vet
had
  not been able to save, were picked up by stiffened legs
and
  swung onto the waiting vehicle.
  Riordan looked at the gray church in the distance
  wondered how people could worship such an ill-natured
  God. P'anning was a hard life: you expected
failures,
  mishaps--even tragedies. Crops could be
ruined, animals
  could, and always did, have accidents or illnesses from
  which they perished. It happened to farm workers, too.
                                      Page 119
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  But you never expected, could never be prepared for,
  something like this. There was just no sense to it.
  He turned his back on the field and watched the
heavily
  laden lorry pull away.
  "I wonder if I've changed in the night?
Let me think: was I
  the same when I got up this morning? I almost
think I can
  remember feeling a little different. But if I'm
not the same,
  the question is. Who in the world am I? Ah, that's the
great
  puzzle!"
  Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, Lewis
Carroll
  "When I used to read fairy-tales, I
fancied that kind of thing
  never happened, and now here I am in the middle of
one!"
  Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, Lewis
Carroll
  "good LORD, ARE YOU UNWELL, Andrew?"
  Bishop Caines stared at the priest, shocked by the
change
  in the man. He had looked ill when the bishop
had spoken
  to him just a few weeks before, but now his physical
  appearance had deteriorated alarmingly. Bishop
Caines
  moved forward and took the priest's hand, then
indicated
  toward an armchair opposite his desk. He
looked questioningly
  at Monsignor Delgard, but the tall
priest's expression
  remained impassive.
  "I think perhaps a small brandy might do you some
  good."
  "No, no, I'm fine, really," Father Hagan
protested.
  "Nonsense. It'll give you back some color.
Peter, the
  same for you?"
  Delgard shook his head. "Perhaps some tea?" he
said,
  looking directly at the bishop's secretary,
who had shown
  them into the study.
  "Yes, of course," said Bishop Caines,
returning to his
  seat behind the desk. "Both for me, I think,
Judith. I may
  need it." He smiled at his secretary and she
left the room.
  The smile dropped as soon as the door closed.
  "I'm extremely disturbed, gentlemen. I would
have preferred
  that you came to me yesterday."
  Monsignor Delgard had walked to the study's
leaded
  window overlooking the secluded garden. The weak,
late-February
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                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   sunlight settled into the far side of the neat,
   partly shadowed lawn, unable to draw the moisture
from it, sparkling off the dew. It had rained heavily
during the night and throughout the preceding afternoon; the sun
had
   looked as though it were still recovering from the soaking.
He turned toward the portly bishop.
   "I'm afraid that was not possible." His voice was
low,
   but the words filled the dark, wood-paneled study.
"We
   couldn't leave the church. Bishop, not after what had
   taken place. There was too much hysteria."
   Bishop Caines said nothing. He had assigned
Monsignor
   Delgard to watch over the younger priest and his
church,
   to control any situation that might arise over this
girl and
   her apparitions; his role was to observe, influence,
and
   report. Peter Delgard was a priest not
unused to incidents
   of the alleged paranormal or supernatural, his
reputation
   for bringing sanity to insane situations renowned in
   ecclesiastical circles. He was a quiet,
remote man, sometimes
   intimidating in his intensity; yet one knew
instantly
   that he was a man of compassion, someone who shared the
   suffering of others as if the burden were his own. His
authoritative quietness did little to reveal this
side of his nature, but it was present in his aura as
clearly as it must
   have been in Christ's. The bishop trusted
Monsignor
   Delgard, respected his judgment, acknowledged his
wisdom
   in matters that were often too bizarre for his own
   sensibilities to accept, and he was a little
afraid of the tall
   priest.
   Delgard was looking out of the window again. "I thought,
too, that Father Hagan needed some rest," he said.
   Bishop Caines studied the priest in the
armchair. Yes,
   he could see that: Father Hagan looked as though the
   shock had been too much. His flesh was grayer
than the
   last time; his eyes were dark, a look of desperation
in
   them.
   "Father, you look drained. Is it because of what
happened
   yesterday?" he asked.
   "I don't know, Bishop," the priest answered,
his voice
   almost a whisper. "I haven't been sleeping too
well over
   the past few weeks. Last night I hardly
slept at all."
   "I'm not surprised. But there's no need for it
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                             James Herbert - The Shrine
to cause
   you such anxiety. Indeed, there may be much
to celebrate."
   The bishop became aware of Delgard watching
him.
   "Don't you agree, Peter his
   A brooding silence, then, "It's too soon
to know." The
   monsignor's stoop seemed more pronounced as he
slowly
   strode from the window and sat in the study's other
   armchair. He regarded Bishop Caines with
eyes that saw
   too much. "What took place is quite
inexplicable, beyond
   anything I've ever witnessed before. Five people were
   cured. Bishop, four of them no more than
children. It's
   somewhat early to say how complete were their cures,
but
   as from two hours ago, when I checked with each
one,
   there had been no relapses."
   "Of course, we cannot accept these cures as
miraculous
   until the medical authorities have made a
thorough
   examination of those involved," Bishop Caines
said, and
   there was a carefully subdued eagerness in his tone.
   "It will be a long time before the Church can even
   accept them as cures, let alone
'miraculous," was Delgard
   replied. "The procedure before such a proclamation
is
   made is lengthy, to say the least."
   "Quite so," the bishop agreed. "And properly so."
He
   found Delgard's stare disconcerting. "I managed
to reach
   the cardinal archbishop last night after you
telephoned me.
   He has reiterated my own feelings that we must
tread
   warily: he has no desire for the Roman
Catholic Church in
   England to look foolish. He wants a full
report before
   anything is announced to the media, and any
statements
   must come directly from his offices."
   Hagan was shaking his head. "I'm afraid it's
beyond our
   control. Bishop. The reporter, Gerry Fenn,
was there
   again yesterday. We haven't yet seen the early
edition of
   the Courier, but you can be sure the event will receive
full
   coverage."
   "He was there? Good Lord, the man's intuition must
be
   incredible."
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                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   "I think not," Delgard put in. "Apparently
the rumor
   that Alice was to receive another "visitation" was
spread
   around Banfield long before Sunday."
   "I forbade her mother to bring her," Hagan said just
as
   the door opened and Judith entered with a tray of
drinks.
   "I think that was unwise." Bishop Caines
nodded for his
   secretary to leave the tray on a small table
at the side of the
   room. He waited for her to leave before he spoke
again.
   "Most unwise. You cannot forbid people to come to church,
   Father."
   "I thought it best that Alice stay away for a
while."
   "Best for whom?"
   "For Alice, of course."
   Delgard cleared his throat. "I think Father
Hagan was
   concerned over the traumatic effect the child's
obsession
   was having on her."
   "Yes, that was one reason. The other is that I
don't
   want St. Joseph's turned into a
fairground!" His voice had
   become strained, almost strident, and his two
colleagues
   looked at him in surprise. Delgard
appraised him with
   troubled eyes.
   Bishop Caines rose with an audible sigh and
went to the
   tray of drinks. He handed the brandy to the pale
priest.
   "Its a little early for this kind of beverage, I
know, but it
   will do you good, Andrew." He noticed the priest's
hand
   was trembling as he took the drink and quickly
looked
   across at Delgard. The monsignor's face was
impassive,
   although he, too, was watching Father Hagan.
   Bishop Caines turned back to the small side
table. "No
   sugar for you, Peter? No, I remember." He
gave the tea to
   Delgard, then placed his own and the brandy on the
desk.
   "Tell me more about this reporter," he said as he
took his
   seat once again. "Just how much did he see?"
   Hagan sipped his drink, hating the taste and the
burning
   it caused to his throat. "He saw everything.
He was there
   from the beginning."
   "Well, no matter. The news would have soon
                                       Page 123
                            James Herbert - The Shrine
got out.
  What we must consider now is how we should
proceed.
  Where is the girl, this Alice Pagett?"
  Delgard spoke. "I thought it best that she and her
mother
  should move into the convent in the village for -i few
days;
  there she cannot be bothered by the press."
  "Her mother agreed?"
  "She's a devout Catholic and willing to follow
our
  guidance. Her husband, I'm afraid, is
another matter. I
  doubt he'll let us keep Alice there for
long."
  "He's not Catholic?"
  Father Hagan managed to smile. "Most
definitely not.
  An atheist."
  "Hmm, that's a pity."
  Delgard wondered at the meaning behind the bishop's
  remark: was it a pity that the man did not believe
in God,
  or that as a non-Catholic he could not be so
easily manipulated
  by the Church? Delgard did not enjoy having such
  suspicions about Bishop Caines' motives,
but he knew the
  man was ambitious. Even men of the cloth were not
without
  that stain.
  "I think perhaps I should see the child and her mother,"
  the bishop said, sipping his brandy thoughtfully. "If
Alice
  really has been blessed, there could be certain
consequences
  to the Church in England."
  "An upsurge of religious fervor?"
Delgard said bluntly.
  "A return to the faith for thousands,"
replied the bishop.
  Father Hagan looked quickly from one man to the other.
  "You mean St. Joseph's could become a
shrine?"
  "Surely you realized that?" said Bishop
Caines. "If this
  girl really did have a vision of the Blessed
Virgin, then
  pilgrimages will be made from all over the world
to worship
  at the place of the visitation. It would be a most
  wonderful thing."
  "Yes, it would," said Delgard. "But as I said
earlier,
  there is a long and extremely thorough process
to be gone
  through before any such declaration can be made."
  "I'm well aware of that, Peter. The first thing
I must do
  is bring forward the Conference of Bishops and place
all
  the information we have before them. I shall ask for the
                                      Page 124
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  apostolic delegate to be present so that the
matter can be
  brought to the Pope's attention without
delay and perhaps
  discussed at the next Synod in Rome."
  "With due respect, Bishop, I feel we
may be moving too
  fast," said Hagan, clenching his brandy glass
tightly. "We
  have no proof at all that Alice really saw Our
Lady, or that
  the cures were miraculous."
  "That is what has to be ascertained," the bishop
quickly
  replied. "Whether we like it or not, the news will
spread
  rapidly. I dread to think of the sensation this man,
Fenn,
  will make of it. Five cures, Andrew, five.
Six counting
  Alice Pagett's own recovery. Do you not
realize the excitement
  it will cause, not just among Catholics but in the
  hearts of all people who believe in the Divine
Power?
  Whether or not St. Joseph's rs declared a
holy shrine will be
  quite irrelevant; people will flock to the site
in thousands
  out of sheer curiosity. That is why the Catholic
Church
  must control the situation from the beginning."
  Father Hagan seemed to shrink into himself, but the
  bishop would not relent. "There are many
precedents," he
  continued, "the most famous being Lourdes. There was
  tremendous resistance by the Church authorities in
accepting
  that Bemadette Soubirous had truly seen the
Immaculate
  Conception, and it wasn't just the overwhelming
  evidence of miraculous cures and
Bernadette's obvious integrity
  that influenced their final judgment: it was public
  opinion itself. The Church could not disregard the
situation
  because the people--and they were not just local
  people--would not allow it. Do you realize how many
  thousands flock to the shrine to Our Lady in
Aylesford
  each year? And there is no evidence at all that
an apparition
  of the Virgin Mary appeared there. In
fact, the Church
  authorities do not even suggest it. Yet
pilgrims visit every
  year from all over the world. The same applies to the
other
  shrine at Walsingham. If people want to believe,
then no
  edict from the Church will persuade them otherwise."
  "Are you saying we should acknowledge Alice's
story?"
                                      Page 125
                            James Herbert - The Shrine
  asked Hagan.
  "Absolutely not. The whole matter will be
carefully
  looked into before any official statement is made.
What I
  am saying is that we must act swiftly to govern
whatever
  else happens at St. Joseph's. Don't you
agree, Peter?" He
  glanced at the tall priest, whose eyes were
downcast.
  He spoke slowly, his words measured. "I
agree that the
  situation will develop of its own accord. We have
already
  had experience of that with the large crowd that gathered
  at the church yesterday. Even this morning, before the
  news has broken in the press, and on a working
day, there
  was a large gathering. In a way, it's a relief
to be here
  away from them. Nevertheless, I feel we must not
yet
  offer any encouragement."
  "No, no, of course not."
  "We must first interview each one of the persons
apparently
  cured yesterday. Their individual doctors must
also
  be approached for permission to examine their medical
  records. I think we will easily gain
permission from the
  patients themselves, so the doctors in question should have
  no objection. I propose the immediate formation of a
medical
  commission, one that is independent of the Catholic
  Church, which can investigate fully the medical
histories
  of these six fortunate people--I include Alice,
of course.
  With the enormous interest that will generate from
yesterday's
  spectacular"--a wry smile--"I see no
problem in that
  respect. Indeed, I imagine an inquiry would
be instigated
  without our bidding."
  Bishop Caines nodded and avoided looking
directly into
  the monsignor's penetrating eyes.
  "Also," Delgard went on, "if we are
to follow the example
  of Lourdes, I feel we must consider
organizing our
  own medical bureau on the site of the shrine."
  Bishop Caines could no longer contain his
eagerness.
  "Yes, that would be sensible. So many alleged
miracles
  have been dismissed in the past because of lack of
scientific
  or medical data."
  "We must be fully aware, Bishop, that therein
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                            James Herbert - The Shrine
lies the
  danger to the Church itself. It could leave us
open to
  ridicule if logical and sound reasons are
found for what
  happened. At this very moment one of the Catholic
Church's
  greatest mysteries may well be explained away
by science,
  and the beliefs of millions will suffer because of it."
  "You mean the Shroud?"
  "Yes, the Turin Shroud. Thermographic
investigation,
  infrared spectroscopy, radiography,
electronic miscroscopy,
  and chemical analysis--all these scientific
means have been
  used to prove or disprove that the image on the
length of
  linen discovered in 1356 is that of Christ. As
yet, nothing
  conclusive has emerged from any of those tests.
Needless
  to say, the Church is regarded with some suspicion
for not
  allowing a further vital--according to the scientists--
test. I
  refer to carbon dating."
  "But that would require destroying a fairly large
section
  of cloth," Bishop Caines protested. "We
could never allow
  that."
  "Methods of testing have been considerably
improved
  since permission was last sought. No more than
twenty-five
  mg. of material would be needed. Yet still we say
"no"
  and the public wonders just what it is that we're
afraid of."
  "All the more reason we should not suppress our
findings
  on this matter. I think we have nothing to fear,
  although I'm in full agreement about proceeding
cautiously."
  "I ... I think we're making a grave
mistake."
  The two clerics turned toward Father Hagan.
He was
  leaning forward in his seat, hands clasped tightly
together.
  Bishop Caines was alarmed at the distress on the
priest's
  face. "Why do you say that, Andrew? What is it
that's
  troubling you?"
  The priest rubbed a hand against his temple. "It's
just a
  feeling. Bishop. I don't know why, or what
it is, but I feel
  things are not right. There's an atmosphere about the
  church ..."
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                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  "Do you feel this . . . this atmosphere,
Peter?" the bishop
  asked.
  Delgard paused before answering. "No, I'm
afraid I
  don't. At least not the kind that Father Hagan is
evidently
  referring to. Yesterday there was a tension in the air
that
  was almost tangible, but it was caused by the congregation
  itself. I've experienced mass hysteria before, but
cannot
  positively say it was the same. I'm sure
scientists will
  theorize on mass hypnosis, collective
hysteria, mass
  suggestion, and they may well prove to be
correct. I know
  I fell to my knees to worship what was before
me."
  "The child"
  "What she represented. Or appeared
to represent."
  "Then you felt her holiness?"
  "I can't be sure. A weakness seemed
to overcome the
  whole crowd, not just Father Hagan and myself, but I
just
  cannot remember my emotions. I can only
remember the
  weakness, the incredibility of what had just taken
place.
  Perhaps a psychologist could explain the
phenomenon. Or a parapsychologist."
  "I meant the atmosphere at St.
Joseph's," said Father
  Hagan quietly. "It feels so cold."
  The bishop gave a little laugh. "It is winter,
you know.
  The church is bound to feel cold."
  "No, it's not just a physical coldness. And it
isn't confined
  to just the church; it's in the grounds, in the
  presbytery."
  "You appeared to be under some strain the last rime
I
  saw you, Andrew," Bishop Caines said not
unkindly. "It
  was one of the reasons I asked Monsignor
Delgard to help
  you--that, and because of his experience in such
extraordinary
  matters. Frankly, your health seems to have
suffered
  considerably since last we met. Are you sure
your general
  disposition does not account for these strange feelings
you
  have?"
  "I'm sure. I admit I haven't been in the
best of health
  lately, but I think that, in itself, may be due
to present
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  circumstances."
  "I don't see how, unless it's the publicity
that's upsetting
  you. If that is the case--"
  "No!"
  The bishop blinked in surprise.
  "I'm sorry, Bishop," the priest
apologized. "I didn't
  mean to raise my voice. Please forgive me.
But there is
  something more, something happening that I don't understand."
  "We are all aware of that, Father," said Bishop
Caines,
  keeping the irritation from his voice.
  "I don't just mean with Alice Pagett. There
is something
  more ..."
  "Yes, yes, you have already said that. Can you explain
  exactly what you mean?"
  The priest slumped back in his seat and closed his
eyes.
  "I wish I knew," he said after a while.
  "Then I think it best--" A gentle rapping on
the door
  interrupted his words.
  "Yes, Judith?" the bishop called
out.
  The secretary peered around the door. "A call
from
  London, Bishop. It's the Daily Mail,
I'm afraid. They say
  they would like a statement from you on the incident at
  St. Joseph's in Banfield yesterday."
  "Well, gentlemen," the bishop said, "it seems
the story
  has broken nationally. Put the call through, my
dear, then
  contact His Eminence for me when I've finished."
  He lifted the receiver and Delgard was not sure if
his
  smile was one of resignation or anticipation. As
the bishop
  began to speak, Delgard noticed that Father
Hagan's hands
  were clenched around the arms of his chair. Clenched so
  tightly that the knuckles showed gleaming white through
  the pallid skin.
  "I can't explain myself. Fin afraid, sir,"
said Alice, "because Fm
  not myself, you see."
  Alice's Adventures in Wonderland,
Lewis Carroll
  Tuesday, midmorning
  SOUTHWORTH SMILED AS HE POURED himself
a sherry. He filled the glass almost to the top.
Normally a half-glass
  was adequate, a private midmorning treat he
occasionally
  allowed himself, but today there was something to celebrate.
  An emergency meeting of the parish council had
been
  called the previous evening because of the new
"Banfield
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                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   Miracles," the astonishing cures that had taken
place at St.
   Joseph's on Sunday. And not just cures: many
claimed
   they had seen Alice Pagett levitate.
Southworth, who had
   also been there, wasn't certain of that aspect, for
his view
   had been somewhat restricted by those in front of
him, but
   he was ready to believe almost anything after the
breathtaking cures. The child's levitation could have been
imagined, such was the intense feeling running
through the crowd,
   but there was no imagining the healing of the invalids.
   Even now, even though he was an eyewitness, it was
   difficult to accept.
   Fortunately, there was no question of fraudulence. The
   five who had been cured had genuine illnesses,
all confirmed by their own doctors, and further
guaranteed by
   the medical records from the hospitals they had
attended.
   Those illnesses and debilities had disappeared
completely
   in all but two cases: the man whose cataracts
had cleared
   still did not have perfect vision, although the morning
   report was that his sight was steadily improving; the
crippled
   boy still had difficulty in walking unassisted, but
this
   could hardly be otherwise with his wasted leg
muscles--
   his condition was expected to improve as his legs
grew
   stronger.
   Southworth sipped the dry sherry and
glanced over the
   newspapers spread before him on his desk. The
story was
   now worldwide news. Banfield was literally
crawling with
   media people. Press, television, magazines--
all wanted the
   story. The village was bustling in a way it never
had
   before, nor had ever expected to. It was alive!
The residents
   were bewildered, but the world knew of their
   existence! And they, the villagers, were responding
to the
   sudden attention. Not just responding, but thriving on
it!
   Of course, there were those who found the publicity
   unwelcome, those who preferred their cosy,
stagnating
   privacy, but they were in the minority. An indication
of
   the high excitement generating through Banfield was
conveyed
   at the council meeting on Monday evening. Never
   had he seen his fellow members so
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active! And so willing
  to listen to plans of expansion.
  There was no question but that St. Joseph's would
  become a shrine after last night's news
broadcast and this
  morning's headlines, even if the Catholic
Church refused
  to proclaim it as such. The publicity alone would
undoubtedly
  attract pilgrims, tourists and
thrill-seekers to the area
  in their thousands (one councillor, the manager of
one of
  Banfield's two national banks, was carried
away with the
  whole idea enough to estimate the number in
millions, a
  reckoning that drew guffaws from his fellow
members,
  although secretly not entirely rejected by them).
Southworth
  ventured that the Church would be forced into making
  concessions and might even relish the situation.
What more
  could any religion ask for than a
present-day miracle to
  perpetuate the faith? He knew the bishop of the
diocese,
  Bishop Caines, personally, and would arrange for a
meeting
  to discuss recent events. He would also broach the
  subject of how they could combine forces to meet the
  human deluge that must surely descend upon the
area.
  Southworth had spoken with the bishop that morning
  and had been surprised at the eminent cleric's
general
  receptiveness to the council's proposition.
Yes, he understood
  absolutely the need for agreement between the parish
  council and the Church in the coming months, and he
  would endeavor to cooperate fully with any plans
put
  forward by them provided they did not entail cheap
exploitation
  or pertain to any activities which would infringe on
  the dignity of the Catholic Church itself.
Southworth was
  more than pleased with the statement, albeit somewhat
  pompous, and assured Bishop Caines
that the council had
  no intention of commercializing what must be considered
a
  most holy event. The bishop warned him without
hesitation
  that it could not yet, and perhaps never would, be
  proclaimed a "holy" event. Indeed, the whole
matter would
  require lengthy examination to determine the
validity of
  Alice Pagett's vision and the cures that had
ensued within
  a religious context. His Eminence, the cardinal
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                             James Herbert - The Shrine
archbishop,
   had expressed deep concern and urged caution.
   Bishop Caines went on to suggest that a meeting
between
   members of the council, Monsignor Delgard,
whom
   the bishop had appointed overseer at St.
Joseph's, and
   Father Hagan might prove fruitful at this
early stage.
   They would report back to him and he in turn would
   report to the Conference of Bishops.
   Southworth had thought that to be an excellent
idea. In
   fact, he would stage two meetings: one informal,
between
   him and the two clergymen in which he could appraise
   their attitudes (and perhaps he would invite the
reporter,
   Fenn, along too); another, larger meeting
involving the rest
   of the council. In that way he could smooth the path
   first--certain colleagues on the council were a little
too
   earnest with their ideas. Like Rodney Tucker, they
were
   non-Catholics and inclined to forget the
sensitivities of the
   religious. Most of the councillors were long-standing
members
   of the community, their family histories, as did
his,
   tracing back through the centuries to the beginnings of the
   village itself, somewhere in the fourteenth century.
It had
   been known as Banefeld then, a community formed
by
   those who had fled the horrors of the Black Death,
which
   had become rife in the more densely populated
towns.
   Those early settlers had thrived on the rich
agricultural
   land of the area and had stayed, content to ignore the
   changing face of England, like so many other small
   communes. Nothing world-shattering had ever happened
   in Banfield; perhaps a few minor misdeeds through
the
   centuries, but nothing of any great consequence. But
now
   the village had the opportunity to rise from
obscurity, a
   chance to save itself from the oblivion it was slowly and
   surely sinking into. And the council members
knew it--
   even the old keep-the-world-away-from-our-door
diehards
   were aware. Those with family names entwined with
   Banfield's inglorious and uneventful past
saw the chance,
   not just to revive the moldering corpse, but to inject
  with a life far more brilliant than it had ever
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                            James Herbert - The Shrine
experienced,
  and so to restablish their own history.
  And all were excited by the prosperity this dramatic
and
  awesome incident could bring them.
  Southworth smiled again. It was difficult not to.
  Wednesday, early evening
  She pulled the covers up to her neck and lay there
staring
  at the ceiling, waiting for him to come out of the
bathroom.
  That was one of Rodney's good points: he was
clean. He
  always washed himself before and after. His mind wasn't
  as clean, but that didn't bother Paula too much;
her own
  thoughts could be just as raunchy.
  She rubbed her hands over her stomach, the feeling
  sensuous, almost as enjoyable as if it were another's
fingers
  probing the flesh. Paula, still single, knew
well the pleasures
  of her own body. She checked her nipples
to see if
  they were erect, wanting to be at her most
desirable for
  her employer, tweaking them both for full
projection. The
  toilet flushed and she became a little impatient
with Rodney's
  ritual. Keep cool, Paula, she told
herself, tonight wasn't
  the night for upsetting him. Tonight was progress
night.
  She'd given him enough to worry about over the past
few
  weeks, now was the time for a little mercy, a little
loving,
  a little giving on her part. It was a fine balance,
keeping
  him anxious and keeping him interested.
  He was in a buoyant mood, for his plans were
going
  well. The village was stirring, at last
awakening to the big
  world beyond its semirural confines. Things were moving
  and Tucker was moving with them.
  Paula's fingers probed lower, sliding their way
through
  tough dark hair like snakes through undergrowth, middle
  finger, the leader of the pack, finding the dip below.
She
  opened herself, knowing Rodney liked to find her wet
and
  waiting, and caught her breath at the stab of
pleasure.
  There was something sordidly exciting about making
love
  in a motel bedroom, the kind of self-abasement
that went
  with self-abuse, and Paula was partial to both.
She would
  have preferred a candlelight dinner for two,
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                             James Herbert - The Shrine
followed by a
   night of love in a plush hotel suite, energy
and ideas
   sustained by an ice bucket containing Dom
Perignon (there
   were several things she could do with a linen towel packed
   with ice). But failing that, a gin and tonic and a
motel fuck
   had some merit.
   She heard Rodney splashing at the bathroom
sink and
   worked a little more vigorously at herself, only too
aware
   that her employer was not the most lingering of lovers.
   Too many times she had lost the climax race
to him;
   nowadays she made sure she had a head start.
She moaned
   a little and closed her eyes.
   Tucker watched her from the open doorway, enjoying
   the view. He loved her to do it to herself, so long as
she
   held back on the best bit for him. It saved
him a lot of
   preliminary work.
   Paula confused him, for her moods seemed
to change
   from day to day. It was worrying, too: on her really
bad
   days there was more than just a hint of hysteria in her
   actions. When she shouted at him, she didn't
seem to care
   who heard and twice she had suggested that it might
be
   better in the long run if Marcia found out about
their
   afrair. She was fed up with being treated like a
trollop.
   He wondered how the hell else you treated a
trollop.
   But today and yesterday she had been all sweetness and
   light and genuinely pleased at his personal good
fortune (or
   imminent good fortune). Maybe she had just caught
the
   village's carnival atmosphere. Or maybe
she wanted a part
   in his new schemes.
   Tucker's freshly washed penis indicated its
impatience by
   pressing uncomfortably against his underpants. Never
one
   to keep a personal friend waiting, he made for the
bed,
   where Paula's movements were becoming a little too
frantic.
   She opened her eyes and smiled lasciviously
at him, her
   hand slowing to walking pace.
   "Enjoying yourself?" he said, unbuttoning his shirt

  placing it nearly over his trousers draped on the
back of a
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                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  nearby chair. The ginger hair on his floppy
chest stuck
  through his string vest like stuffing from an old sofa.
  "Just waiting for you, lover," she replied, and
slowly
  drew back the covers for him. She allowed him a
titillating
  glance at her naked body, then let them fall
back over her.
  Take your vest off, lovey," she said as he
clambered in
  next to her. Paula didn't relish having the
crosscross pattern
  all over her breasts and stomach.
  He squatted in the bed and struggled out of his vest,
the
  released blubber swimming around the waistline of his
  underpants for a second before finding its level.
My God,
  Paula thought, it was like being fucked by a whale.
  Switching off the wall light on his side of the
bed,
  but leaving hers on, he wriggled down under
the blankets.
  Without preamble a cold hand closed around her right
  breast like a metal claw in an amusement
arcade's lucky
  dip.
  "Wait, Rod," she said pleadingly, "there's no
rush."
  Paula squirmed against him to make sure he
realized there
  was no rebuke or rejection in her words.
"Besides"--she
  giggled--"I've got a little treat for you."
  Tucker's ears pricked up and his penis took a
new
  interest. Paula's "little treats" were usually
worth delaying
  the action for.
  Her hand roamed around his chest, over his belly,
then
  around to his fleshy back. Delicate fingers
surfed through
  the tidal wave of fat to swoop down beneath the
stretched
  elastic of his underpants and splay out over his
buttocks.
  He nuzzled her neck in appreciation.
  She murmured something and he said, "What?"
  "I said, did you see Southworth this morning?"
Her teeth chewed his nipple.
  He grunted and she took it as an
affirmative.
  Paula drew away when he said nothing more and
looked
  into his face.
  "Well?" she said.
  "Well, what?"
  "What happened at the council meeting? What was
  decided?"
  "Oh, bloody hell, I don't want to talk
about that now."
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                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  He yelped when she dug in her long fingernails.
  "You know I'm interested in your affairs,
Rodney."
  "You are my affair, precious."
  He yelped again.
  "You know what I mean," she scolded. "You've
got
  ideas. Rod. You could do things in this town."
  "That's true enough. Anyway, I think it's
all set." He turned onto his back,
sex forgotten for the moment, ambitions elbowing the
physical need aside.
  "They've given the go-ahead for another shop?"
  "No, no, they don't move that fast. But they
re listening
  to Southworth now; he's shifting them off their
backsides.
  And the way it's going, my lovely, it might mean
more than
  just another shop. It might mean a bloody big
supermarket,
  bigger than the one I've already got." He
chuckled and she
  joined in.
  "So you'd probably need me to run this one on
my own,
  then, so you could get on with organizing everything,"
she
  said slyly.
  "Uh. Well, yes ... I suppose I would.
Its early days,
  though, pet. You know, anything might happen."
She
  couldn't see the frown on his face.
  Too bloody right it could, Paula
thought. Tourism was
  going to hit the town in a big way if this shrine
business
  came off, and a lot of money was going to be made.
She
  knew Tucker well enough to realize he would be at
the
  front of the queue, arms spread wide to receive the
benefit.
  And she intended to be there right alongside him,
Marcia
  Tucker or no Marcia Tucker.
  His frown was replaced by a smile as he went
over the
  meeting with Southworth in his mind. The hotel owner
  wasn't one for overexuberance, but even he couldn't
contain
  his delight. New development plans would be
pushed
  forward to the Horsham District Council over the
next
  few months with an incautious speed that had never
before
  been allowed. Expansion--rapid expansion--
was a necessity.
  The village was already jammed solid with
sightseers and
  even if another "miracle" never occurred again,
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                            James Herbert - The Shrine
the legend
  was already born. The incredible amount of worldwide
  publicity had seen to that.
  He chuckled again. It was only because the motel
manager
  knew Tucker would not require the room all
night
  that he had kept it free for him. The motel was
packed,
  almost every room taken by media people, the rest by
  tourists, and he and Paula had to be out by ten so that
a
  camera crew from I lolland could move in.
  "What are you laughing at?" Paula asked,
giggling herself.
  "Just the thought of glories to come, my darling.
Banfield
  won't know what's hit it."
  She wasn't cold, but Paula shivered. It was
almost as if
  something icy had touched her. She shrugged off the
  peculiar feeling.
  "You won't be too busy for me, will you. Rod?"
Her
  voice was wheedling again and her hand was tugging at his
  underpants.
  "You, my love? No way. I'll always have time
for you."
  He moaned as she yanked the pants down and
lifted his fat
  bottom so that they would go all the way.
Physical need
  was back on top again. "Hey, what's my
special treat?" he
  reminded her.
  Paula sat up, her thrusting breasts bouncing
together
  with the sudden movement. Tucker couldn't resist
nipping
  at her well-rounded bottom as she turned from him
and
  stretched down beside the bed. She gave a little
screech
  and wriggled her rump; he kissed it better,
wondering
  what she was reaching for.
  She came up with a paper-wrapped
bottle and he guessed
  its contents immediately. He couldn't stop grinning as
  Paula unwrapped the Freezomint. "Have you
been raiding
  the store again?" he asked without malice.
  "I know you don't mind me helping myself to this,
  Rodney. Not when it's for your benefit.
  She unscrewed the top and took a deep swig
of the creme
  de menthe, gargling it around her mouth and throat
until
  they were coated with the green liquid. She
swallowed,
  then drank again, her tongue burning as she
wriggled it in
  the cold, stinging liquid. Her eyes were
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                            James Herbert - The Shrine
seductively half-closed
  when she placed the bottle on the bedside unit
and
  Tucker's were wide open in anticipation.
  His penis, short but stocky, was already tingling, but
  he knew it was nothing like the shocking tingling it would
  feel when her lips and tongue closed around it.
  He was smiling again as she lowered her head toward
  his body. All in all, it had been a
good day.
  Thursday, early morning
  Alice stood in her nightdress staring out of the
window.
  The sun hurt her eyes, although there was little warmth
  from it. Behind her, the bedclothes on the nun's cot
were "rumpled as though her sleep had not been easy.
As yet, there were no other sounds in the convent, for the
sun had
  not long risen. Soon, though, the nuns would be
gathered
  for prayer in the room used as a chapel, and
Alice's mother
  would be among them, thanking God for the honor he
had
  bestowed upon her and her daughter.
  There was no expression on Alice's face.
  Only twelve nuns lived in the convent, for it was
merely
  a large house, acquired ten years before from a
retired
  theater actor who had moved abroad to sunnier
climes. Its comwalls were painted cream, doors and
window frames white. A high brick wall kept
the nuns their privacy and beyond
  the heavy black gates, which were as high as the wall
  itself, was a spacious yard where they parked their
Morris
  1100 and minibus. The minibus was used during the
week
  to collect the village children who attended the
Catholic
  school four miles away, in which the nuns
taught.
  The high gates, solidly forbidding, and the
surrounding wall had been a formidable defense against
the hordes of
  reporters that had descended upon Banfield
during the
  past week, for it had soon become known that little
Alice
  Pagett was being kept at the convent for her own
privacy
  and protection.
  The convent was situated at the southern end of the
  town, close to a sharp bend where the main road
turned
  left for Brighton and another, minor road continued
straight
  on into the Downs. A garage was on the
bend itself and
  the nuns knew the proprietor was hiring out the
offices
  above to camera crews and photographers so that they
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                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  could film over the convent wall. There was little the
nuns
  could do about the situation but pray chat Alice's
mind
  would not be too disturbed by the frantic attention.
  Alice's spartan room overlooked the courtyard
at the
  front of the convent. Apart from the small bed, it
contained
  only a chair, a straw rug, and a small sink
in the
  corner. A plain wooden crucifix hung on
the wall. Two of
  Alice's favorite dolls shared her bed at
night, but each
  morning her mother found them thrown into the far corner
  of the room.
  Molly Pagett slept next door, close
to her daughter, and
  had spent most nights since moving in with the sisters
  lying awake mumbling prayers and listening
for any disturbance
  in Alice's room. Her eyes were red-rimmed
through
  lack of sleep and her face and stance seemed to have
aged
  ten years since the miracles had begun. A
woman always
  devoted to the Church, it had now become her
obsession.
  Alice did not appear to feel the chill as she
stood at the
  window, nor did the birds that swooped into the
courtyard
  interest her.
  She hated the convent, hated its sparseness, its
lack of
  comfort. And she disliked the dull grayness of the
nuns'
  habits. She was frightened of the doctors who tested
and
  probed her, who examined her body and asked her
  questions, questions, questions. And she was tired of the
  questions from the priests, from the nuns, from . . . from
  . . . just about everybody who spoke to her.
  She wanted to leave this place.
  She wanted to go back to the church.
  She wanted to see the tree.
  A movement below caught her attention. The cat
had
  leaped from the high wall into an empty flower bed
at the
  courtyard's side. It stalked lazily across the
damp cobbles,
  the birds having already flown. It stopped.
Looked up.
  Saw the small figure in white watching it.
  It sat and gazed upward.
  For the first time in days Alice smiled. Her hand
unconsciously
  touched her side and rubbed at the small lump
six
  inches below her heart. The doctors had shown great
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                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  interest in the strange protuberance at first and her
mother
  had explained it had always been there, although very
  tiny, and nothing to worry about, so her local
doctor had
  said. They had agreed it was nothing to worry about and
  did not mention nor probe it again.
  But it itched now and was bigger, though not
much,
  than before. Alice rubbed at it as she watched the
cat and
  her smile did not seem that of an
eleven-year-old.
SEVENTEEN
  A slumber did my spirit seal;
  I had no human fears:
  She seemed n thing that could not feel
  The touch of earthly years.
  William Wordsworth
  "HEY, COME ON, SUE, OPEN up!"
  Fenn put his head against the door and listened. He
  knew she had to be in there because he had rung from the
  call box on the corner just a few minutes
earlier and put
  down the phone as she'd answered. Twice that
week Sue
  had hung up on him and twice she had been out
when he'd
  gone to her flat. It had given him no
satisfaction to hang
  up on her in return, but he wanted to see her.
It was time
  to stop frigging around. If she really
wanted to end it,
  fine--but she would have to tell him to his face.
  It had been a heavy, glorious week. The
Courier had
  syndicated his personal story of the "Banfield
Miracles" to
  most of the nationals both in Britain and abroad,
while
  magazines, periodicals, and television
companies were offering
  substantial amounts for follow-up stories and
  interviews. In just four days he had become what
could
  only be termed a "media figure," the Alice
Pagett phenomena
  inextricably linked with his own name, for it had
  been his firsthand coverage of both extraordinary
events--
  the first vision and miracle experienced by Alice
herself,
  and the subsequent five miracles on the second
Sunday--
  that had caught the attention of millions around the
world.
  He was riding high and enjoying the
journey.
  There was movement inside.
  "It's me. Sue."
  Only silence.
  "Come on, Sue, I only want to talk."
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                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  The door chain being slid back, the latch being
turned.
  Sue peering through a six-inch gap.
  ""I here's nothing much to say, Gerry."
  "Oh, yeah? That's your considered opinion?"
  "Have you been drinking?"
  "Sure."
  It looked as if she was going to close the door
again, so
  he put his hand against it.
  "Sue, let's just talk a little. I promise
to leave within ten
  minutes if you want me to."
  For a moment she was undecided and he lifted his
  eyebrows in a silent "please?" Sue
disappeared from view
  and with relief he pushed open the door. He
followed her
  down the short hallway into the living room. As
always
  the room was comfortably neat, lit by a small
lamp which
  cast intimate shadows. He saw she was in her
dressing gown.
  "Bed so early?" he asked. "It's only just
gone ten. His
  "It's late to call on someone," she replied,
sitting in an
  armchair. He realized she had carefully
avoided the sofa.
  He was about to sit on the arm of her chair when she
  shook her head and pointed at the sofa opposite.
With a
  sigh, he obeyed.
  Neither one spoke for several monents, then Sue
said,
  "You're making unite a name for yourself."
  He cleared his throat, hating the awkwardness.
"I was
  lucky enough to be on the spot. It's a
reporter's dream."
  "I'm glad you're reaping the benefit."
  "We went through this before, Sue. It's my job."
  "I'm not being sarcastic, Gerry. I really am
pleased for
  you. And I like the way you've written your
features;
  they've been factual, no gloss, no
exaggeration. Not like
  your first story."
  "There was no need for exaggeration. The truth was
  spectacular enough." He leaned forward, resisting
the urge
  to kneel at her feet. "So what is it, Sue?
Why haven't you
  wanted to see me, to speak to me? What the hell
have I
  done?"
  She looked into her hands. "I'm not sure if
it's you or
  just me. I've found my faith again, Gerry, and
I don't have
  time for anything else."
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                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  "You mean being a Catholic excludes being in
love with
  someone."
  "Of course not. I just think you're probably not
the
  right one."
  "Oh, terrific. Excuse my wicked
ways, but we seemed
  to get along pretty fine until you started with this
  Church business."
  "That's just the point! I've changed. But you
haven't."
  "Why the hell should I? I'm not a bloody
Catholic!"
  "You were witness to one of the most shattering and
  marvelous things that could happen on this earth. Why
  hasn't it meant anything to you?"
  "How d'you know it hasn't. You haven't seen
me all
  week. Today's Thursday; I could have sent in my
convert's
  application forms since Sunday!"
  "Stop joking, Gerry. I read your articles.
I know nothing's
  changed."
  "You said you liked them."
  "Yes, and I said they were factual. Cold and
factual, an
  impartial observer's account."
  "What did you expect?"
  "I expected you to be moved by what you saw! I
expected
  you to be spiritually moved!"
  Fenn's eyes widened in surprise. He shook
his head. "I
  don't get it."
  Her voice softened. "That's just it. You really
don't
  understand, do you?"
  He remained silent.
  "Everyone else present that day underwent some
deep,
  emotional experience; I know, I've spoken with
many of
  them since. They believe they witnessed a divine
act of
  God, healing miracles that proved His existence
beyond
  any doubt, and their lives have taken on a new
order
  because of it. Yet you feel nothing. You can't deny
what
  took place, but it has no effect on you.
What's wrong with
  you, Gerry? What makes you so ... so
unreachable?"
  "I'm not so sure it's just me. I
haven't had a chance to
  get near Father Hagan during the last few days
--he's
  avoided all contact with the press--but he
doesn't look too
  happy."
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   "Couldn't you see the poor man was overwhelmed
by it
   all? Six wonderful miracles. The levitation
of a young
   child who saw the Blessed Virgin. In his parish! Have
you
   any idea at all of the magnitude of what's
happened?
   Father Hagan is still in a state of shock and his own
   humility will see he stays that way for some time
to come.
   So don't dare compare his reaction to yours--because with
   you there's been no reaction at all except
to seize the
   opportunity to make a name for yourself."
   "That's unfair."
   "I know it's unfair and I'm not blaming you for
that. I
   just wish there was something more, some indication that
   your cynicism had been, if not broken, then at
least pierced."
   She was weeping freely and he felt a flush of
irrational
   guilt- He went to her, kneeling on the floor,
gently taking her
   wrists and pulling her hands away from her face.
She
   looked at him and there was sheer misery behind the
tears.
   "Oh, Gerry ..." she said, and then was in his
arms,
   head buried against his shoulders, her body shaking.
   His throat felt sticky and there was a heaviness
dragging
   at his chest. Sometimes a woman's crying could
make him
   cold, could numb his emotions so that he was accused
of
   having no feelings, an accusation that was often true
but
   only in relation to that particular woman or
situation.
   Fenn had learned to guard himself, to protect his own
   sensitivities against the demands of
others, past hurts,
   rejections, perhaps forgotten but their marks
indelibly made.
   With Sue there was no such protection. He hugged
her
   tight, close to tears himself.
   "I'm sorry," was all he could think of to say.
   "It's nor your fault, Gerry," she said
softly. "You can't
   help the way you are. Maybe I'm wrong in
wanting you to
   be different."
   "I love you. Sue."
   "I know you do, and I wish you didn't."
   "It's impossible not to."
   "Have you tried?"
   "All the time. It's no good, though, I'm
hooked."
   She pulled away slightly. "Gerry, I'm not
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                             James Herbert - The Shrine
sure anymore
   how I feel about you."
   That hurt. God, it hurt. He hugged her
back to him.
   "It's because of everything that's happening, Sue.
Things're
   moving too fast, it's confusing. Just don't make
me into the
   anti-Christ, eh?"
   "It's just that I'm seeing you differently. Oh,
I've known
   your failings--"
   "Failings? Me?"
   "I've known them and chosen to ignore them. Now,
   though, we seem to be in conflict with each other
..."
   "Not me with you, babe."
   "Then why can't you feel the same way? Why is
it just a
   launching pad for your own career, a way to make
money?"
   This time it was Fenn who pulled away. "Let me
tell
   you somethinn," he said. "I'll agree I'm
taking full advantage
   of a fantastic story that just happened to fall
smack
   into my lap. Any reporter worth his salt would
do the
   same. But there are others using the Banfield
Miracles for
   their own purposes too. You know, after Alice
saw her
   first vision and I wrote the feature, a guy
called Southworth
   contacted me. He's the owner of the Crown Hotel
in
   Banfield, a councillor, and from what I can
gather, owns
   quite a lot of property in the area. He and someone
called
   Tucker--another of Banfield's fat cats--
wanted to hire me
   to exploit the situation with follow-up articles,
keeping the
   place in the public eye, drumming up more
interest than
   was warranted at that time. Oh, they were a little more
   subtle with their proposition than that, but that was the
   strength of it. They wanted to start the carnival there
and
   then."
   He rested back on his heels. "You might be
pleased to
   know I turned them down."
   "It doesn't mean anything. Two men
out of a--"
   "Have you been into the village lately?"
   "Of course. I've been to St. Joseph's--"
   "No, not the church. The village itself. All the
mer
   chants can talk about is the money that's going to come
   pouring in. A lot of the property owners are
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                             James Herbert - The Shrine
applying for
   planning permission to turn their premises
into souvenir
   shops, tea shops, restaurants,
bed-andbreakfast--anything
   that will bring in money from the tourists that are already
   flocking in."
   "Now you are exaggerating." *
   "Am I? You should take a close look. A
kind of insanity
   has hit Banfield, and it's easy to see why.
For the first time
   in its history, the village is the focus of world
attention.
   Maybe it's because we re all sick of hearing
nothing but
   violence, wars, and depravity, maybe it's because
when
   something good happens, something that restores our faith
in
   goodness itself, we go overboard. Everybody loves
a miracle
   because it transcends this rotten stinking world we live
   in. Don't forget this is the age of science, where
everything
   is becoming explainable. Religion is nothing but
wish-fulfilling
   stories for the masses, love is only body
chemistry,
   art is a surge of conditioned reflexes. And now
we've got
   something that really is inexplicable. Something today, in
   this time!"
   "But you're saying the village only wants
to make money
   from it."
   "Sure it does. It doesn't mean they don't
believe in the
   miracles."
   "But they can't all be thinking that way."
   "In cash terms? No, of course not. There are
plenty who
   love what's happening for its own sake,
who feel proud
   their Banfield's been chosen to play host to the
Madonna."
   She listened closely for a hint of sarcasm, but
found
   none.
   "Yeah, they're happy and more than overawed.
Stunned--
   and grateful. There'll be the few who'll want
nothing to do
   with it, maybe some who'll move away, but they'll
be in
   the minority. The rest, I figure, will wallow in
the glory."
   "There's nothing wrong in that."
   He shook his head. "No. But wait and see the
competition
   to tell the media their own personal stories. How
   they've known Alice Pagett since she was a
baby, how she
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                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  came to their shop once a week for sweets, how
they're
  distant cousins, twice-removed, how their piles
miracu-
  lously cleared up one day when they
passed St. Joseph's,
  how their migraine disappeared when Alice smiled
at them.
  You may think checkbook journalism is an
overworked
  phrase, but wait and see just how many personal
accounts
  of the Banfield Miracles are sold to the
newspapers. And
  wait and see how many 'close" friends the
Pagett family are
  going to have, all with intimate details of their
private Fives. The whole personality of the
village is going to change, Sue, as well as its
appearance."
  She was staring at him, for the first time realizing the
  commercial aspect of the mystical experience. For
someone
  whose profession was journalism, she had been
remarkably
  naive, or perhaps too spiritually involved.
  Fenn hated to disillusion her further, but went on,
  anxious to vindicate his own motives.
"Pretty soon, you
  won't be able to get near the church without
being bombarded
  with religious junk. Madonnas in snowstorms,
  Madonnas that light up, Cindy Doll
Madonnas, rosaries
  by the thousands, postcards, crucifixes,
medallions . . .
  you name it, it'll be on sale."
  "The Church wouldn't allow it--"
  "Huh! The Church will be part of it."
  "That's not true."
  "Do you really think the Catholic Church, with its
  steady loss of followers and general disenchantment
among
  its worshipers, can afford not to take advantage
of something
  like this? Young priests are leaving, some to get
married,
  women are demanding to be allowed into the priesthood,
  the Vatican itself is critized for hoarding its
vast wealth
  and not using it to feed the starving, to help the
underprivileged,
  criticized for not condemning the violence
  in Northern Ireland more strongly, openly mocked
  its outdated views on birth control,
divorce, and plenty
  of other topics which seem to have no relevance to today
s
  society. The Church needs its miracles
to bloody survive!"
  Sue flinched and he checked his growing anger.
"Look,
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                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   when Pope John was shot in '81--shot six
times, mind, an
   old man pumped with bullets--Catholics by the
millions
   turned back to their faith. Even nonbelievers
felt grief.
   When he lived, when he miraculously
recovered, everyone--
   everyone who was not insane or just plain evil--had
a new
   respect for the papacy. The world was reminded of the
   ultimate triumph of good. Well now the
Church has got
   something even more grand: six cures, all witnessed,
a
   possible levitation, and a visitation. There's no
way they
   won't take advantage of it."
   "Father Hagan won't allow it to be
exploited."
   "Father Hagan will be overruled. I don't know
too much
   about Bishop Caines, who's the governor of the
diocese,
   but from what information I've managed to gather this
   week he appears to be an ambitious man.
Oh, yeah, they
   have that kind in the Church hierarchy, you know.
Apparently
   he's already sought authorization to buy the field
   next to the church and the farmer who owns it is willing
to sell. Seems he's been down on his luck
lately."
   "It makes sense to make the field where Alice
had the vision part of St. Joseph's."
   "Yeah, makes perfect sense. Church ownership
of the
   field will be necessary to accommodate all the
visitors who've going to flood the place. I'll
bet you the bishop will be accommodating in other ways,
too, as this thing
   snowballs. He's already arranged a
press conference for
   tomorrow."
   "That's hardly surprising with all the public
interest."
   "Well, we'll wait and see how he handles
it. How much
   he refutes, how much he evades, and how much
he
   encourages. It should be pretty telling."
   "You'll be there?"
   "Would I miss it?"
   She sighed and lay back in the chair, wiping at
her
   damp face with the back of her hand. He
straightened his
   legs and leaned over her, conscious of her knees
against his
   groin. "Sorry for the diatribe, babe, but I
wanted you to
   understand that I'm not the sole passenger on this
particular
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                            James Herbert - The Shrine
  bandwagon."
  Her hand cupped his cheek. "I still don't trust
you,
  Gerry."
  He groaned aloud.
  "Perhaps the miracles have changed us," she said.
  "Brought out the worst in some, the best in others."
  "Maybe some are more gullible than others."
  Her hand froze on his face. "Meaning?"
  He shrugged. "Maybe some have been taken in by a
  phenomenon that has no mystical basis
whatsoever."
  was "The Power of the Human Mind" theory again?"
  "Could be. Who's to say otherwise?"
  "Your ten minutes are up."
  "There you go again, not prepared to listen to any other
  argument. Does all that's happened suddenly
make me an
  enemy, Sue, a child of Satan you have to close your
ears
  to? We used to have long, rational debates at
one time, for
  Christ's sake. With all this deep, religious
feeling you're
  going through, shouldn't you love me even more?"
  She didn't answer.
  "Okay, let's forget the other alternative for
now and
  accept that the so-called miracles have a
religious context.
  Seems to me that Jesus Christ hired twelve
pretty good PR
  guys to spread the Word, four of whom wrote a
worldwide
  best-seller. His life story. I guess you
couldn't call
  me a twentieth-century disciple, but isn't there
some kind
  of saying in the Good Book about using the best
tools
  available? Could be I'm one of the tools." He
raised his
  eyebrows.
  Sue was frowning, but Fenn knew he'd scored a
point.
  After a while she pulled his head down toward her
and he
  was grinning against her chest.
  "I'm confused, Gerry, still confused. But maybe
I've
  had my head in the sand. It could be that our beliefs
are
  not allowed to be insulated or introspective
anymore." She
  kissed his hair. "Your cynicism might even be
a healthy
  thing, who knows? It's so easy to get carried
away with it
  all."
  He held his tongue, not wanting to spoil the
mood.
  Raising his head to look into her eyes, he said,
"All I ask is
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                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   that you don't lock me out. You might not approve
of my
   approach to the subject, or my appraisal of
it, but you can
   be sure it's honest. And I think that's something you
can at
   least respect." He kissed her chin. "Right?"
   She nodded, then kissed his lips, and he was
acutely aware that her abstinence had made her very, very
hungry.
   It was dark, the curtains drawn.
   Fenn lay there, puzzled for a few seconds.
Where the
   hell was he? Then he remembered and relaxed.
He smiled
   in the darkness, remembering their
lovemaking. Christ,
   Sue had been almost frightening in her intensity. Her
physical
   need for him had seemed to surprise even herself.
He
   wasn't complaining, though--exhausted, but not
complaining.
   He felt her moving in the bed.
   Had she disturbed him with her restlessness? He
moved
   toward her, touched her back, and was alarmed at how
hot
   she felt. He pushed close, his arm going around
her and
   becoming damp with her stickiness. Her body jerked
and
   her head twisted into the pillow.
   "Sue?" he whispered.
   She murmured something, but did not waken. Her
limbs
   were trembling.
   Fenn gently shook her shoulder, wanting to wake
her
   from the nightmare, but not wanting to frighten her.
   She twisted toward him, still asleep, her
breathing rapid,
   shallow. "It isn't . . ." she murmured.
   "Sue, wake up." He felt her face, her
neck, and her
   breast. She was soaking.
   He quickly reached over and switched on the bedside
   lamp. She pulled her head away from the light,
still
   murmuring. He could hardly hear the words, but it
sounded
   like, "it isn't . . . her . . . isn't . . .
isn't ..."
   "Sue, wake up!" He shook her more fiercely
and suddenly
   her eyes were wide open. Staring.
   The fear in them was alarming.
   Abruptly, they seemed to cloud over and she
blinked
   several times. She recognized him. "Gerry,
what's wrong?"
   He breathed a sigh of relief. "Nothing,
babe," he said.
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                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  "You just had a bad dream."
  He switched off the light and settled down again,
holding
  her in his arms. She was asleep almost instantly.
  But he stayed awake for quite some time.
  "The devil told you that! The dfvil told you
that," shrieked
  the little man, and in his fury he stamped his right
foot into the
  ground, right up to his waist, then, foaming at the
mouth, he
  grabbed his left foot in both hands and tore himself
apart right
  down the middle.
  "Rumpelstiltskin," The Brothers Grimm
  DAILY MAIL: Has the Vatican an
"official"
  statement concerning the Banfield
  Miracles?
  BISHOP CAINES: The only "official"
statement we
  can issue at this very early stage
  is that the Holy Roman Catholic
  Church acknowledges that a series
  of what can best be described as
  extraordinary cures have taken
  place in the grounds of St. Joseph's--
  DAILY MAIL: Forgive me for
interrupting. Bishop,
  but you just said in the grounds of
  St. Joseph's. Surely it was in the
  field next to the church?
  BISHOP CA1NES: That's quite correct,
but in such
  close proximity that it could be
  considered within the church property.
  I should perhaps inform you
  that agreement for the purchase
  of the land by the Church has already
  been reached and that the
  necessary documents will be signed
  within the next day or two. However,
  to return to your original
  question: The six extraordinary
  cures--alleged cures, I should
  say --which have occurred at St.
  Joseph's will be scrupulously examined
  by a specially formed
  medical bureau and their findings
  passed on to the International
  Medical Committee. No announcement,
  proclamation, and no assertions
  will be forthcoming until the
  international committee is satisfied
  that every aspect of the six
  individual cases has been fully
  investigated.
  REUTERS: Will the international committee
  you refer to be the same committee
  that examines the cures at
  Lourdes?
  BISHOP CAINES: Yes.
  CATHOLIC HERALD: But the committee can only
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                            James Herbert - The Shrine
recommend
  that' the cures be declared
  miraculous.
  BISHOP CAINES: That's correct. As
bishop of the
  diocese in which the cures took
  place, the final decision as to
  whether or not the cures are declared
  miraculous is mine alone.
  THE TIMES: Have you a view right now?
  BISHOP CAINES: I have not.
  THE TIMES: None at all? Even after having
  talked with Alice Pagett and the
  others most closely concerned--
  your own parish priest, for instance?
  BISHOP CAINES: I find the whole matter
intriguing,
  to say the least, but I cannot possibly
  make any judgment at this
  stage.
  WASHINGTON POST: What would, then, Bishop
Caines,
  constitute a miracle in the eyes of
  the Church?
  B1S1 KggP CAINES: A cure that is
medically inexplicable
  in the present state of science.
  DAILY EXPRESS: When will the medical
bureau be organized?
  BISHOP CAINES: It's being organized right
now.
  D.mly EXPRESS: And how will it operate?
  BISHOP CAINES: Well, it will consist of at
least
  twelve medical men--
  JOURNAL OE
  GENEVA: All Roman Catholics?
  BISHOP CA1NES: No, most certainly
not.
  D.mly EXPRESS: But will it lie
an iiulependent body?
  BISHOP CAINES: Absolutely, although the
director
  of the bureau and several members
  will be employed by the
  Church. Others will be gathered
  from interested medical and scientific
  research units. Medical records
  of each cured person will
  be examined and the individual's
  own GP and the hospital under
  which they are receiving treatment
  will be consulted. They will,
  naturally, undertake their own
  thorough medical examination of
  each cured person and a dossier
  will be kept. Their findings will
  eventually be passed on to the
  international committee, who will
  make the final recommendation.
  ASSOCIATED PRESS: What will be the
criteria? For a
  miracle, I mean.
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                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  BISHOP CAINES: Perhaps Monsignor
Delgard would
  like to answer that?
  MONSIGNOR DELGARD; I think it should be
clearly stated;
  the medical bureau and the international
  committee will only be
  concerned with whether or not
  the cure is inexplicable, not if it's
  a miracle.
  ASSOCIATED PRESS: Is there a difference?
  MONSIGNOR DELGARD: Bishop Cainedds
said earlier that the
  cure must be medically inexplicable
  in the present state of science.
  The committee will decide upon
  that aspect, not whether the cures
  had a religious or mystical connotation.
  What is considered medically
  inexplicable today might be
  perfectly logical a few years hence.
  It is the bishop and his advisers
  who must examine the spiritual
  aspects of the cures and decide if
  divine intervention is the cause of
  the recoveries.
  The bureau and the international
  committee have to satis'fy
  themselves on the following points:
  Was the cure sudden, unexpected,
  and without convalescence?
  Is it complete?
  Is it lasting? That, ladies and
  gentlemen, means a certain amount
  of time--say three or four years--
  must elapse before the cure can
  be confirmed.
  How serious was the illness?
  Was it due to a specific disease?
  Infirmity due to a mental disorder,
  for instance, would rule out any
  acceptance of a miracle cure.
  Had the illness been objectively
  proved by tests, X rays, or biopsies?
  And was the medical treatment
  previously given responsible in any
  way, even if in part only, for the
  cure?
  These are the criteria on which
  the bureau and the international
  committee must be satisfied. There
  are others, more technical, but I
  think those I've listed will give
  you the general idea.
  PSYCHIC NEWS: Can you tell us,
Monsignor Del-gard,
  just what is your involvement
  in this matter?
  BISHOP CA1NES: Perhaps I should answer
that. At the time of the first cure--when,
  in fact, Alice Pagett was able to
  hear and talk again after seven
  years of being unable to do so--
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                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  an enormous amount of public
  interest was created. I felt then
  that Father Hagan would need
  some support and guidance in
  dealing with the crowds who
  would inevitably descend upon
  St. Joseph's.
  PSYCHIC NEWS: But you've been involved in
certain
  cases of unusual phenomena
  in the past, Monsignor Delgard?
  MONSIGNOR DELGARD: Yes, that's
correct.
  PSYCHIC NEWS: Would you describe
them as paranormal.
  MONSIGNOR DELGARD: (pause.) They could
be termed as
  such, I suppose.
  PSYCHIC NEWS: In fact, haven't you
performed
  several exorcisms?
  MONSIGNOR DELGARD: Yes.
  PSYCHIC NEWS: Did you and do you now
suspect
  that Alice Pagett might be possessed:
  (laughter.)
  MONSIGNOR DELGARD: By the devil?
(laughter.)
  PSYCHIC NEWS: Or evil spirits.
  MONSIGNOR DELGARD: I would think that's
most unlikely.
  The child seems well-balanced
  enough to me.
  PSYCHIC NEWS: Then why--
  BISHOP CAINF.S: I've already explained
why Monsignor
  Delgard was temporarily appointed
  to St. Joseph's. While it's
  true to say he has investigated
  many strange incidents over the
  years for the Church and has made
  a study of psychic phenomena,
  Monsignor Delgard's role usually
  has been--if I might use the term--
  devil's advocate rather than devil
  seeker. Laughter.)
  You see, the Catholic Church
  often has to undertake the examination
  of unusual incidents on behalf
  of concerned parishioners and
  clergy. We live in a peculiar world,
  you know, where human logic is
  not always applicable to certain
  events, Monsignor Delgard looks
  at both aspects of such happenings--natural
  and unnatural--and
  usually manages to provide the
  correct balance. At St. Joseph's
  we have circumstances that are,
  without doubt, unnatural, so it's
  perfectly sensible to ask for the
  assistance and advice of someone
  who has had experience in such
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                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  matters, and who can also provide
  a more material assistance in
  dealing with the public interest.
  The fact that Monsignor Delgard
  has performed exorcisms is quite
  irrelevant in this case.
  May we have another question?
  DAILY TELEGRAPH: It's rumored that
Alice Pagett'dds
  illness could have been psychosomatic.
  Is it true?
  BISHOP CAINES: That's for the medical
authorities
  and the bureau to decide. But, of
  course, it's doubtful that all five
  of the other illnesses were due to
  psychosomatic causes.
  LE MWOE: What is the Catholic
Church's
  opinion on faith healing?
  BISHOP CAINES: Jesus Christ was the
greatest faith
  healer of all time. (laughter.)
  GAZETTE (kent): I have a question for Father
Ha-gan.
  Some years ago you were
  assistant priest near Maidenstone.
  FATHER HAGAN: (pause.) Yes, in a
place called Hollinyl greater-than ourne.
  GAZETTE (kent): You weren't there for very long,
  were you. Father?
  FATHER HAGAN: About six months, I think.
  GAZETTE (kent): You left rather suddenly.
Could I
  ask the reason why?
  FATHER HAGAN: (pause.) As assistant
priest I went
  where I was needed most. Often
  the need was urgent and my departure
  from one parish to another
  could be abrupt.
  GAZETTE (kent): There was no other reason,
then,
  for you to leave Hollingbourne,
  apart from being required elsewhere?
  FATHER HAGAN: As far as I can remember the
parish
  priest of St. Mark's in Lewes
  had fallen ill and assistance was
  badly needed.
  GAZE-N'Every (kent): No other
reason?
  BISHOP CAINES; Father Hagan has answered
your
  question. May we move on to the
  next?
  DAILY TELEGRAPH: Could this whole business
of the
  miracle cures be a hoax?
  BISHOP CAINES: A rather elaborate one,
don't you
  think? And for what purpose?
  DAILY TELEGRAPH: Isn't Banfield
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                              James Herbert - The Shrine
liable to make a considerable
   amount of money from
   tourism?
   BISHOP CAINES: Yes, I suppose it's
conceivable. "I he village is already the focus
of
   world attention and I suppose
   sightseers will flock to St. Joseph's
   even before the results of our investigations
   are made known. But
   unless you believe that all the children
   and the one adult involved
   in these cures are swindlers and
   liars--not to mention marvellous
   actors--(laughter)--then I hardly
   think your suggestion has any
   merit. And, of course, the children's
   parents and their general
   practitioners would also have to lggence involved in the
fraud.
   L'AUIGE: Alice Pagett claims to have
seen a
   vision of the -Madonna. Can you
   comment on this, please?
   BISHOP CAINES: Not at this time.
   NEW YORK TIMES: Did anyone else
see anything? Father
   Hagan, you were present on
   two occasions when the child
   claimed she saw the Virgin Mary--
   did you sec nothing at all?
   FATHER HAGAN: I ... no, no, I can't
say that I did.
   NEW YORK TIMES: But did you sense
anything strange going on?
   FATHER HAGAN: There was certainly atmosphere,
   ves, a highly charged atmosphere,
   but I can't account for it.
   OBSERVER: Surely it would have had something
   to do with the mood of the
   crowd, wouldn't it?
   FATHER HAGAN: Yes, I suppose so.
   OBSERVER: Sorry, Father, I didn't catch
that.
   FA THERE HAGAN: I said I suppose so.
Certainly on
   the last occasion. Several of the
   other children present seemed entranced
   in the same way that Alice
   was, but they could remember
   nothing when questioned later.
   DAILY MIRROR: What steps are the Church
taking
   to ensure the situation isn't exploited?
   BISHOP CAINES: Exploited?
   DAILY MIRROR: Commercially exploited.
   BISHOP CAINES: I believe we dealt with that
in a
   previous question. There is very
   tittle the Church can to do prevent
   local traders and businessmen
   from, shall we say, taking
   full advantage of the situation. But
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                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  that is hardly our province and
  we can only hope that proper restraint
  and discretion is used.
  MORNING STAR: But won't the Catholic
Church
  itself exploit the situation?
  BISHOP CAINES; Why should we do that?
  MORNING S"'1'AR: For publicity.
  BISHOP CAINES: I hardly think God
needs publicity.
  iMughter.)
  STANDARD: But it wouldn't harm the Church.
  BISHOP CAINES: On the contrary, such
publicity
  could be most damaging. Many
  churchgoers might have their illusions
  shattered if what they believe
  to be genuine miracles performed
  at St. Joseph's are later
  proved by the medical authorities
  to be nothing of the sort. That is
  one of the reasons the Catholic
  Church is extremely cautious in
  such matters.
  ASSOCIATED PRESS: Almost to the
extent that miracles
  are harder to prove to the
  Church than to the layman?
  BISHOP CAINES: Yes, in most cases that's
true. In
  fact, the medical bureau at Lourdes
  dismisses nearly all Lourdes cures
  as nonmiraculous. I believe that
  there have been only sixty or so
  miraculous cures officially recognized
  at Lourdes since 1858.
  OBSERVER: Many people claim they saw Alice
  levitate last Sunday. Could I
  ask Father Hagan and Monsignor
  Delgard if it really did happen?
  MONSIGNOR DELGARD: I can't be sure.
I wasn't as close
  to Alice as some of the others. To
  be perfectly honest, I have no clear
  recollection.
  OBSERVER: Father Hagan? (silence.)
  MONSIGNOR DELGARD; Father Hagan and I
were standing
  together, so we both had the same view. I don't
...
  FATHER HAGAN: I think Alice did
levitate. (disordered questioning.)
  ECHO DE LA BOURSE: You actually
witnessed this?
  FATHER HAGAN: I can only say I think that's
what
  happened. The grass in the field
  is long--perhaps she was merely
  standing on tiptoe. I just can't be
  sure.
  OBSERVER: But other witnesses say her feet
  actually left the ground.
  FATHER HAGAN: It's possible. I can't be
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                             James Herbert - The Shrine
sure, though. (general conversation.)
  STANDARD: If it is proved that the cures were
  miraculous and that Alice Pagett
  really saw the, er, Virgin Mary,
  will the girl be proclaimed a saint?
  BISHOP CAINES: How do you prove such a
thing?
  And before someone can be con
  sidered for canonization they have
  to be dead for some time. (laughter.)
  BRIGHTON EVENING
  COURIER: Why is Alice Pagett
being kept
  hidden away?
  BISHOP CAINES: Ah, it's Mr. Fenn,
isn't it? Well,
  Alice isn't being kept "hidden
  away," as you put it. judging by
  the amount of media people surrounding
  the Our Lady of Sion
  convent in Banfield I certainly
  wouldn't have said her whereabouts
  are secret.
  Alice is resting. She has been
  through an extraordinary experience
  and, as you can imagine, is
  quite exhausted both physically
  and emotionally. She needs peace
  and quiet--her own doctor is adamant
  that she receive just that.
  And, of course, she's there with
  the full agreement of her parents.
  Alice is a delicate child and, until
  recently, classed as an invalid. She
  has to be treated with great care.
  BRIGHTON EVENING
  COURIER: Is she undergoing medical
tests?
  BISHOP CAINES: Yes, very stringent tests.
  BRIGHTON EVENING
  COURIER: And interrogation by the Church
  authorities?
  BISHOP CAINES: Interrogation is far too
strong a
  word. Obviously she is being
  questioned, but I promise you she
  is under no pressure. I think her
  only danger at the moment is
  that she might be smothered by
  kindness. (laughter.)
  BRIGHTON EVENING
  COURIER: How long will Alice be kept at
  the convent?
  BISHOP CAINES: She is under no detention
order,
  Mr. Fenn. She is at perfect liberty
  to leave when her parents
  want her to and when her doctor
  thinks it will be in her own interest.
  CATHOLIC HERALD: Has Alice had any
more visions
  since last Sunday?
  BISHOP CAINES: She hasn't spoken of
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                            James Herbert - The Shrine
any.
  DAILY MAIL: Will she attend Mass this
Sunday?
  At St. Joseph's, I mean.
  MONSIGNOR DELGARD: (pause.) Alice
has expressed a desire
  to. We must consider the consequence
  to herself, however.
  W e're rather worried that with all
  the publicity these, er, incidents
  have been given, St. Joseph's will
  be swamped with sightseers--and
  obviously the media itself. As
  Bishop Caines has just said, Alice
  is a fragile child and the continued
  excitement might be t less-than it greater-than
much
  for her. She has to be protected.
  INTERNATIONAL But she'll have to face the public
HERALD TRIBUNE: sooner or later.
  BISHOP CAINES: That's true, but I
suppose that at
  this stage the medical team studying
  her case, her own doctor, and
  the Church, would rather it were
  later. However, nothing vet has
  been decided regarding this coming
  Sunday.
  BRIGHTON EVENING
  COURIER: But Alice does want to go to Mass
this
  Sunday?
  HISI 10P CAINES: Alice is somewhat
confused at the
  moment. I think that's quite understandable.
  BRIGHTON EVENING
  COURIER: But she does want to.
  BISHOP CAINES: As the monsignor said, she
has
  expressed a desire to.
  BRIGHTON EVENING
  COURIER: So it's a strong possibility?
  BISHOP CAINES: I believe I've already
answered that
  question. (disordered questioning.
  BISHOP CAINES: I'm afraid we must bring
the press
  conference to a close, gentlemen.
  Thank you for your questions
  and I hope we've been able to
  clarify a few points. I'm sorry,
  no more questions. Our schedule
  is tight and we now have television
  and radio interviews to do.
  Thank you for your time, ladies
  and gentleman. (press conference ends.)
  u If thy mother only knew,
  Her heart would surely break in two."
  "The Goose Girl," The Brothers Grimm
  he COULDN'T SLEEP.
  His hair itched, the sheets on the narrow bed
felt soiled,
  stiff, and unwashed. He wasn't hungry, he
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                             James Herbert - The Shrine
wasn't thirsty;
   he certainly wasn't tired. It was his own
fault for staying
   in bed most of the day. He should have gone to the Job
   Centre, but what the fuck? They would only have
offered
   him some poxy job waiting on tables like his last
one, or
   digging bloody holes in roads, or working some
machine
   in a factory. Or worse, Community
fucking Service! Sod
   "em! He'd have to blag the old lady for money
tomorrow.
   Christ, how he hated going back there! Look
at you! Why
   don't you get your hair cut. You'll never get
a decent job
   like that. And look at your clothes. When was the last
time
   that shirt was ironed? And can't you at least polish
your
   shoes?
   Worst of all: When was the last time you went to
   church? What would your poor father say if he were still
   alive?
   Shit on her! If he didn't need the bread,
he would never
   go back.
   He turned in the bed, a crease in his undershirt
irritating
   his skin.
   He stared out the window into the dark night. Christ,
if
   only he could get a bird up here; that would warm
him up,
   all right! They didn't want to know, though. If
you didn't
   have money, then they just weren't interested. If you were
   a nobody, you were bloody nobody! He turned
again and
   thumped the lumps from the pillow with an angry
fist.
   He'd had a guy up there once, but that hadn't
been too
   good. The jerking off was okay, but all that rucking
kissing had made him want to puke.
   He stared at the ceiling and pulled the end of the
undershirt
   over his bare stomach.
   It was all a big bucket of shit. You fell
into it and the
   bastards wouldn't let you climb out. You just went
round
   and round in the slime until you had to eat it to stop
   drowning. And then it poisoned you and killed you dead
   anyway.
   But at least they had kicked back! Those three
had
   swallowed the shit and spewed it right back into the
   onlookers" faces. They had found a
way, and that was all it
   took.
                                       Page 159
                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   He grinned in the darkness. Yeah, they had found a
   way.
   He yanked back the covers and padded over to the
   wardrobe in stockinged feet. Standing on tiptoe,
he reached
   up to the top of the wardrobe and found the box he was
looking for. He brought it down, then took a small
key
   from his jacket hanging over the back of the room's
only
   chair.
   Climbing back into the bed, he inserted the key and
   opened the lid. He took a dark object out and
pressed it to
   his cheek, smiling in the darkness. He placed the
open box
   on the floor and covered himself.
   Lying there in the darkness, he pushed the object beneath
   the bedclothes so that its cold metal lay between his
   inner thighs. He sighed as he felt himself grow
hard.
   Here lies the Devil--ask no other name.
   Well--but you mean Lord--his Hush! we
mean the same. "On a Lord," Samuel Taylor
Coleridge
   fenn YAWNED AND CHECKED his watch at the
same
   time. 7:45. Jesus, so this was what the dawn was
like.
   Another car was approaching him from the opposite
   direction and he gave the driver a tired wave
as though
   they were both members of the same exclusive
club. The
   other driver looked at him as if he were mad.
Fenn hummed
   a tuneless tune, only the fact that he was
tone-deaf making
   the noise bearable to himself.
   He glanced at the South Downs to his left; the
clouds
   were heavy over them, soft woolly bottoms
scraping against
   the hilkops. It was going to be another cold,
overcast day,
   the kind that dragged at the keenest optimism,
muffled the
   most ardent enthusiasm. The kind of day
to stay in bed
   until positive nighttime darkness overrode the
negative
   dullness.
   The houses on either side of the road were few and far
   between, mostly big and set back with high hedges
or
   walls protecting them from unsolicited attention.
The road
   was normally quite busy as one of the main routes from
   the coast to the larger Sussex towns, scything through
   country villages like wire through cheese; but on a
chilly
   damp Sunday morning-- chilly, early Sunday
morning-- birds and rabbits were a more common sight
                                       Page 160
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
than motorists.
   Fenn's humming droned to a stop when he saw the
   outskirts of Banfield ahead and the dregs of
tiredness evaporated
   as if vacuumed from his head. He grinned, ready
to
   enjoy the special privilege he had been
allowed and to
   forget about the warm bed he had just left. It was
regrettable
   that Sue's naked body had not been in that bedggeven
   though it would have been even harder to leave), but they
   were still not the close lovers that they had been. When
   they had slept together just three nights before, Fenn
had
   imagined their relationship would be back on the same
   footing and had been disappointed to find on the
following
   morning her new aloofness had suffered only a
slight relapse.
   While not as cold as before, and certainly not as
contemptuous,
   she had made it plain that she needed more
   time to think. She loved him, of that there was no
doubt,
   but the confusion was still there and their lovemaking had
   not cleared it. Okay, it's up to you. Sue. You
know my
   number.
   Fenn was angry and frustrated at her change of
moods,
   particularly at a time when things were happening for
   him, when he shouldn't have had such distractions. He
   cursed himself for not being able to cut her from his mind.
   Christ, he was buying his ticket
to Fleet Street and she
   acted as though he had forged the money! The invitation
for
   that Sunday morning was an indication of just how far
he
   had advanced in prestige in a matter of a few
short weeks.
   Only he and five other reporters shared the
privilege, his
   colleagues chosen from the cream to represent the
media
   world. So maybe he was overrating his own
importance a
   little, but the position he now found himself in was no
   mean thing.
   He eased off the accelerator as he entered the
speed-restricted
   zone. The road swung sharply to the right,
   joined by another minor road from the left, the round
   white bump of a tiny "Mickey Mouse"
traffic circle helping
   (or hindering) the merging traffic. The Convent of
Our
   Lady of Sion was almost opposite, just to the
left, and
   Fenn brought his Mini to a halt, checking that the
circle
   was clear. From his position he could see the upper
                                       Page 161
                            James Herbert - The Shrine
win
  dows of the large cream-colored house, and for one
brief
  moment thought he caught a small pale face
peering down
  at him. Then it was gone and he wasn't sure that
it had
  been there.
  A lone policeman stood outside the gates,
his car parked
  half on the curb farther down the road. To one
side was a
  group of reporters, damp and miserable-looking.
They
  eyed Fenn's car suspiciously as he drove
over the circle in
  the road. Fenn pulled into a nearby empty
garage forecourt
  and parked. The garage was closed, and as it was
  Sunday, he guessed it wouldn't be open at all
that day. He left the car and walked back to the
convent.
  The journalists and cameramen, pasty-faced,
shoulders
  hunched, feet stamping the pavement, made ready
to receive
  him into their midst, any newcomer welcome
to break the monotony of their cold vigil.
  was "Morning, hacks," he said, grinning and
winking as he
  strode past them. He ignored their muttered
replies as he
  walked up to the gates. The policeman on
duty raised a
  hand.
  "I'm Fenn, Brighton Courier."
  The uniformed man produced a folded piece of
paper
  from his tunic pocket and quickly scanned the list of
  names.
  "Okay, in you go." The policeman pushed open
one half
  of the gates just enough for Fenn to slip through. He
  chuckled at the indignant voices and groans
of the other
  reporters.
  Across the courtyard and at the top of
three broad steps
  was a black door, open and somehow forbidding. Fenn
  crossed the yard and took the first two steps in
one. He
  stepped into a dark hallway and a hooded shape
loomed up
  from the shadows.
  "You are Mr. . . . ?" the nun asked.
  "Gerry Fenn," he told her, his heart
skipping just a
  little, either from the leap up the stairs or her sudden
  appearance. "Brighton Evening Courier."
  "Ah, yes. Mr. Fenn. ShalThat I take
your coat?"
  He slipped off his raincoat and handed it to her.
"There's
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                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  no money in the pockets," he said.
  She looked at him, startled, then returned his
smile. "If
  you'd like to go through, you'll find nearly everyone has
  arrived." She pointed to a door near the end of the
hallway.
  He thanked her and walked down the hall, his
steps
  sharp against the shiny bare floorboards.
The room beyond
  the door was large and on a sunny day would have been
  light and airy; today its natural brightness was
muted
  gray. It was filled with people and hushed
  voices.
  "Mr. Fenn, glad you could come."
  He turned to find George Southworth
approaching him.
  "Glad I was invited," Fenn responded.
  "Your other colleagues have already arrived."
  "Oh?"
  "A rather small selection of elite journalists.
You're the
  sixth."
  Fenn enjoyed being among the elite.
  "Associated Press, Washington Post, The
Times--that sort of
  thing. I'm sure you know them all."
  "6h, yeah, sure." Fenn shook his head.
"I'm puzzled,
  Mr. Southworth. Why me?"
  Southworth smiled disarminglv and patted Fenn's
arm.
  "Mustn't be so modest, Mr. Fenn.
You've covered this
  story from the start. More than that, you brought it to the
  attention of the world. We could hardly have excluded
  you."
  "Hardly."
  "Q. Would you like some tea?"
  "No, thanks."
  "I'm sure you'll appreciate our reluctance
in allowing
  young Alice to attend Mass at St.
Joseph's this--"
  "Your reluctance?"
  "Well, to be honest. Bishop Caines"
reluctance. And the
  doctors, of course--they feel the hullabaloo
might prove
  too much for her. The cameras, the television, the
crowds,
  people wanting to get near her, to touch her--that sort of
  thing."
  Fenn nodded. "So you decided on a private
service,
  without the fuss."
  "Precisely."
  "A lot of people are going to be
disappointed."
  "I'm sure. Frankly, if I had had my
way, I would have
  let Alice go to the church today as she wanted. But
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her
  well-being must come first."
  "She wanted to go to St. Joseph's?"
  "Apparently so." Southworth lowered his voice.
"I heard
  she became quite upset when Reverend Mother told her
  she couldn't. Still, I'm sure it's for the best."
  "So you just invited certain members of the, er"--he
  scanned the room--"public and the media here."
  "Yes. My idea, actually. And the bishop
concurred.
  We're well aware, you see, that the public
has to know
  what's going on. That's their right. This way,
they'll see
  that Alice is being properly cared for."
  "And they'll know the Catholic Church isn't
locking her
  away, and that she's not going through some modern-day
  Grand Inquisition."
  Southworth chuckled. "That's very astute
of you, Mr.
  Fenn. In fact, that was my argument to the churchmen.
  With the chosen few here, repesentarives of the people, as
  it were, and an excellent cross section of the world
media,
  public interest can be catered for without unnecessary but
  inevitable pandemonium."
  And without loss of maximum publicity, Fenn
guessed.
  It seemed that Southworth (and Fenn was sure other
local
  businessmen were involved) had to walk the tightrope
  between exploitation (and so risk the resulting
criticism)
  and ensuring that Alice Pagett was sheltered from the
  public eye (and making sure they were seen to be
doing
  so). He, Fenn, was necessary to the idea not because he
  was a brilliant journalist, but because as
instigator of the
  story, his articles were followed more closely than
any
  other reporter's. He was also "local," therefore
perhaps
  more in tune with local opinion. Well,
don't knock it,
  Fenn. It made sense. And it had got him here
today.
  "In a moment," Southworth was saying, "I'll
introduce
  you to a few people. Your colleagues are already well
into
  them, but I'm sure they will want to speak to you as the
  man who was 'on the spot." Mass will begin at
eight-thirty
  so you'll have just"--he checked his watch--"just under
  half-an-hour to interview."
  "Will I get to talk to Alice?"
  "We plan to have a brief question-and-answer session
  after Mass. Only twenty minutes, I'm
afraid, and only if
  Alice feels up to it. I'm sure she will."
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                            James Herbert - The Shrine
He moved closer to
  Fenn and said in a conspiratorial whisper,
"I'd like to
  invite you to dinner tomorrow evening. I think you'd be
  most interested in coming along."
  Fenn raised his eyebrows.
  "I still haven't forgotten our little chat at the
beginning
  of all this business, Mr. Fenn. By the way,
it's Gerry, isn't
  it? Do you mind if I call you that? It's far
less formal. I
  think at the time you said the story would probably
die
  out."
  Fenn grinned wryly. "Someone once said that about
  Lennon and McCartney."
  "I think your opinion was very fair. But you
remember
  my offer? Yes, well, I think you may have
suspected my
  motives at that time. You can see now that the
publicity
  machine is in motion of its own accord and needs
absolutely
  no impetus from myself, or the parish council. It
  may need just a little steering from the inside, though, and
  I think you could be helpful in that respect."
  "I don't understand."
  "We have enough confidence in you, having read all
  your articles in the Courier, to invite you to write
the
  complete story of the Banfield
Miracles."
  "For my newspaper?"
  "For any newspaper you care to work for. Or for a
  book. We would make you privy to all council
meetings
  and any other decisions, discussions, and plans
concerning
  this whole affair."
  Fenn's eyes gleamed. It was too good to be
true. The authorized chronicler of the Banfield
Miracles. Any newspaper editor would jump
at serialization rights and any
  publisher would give his right arm (or his marketing
  manager's right arm) for the rights to the book. There had
  to be a snag. "Why me?" he asked.
  "I believe you asked that question before, or something
  like it. The answer's simple: because you were there at the
  beginning. You already have more inside knowledge than
  anyone else in this matter apart from the clergy. And
even
  they--Father Hagan and Monsignor Delgard--
were not
  there at the very Beginning."
  "Would the priests be agreeable?"
  "I've already broached the subject
to Bishop Caines.
  He's interested but warv."
  "Oh?"
  "He's pragmatic enough to realize the story has
become
                                      Page 165
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  almost exclusive to you. However, he is not altogether
  sure that, to use an old-fashioned phrase, your
'intentions
  are honorable." his
  "Are his?"
  "I beg your pardon?"
  "It doesn't matter."
  "That's the reason for my invitation to dine with us
  tomorrow evening."
  "Bishop Caines will be there?"
  "Yes, along with Father Hagan and Monsignor
Delgard.
  Our meeting initially is to talk about the
development of a
  shrine at St. Joseph's and Banfield's part
in it. Bishop
  Caines is insistent that there should be full
cooperation and
  liaison between the parish council and the Church."
  "It's moving things pretty fast for them,
isn't it? I thought
  it took years for the Church to allow a shrine to be
  authorized."
  "Normally it would. Fortunately or
unfortunately, whichever
  way you care to look at it, the pilgrims are
going to
  come and nothing will stop them. The bishop wants to be
  prepared. Officially, the Church cannot declare St.
Joseph's
  a shrine, but that won't prevent the public from
regarding
  it as such."
  "Do the two priests know I've been invited?"
  "Yes. Bishop Caines, himself, told them."
  "And they agreed?"
  "Reluctantly. I suppose you could say the
bishop gave
  them little choice. I hope, after all this, you are
interested?"
  "What do you think? Where and when?"
  "My hotel, eight-thirty."
  "I'll be there. His
  "Fine. Now, let me introduce you to a few
people."
  Fenn spent the next twenty minutes talking
to assorted
  "guests," among them the local Tory MP,
who was not
  himself a Catholic but professed a deep interest
in all
  religions; several members of the clergy, whose
titles he
  instantly forgot; certain leading members of the
local
  community; the Reverend Mother of the convent; and
  most interesting of all, the Apostolic
Delegate to Great
  Britain and Gibraltar. Fenn understood that this
clergyman
  was the official go-between for the Catholic Church
  in Britain and the Vatican. A quiet-spoken,
unassuming
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   man, he seemed genuinely pleased to be
introduced to
   Fenn and gently Ted him to one side so that he could
   question him on the articles he had written and what
he
   had personally witnessed. Soon the reporter
began to feel
   like the interviewee, but he enjoyed the priest's
frank
   questioning and the deference with which his answers
   were treated.
   When the audience was over, for that was what it felt
   like, Fenn realized he had asked hardly any
questions
   himself. He was puzzled by the priest's accent and one
of
   the gray-garbed nuns who was flitting through the
crowded
   room urging more tea or coffee on the
assemblage provided
   the answer: The Most Reverend Pierre Melsak
was from
   Belgium. Fenn accepted a coffee from the sister
and wished
   he'd declined the ginger biscuit which resisted all
attempts
   to be bitten. He left it on the saucer, his
teeth groaning
   after the battle, and was sipping the lukewarm coffee
when
   a husky voice said, "Hi."
   He turned to see a dark-haired
woman smiling at him; at
   least her lips were smiling--the eyes were too
calculating
   to be easily happy.
   "Shelbeck, Washington Post" she told him.
   "Yeah, somebody already pointed you out to me. How's
   Woodward?"
   "Redford was better. You're Gerry Fenn, aren't
you?"
   He nodded.
   "I liked your copy. Maybe we can get together
later?"
   "That'd "be nice. What for?"
   "Compare notes?" Her accent was pure New
York.
   "I'm ahead."
   "You could benefit."
   "How?"
   "Financially, how else?" The smile had finally
reached
   her eyes.
   "Okay ..."
   The buzz of conversation stopped as sliding doors
covering
   one side of the room were drawn back.
Another room,
   white-walled and low-ceilinged, lay beyond. Fenn
guessed
   it had once been a double garage attached to the
house that
   the Sisters of Our Lady of Sion had had
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                            James Herbert - The Shrine
converted into a
  small chapel. The altar was simple, no more
than a rectangular
  table covered in a spotlessly white cloth on which
  stood a crucifix. Small benches stood before
it, enough to
  accommodate the nuns who lived in the convent.
  "If you would please take your places,"
Bishop Caines
  told the select group, "the Mass will begin in a
few moments.
  I'm afraid there isn't room for everybody
to sit, even
  though our kind sisters have volunteered to stand throughout
  the service, so could the male journalists please
take a
  position at the back of the chapel."
  People began to move into the next room and Shelbeck
  winked at Fenn. "I'll talk to you after
the show," she
  w-hispered. "The name's Nancy, by the way."
  He watched her push her way into the chapel,
heading
  for a seat near the front. Her age could have been
anywhere
  between thirty and forty, though he guessed it was
  at the higher end, say thirty-six or comseven.
She wore a
  sensible gray tweed suit, the kind native
New Yorkers
  managed to make look businesslike yet
attractive. Her
  figure was slim and, from the back, her legs were
good
  (which was the real test for legs). At a quick
appraisal, she
  was abrasive, brittle, and more than a little
shrewd, the
  kind of woman who could imtimidate the more
easily
  intimidated of the male species (which was most of
them).
  She could prove interesting.
  "Um, could we leave the front bench
free for myself,
  Reverend Mother, Alice, and Mr. and Mrs.
Pagett?" Bishop
  Caines said, a beaming smile on his face.
"Monsignor
  Melsak, would you please join us at the front?"
  The small Belgian priest did as requested
and the bishop
  turned his attention back to the rest of the congregation.
  "Alice will join us presently. The service will
be kept short
  and she will be the first to take Communion. May I
ask
  our friends from the media to refrain from asking any
  questions of the child when she enters the chapel. I
promise
  you'll have the opportunity as soon as the Mass
is finished.
  Only twenty minutes, of course, but you must
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                             James Herbert - The Shrine
remember
   she is under considerable strain." He tried a
disarming
   smile. "I need hardly add that no pictures
will be allowed
   and members of the press have been invited
on that
   understanding. So if any of you have cameras hidden
   about your person, please keep them that way--hidden
   and unused."
   Soft chuckles greeted his last remark, and there
were
   one or two embarrassed smiles among the
pressmen.
   Everyone soon became settled and Fenn found
himself
   standing to one side of the room at the back. He was
above
   the congregation, for three steps led down from the
general
   room into the chapel itself. He thought the drawn
   doors might be a good spot to lean against if the
service
   wasn't as short as the bishop had declared. There was
an
   air of expectancy, the same excitement
present at St. Joseph's
   on the previous Sunday. The nuns of the convent
knelt
   around the side walls, heads bowed, rosaries
entwined
   between fingers. The politician and some of the other
   dignitaries looked uncomfortable, not sure of the
ceremony,
   anxious not to offend. He caught a glimpse of
Nancy
   Shelbeck as she turned her head to study, and no
doubt to
   make note of, her surroundings. Whispered
conversation
   faded and the congregation settled into an uneasy
silence.
   Fenn turned as a door behind him opened. A man
   walked awkwardly into the room and Fenn quickly
recognized
   him as Len Pagett, Alice's father. He
wore an ill-fitting
   suit, one that had seen better days, its
obviously
   recent dry-clean giving it a short-term
smartness. He looked
   with trepidation across the room into the chapel and Fenn
   could see resentment in his eyes. He stood back
from the
   door, revealing the small figure of Alice.
She emerged
   from the darkness of the hallway, a nervous, doelike
creature,
   her face pale, eyes wide and darting. She
wore a pale-blue
   dress and her blond hair was tied back at one
side with a
   white bow. Her father muttered something and she moved
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                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   more quickly into the room. Her glance went immediately
   to the large patio windows overlooking the convent's
garden
   and Fenn felt she was like a young caged animal,
   yearning to be on the outside, away from the smothering
   kindness of captivity.
   Immediately behind came Molly Pagett, an
uncertain
   smile on her face as she urged Alice
onward into the
   chapel. A nun was the last to enter; she turned
to close the
   door, then stood with her back to it as though a
guard.
   All heads turned as Alice approached the
steps; she
   stopped for a moment to take in the scene before her.
She
   seemed even younger than her eleven years, yet
there was
   a subtle change in her features, a look that
made her less of
   a child than before. Fenn could not define the change.
   Maybe it was in the eyes . . .
   She turned toward him as though suddenly aware that
   he, in particular, was watching her. For a brief
moment,
   something chilled him. Then it was gone, had passed,
and
   he was only looking into the face of a small,
timid child.
   Something lingered with him, though, and it was a feeling
   he could not understand.
   Alice stepped down into the chapel as Bishop
Caines
   beckoned her forward. She genuflected before the
altar,
   then disappeared from view as she sat with her parents
on
   the front bench.
   Once again, the door behind Fenn opened, the nun
who
   had been standing in front of it quickly
stepped to one side
   as the handle turned. Father Hagan entered,
dressed in the
   bright robes of the Mass, followed by Monsignor
Delgard,
   who wore his customary black garb. The first
priest carried
   a covered chalice as he swept through the room
into
   the chapel, his eyes downcast. Monsignor
Delgard gave
   Fenn a brief nod of recognition as he
passed.
   Both men made their way to the altar and stood behind
   it, facing the congregation. Fenn assumed Delgard
was
   there to assist Father Hagan in the absence of altar
servers.
   Again, the expression on another's face disturbed
the
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                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  reporter, for Hagan looked desperately
tired and unwell.
  He placed the chalice on the altar and even from
where
  Fenn stood, his unsteadiness was evident.
Though he was
  still leaning forward over the altar, the priest's
attention
  was taken By someone seated in the front row. Fenn
knew
  that Feather Hagan was staring into the face of Alice
Pagett.
  The priest became still for several seconds, then
appeared
  to remember where he was, and the service began.
  Fenn was getting used to the Mass by now and was
  relieved it was to be a short one. Short though it
was, he
  was soon looking around, totally unmoved by the
service
  itself. Daylight, gray and depressing on such a
morning,
  flooded the small chapel through a broad
skylight, presumably
  built into the roof when the garage had been converted.
  The walls themselves were still of rough brick but painted
  gleaming white, and the floor was carpet-tiled. There
were
  no windows, just a heavy, locked door leading out
into the
  courtyard. The congregation, led by the nuns and the
  invited clergy, responded to the priest's
intonations and
  Fenn tried to follow the proceedings in the Mass
book
  handed to him by the same sister who had served him
  coffee. He lost his place several times and
eventually gave
  up. He found it difficult to understand the appeal of
such
  a weekly ritual to someone like Sue, who was a
levelheaded,
  sensitive, and capable woman. She was also
pretty smart,
  certainly nobody's fool. So how come she was
hooked on
  all this?
  Something caught his eye. A sudden movement above.
  He looked toward the skylight and smiled. The
shadowy
  form of a cat was moving across the slanted, frosted
glass.
  It stopped and the ghostly head grew larger as the
cat tried
  to peer through the unclear glass. It rested
its front paws
  against the pane, head weaving from side to side as if
  frustrated. Its body appeared to stiffen, then it
eased back
  down the slope and sat, only the shadow of its
upper body
  visible.
  Fenn and the other reporters knelt when the rest of the
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                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   congregation knelt, stiffened to attention when those
seated
   stood, and generally responded to the service in a
superficial
   way. He realized it wasn't out of reverence, but
more
   out of respect for the sweet-looking nuns, who he
felt
   might have been upset if the correct movements
were not
   adhered to. A tiny bell rang and heads bowed.
Fenn,
   kneeling uncomfortably, knew it was almost time for
Holy Communion. He eased himself upright, srrc
that he
   wouldn't be noticed at this crucial point. The
silence in the
   room was disconcerting. In a church,
atmospherics and
   general rustling of restless bodies, moaning children,
and
   muffled coughs were enough to combat any true silence,
   but here in the little chapel, even a rumbling stomach
had
   no camouflage.
   Father Hagan stood before the altar, the chalice and
   Communion wafer in his hand. His eyes were almost
   closed.
   Fenn saw Bishop Caines lean over and whisper
something
   to Alice. For a moment she did not move and he
had
   to whisper again. She stood, her hair bright
yellow, the
   white bow like a butterfly nestling in wheat. She
looked
   frail, too small, and Fenn found himself
concerned, caring
   about her. She had been through so much, this little
   squirt, and he wondered how she had remained so
calm
   throughout.
   She was looking at the priest, still not moving.
   Her mother touched her arm, but Alice did not look
at
   her. Eventually it was the Reverend Mother who rose
and
   led Alice toward Father Hagan. The priest
looked down at
   the little figure and his eyes widened. His hand was
visibly
   trembling when he held the Host forward.
   Fenn frowned, aware of the tension in the priest.
My
   God, he thought, he's frightened. Something's scaring
him
   bloody silly.
   Alice's head tilted backward slightly, as
though she were
   offering her tongue to take the Communion wafer.
The
   priest hesitated, then seemed to resolve something
in his
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                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  own mind. He placed the wafer on Alice's
tongue.
  Her head bowed and for a moment both she and the
  priest were still.
  Then her small body beebban to shudder. Alice
fell to her
  knees as the retching sound screeched from her.
Vomit
  splattered onto the floor. Onto the shoes of the
priest.
  Onto his white robes.
  Then out has she ta'en a silver wand,
  An' she's turned her three times roun' and
roun';
  She mutter "d sic words till my strength it
failed,
  An" I fell down senseless upon the groun .
  "Alison Gross," Anon.
  "father, YOU'VE HARDLY TOUCHKD YOUR soup.
Is there
  something wrong with it?"
  The priest looked up, startled. "I, uh, no,
of course not.
  I'm afraid I'm just not very hungry."
Southworth looked
  relieved.
  Bishop Caines laughed jovially. "I swear
you're wasting away before my eyes, Andrew. Come
on, man, you must
  eat, especially if you're going to cope over the
next few
  months."
  Father Hagan picked up his spoon once more and
dipped
  it into the mushroom soup, his movements slow,
distracted.
  Bishop Caines and Monsignor Delgard
exchanged concerned
  glances.
  "Are you still unwell?" Delgard asked
quietly. The others
  on the table were watching the priest with interest.
  The man's decline in health had spanned the past
few
  weeks, but the overnight change had been more
dramatic.
  Father Hagan sipped from the spoon. "It's just a
chill, I
  think," he said unconvincingly.
  "Would you like me to take you home?"
  "No. Our discussion tonight is important."
  Bishop Caines dabbed at his lips with a
serviette. "Not
  important enough to keep you from a nice
warm bed. I'm
  sure that's where you'd be better off, Andrew."
  "I'd rather stay."
  "So be it. But I insist you see a doctor tomorrow
without
  fail."
  "There's no need--"
  "Without fail," the bishop repeated.
  Father Hagan nodded, then laid down his spoon.
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                            James Herbert - The Shrine
He sat
  back in his chair, feeling strangely detached from
his
  surroundings. Occasionally it was like viewing the scene
  through the wrong end of a telescope. Even the
conversation
  sounded distant.
  He looked across at the reporter who was sitting
on the
  opposite side of ti'dg round dinner table,
between the hotelier
  and Bishop Caines, and again he asked himself the
  silent question: why had they involved this man? Fenn
  wasn't a Catholic and didn't appear to have
any sympathy
  at all toward the Catholic
religion. Objectivity, Bishop
  Caines had said. They needed someone like Fenn, an
  agnostic, to write objectively on the
Banfieid Miracles,
  someone without bias who would be more credible because
  of it. He would report the untainted facts, and
after
  all, that was all that was necessary here, for the facts alone
  would convince and perhaps convert.
  Would the young reporter listen to him? Would he want
  to hear? And what could he, Hagan, really tell
him? That
  he was afraid? Afraid of a child? Afraid of .
. . his What?
  Nothing. There was nothing to fear. Nothing at all
...
  "dis . . Alice is fine." Bishop Caines was
speaking. "I'm
  afraid all the excitement yesterday was a little
too much
  for her. Her own doctor gave her a thorough
checkup and
  said there was nothing to worry over. She had a
slight
  temperature, but that was all. A few more
days of peace
  and quiet is all she needs."
  "I'm pleased to hear it," Southworth said. "She
had us
  all worried yesterday. Mercifully it didn't
happen up at
  St. Joseph's in full view of the crowds. Very
wise of
  you, if I may say so, Bishop, to keep the child
at the
  convent."
  "Yes, much as I understand the need for people to see
  Alice, her own best interests must be considered."
  "Does that mean you won't let her return to the
church
  for some time?" asked Fenn.
  "Oh, no, no. It would be quite wrong to keep
Alice
  from her beloved St. Joseph's. She's known the
church all
  her young life, Mr. Fenn; it's a second
home to her. In
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                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   fact, you could say she was practically born
there."
   "You mean she was baptized--"
   "I think it would be wise to keep Alice away
from St.
   Joseph's permanently."
   The interruption surprised everyone sitting at the
table.
   Bishop Caines studied his parish priest with
evident
   impatience.
   "Now, Andrew, you know that would be impossible.
   Reverend Mother tells me she has found the child
weeping
   in her room because she misses the church so much.
We
   can't keep her locked away forever." He quickly
looked at
   Fenn. "Not that we are keeping her locked up, you
   understand. Alice is free to leave at any time
her parents
   wish her to."
   "But she wants to leave," Fenn said.
   "Of course it's no fun for a little girl to be
shut away in a
   convent, Mr. Fenn. Naturally she would like to be
seeing
   her friends, playing with them, carrying on with
all the
   usual activities young children indulge in. And
she will,
   before very long."
   "Don't let her come back to the church. Not
yet."
   "Andrew, I cannot understand your attitude in this
   matter." The soothing amiability had left the
bishop's
   tone, although his words were still softly spoken. "Just
   what is it that distrubs you about the girl?"
   Fenn leaned forward, elbows on the table, interested
in
   the priest's reply.
   Father Hagan looked uncertainly about at the
dinner
   guests. "... I'm not sure. It just . . .
doesn't . . ."
   "Come now, Father," said Bishop Caines. "I
think it's
   time you shared your unwillingness to accept these rather
   wondrous events with us. Don't worry about our
Mr.
   Fenn here--we will have no secrets from the press.
If you
   have doubts, please voice them so that they can be
   discussed."
   The door opened and the headwaiter unobtrusively
entered
   the room. He quickly surveyed the dinner table,
   then nodded at someone just outside the door. A
waitress
   hurried through and began to gather up the used dishes.
   "Oh, I'm sorry. Father," she said, about
to take the
                                       Page 175
                            James Herbert - The Shrine
  priest's soup bowl.
  "It's all right, I've finished."
  The dish was taken away. Nobody spoke
until the waitress
  had left and the headwaiter had closed the disdoor,
  abruptly cutting off the noise from the public
restaurant
  and bar below. Southworth had deemed it wise
to hold the
  dinner in a private banqueting room on the first
floor,
  away from the hotel's other guests, who that week
were
  mainly visiting journalists.
  "Andrew?" the bishop prompted.
  "It's difficult. Bishop," the priest said
quietly.
  "I beg your pardon?"
  "I said it's difficult. Difficult to put my
feelings into
  words."
  "Do try." It was said kindly.
  "Something . . . something is wrong. I can't say
what it
  is, but something doesn't feel right. The church
... St.
  Joseph's . . . somehow seems . . .
empty."
  "Empty? I don't understand."
  "I think I know what Father Hagan means," said
Monsignor
  Delgard. All eyes turned toward him.
"I've been
  concerned over the atmosphere inside St.
Joseph's for a
  few days now and I believe I understand what Father
  Hagan is trying to say."
  "Then perhaps you'd enlighten us," said Bishop
Caines.
  "It seems to me the church has become
spiritually devoid."
  "I'm very surprised at you, Monsignor," the
bishop said
  coldly. "That remark could be regarded as
sacrilegious.
  The House of God can never be spiritually devoid--
it's
  impossible, contrary to all our beliefs to hold
such a view."
  "A church is just a building made of stone.
Bishop," the
  monsignor replied calmly.
  Bishop Caines' face reddened and Fenn hid his
smile
  behind his wineglass.
  "It might be better to confine our discussion tonight to
  the more, er, "material" aspects of the
situation," Southworth
  cut in. "Don't you agree, Gerry?"
  "Well, no. I--"
  "Yes, you're absolutely right," Bishop
Caines said, not
  wishing to hold a theological debate now in
                                      Page 176
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
front of the
   reporter who could so easily
misinterpret everything. "We
   can talk of this later." He looked meaningfully
at the two
   clergymen.
   "As you wish," Delgard responded stiffly.
   Father Hagan opened his mouth to say more, but on
   seeing the stern expression on his bishop's face,
he refrained.
   Fenn was disappointed.
   Southworth allowed no respite. "One thing
I'm sure the
   media will want, Bishop, is a statement on
Alice's health at
   this present moment ..."
   "Haven't I already told you?" The bishop was still
watching
   his two priests, but he turned to give
Southworth a
   warm smile.
   "Yes, but I meant her state of health generally.
Yesterday
   was an exception."
   "Yes, that it was. A culmination of events, if
you like. It
   had to catch up with the child sooner or later.
The monsignor
   has the latest information from the medical team."
   "A medical report is generally private to the
individual,"
   said Delgard. He nodded toward Fenn. "Why
should it be
   made public by the press?"
   "We have an understanding with Mr. Fenn," Southworth
   said.
   Fenn looked at him in surprise. "Now wait
a minute.
   The only understanding that we have is that I'll write
the
   truth." Then he added, "As I see it."
   "Naturally, Mr. Fenn," Bishop Caines
assured him. "We
   would not expect otherwise. However, we would
expect,
   er, discreet journalism."
   "Oh, I can be discreet. It's secrets I
can't keep."
   He caught the glance that passed between the bishop and
   Southworth.
   "Okay," he said, raising a hand, "I understand
your
   dilemma. You want the story told without
frills, without
   exaggeration, and truthfully. That's good, that's what
I
   want to do. On the other hand, you want personal
privacy
   respected and anything that could cause embarrassment
   smoothed over, if not scrubbed out." He paused
to take a
   breath. "I'll go along with you on the first count.
No
                                       Page 177
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  exaggeration, no exploitation. As for personal
privacy, I'm
  afraid that went out rhc window when Alice saw
her first
  vision. Not just for her. For you. And for the whole of
  Banfield. On the third count--revealing
anything that could
  cause embarrassment--well, you have to leave that
to me."
  "I'm not sure that's good enough," said the bishop.
  "It'll have to be." Fenn grinned. "Look, I
know Alice's
  father is a drunken old sot, but at this stage,
I don't think
  it's essential to the story. It's not exactly a
state secret, but
  I don't intend to make anything of it.
Discretion, right?"
  "Yes, Mr. Fenn, but not much of a concession on
your
  pan."
  "True enough. But it's all I can offer."
  It was Southworth who saved the situation. "Why
don't
  we rely on that good old journalistic standby,
"off the
  record?"' That way you can be intimate with the
situation
  as a whole, but professionally bound to keep certain
items
  to yourself."
  It's either that, or be blown out entirely, Fenn
told
  himself. "Okay, so long as there aren't too many
off-the-records,"
  he said.
  "Agreed, Bishop?" Southworth asked.
  Bishop Caines was thoughtful. "You understand, Mr.
  Fenn, that we do not want to veil
anything. The Church
  doesn't work that way."
  Oh, no? Fenn said silently. Get the Pope
to tell the
  world the third secret of Fatima. Or disclose
all the Church's
  financial assets, exactly what companies and
properties they're
  into. And any other items of world interest that the
Catholic
  Church is keeping to itself.
  "We want only the truth to be written,"
Bishop Caines
  continued, "but we do not wish any person to be
harmed
  by it. If you take our view, then I'm sure
there will be no
  problems between us. I'm sure there are many other
journalists
  who would be only too pleased to understand."
  You wily old bastard. You know I can't
refuse. "All
  right. But one proviso: if I really believe
you're holding
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                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  back on something that needs to be told--
I mean, if I
  think it morally wrong not to publish--then I go
ahead
  and do so."
  "Are you suggesting we would lie?"
  "Not at all. But you might want to withhold
information
  that doesn't suit the Church's image."
  "Then we'll let you be our conscience, Mr.
Fenn."
  "Okay."
  Southworth breathed a sigh of relief as Bishop
Caines
  and the reporter relaxed in their chairs. "You were
going
  to tell us the medical team's findings to date,"
he urged the
  monsignor.
  "Their report is very detailed and extremely
technical in
  parts, so I'll try to break it down as concisely
and simply
  as possible. If you require the full text,
Mr. Fenn, I can
  obtain a copy for you. I He sipped
his wine, then set it to
  one side. "First, let me deal with the findings on
Alice's
  previous infirmity. There has been no
physical change in
  the organs of her ears and throat, which
consolidates the
  long-standing opinion that her handicap had
psychological
  origins. There never had been any discernible
damage to
  the auditory nerves, no apparent disorder to the
ossicle,
  cochlea, or eardrum of either ear. There may
w'ell have
  been some infection due to her illness seven years
ago, but
  there were certainly no signs that it had lingered. There
  had been no hardenings or formation of bones in the
inner
  ear, no inflammation of the membranes.
Mastoiditis, otitis
  media--I'm sorry, that's middle-ear infection
--had been
  discounted long ago. As for her vocal
cords, there was no
  damage or disease to the laryngeal nerve. Her
condition
  was always thought to be a result of hysteria."
  "You're saying Alice was just suffering from prolonged
  hysteria all these years?" Fenn asked
incredulously.
  "It's not quite that simple, not is it as unusual as
your
  tone suggests. There may very well have been other
infections
  present that were not detected by her family doctor
                                      Page 179
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  when Alice suffered mumps at four years of
age, infections
  that could have been the root cause of her condition. The
  doctor considered it to be a routine childhood
illness and
  looked no further in the early stages. Tests
came later
  when the disastrous consequences became evident. I
should
  add that there is no criticism leveled at the
GP in the
  medical report--at the moment we're dealing
purely with
  conjecture."
  "Has the family doctor seen this report?"
Fenn asked.
  "No. And, of course, he would undoubtedly deny
any
  suggestion of negligence on his part. But I would
hate you
  to draw any hasty conclusions--this is partly theory
now,
  just an attempt to offer reasons."
  "May I remind you of our discussion a short
while ago,"
  Bishop Caines' said, looking directly at the
reporter.
  was "Discretion" was the favored word, I
believe."
  "Don't worry, I've no intention of getting
into a lawsuit
  with an aggrieved general practitioner over something
that
  couldn't possibly be proved after all these years.
Anyway,
  the medical team could be entirely wrong."
  "Yes, they could well be," said Monsignor
Delgard.
  "The point they are trying to make, however, is that
the
  shock of being unable to hear or speak was sustained
  psychologically by Alice in her own mind. The more
  afraid she was of her handicap, the worse her
mental block
  became. Medical records are full of
similar case histories:
  fears growing into phobias, phobias
into physical infirmity.
  The subconscious mind has its own peculiar
logic. It took
  an altogether different kind of shock to break down the
  mental block Alice had imposed on herself.
The vision--be
  it imaginary or real--released Alice from her
self-inflicted
  illness."
  "You're saying categorically, then, that there was no
  miracle cure in Alice's case?" said
Fenn.
  "After seven years of silence she can speak, she can
  hear. Whether or not her disability was due to a
mental or
  physical disorder, the result is still the
                                      Page 180
                            James Herbert - The Shrine
same ..."
  ... the church ... the church . . . everything that
happened
  to Alice was centered around the church . . .
  Father Hagan put a soothing hand to his temple,
pressing
  the thin flesh there, gently rubbing. The voices
sounded
  distant again, somehow hollow, as if they were all in
a vast
  cavern, the others far away on the other side.
Or in a
  church ... a vast, dark church. He was beginning
to hate
  . . . the church.
  No! The church was the House of God! No one
could
  hate it! Especially nut a priest . . .
  "dis . . general health?" Bishop Caines was
speaking. "How
  is she?"
  "It can be summed up very simply and without any
  medical jargon," Delgard replied. "Alice
is a perfectly
  normal, healthy child. A little tired
perhaps, and somewhat
  withdrawn, but that's to be expected after all she's
  been through. There is one small abnormality,
however,
  but it's something she's had since she was a baby,
according
  to her own doctor."
  Fenn, wineglass halfway from the table to his
lips, asked,
  "What's that?"
  Delgard hesitated, regarding the reporter
warily. "This
  has to be off the record. It's not very
important, but it
  could cause the child some personal embarrassment. I
  promise you it has nothing to do with her cure."
  Fenn considered for no more than a second. "I
wouldn't
  want to hurt the kid."
  "Very well. Alice has a small growth on
her body. It's
  on the left side of her body, a few inches
below her heart."
  "A growth? Good Lord ..." Bishop Caines
began to
  say.
  "Don't worry, it's nothing serious,"
Delgard reassured
  them. "It's what's known as a supernumerary
nipple ..."
  . . . Supernumerary nipple ... a third
nipple ... he
  knew something about that . . . had read something somewhere
...
  oh. God, what was it . . . his
  "dis . . nothing at all to worry about. It has
increased a
  little in size since her doctor examined her
                                      Page 181
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
last, but then
   her body is developing naturally. There's no
reason to
   believe that it will grow any larger." Monsignor
Delgard
   sipped his wine once more. "And there you have it.
Alice
   Pagett appears to be healthy in every way,
except for this
   slight, er, blemish."
   "That's very good news indeed," asserted Bishop
Caines.
   "Thank you for your lucid report,
Monsignor. Do you
   have any questions, Mr. Fenn?"'
   At that point the door opened and two
waitresses entered
   laden with dishes.
   "Ah, our main course," said Southworth. "The
hotel is
   rather busy tonight, gentlemen, hence the slight delay.
A
   foretaste of the coming months, I believe," he said,
beaming
   happily. And hopefully, the coming years, he
thought.
   The conversation concerned itself with generalities as
   the food was served and Fenn found himself looking into
   the haunted eyes of Father Hagan. The priest
averted his
   gaze and Fenn was puzzled. It was obvious that the
priest
   was ill: there was a light sheen of perspiration on his
   sallow face, his eyes were dark and shadowy; there was
   something brittle in the movement of his long,
delicate
   fingers. Bishop Caines should make the
man take a rest.
   What was it they went into? Retreat. That's what
he
   needed, a complete break away from all this. And the
   going was only going to get worse once the
publicity
   machine was rolling. That, he understood from
Southworth
   when he had spoken to him earlier that evening, was going
   to be one of the items on the agenda. Fenn smiled
down at
   the medallions of veal in herb sauce placed before
him and
   sipped his wine while waiting for the vegetables to be
   served.
   He listened to Southworth as the hotelier
tentatively
   broached the subject of publicity.
   "I'm sure we all realize by now. Bishop,
that we have a
   situation here that private enterpreneurs from all
over the
   country will endeavor to make money from. I really do
   think it's time for us to seriously consider the setting
up of
   an official publicity machine to monitor
                                       Page 182
                            James Herbert - The Shrine
..."
  "... somewhat premature ..."
  "... no, not at all. VV-EVERY must plan ..."
  "dis . . Lourdes is not the best example
to follow, George . . ."
  . . . I cant eat. The bishop shouldn't have
insisted . . .
  "dis . . hired for the papal visit to England in
"82 . . ."
  "dis . . but, goodness, that organization took something
  like twenty percent of profits ..."
  "... worth every penny ..."
  . . . each night, the feeling gets worse . .
. even with the
  monsignor nearby ... the feeling of being alone
. . . empty
  . . . yet there is something there!
  "dis . . statues, T-shirts, records of the
services . . ."
  "Andrew, you must try to eat. It will do you good."
  "What? Yes, Bishop ..."
  "Entrecote Roquefort is one of the chefs
specialties,
  Father. I'm sure you'll enjoy it."
  "Of course ..."
  "... we cannot be seen ..."
  "... I understand your feelings. Bishop, but the
Church
  has to keep a shrewd eye on the commercial world
... as
  it has always done in the past ..."
  . . . her eyes . . . why did she look at
me in that way . . . why
  was the Host unacceptable to her . . . his
  "... findings from the Institute for the Works of
Religion,
  the Vatican itself. Bishop ..."
  "... think not ..."
  "dis . . bank itself . . . I'm sure they'll
accept a modest
  collaterial from the Roman Catholic Church .
. . already
  spoken with the manager . . . member of the parish
  council ..."
  . . . meat . . . no taste . . . must eat,
Bishop says must eat . . .
  her eyes. . . she knew . . . what are they
saying . . . his Must stop
  them . . .
  "... design a centerpiece, something like the one
designed for the papal visit to Phoenix Park in
Ireland . . .
  stunning simplicity ..."
  . . . can't swallow . . . the meat . . . can't
swallow . . . oh,
  my God . . . it's growing . . . the meat is
growing . . . in . . . my
  "Father!"
  Delgard rose from his seat, the chair clattering
backward
  onto the floor. He reached for the choking priest,
alarmed
  at the bluey-redness of the man's face, the wheezing
                                      Page 183
                            James Herbert - The Shrine
breath
  squeezed from his open mouth.
  Fenn ran around to the other side of the table.
"He's
  choking!" he cried. "For Christ's sake, he's
choking on
  something!"
  . . disfilling me. . . can't breathe . . .
growing, growing . . . I
  Father Hagan twisted in his chair, hands tearing at
  throat. He tried to speak, tried to scream, but
his words
  were blocked by the meat that was expanding in his gullet.
  He fell forward on the table, his wineglass
tippine, cutlery
  jumping with the impact. His dinner plate crashed
to the
  floor as his upper body straightened and fell
back into his
  chair, a terrible, anguished rasping sound coming from
his
  throat as he tried to suck in air.
  "He's having a heart attack!" Bishop
Caines cried. "His
  heart is weak. Quickly, he must have his pills on
him!"
  "No, he's choking!" Fenn insisted. "Get him
forward so
  I can reach his back."
  Delgard held on to the squirming priest and
Fenn brought
  his fist smashing down between the priest's shoulder
blades.
  Father Hagan jerked with the force. Only a retching
sound
  came from him. Fenn hit him again.
  "It's no use, it won't shift!" said
Delgard.
  "I'll get an ambulance." Southworth ran from
the room,
  glad to be away from the priest's agony.
  "It's a heart attack, I tell you," said
Bishop Caines.
  "Okay, let's get him back and his mouth
open." Fenn
  reached for the priest's forehead and hauled him back
into
  the chair. Monsignor Delgard cupped a hand
beneath his
  colleague's chin and held his mouth open. The
priest tried
  to twist away, the pain, the yearning to draw air
into his
  starved lungs, unbearable.
  Fenn looked into the open mouth, down into the darkness
  of the throat. "There's something there, I can see it!"
  He stuck his fingers into the priest's mouth, probing
  deep, desperate to reach the object lodged there.
It took
  all his and Delgard's strength to keep
Hagan from rolling
  to the floor.
                                      Page 184
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  "I can't reach it! Christ, I can't reach it!"
  . . . hands . . . hands on me . . . can't .
. . can't breathe . . .
  help me. God . . . eyes, her eyes . .
.
  His throat muscles were jerking spasmodically, but
still
  the lump of meat would not dislodge. Instead it sank
  deeper. And grew larger inside him.
  His body arched in a paraxoysm of fear and pain and
  choking. He fell to the floor, taking the two men
who were
  trying to save his life with him.
  "Get his head down! Maybe we can dislodge it
that
  way!"
  . . . no good . . . it is too late. . .
oh. God, the pain . . . in my
  chest . . . in my arms.. . . oh, Jesus,
they should he told . . .
  "I've got it, I've got it! Hold him,
I can . . ."
  The priest screamed and the sound was just an
agonized
  gurgling, a clogged scream of mortal dread.
His body
  threshed wildly, his face took on a bluish
tinge . . .
  . . . into Thy hands . . .
  . . . hi-s eyes reflected the fear of
approaching death . . .
  . . . I iommend . . .
  . . . tlie noise from his throat was continuous, a
wet,
  rattling sound . . .
  . . . my spirit . . .
  . . . that died just seconds after he died . . .
  . . . forgive me . . .
  And did the Countenance Divine
  Shine forth upon our clouded hills?
  And was Jerusalem builded here
  Among these dark Satanic Mills?
"Jerusalem," William Blake
  cold. BLOODY BALLS-CI1ILLLNC
COLD.
  Fenn locked the car door and pulled the lapels
of his
  dark overcoat ti caret ht around his
neck. Vapors from his
  mouth spread a small round mist over the side
window as
  he stopped to insert the key into the lock. He
straightened
  and looked toward the church.
  Vor once the entrance to the grounds wasn't
crowded
  with pressmen. Probably yesterday's funeral
had satiated
  their appetites for a while.
  He trudged toward the gate, the earth verge beside
the
  road, long since trampled of its grass, hard
and brittle.
                                      Page 185
                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   Jagged ridges crumbled beneath his boots. A
solitary figure
   watched him warily as he approached.
   "Cold morning," Fenn called out.
   The man nodded.
   "I'm Fenn, Brighton Evening Courier" the
reporter said
   when he reached the gate.
   "I know you," replied the man, a volunteer
helper to St.
   Joseph's, "but I'd better see your press
card."
   Fenn fumbled for his wallet, his fingers already stiff
   with the chill. He flicked it open and produced his
identity
   card. The man grunted, satisfied.
   "I've come to see Monsignor Delgard."
   The man opened the gate. "Yes, he left
word."
   F'enn stepped through. "Not so busy this morning."
   The man carefully closed the gate, then looked
at the
   reporter. "They'll show up later. Most are
down at the
   convent." He pulled out a handkerchief and blew his
nose.
   "I've just passed it. There's a few there, not
many."
   "I suppose they had their fill yesterday.
Leeches." He
   stared at Fenn, no apology in his gaze.
   "Did you know Father Hagan well?" the reporter
asked,
   ignoring the slight.
   "He was a good man. A good, hardworking
man. This
   was all too much for him, I suppose, with his weak
heart.
   We'll miss him."
   Fenn moved on, leaving the man shaking his head,
   blowing his nose.
   He went to the house and the door was opened by a
   young priest, one that the reporter either hadn't seen
or
   hadn't noticed before. There were several at St.
Joseph's
   now, acting as clerks, secretaries, crowd
controllers.
   The priest smiled and said in a soft, Irish
accent, "Mr.
   Fenn? Ah, yes, Monsignor Delgard is
at the church. Will I
   fetch him for you?"
   "It's okay, I'll go over."
   Fenn turned away and the priest watched him walk
   toward St. Joseph's for several moments before
quietly
   closing the door.
   The reporter shivered. "I here was a faint mist
rising up
   against the old building and swirling around the
scattered
   green-stained headstones. He knew the freshly
                                       Page 186
                            James Herbert - The Shrine
dug plot
  was on the other side, a secluded place in the
graveyard
  close to the boundary wall, and felt no desire
to see it.
  Watching Father Hagan's coffin lowered into its
frigid pit
  had disturbed him as much as when his parents, both
  dying within weeks of each other, one of cancer and the
  other, like the priest, of heart disease, were buried.
It was
  as though the covering of earth were really the final and
  irrevocable consummation of life, the moment of death
  itself just the first phase. He had known others whose
  deaths were premature (didn't death always seem
premature,
  even among the aged--not many were ever quite ready),
  but none had affected him in this way. It had been
understandable
  with his mother and father, for they had died
  when he was still in his teens and their mutual
parentsstson
  affection had not had time to sour; but the priest had
been
  almost a stranger, had even seemed to dislike
Fenn. Perhaps
  it was because he had tried, and failed, to save the
  priest's life, that he felt the loss so much.
But then there
  was little he could have done anyway, for the postmortem
  had revealed that Hagan had died of a heart
attack; the
  meat he had swallowed may have started the priest's
initial
  panic, but it was hardly big enough to have choked him.
  So why his own guilt which compounded the sense of
  loss? It was a question to which F'enn had no answer.
  The church doors were closed and he twisted the
heavy
  black metal ring to open one side. It was
bitterly cold
  outside, but the church interior had a special
chill to it. He
  closed the door and walked toward the altar, toward
the
  black Figure sitting near the front.
  Monsignor Delgard did not turn
around at the reporter's
  approach; his eves studied the stained-glass
window above
  the altarpiece, but his gaze was inward.
  Fenn sat next to the priest. "Monsignor
Delgard?"
  The priest continued to stare. "What is happening
here?"
  he said, and the words were not directed at the
reporter.
  "Sorry, what was that?"
  The priest blinked and said, "I don't understand
what is
  happening to this church, Mr. Fenn. I don't
understand
  why Father Hagan died, why he was so afraid."
                                      Page 187
                            James Herbert - The Shrine
  "Was he afraid?"
  "Oh, yes. He was in mortal fear."
  "He was ill."
  "Yes, he was ill. But something more. Something else
  took his strength."
  "I'm not following you."
  The priest sighed and lowered his face. He turned
to the
  reporter. "Do you believe in God,
Mr. Fenn?" he asked.
  Fenn was surprised at the question and a little
embarrassed
  by it. "I think so. I'm not sure. Guess I
haven't
  given it enough thought."
  "Everybody gives it enough thought, Mr. Fenn.
Are
  you reluctant to offend me because I'm a priest?"
  "No, it isn't that. I'm really not sure, that's
all. I can't
  believe in this great Father figure in the sky, if
that's what
  you mean."
  "There's no need to. In fact, it would be rather
naive to
  think of Him as such. Let me ask you this, then:
are you
  afraid not to believe?"
  "I suppose most people are."
  "But you?"
  "Count me in with the crowd."
  "Do you fear death because of past trangressions?"
  "No. I just hope when I get up there,
He'll accept my
  apology. Look, what's all this got to do with
Father Hagan?"'
  The monsignor returned his gaze to the altar.
"He was a
  devout priest, a truly good man, yet he was
afraid of
  dying."
  "Maybe he had secrets you didn't know of."
  "Yes, we all have our secret shames.
They're usually
  trivial; important--shameful--only
to ourselves. Strangely,
  I heard Father Hagan's confession just the night
before he
  died and I know he had nothing to fear."
  P'enn shrugged. "Just death alone is enough. It's
a big
  leap and no guarantee of a soft landing. Or any
landing at
  all. It doesn't matter how strong your
beliefs are, how
  deeply religious you may be, there's no
guarantee been
  given, right?"
  "Not quite true, Mr. Fenn, but I
take your point."
  "So when it came to it. Father Hagan was no
different
  from the rest of us--scared of the pain and a little
                                      Page 188
                            James Herbert - The Shrine
apprehensive
  of the Great Moment of Truth."
  "Father Hagan was afraid of what he would leave
behind."
  Fenn looked puzzled.
  "He was afraid of what was happening to his
church."
  The big priest turned to face the reporter
once again,
  leaning one elbow on the backrest of the bench, his
long
  fingers clasped together. "You know, he hardly
slept at all
  after the first so-called miracle. For some reason
he no
  longer felt secure in his own church grounds."
  "I noticed his appearance was getting worse each
time I
  saw him; I put it down to general ill-health,
though."
  "You met him for the first time when you found the
  child in the field, didn't you?"
  "Yeah. And he didn't look the picture of
health then.
  But like I say, he grew worse each time I
saw him. I
  thought it was all the pressure that'd been laid on
him."
  "He was undergoing great mental stress long before
  that, I'm afraid. During my stay here we had
lengthy
  discussions about St. Joseph's, the child, Alice
Pagett, and
  her visions. And about Father Hagan himself. He was
a
  troubled man."
  "Did his, er, assignment in Hollingboume have
anything
  to do with his troubles?"
  Delgard's features sharpened. "Who told you of
that?"
  "Nobody. I just remembered the uncomfortable
silence
  at the press conference when a reporter from that area
  asked him about it. What was the problem, or is it
still a
  big secret?"
  The priest sighed. "With your tenacity I'm sure
you
  would find out sooner or later. It's all in the
past and really
  not very important."
  "So if it isn't, tell me."
  "On the understanding it will go no further?"
  "Absolutely."
  Delgard was satisfied. If he refused
to tell, Fenn would
  be even more interested and would dig around until he
  raked up something; this way he was sworn
to secrecy
  because of their off-the-record agreement a few
nights
  before.
                                      Page 189
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  "Father Hagan was young, a novice, when he was
sent
  to Hollingboume," he began. "He was uncertain
of himself,
  but hardworking, eager to learn. And he was
vulnerable."
  Delgard fell silent and Fenn grew
impatient.
  "Are you trying to tell me he had an affair with
one of
  the parishioners?"
  "Not exactly. Not exactly an affair and not with
one of
  his parishioners." Delgard shook his head
sadly. "He . . .
  he formed an attachment towards his senior
priest."
  "Oh, Jes--"
  "There was no sexual involvement, let me make
that
  quite clear. If that had been the case, then neither one
  would still be in the priesthood."
  "Then why--?"
  "Rumors spread. A small place where things
are noticed.
  Affection--deep affection--couldn't go
unnoticed. It came
  to the attention of the bishop of that particular diocese
and
  he quickly stepped in, fortunately before the
situation
  could develop."
  "Forgive me for asking, but just how do you
know it
  hadn't?"
  "Both priests would have confessed the moment they
  were confronted."
  "You've got a high opinion of human character."
  "They wouldn't have lied."
  "So Father Hagan was assigned elsewhere."
  "Yes. The other priest--his name isn't
important--left
  the parish some time later. I know what happened had
  tortured Father Hagan throughout his ecclesiastical
career,
  and I also know such temptation was never succumbed to
  again. He buried himself in work and prayer."
  "But the guilt was always there?"
  "He was a sensitive man. I don't believe
he ever purged
  himself of the guilt."
  "That's something your religion dotes on, isn't
it?" It
  was difficult to keep the rancor from his voice.
  "An unkind remark, Mr. Fenn, and not true.
However,
  a debate on the theosophical ideals of the
Roman Catholic
  Church would be rather pointless at this moment. Let's
  confine ourselves to the topic of Father Hagan and his
fears
  for this church."
  "That's something that's been puzzling me since the
                                      Page 190
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  night he died. He said there was something wrong with
  St. Joseph's and you seemed to be in
agreement."
  "Look around you, Mr. Fenn. Does it seem
dark in here
  to you?"
  "Well . . . yeah. But it's misty outside,
the light's pretty
  poor."
  "Now close your eyes, tell me what you
feel."
  Fenn closed his eyes.
  "What do you feel?"
  "Stupid."
  "Don't. Just think of the church, think of where you
  are.
  He didn't like it. He didn't like having his
eyes closed
  inside the church.
  "No!"
  His eves snapped open and he looked at the
priest in
  surprise. "I'm sorry," he said. "I
don't know what made
  me shout." He shivered. "I ... I don't
know what
  happened."
  "Did you feel an atmosphere?" Delgard
prodded gently.
  "No, I felt nothing." He frowned.
"Christ, that was it! I
  felt nothing. It's empty in here. I don't
mean it's empty of
  people . . . but what was it you said the other night.
  Something about the church being spiritually devoid ..."
  "I ... I don't know. It's cold, and it's
creepy, let's face
  it. But there's something creepy about any empty
church."
  "Not to a man of the cloth. A priest finds only
tranquillity
  in an empty church, a place to pray,
to meditate.
  There is no such peace here, just a sense of
desolation."
  Delgard shifted from his position, sliding forward
to the
  edge of his seat and resting his clasped hands over the
seat
  in front. Fenn studied the man's profile, the
high-bridged
  nose, the firm chin, the deep furrows on his
brow. Only
  one heavy-lidded eye was visible from that angle and
there
  was a sadness in its gaze, a weariness reflected
from within.
  When the priest spoke again, his voice was strong,
deep,
  but the inner sorrow was somehow contained in its
timbre.
  "If Alice truly had a visitation, then the
presence of the
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                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  Holy Spirit would be overwhelming inside this
place."
  "You said yourself a church is just a building made of
  stone," Fenn said.
  "I mean that it was a physical container that could be
  drained of its contents just like any other container.
Bishop
  Caines should have understood that. This church has been
  drained."
  "I don't get it. How can you tell?"
  "You only have to feel. Just as you did a few
moments
  ago. Father Hagan had been going through the same
trauma
  for many weeks, only his perception was greater, his
feelings
  stronger. You noticed yourself how he was changing
  physically, how his vitality was being sapped."
  "The man was ill. His heart . . ."
  "No. His life-force was being drained just as the
spiri-
  tual essence of his church was being drained. I should
have
  been aware sooner, I should have realized what was
happening
  when he told me of his doubts. He didn't
believe
  the cures were miraculous, Mr. Fenn. Nor
did he believe
  Alice saw the Blessed Virgin. At first he
wasn't sure. Alice
  had always been such a good child, an innocent
who liked
  nothing better than to help her mother in her work at
St.
  Joseph so. He'd known her since she was a
baby--"
  "Before she was struck deaf and dumb?"
  "Oh, yes. He arrived in the parish just before she
was born . He watched her grow, gave her her
First Communion,
  encouraged her to play with the other children despite the
  disability. Yet, towards the end . . . these last
few weeks
  ... he was afraid of her."
  "Afraid of an eleven-year-old kid?"
  "You were there at the convent last Sunday."
  "Sure. She was sick."
  "Before that. The way Father Hagan looked at
her."
  "You're right, he was scared. With everything that's
  happened since, I'd forgotten. He looked
terrified." Fenn
  tapped thoughtfully on the bench. "But he was
cracking
  up," he said. "Sorry, Monsignor
Delgard, I don't mean to
  be disrespectful to him. But you know yourself his hinges
  were loosening. He was just about ready to fall apart."
  "That may be so, but for good reason. The stress he
was
  suffering would have been too much for any man."
  "You mean the publicity--"
                                      Page 192
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  "I mean nothing of the sort. That was only part of
it.
  I'm talking of the mental anguish he was going
through,
  knowing his church was being raped, knowing a child was
  being used--"
  "Hey, wait a minute. This is all getting a
little farfetched,
  isn't it?"
  The priest smiled, but it was a grim smile.
"Yes, Mr.
  Fenn. Yes, you would think so, and I can't say that
I
  blame you. You're a born cynic and I think
it's probably
  the cynics who suffer least in this world." He
regarded the
  reporter with eyes that held pity in them. "Or
perhaps
  they suffer most, who can say?"
  Fenn swung around in the seat, facing the altar,
away
  from the priest's gaze.
  "It's your very cynicism that may help in this
matter,
  Mr. Fenn," he heard Delgard say.
  He slowly turned his head to look at the priest
again.
  "You're not a great believer in anything, are you?"
Delgard
  said. "You've no deep religious beliefs, you
have no family,
  no wife--"
  "How do you know that? You don't know anything
  about me."
  "Oh, but I do. I've had a long discussion about
you with
  Miss Gates, you see."
  "Sue? She wouldn't . . ." His words trailed
off as the
  priest nodded.
  "Susan is a regular visitor to the church
nowadays. I'm
  afraid she's very confused about you at the
moment, Mr.
  Fenn."
  "Yeah, I'd noticed. But why should she tell you
about
  me?"
  "Because I asked." Delgard's voice became
brisk. "I
  need your help. I found out as much as possible about
  you--first, because of the association you now have with
  the Church under Bishop Caines' edict, and
second, because
  I think you may be able to help in other ways."
  "You're losing me again."
  "Your employer tells me you're a good
journalist. A
  troublesome one, but basically sound. Apparently you
  have an inquiring mind or, as your news editor
puts it, a
  snooper's nose. He wasn't very complimentary
                                      Page 193
                            James Herbert - The Shrine
about other
  aspects of your character, unfortunately, but that does
not
  concern me greatly."
  "I can imagine what he said."
  "Good. So you and I are both aware of
your faults."
  "I didn't--"
  "It was Susan who told me you had a
clinical, open
  mind towards most things, expecially where your work
  was concerned. I must admit, having read your first
article
  on Alice and St. Joseph's, I thought you rather
too
  emotional, hardly objective at all. But she
explained that to
  me, in fact made me realize just how
objective you could
  be. It was somewhat perverse, but I suppose I
should
  respect your opportunism in some way. You
didn't believe in what you wrote, although you wanted
your readers to
  believe. You very skillfully sensationalized the
story without
  giving any clear credence to what happened. It's
only
  on second reading and with some knowledge of the author
  that one can detect the deliberate ambiguity of
your
  statement. That was your objectivity: you wrote a
crude,
  yet on the surface, sincere piece of
journalism to promote
  your own interests. In other words, you wanted a
scoop.
  And that you surely got."
  "Maybe you're giving me more credit than I
deserve.
  That's if you are giving me credit . . . I'm
kinda confused."
  "You have a sharp mind, Mr. Fenn. And that's what
I
  want. I need your objectivity also."
  "Can you get to the point of all this?"
  "The fact that you're cynical about the Church could
  mean you're also cynical about its opposite. It
could give
  you an advantage."
  "Over what?"
  "Over the evil that's surrounding us now."
  Fenn grinned. "Oh, yeah?"
  "You see, if you don't believe, then you won't
be so
  afraid. Evil is a parasite that
breeds on people's beliefs."
  "I thought it bred on ignorance."
  "It's often the ignorant who have unreasonable
beliefs.
  But yours is not that kind of ignorance. You would
believe
  something if it was proved conclusively to you and,
                                      Page 194
                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   furthermore, you would seek that proof; the
ignorant would
   not. And that's what I want you to do, Mr. Fenn.
I want
   you to seek."
   Fenn tucked his hands into his overcoat pocket.
He
   wasn't sure if it was the conversation or the church
itself
   that made him feel so cold. "just what is it you
want me to
   seek, Monsignor Delgard?"
   "I want you to find out about this church."
   Fenn looked at him in surprise. "Surely
that'd be easier
   for you to do."
   "Objectivity, Mr. Fenn, and
practicality. I shall be too
   busy in the next few months organizing St.
Joseph's itself,
   preparing for pilgrims, supervising the building
work that
   will have to be carried out. As for objectivity, I'm
too
   ensconced in the dreadful atmosphere of this
place, too
   involved with the tragedy of Father Hagan, to see
any
   thing in a pure, objective light. More than that,
I want you
   to find out about the village. It needs a
researcher's eye,
   someone who can dig deep, find answers. You've
already
   reached an agreement with Bishop Caines and
George
   Southworth; this would merely be part of that work.
Alii ask is that you look for something more, something that
   could have happened here in the past."
   "Like what?"
   "I don't know. That's for you to find out."
   Fenn shrugged. "Okay. As you say, it would be
part of
   the job anyway."
   "And one more thing: I want you to find out more about
   Alice Pagett. And her parents. There's
something missing
   and I've no idea what it is. I only know
we must find out."
   "I think you may be coming a little unhinged yourself,
   Monsignor."
   Delgard studied him coldly for a moment, then
said,
   "That's good. I want you to think that way. But before
   you leave, I want to show you something." He rose
from
   the bench and Fenn quickly followed suit, stepping
into
   the aisle so the priest could get through.
   Delgard genuflected before the altar, then walked
   toward the right-hand side of the church. He turned
back
   toward F'enn when he was below the statue of Our
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                             James Herbert - The Shrine
Lady.
   "Would you please come here?" he said.
   Fenn, hands still tucked into his pockets,
followed. He looked curiously into the face of the
tall priest, who indicated the statue with a
nod of his head. "Father Hagan
   told me Alice loves this statue, that she used
to spend long
   periods sitting before it. You could say it was almost
an
   obsession. If her visions were merely the
hallucinations of
   a disturbed mind, it's not improbable that they would
take
   the form of something she was fascinated by. Take a
good
   look at the statue."
   He remembered studying the statue just two weeks
   before, on the Sunday of the miracles. He had
noticed a
   flaw then, the faintest crack running from beneath the
chin
   down one side of the neck.
   Now the effigy was a mass of black lines, a
crazy
   network of thin jagged veins that covered almost every
   inch of white stone. Cracks running from the
corners of
   the Madonna's lips gave her a grotesque
smile, an obscene
   leer. Even her sighness eyes were cruelly
scarred.
   Instead of a finely sculptured and compassionate
image
   of the Madonna, it seemed that a hideously
wrinkled harridan
   stared down upon the two men, her ravaged palms a
   mocking gesture of supplication.
   Fenn stepped away, as if fearing the stone
figure might
   reach down and touch him.
   Dame, dame! the watch is set:
   Quickly come, we are all met.
   From the lakes and from the fens,
   From the rocks and from the dens,
   From the woods and from the caves,
   From the churchyards, from the graves,
   From the dungeon, from the tree,
   That they die on, here are we!
   Come she not yet?
   Strike another heat! "Three Witches"
Charms," Ben Jonson
   he WALKED DOWN THE GRAVEL path toward
the gate.
   Overhead, the branches of the leafless
trees pined, forming
   a weblike canopy. Thin, winter-brittle
branches snapped
   against each other, the cold breeze that shifted the
mist
   causing their movement. His footsteps were
unnaturally
   loud, as they had been inside the church, but now there
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                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   was no echo, no hollow sound to reflect the
emptiness of
   the sanctum. It was dark beneath the trees, almost as
dark
   as inside the church.
   The whole business was crazy! Bloody stupid
crazy!
   What was Delgard trying to pin on the kid? An
eleven-year-old,
   for Christ's sake! How the hell could she cause
   any harm? And why should she? Was he implying she
was
   in some way responsible for Hagan's death? She
hadn't
   even been there!
   He stopped for a moment, breathing fiercely.
   Delgard was becoming as neurotic--as
paranoid--as Father
   Hagan. He just couldn't be serious! He had
almost
   begun to believe the priest. Christ, he was
nearly as crazy
   as the two of them.
   He continued walking, shoving his hands deep into his
   overcoat pockets.
   But the statue. What the fuck had happened to the
   statue? A flaw in the stone? Huh! I hat was
a new one!
   Running cracks like ladders in panty hose.
Maybe someone
   had been secretly pounding away at it. No
way. It
   would have been chipped. The statue had scared him.
It
   was somehow . . . repulsive! Jesus,
Delgard was to blame.
   He was the one making him jittery.
   He jumped when something stepped out of the shadows.
   "All finished, Mr. Fenn?"
   "Jes--. You gave me a fright."
   The man chuckled as he opened the gate for the
reporter.
   "Sorry about that. I was just keeping out of the
breeze. Bit chilly."
   "Yeah." Fenn stepped through the gate, glad to be
outside
   the church grounds.
   "Hey, Fenn," a familiar husky voice
called out. He
   turned to see the journalist from the Washington
Post approaching. "What gives?" she said. "You
look white as a
   ghost."
   "It's the weather," he replied, heading for his car.
   "Funny. I usually get a red nose." She
kept pace with
   him.
   There were one or two cameramen loitering by the side
   of the road, but they lost interest when they saw it was
   only a fellow journalist who had emerged from
St. Joseph's.
   "I saw you drive past me in the village," the
woman at
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                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  his side told him. "Figured you were on your way
up here.
  How about a lift back to the hotel?"
  He opened the car door, then
straightened. "It's Nancy,
  isn't it?"'
  "Yup. Shelbeck. We met last Sunday."
  He nodded. "Jump in."
  With no further heeding, she ran around to the other
  side of the car. Fenn climbed in and opened the
passenger
  door. She joined him inside and smiled her
thanks.
  "You're right," lie said. "You do get a red
nose." He started the engine.
  She waited until he had pulled out into the
road, reversed
  back, then headed the Mini in the direction of the
  village, before asking, "How come you get into St.
Joseph's
  when nobody else can?"
  "You could have got in through the field next door."
  ""You wanna bet? They've got a couple of
priests posted
  out there."
  He took a quick glance at her. Even though her
nose was red, she was an attractive woman. He
noticed she had
  green eyes.
  "So you were going to tell me?" she said.
  "Tell you what?"
  "Why you were allowed in."
  "The Pope's inv uncle."
  "Come on, Fenn, give."
  "You could say I'm there by, er, papal
appointment.
  I've been officially authorized to write the
story of St.
  Joseph's and the Holy Miracles."
  "Shit, how did you manage that?"
  "I hey know an ace when they see one."
  "Forgive me for saying so, but you don't seem so
happy
  about it. Money not too good?"
  , He laughed humorlessly. "D'you know, I
forgot to mention
  money."
  "How remiss. I'm sure you'll make it in
other ways,
  though."
  "I'll do my best."
  "As a matter of fact, that's what I wanted
to talk to you
  about. Remember I mentioned it last
Sunday."
  "You dissd something about comparing notes."
  "Uh huh. Look, why don't we stop and have a
drink?"
  "At this time of the morning?"
  "It's past ten. Nearly half-past, actually.
Your country
  pubs opm early here. Come on, you look as if
you need a
                                      Page 198
                            James Herbert - The Shrine
  snort,"
  "You don't know how right you are," he said, shaking
  his head.
  They had almost reached the edge of Banfield, where
  the first of the village's two public houses
stood. He indicated
  left and pulled into its courtyard. There were several
  other vehicles already parked even at that early
hour, but
  he knew many of the locals used the pubs as
coffeeshops
  that early in the morning, as they did the Crown
Hotel
  farther along the High Street.
  The White Hart had just one L-shaped bar;
polished
  brasses and hunting horns adorned the walls,
and the
  heavy beams set in the low ceiling gave the
interior a
  feeling of ancient solidity. A freshly lit
fire blazed in the
  huge inglenook fireplace. There were no more
than a
  dozen people drinking, some of whom were vaguely
familiar
  to Fenn. He recognized them as pressmen.
  "What d'you want to drink?" he asked the
Washington
  Post reporter.
  "No, let me. It was my invitation."
  Fenn acquiesced. "Make mine a Scotch,
no ice, no water."
  He found a seat by a window while she ordered the
  drinks from a tall, bearded, and bespectacled
barman, and
  settled into it with a silent sigh. Jesus, his
legs felt weak.
  The statue ... it was hard to clear the hideous
image
  from his mind. How could something like that happen?
  He could understand the stonework cracking into such a
  fine network over the years--and it would take a good
  many years for such results--but to reach that st'ate in
just
  under two weeks? It was impossible! And what was
Delgard
  insinuating? What was--his
  "I got you a double. You could use it."
  He stared blankly at the woman, then at the
glass she
  was offering. "Thanks," he said, taking the whiskey
and
  drinking haTf in one gulp.
  "I was right," she observed. She sat next to him
and
  sipped her drink from a half-pint glass.
  "Bitter?" he asked in surprise.
  "Sure. I like to try your beer. Want to tell
me what's on
  your mind?"
  Fenn studied her closely, taking in more than he
had on
                                      Page 199
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  their first meeting. Her dark hair had a reddish
tinge to it,
  not one that came from a bottle, though (at
least, not
  obviously so). It was still difficult to determine
her age, for
  she was one of those women who could be either younger
  than she looked or older, but never guessed
exactly. Her
  eyes, which were alert, watchful, said older--maybe
approaching
  forty--but her skin, which was pale and smooth,
  and her lips, which were not full but were well-defined,
  said younger. Her nose was a little too straight
to make her
  pretty, but it gave her an appearance of
attractive strength.
  She had removed her topcoat and her figure was
trim, if
  not particularly shapely, beneath the roll-topped
sweater
  and straight-legged trousers. He had noticed the
high-heeled
  boots she wore earlier and they were of thin
burgundy
  leather, stylishly cut.
  "I feel as though I'm under a microscope,"
she said.
  "I was just thinking," he said. "You fit the
image."
  "Hmm?"
  "The hard-bitten New York reporter
lady."
  "Thanks. You must have a way with women."
  He laughed. "Sorry, I didn't mean that
nastily. As a
  matter of fact, it was a kind of compliment."
  "Yeah? I'd hate to hear your snipes." She
sipped her
  bitter again, then reached inside her bag for
cigarettes. She
  offered him one first and he shook his head. She lit
her
  own with a slim Dunhill lighter." What's the
problem,
  Fenn?" she said, blowing blue smoke across the
small
  table.
  "My name's Gerry," he said evenly.
  She smiled. "I think I prefer Fenn."
  He returned her smile, beginning to enjoy her
company.
  "I think I do too."
  "Is it the death of the priest, this Father Hagan,
that's
  upsetting you? I understand you were actually there when
  he had his heart attack."
  He nodded. "The postmortem said it was a heart
attack,
  but I was sure he was choking. I tried to save
him." He
  took another long swallow of Scotch. "I'm
certain I saw
                                      Page 200
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  the meat in his throat. Christ, I even tried
to yank it out."
  "But the coroner would have known if it was
asphyxiation."
  "Maybe it was both, I don't know. Maybe
he just imag-
  ined he was choking. The priest was in a pretty
hysterical
  state towards the end."
  "That's likely when your heart is seizing up."
  "No, I didn't mean then. He was in a
highly strung
  state for weeks before."
  She was thoughtful for a moment. "I noticed there was
  something peculiar about him that Sunday at
the convent.
  Are you saying, in your sweet way, that he was
bananas?"
  "No . . . just, well, neurotic. He was
upset by what was
  happening at the church."
  "But that had to be fantastic for any priest. He
actually
  witnessed the miracles himself. What was it he
didn't like?
  The publicity?"
  Fenn realized he was saying too much. As a
reporter
  himself, he should have known better. He quickly changed
  the subject. "Have you got a deal to offer me?"
  She raised her eyebrows. "Where's your
British reserve?
  Okay, to business. How'd you like to form a
partnership
  with me in this little enterprise. We work together, you
  supply the information, I write the story for my
paper, I
  get you a fat fee. I also get you your name
alongside
  mine."
  "Are you kidding? Why the hell do I need you?"
  "Because I'm a better writer."
  He put his empty glass down. "I need
another drink."
  "At this hour of the morning? Hey, wait a
minute, don't
  get sore. Look, you're good, but I hate
to say it--you're
  Erovincial. Come on, don't get up, just
listen. You haven't
  ad the experience of working on a national yet. I
know,
  I've checked. You haven't the experience of working
under
  a good editor, I mean, someone who's going
to kick your
  butt 'till you get it right, someone who's going
to show you
  how to get it right-- His
  "My butt's been kicked plenty of times," he
said in weak
  defense.
  "Yeah, but there's different ways to kick different
                                      Page 201
                            James Herbert - The Shrine
asses.
  All I'm saying is that you haven't had
the right guidance
  yet. Sure, you're good to a degree, and okay,
you re going
  to get a lot of offers, but I can make whatever you
do with
  this thing better. Believe me, much, much better.
And if
  you want to get down to figures--"
  Fenn was no longer paying attention. He was
looking
  toward the door, which had just opened. A figure
stood
  there, Staring around the pub as if looking for someone.
  Two men immediately rose from their seats at the bar and
  hurried toward the man.
  "That's Len Pagett," Fenn said, more to himself
than to the woman.
  "Pagett? Oh, yeah, Alice's father."
  Fenn was already out of his seat, quickly making toward
  the three men, who were now shaking hands. Nancy
  Shelbeck soon followed.
  "Mr. Pagett?" Fenn said, barging into the group
and
  offering an outstretched hand. "You've met me before.
I'm
  Gerry Fenn, Brighton Evening Courier"
  One of the other men quickly stepped in between Fenn
  and Pagett. "On your bike, Fenn," the man
said, his voice
  almost a snarl. "Mr. Pagett's ours.
We've made an arrangement."
  "Who've you?" Fenn asked, but he had already
guessed.
  He now recognized one of the men as a reporter
from one
  of the heavies.
  "He's signing an exclusive contract with the
Express," the
  other man, who was just as belligerent, told him.
"And
  that means he doesn't talk to any other
papers."
  "Don't be bloody silly. You can't--"
  "Piss off." A hand shoved him, and the first man
took
  Pagett by the arm. "Let's go somewhere quiet,
Mr. Pagett,
  where we can talk. We've got the contract ready
for you."
  Pagett looked confused. "Can't I have
a drink first?"
  "We've got plenty where we're going," the first
reporter
  assured him. "It's not far." He guided him
toward the
  door.
  The few other journalists in the bar who had been
  taking a sneaky morning nip (purely to keep out
the cold
  for when they took up their vigils outside the
church and
                                      Page 202
                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   the convent) were converging on the shuffling group.
   "What's going on, Fenn?" Nancy asked when
she reached
   his side.
   "These bastards have done a deal with Alice's father.
   They won't let him talk to anyone."
   The second Express reporter blocked the
doorway. "That's
   right, he belongs to us now."
   "Wait a minute," the New Yorker said.
"Has he signed
   any agreement yet?"
   "That's none of your business."
   Fenn smiled thinly. "I just heard you
say you had the
   contract ready. That means he hasn't signed."
   The Express reporter wasted no more time with
words.
   He whipped open the door and sped through, slamming
it
   hard behind him.
   "What's going on here?" the tall, bearded
barman blinked
   through his glasses as the crowd barged through the
doorway
   in pursuit. He welcomed the business, but
wasn't too
   keen on the rowdiness of the journalists.
   Outside in the car park, a silver-gray
Capri was revving
   up its engine and the Express reporter was running
toward
   it. He pulled open the passenger door as the car
moved off
   and jumped in.
   Fenn and those who had followed him from the pub had
   to step back to avoid being hit.
   "Where're they taking Pagett?" Nancy
Shelbeck yelled.
   "Probably to some nearb'y hotel. They'll
keep him locked
   away for a few days where no one can find him."
   "That can't be legal."
   "It is if he agrees to it." Fenn broke
away, heading for
   his Mini. He climbed in, thankful that he
hadn't locked
   the doors. Through the windshield he saw the other
journalists
   scurrying for their own vehicles. The Capri was
   disappearing into the High Street. His passenger
door
   swung open as he started the engine.
   "This is ridiculous," Nancy said, and she was
laughing.
   "It's like the goddamn Keystone Cops!"
   Fenn didn't have time to enjoy the humor, nor
to tell
   her to get out of his car. He shoved it into first and
roared
   across the car park, swinging left into the High
Street,
   barely looking to see if the coast was clear. He
                                       Page 203
                            James Herbert - The Shrine
was in luck:
  the Capri carrying Len Pagett and the two
journalists had
  been forced to stop at a zebra crossing while
two old
  ladies, lost in conversation, ambled across.
  He slapped the steering wheel in triumph.
"Got the
  bastards! They won't lose me now."
  Nancy laughed aloud. "I don't believe
this!"
  Tires burned the road as the Capri screeched
off. Heads turned as Fenn pushed his foot down and
followed suit.
  "Take it easy, Fenn. It isn't worth
getting killed for!"
  Both cars roared down the High Street as
others, driven
  by the slower journalists, began to emerge from the car
  park. Vehicles were parked on both sides of the
road,
  making its center a narrow channel and forcing the two
  cars to slow down when they met others coming from the
  opposite direction. Fenn was aware that it would be
tougher
  to keep up once they were through the village
and out on
  the open road, but he had an advantage: he
knew the
  roads. He guessed they were heading for Brighton,
using
  one of the many hotels there as a hideaway, and
cursed
  them (although he didn't blame them) for their
opportunism.
  Somehow, because of his involvement, he felt that he was
  proprietor of this story and that the other
newspapers were
  infringing on his territory. From what he had
learned of
  Len Pagett, and from what he had surmised of the
man
  himself, he wasn't surprised he had sold out
to checkbook
  journalism. No one had to be famous anymore
to make
  money from selling their own personal story; they just
had
  to know somebody who was.
  The Capri was fifty yards ahead, approaching
the end of
  the village. Fenn could see the road junction in
the distance,
  the small roundabout, the garage next to it, the
convent.
  Clear of parked vehicles, he increased his
speed, desperate
  to keep up with the Capri, guessing it would turn
left at
  the roundabout, keeping to the main road rather than
  carrying straight on into the minor one. The High
Street
  was busy with shoppers, many of whom shook their heads
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                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  in disgust at the racing cars, perhaps resigning themselves
  to the advance symptoms of what their once peaceful
village was about to become.
  Next to him. Nancy Shelbeck bit into her
lip, amused
  by the chase but a little alarmed also.
  They were nearing the roundabout. Shoppers were hurrying
  in and out of a grocery shop on the left, bags
full,
  purses not so full. A huge yellow-and-green
tanker stood
  in the garage forecourt on the right, shedding its load
into
  the tanks beneath the pumps. Fresh virgin cars
gleamed in
  the large showroom windows by the side of the service
  bay. A green, single-decker bus negotiated
the tiny
  roundabout, rolling over the white-painted bump in the
  road as it headed into the village. The driver was
accelerating
  as his bus straightened up.
  The Capri barely slowed as it approached the
roundabout.
  Fenn did not know why he glanced ahead at the
cream
  walls of the convent; the compulsion was just there.
  He saw the small white face at the window,
blackness
  behind giving it prominence. Instinctively he knew
it was
  Alice. Watching the High Street. Looking
at the cars.
  Too late he saw the car in front weaving from
side to
  side as though the driver had no control. He was
almost
  upon it. Nancy was screaming. He was
trying to turn the
  wheel, trying to avoid crashing into the erratic
Capri. But
  the wheel had no say in what direction the
vehicle took. It
  moved in its own wild direction.
  He jabbed hard on the brake, but it was too
hard, too
  panicked. The wheel locked, the car skidded.
  The green bus, horrified faces peering from its
windows
  like a row of peas in a split pod, turned
to avoid the wildly
  spinning Capri, but there was only one direction the
driver
  could take. Into the garage forecourt. Where the
tanker
  was emptying its contents.
  The Capri smashed into the front corner of the
bus, its
  hood buckling instantly, its engine rising up and
sheering
  through its own windshield into the screaming faces of the
two men in front. The bus driver went forward with the
impact, through the large front glass of his
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                            James Herbert - The Shrine
cab, hurtling
  beneath the tanker a split second before his bus hit
it.
  Mercifully he was dead before he could realize what
was
  going to happen.
  As the long tube pumping fuel into the underground
gas
  tanks was sheered by screeching metal, sparks
flew in all
  directions showering into the spilling volatile
liquid.
  Fenn saw the crash and cried out as his own car
smashed
  through the showroom window. He was only vaguely
  aware of the blinding flash and the thunderous whoosh as
  the gas tanker exploded.
  "Your life is finished," and he threw her down,
dragged her
  into the room by her hair, struck off her head on
the block and
  chopped her into pieces so that her blood streamed
all over the
  floor. Then he threw her into the basin with all the
others. "Pitcher's Bird," The
Brothers Grimm
  someone WAS SHAKING HIM. He groaned, but the
effort to open his eyes too much. His cheek rested
against something hard.
  A single voice began to filter through the
cacophony of
  sounds, sounds which he wasn't sure were inside or
outside
  his head. He groaned. Christ, his head hurt!
  Tentatively he forced his eyes open, the effort
exhausting,
  like trying to will himself awake from a nightmare. A
face
  was nearby, a woman's face, someone he
vaguely recognized.
  "Fenn, are you all right?"
  He wasn't ready to reply.
  Hands reached around his shoulders and he was pulled
  off the steering wheel back into his seat. He
felt his jaw
  clutched and his head shaken. He opened his eyes
again
  and this time it was hardly any effort at all. There
was
  something wrong with Nancy's face, but he
couldn't figure
  what. It was smeared red; thick cherry juice,
dark-red ink.
  No, blood. Her face was bleeding. He
struggled to sit
  upright.
  "Thank God," he heard her say.
  "What happened?" he managed to gasp, and it
all flooded
  into his head before she replied. The careering
Capri, the
  green bus, the gas tanker--oh, Jesus, all
those people. His
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                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  mind snapped into instant attention.
  The Mini's windshield was a spider's silver
web of shattered
  glass, but through the side windows he could see the
  gleaming body work of that year's models. Yet
there was a
  darkness out there that puzzled him until he realized
it was
  swirling black smoke. A figure rushed by the
window,
  arms waving, shouting incoherently. Fenn turned
to the
  woman next to him.
  "You okay? Your face ..."
  "It's okay. I hit the windshield when we
went through
  the showroom window." She put a hand to her forehead
  and brought it away smeared with blood. "It
doesn't hurt;
  I think its just a gash." She clutched his arm.
"We've got
  to get out of here, Fenn. The tanker . . . the
tanker out
  there exploded. The whole place is going up in
flames . . ."
  He pushed open the driver's door and the heat hit
him
  immediately, even though the car showroom was partially
  shielded by a side wall. The smoke was growing
thicker
  by the second and he began to cough as the acrid
fumes
  poured into his nose and throat.
  "Come on, quick!" he urged her.
  "My door's stuck! It's jammed up against a
car you hit!"
  He pushed his own door open as far as it
would go,
  denting the side panel of the new Rover standing
next to
  the crashed Mini. He jumped out, then reached
back
  inside to help her across. Nancy came
scuttling through,
  almost throwing herself into the open. Fenn held her
steady
  and quickly took in his surroundings.
  Not much was left of the showroom window his car had
  smashed through; huge, lethal-looking shards of
glass hung
  from the top like transparent stalactites. Smoke
poured
  through the opening, filling the area with its choking
  denseness, and fire was already spreading across the width
  of the broken window. Flames titled the glass
doorway by
  the side of the window and this suddenly exploded inward
  with the heat. Fenn realized burning gasoline must have
  spread all over the garage forecourt and was
attacking
  anything flammable.
  He pulled Nancy back, closing the
door of the Mini so
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                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  they could squeeze through the cars toward the rear of the
  showroom. "Keep low!" he yelled at her.
"Try to keep
  under the smoke! His
  To the rear of the display area was a glass partitioned
  office and he quickly ascertained that there was no
back
  exit from it. The office was empty of people, the
figure he
  had seen rushing by moments before obviously the
salesman
  or manager who had occupied the room. Nancy
doubled
  over, her body racked by choking coughs.
  Holding her tightly, giving her support,
Fenn looked
  around for some other means of escape. He thanked
God
  when he saw the door to his left.
  Nancy almost collapsed to her knees when he
tried to
  drag her toward the door. He allowed her to sag
for a few
  moments, kneeling beside her, waiting for her
coughing
  spasm to cease. Her eyes were streaming tears and
her face
  was now a red mask from smeared blood.
  "There's a way out, just over there!" he shouted over
  the rumbling, burning sound and the splintering of
glass, the
  cracking of burning wood.
  "Okay," she gasped, at last controlling the
seizure. "I'll
  be okay! Just get me out of here!"
  Fenn half-lifted her to her feet and she leaned
against
  him as they made for the door. Such was their momentum
  that they stumbled against it and Fenn pushed out a hand
  to cushion the impact. He quickly pulled his hand
away.
  The wood was scorching hot.
  He pulled Nancy to one side, his back against
the wall
  beside the door frame. She looked at him
questioningly,
  but all he said was, "Keep back!"
  Crouching, he reached for the door handle. It, too,

  hot and he ignored the pain as he gave it a
twist and
  flicked the door open.
  Nancy screamed as flames roared through, bursting
into
  the showroom as though exhaled from the jaws of a
dragon.
  They both fell back to escape the intense heat
and lay
  panting on the floor in a tangled heap as the
fire withdrew
  to lap around the edges of the opening. Within seconds the
  door itself was blazing.
  They rose and staggered away, collapsing against the
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                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   hood of a Maxi. Both were retching now, their
vision
   blurred by smoke-caused tears. Fenn tore off
his overcoat
   and pulled it over their heads as they lay
halt-across the
   hood.
   "We'll have to go out the front way--through the
   window!" he yelled.
   "it's too hot there! We'll never make it!"
   "We've got no choice! There's no
other way!"
   But by now, even that choice was not open to them.
   They raised their heads from the overcoat and stared in
   disbelief at the wide showroom windows. The
broken one,
   the window Fenn's Mini had smashed through, was
totally
   filled with yellow-red churning flames, tongues
of fire
   licking inward to scorch the ceiling. A thick
column of
   concrete separated it from the adjacent window, where
the
   glass was already beginning to crack with the heat. The
   fire had spread across at least half its
surface, the ground
   outside molten hot as the gasoline gushed forth and
flowed
   burning across the concourse outside.
   "Oh, my God, we're trapped," Nancy
moaned.
   Fenn looked around wildly. There had to be
another
   way out! The ceiling, a skylight. Through the
billowing
   smoke he could tell the ceiling was solid as he
realized
   there were offices above, not a roof. A stairway
then, there
   had to be a way up. No stairway. It had
to be through the
   doorway behind him, which was now no more than an
   opening into the furnace beyond. I he fire was moving
in,
   greedily pouncing on the hard plastic tiles of the
showroom,
   creating fumes that were more choking and more lethal
   than the smoke above.
   The display windows were the only way out.
   He pulled the reporter upright and bent close
to her ear.
   "We're going out the front way!"
   She shook her head. "We'll never make it!"
   Fenn wiped his sleeve across his eyes, then reached
for a
   handkerchief, spreading it across his mouth and nose.
He
   tugged at her roll-neck sweater, unfolding the
material at
   the neck so it covered her lower face.
Yanking her off the
   hood and holding the overcoat before them as a
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                            James Herbert - The Shrine
shield, he
  led her toward the front of the showroom in a
stumbling
  run. He left her crouched between his own Mini and the
  Rover parked next to it and raced toward the
still-unbroken
  window. He ducked as a long jagged crack
appeared in the
  glass and a sound like a gunshot rang out. For one
long,
  dreadful moment he thought the window would shatter
  inward to flail his body with shards of daggerlike
glass,
  but the huge panes held. He went forward again,
one arm
  holding his coat out to protect himself from the terrible
  heat. The display windows were the type that slid
back
  into each other, depending on which side the salesman
  wanted to drive a car through, and Fenn went to the far
  corner, to the side that had been farthest from the fire,
  only now the scene outside was almost obliterated
by the
  spreading flames.
  He pulled at the handle and cried out as the
red-hot
  metal burned his fingers. Using the material of the
overcoat
  to protect his hands, he tried again, but to no
avail:
  the window was either locked, or the metal frame had
  swollen with the heat, jamming it solid within its
housing.
  He swore, more of a scream of frustration than a
curse.
  The heat and fear of the glass exploding inward forced
  him back. He returned to his companion, who
was slumped
  against the door of the Rover.
  "It's no good! The window won't open!"
  She looked at him fearfully, then yelled,
"Shit!" She
  grabbed his lapel and pulled him down to her.
"Can't you
  break the goddamn window?"
  "Even if I could the fire out there would roast . .
dis8he broke off. "Prick!" he called himself.
  He shoved her away from the car door and
swung it
  open, groaning with disappointment when he discovered
  there were no keys in the ignition. Quickly he
stood, then
  rolled over the Rover's hood to the Marina standing
next to
  it. He yanked open the door and was once again
thwarted:
  no keys. He went back over the hood and landed
next to the woman.
  "The keys must be in the office!" he shouted. "You
wait
  here!"
  Then he was running back, crouching low behind a car
  as he passed the open doorway where the fire
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                            James Herbert - The Shrine
raged,
  noticing the floor around it was now blazing. Coughing
  and spluttering into the handkerchief, Fenn reached the
  rear office. He hurriedly pulled open
drawers, spilling
  their contents onto the floor in his haste. No
keys, no
  keys, no bloody keys! He looked around
wildly, desperately.
  Where the fuck . . . his He groaned
aloud when he saw the
  hooks in a cork bulletin board on the wall;
labeled keys
  were hanging from each hook. He rushed to them,
examined
  the labels, found two ragged "Rover." Taking
both
  sets, he dashed back into the showroom.
  The suffocating heat hit once more and he knew that
  soon the whole area would be in flames. His
breathing was
  labored, drawn in in short, sharp gasps. The
oxygen was
  being eaten by the heat and what remained was
smoke-filled.
  He was staggering by the time he reached the
  woman.
  He climbed into the Rover, Nancy crouching at
the
  open door beside him. "There won't be any gas in
it!" she
  shouted.
  was 'Course there bloody will! How d'you think they
get
  them in here?" He jabbed in the first key,
praying it
  would be the right one. It was. The engine roared into
  life. "Jump in the back and keep down!" he
screamed at
  her over the noise.
  Without further bidding, she slammed his door shut,
  opened the one behind, and leaped in. The car was moving
  forward before she had slumped into the backseat. She
  tucked in her legs just as the Rover's momentum
swung
  thepassenger door shut.
  Tires screeched against the plastic floor as he
stuck his
  foot down hard on the accelerator. The car
zoomed toward
  the window and Fenn raised his arm to protect his
face,
  hoping nothing solid was just beyond the flames
outside.
  Nancy screamed as the Rover burst through the huge
  panes of glass.
  Shards flew back at the windshield, but it
withstood
  their onslaught. The car was engulfed by the fire and
Fenn
  kept his foot down, holding the steering wheel
straight,
  expecting the vehicle to explode into flames at
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                             James Herbert - The Shrine
any moment.
   It could have been little more than two seconds before
   they broke free of the fire, but for both of them it
seemed
   like an eternity. The smell, the heat--the fear--
was
   overpowering, and the sight of blinding, twisting flames
   all around was a nightmare that they would never forget.
   Self-preservation rather than coolness kept
Fenn's foot down.
   He yelled in triumph as they emerged from the
inferno,
   the cry turning into one of panic as he saw the
stationary
   car immediately in his path. He swung the wheel hard
to
   his right and the Rover went into a curving skid,
smashing
   sideways on into the other vehicle. His body
bounced off
   the driver's door to be thrown across the passenger
seat.
   Crushed metal made fierce rending sounds and the
car
   jerked violently as its engine cut out. One of
Fenn's hands
   was still on the steering wheel and he used it to pull
   himself upright. Without thinking, he switched off the
   ignition.
   He drew in deep mouthfuls of air, the burning
stench
   still present but not to the same overwhelming degree.
His
   eyes widened as he stared at the carnage before him.
   Balls of flame were rolling upward into the
smoke-filled
   air, their very brightness, let alone the heat, stinging his
   eyes. The tanker itself was completely engulfed in
fire,
   only brief glimpses of its shape visible as
the flames shifted
   and weaved; most of the garage forecourt was alight, the
   burning liquid still spreading. Still greedily
devouring anything
   in its path. 7 he car showroom was totally hidden
   behind a blazing wall, the top part of the building,
where
   the offices were, already scorched black. There were
faces
   at the open windows, terrified, screaming faces,
with eyes
   that beseeched the people below to help them, please, please
   help"
   The very ground shimmered with the heat and there
   were people crawling, dragging themselves away from the
   devastation. The green bus was embedded in the side
of
   the gas tanker, half its length a mass of
flames; most of the
   windows were shattered and there were still some passengers
   left, those who had not been instantly burned
to death
   or made incapable of moving by the initial blast,
                                       Page 212
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
struggling
   through the flames, bodies cut by remaining glass
fragments,
   flesh seared by the intense heat. The silver-gray
Capri was
   several yards away from the two burning vehicles
as though
   it had rebounded on impact, but there were flames
all
   around, licking at the metal body, melting the
glass of its
   windows.
   Fenn blinked his eyes against the glare. Had he
seen
   something move in the back of the car?
   Everywhere there were people running, staggering away
   from the destruction, but one or two moving toward it
as
   if fascinated by the danger, the mayhem. Those who
were
   paralyzed by fear crouched against walls or cowered
behind
   cars.
   A face was suddenly next to his, a
tear-streaked, blood-smeared
   image that for a moment, through shock, he failed
   to recognize.
   "You did it, Fenn!" Nancy shouted, her
voice cracked
   and almost tearful. Her arm went around his neck and
she
   pressed her cheek against his in a hug that made him
   wince. It also helped bring him to his senses.
He pulled
   himself free and reached for the door handle. "We've
got
   to get away!" he shouted back at her.
"There'll be other
   petrol tanks below ground that the fire hasn't
touched yet!
   When the heat reaches them ..." He left the
sentence
   unfinished, but Nancy understood the implication.
   The dry, scorched air hit them like a blast from
an open
   furnace as they emerged from the car and both put up
   their arms to protect themselves. It was difficult
to breathe,
   for the atmosphere was filled with choking fumes.
Fenn
   turned his head away from the scene in a reflex
action and
   immediately wished he hadn't.
   The village grocery was to his left and its
huge, plate-glass
   windows had shattered inward. Bodies of women
   who had been thrown against the windows by the blast lay
   scattered among the wreckage inside, cans and
packaged
   Joods littered around them like fallen pieces of
masonry.
   ome lay still, others squirmed in pain. He
wondered why
                                       Page 213
                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   the legs of one woman failed to move in
conjunction with
   her twisting torso, then realized they had been
almost
   severed at the thighs by the shattered glass. Another
woman,
   young and who would have been pretty were her face not
   contorted in agony, sat upright before the window,
back
   resting against the wall below the frame, her hands
clutching
   a wide rent in her throat, desperately trying
to squeeze
   the sides together to prevent her life's blood from
gushing
   out. Red liquid began to pump between her fingers as
he
   watched.
   The noise, the confusion--the screams for help--
battered
   against his reeling brain. He put a hand
against the Rover
   to steady himself and the metal was hot.
   A hand tugged at his shoulder and Nancy was shouting,
   "Fenn, there s someone moving in the other car!"
   He turned, shielding his eyes, looking over at
the bum-+
   wrecks. She was right, and he had been right a
moment
   or two before: there was someone moving in the back
   of the Capri, a pair of hands beating at the rear
window.
   "Oh, Christ, it's Pagett." It came out as
a low moan, for
   the knowledge struck a new fear into Fenn. Nancy was
   staring at him and he knew what she was going to say.
   "You've got to help him!"
   "It's no good! I'll never get near it!"
   "You can't just let him burn!"
   "What can I do?" He was shouting at her, almost
   screaming. What the hell did she want of him?
   "Something! Just do something!"
   "There's a woman over there!" He pointed
desperately
   toward the supermarket window. "She's bleeding
to death!"
   "I'll take care of her!"" Nancy pushed
him roughly away
   from the Rover. "Please try, Fenn," she
pleaded.
   "So much for woman's fucking lib!" he yelled
at her, then
   was running toward the fire, angry at her and
shit-scared
   for himself.
   As he drew closer to the burning vehicles, an
even more
   intense wall of heat hit him, forcing him to whip
off his
   jacket and hold it in front of him. He thought
he could
   smell singeing material. Fenn moved in,
feeling stifled, his
                                       Page 214
                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   skin dry and hot. Breathing was difficult,
walking was
   agony. Not just his legs felt on fire, but so
did his lungs.
   He lowered the guard just enough to steal a glance at the
   Capri.
   Pagett's face was pressed against the rear
window, his
   features flattened, the palms of his hands white
against the
   glass. He was trying to push himself through the
tailgate,
   which was obviously locked, his mouth open to suck in
   scant oxygen, his eyes bulging with terror.
   Fenn was forced to bring his jacket back up over his
   head, but even that made little difference. He felt
hot air
   rushing around him, then he was in darkness as heavy
   black smoke swilled down fo cover the
forecourt in a dense
   fume-filled fog. Even rhe winter wind was
playing its part in the havoc.
   He stumbled, his eyes streaming tears, his lungs
heaving
   as they expelled the poisonous smoke. He
fell and his back
   was scorched as he rolled over on the ground,
exposing it
   to the worst of the heat. The skin of his face and hands
felt
   incredibly tight as if it were shriveling in on
itself. He had
   to get away. It was no use. He
couldn't get any closer. He
   would be roasted alive if he tried.
   He pushed himself back, digging his heels against the
   concrete, using an elbow that was quickly rubbed raw
to
   gain momentum. The jacket was held before him
to protect
   his face, but it was smoldering fiercely as though
   about to burst into flames. After a few feet he
raised
   himself to one knee and risked another look at the
burning
   Capri. What he saw was so horrific he
forgot about his
   own searing pain.
   He only caught brief glimpses through
patches of swirling
   smoke and at first he could not understand what was
   happening. A strange, unclear shape was emerging
from
   the back window of the Capri. It seemed to be
blurred, as
   though its form were distorted by Fenn's own tears.
He
   blinked his eyes and realized they were already
dry from
   the scorching heat. Then he understood.
   Pagett was pushing his way out of the car, but the
glass
   had not broken. It was melting, clinging to his face
                                       Page 215
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
and
   hands like thick, viscous liquid, burning and
molding itself
   into his flesh, becoming a part of him. Pagett
had become
   a writhing, ill-formed monster, a human larva
prematurely
   struggling free from its shiny, clinging chrysalis,
demented
   in his agony and that madness driving him on. His
head
   twisted and his eyes were looking toward Fenn, but they
   saw nothing for the liquid glass had already burned
its
   way through to the retinas. Pan of his face and nose
was
   still flattened, molded into that shape and transfixed
by
   the sticky covering. As he slowly, twistingly,
emerged, the
   glass stretched, becoming thin, beginning to tear. A
gaping
   rent appeared near his neck and shoulder, and
smoldering
   smoke from his clothes mingled with steam from his
   body. He was screaming, but the sound was muted by the
   soft transparent screen covering his mouth.
   It wasn't just the heat that made Fenn cover his
eyes.
   He tried to rise, but was too giddy and too weak
to gain
   his feet. He began to crawl away, choking and
sobbing as
   he did so. He had to get away from the horrible,
dying
   creature in the car.
   It was too much; the heat was drowning him. His hands
   gave way beneath him and he rolled onto his back.
   Pagett was ablaze now. His arms thrashed in the
air,
   one hand banging against the Capri's trunk as though
in
   frustrated anger. His hair burned and the glass
on his face
   was running-down his skin in red-glowing
rivulets into the
   flames from his clothes. He fell forward and was still
   moving, climbing from the window, an automated,
charcoaled
   figure that had no reason, no clear driving
force
   anymore, just movement caused by pain.
   The gas tank of the Capri exploded and the
hideous
   sight was no more.
   The fresh wave of torrid air flattened Fenn
and he
   quickly rolled onto one side, pushing with his legs
in a
   frantic pedaling motion, expecting to burst
into flames
   himself. There were others around him, those who had
   leaped from the bus windows, those who had been-caught
                                       Page 216
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
walking near the garage, those who had come too near the
  fire to help others. All were crawling or
staggering away,
  all trying to reach some safe point where the heat could
  not touch them, where they could breathe fresh, moist
air.
  But the fire was not diminishing. It had
found fresh
  sustenance, more material to bum, more inflammable
liquid
  to reinforce its energy. Vehicles within the garage
  itself began to explode; cans of oil and gasoline
flared into
  incandescent balls of fire. The heat in the
remaining tanks
  below ground was building up to the point where combustion
  was inevitable.
  Fenn cursed himself for not having run away, for not
  ducking into cover until the danger was over. He
pushed
  feebly against the ground.
  The cold air hit him and seemed to close every
pore on
  his body. The heat was gone from his skin, the stinging
  from his eyes. He raised his shoulders from the ground,
  fumed over onto one elbow to see what was
happening,
  looking back at the flames, not believing what
he saw.
  Smoke swirled down and across the scene, forced by the
  wind, obscuring everything one moment, lifting
to reveal all the next. The flames were
dying.-They seemed to be
  shrinking, becoming small patches of fire, losing
their
  strength by the second. Wavering. Disappearing. The
  wrecked vehicles were just bumt-out, smoldering
shells,
  the gas station a blackened, smoking ruin.
  And through the swirling smoke came a tiny
figure, a
  small girl with blond hair who walked
slowly, unafraid, I through the carnage. Her
yellow dress was ruffled by the wind as she held out
her hands, and what was left of the
  flames cooled and died completely.
  Come, hearken then, ere voice of dread,
  With bitter tidings laden,
  Shall summon to unwelcome bed
  A melancholy maiden!
  We are but older children, dear.
  Who fret to find our bedtime near.
  Through the Looking Glass, Lewis Carroll
  And like a ravenous beast which sees
  The hunter's icy eye,
  So did this wretch in wrath confess
  Sweet Jesus mastery. "The
Ogre," Walter de la Mare
  Television broadcast from ITN, all
regions, early Sunday evening:
  . . disthe ONCE-PEACEFUL VILLAGE OF
Banfield in West
  Sussex today. Thousands gathered at the Roman
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                            James Herbert - The Shrine
Catholic
  Church of St. Joseph's, hoping to catch a
glimpse of Alice
  Pagett, the eleven-year-old schoolgirl who
has been proclaimed
  a miracle worker. There was a two-milc-long
queue
  of cars and coaches from both directions into the
village
  and extra police had to be called in from the
surrounding
  area to control the crowds. For an on-the-spot
report we
  go over now to Hugh Sinclaire, who has been
at the
  church since this morning . . .
  HUGH SINCLAIRE: The scenes here today have been
  quite extraordinary. People began to gather outside
St.
  Joseph's in the early morning hours--devout
Catholics,
  many, but others who were just sightseers, curious to
  catch a glimpe of this little girl whom, it's
claimed, can
  perform miracles. And perhaps they expected to see
more
  miracles today.
  Alice Pagett came to world attention just a few
weeks . . .
  Television broadcast from BBC I, late
Sunday evening:
  . . . cured five people who were suffering from various
  illnesses. Three were said by the medical profession
to be
  incurable. Alice herself was deaf and dumb until
--she
  claims--she saw a vision of the Immaculate
Conception.
  Although there has been much skepticism over her
claim,
  particufarly from the Catholic Church itself, the
fact that
  she and five others have been cured cannot be denied.
  It's estimated that at least two thousand
people went to
  St. Joseph's this morning and that the numbers
doubled
  throughout the day. Trevor Greaves is still in the
village of
  Banfield tonight ...
  TREVOR GREAVES: Although the crowds have thinned
  considerably, there is still a vigil being kept around
the old
  church of St. Joseph's tonight. It's as though the
crowds
  were waiting for the same apparition that Alice
Pagett
  alleges to have seen. Earlier today the atmosphere
among
  the many pilgrims could only have been described as
electric.
  There was no mass hysteria--something the
authorities
                                      Page 218
                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   feared among such a gathering--but there was much
   fainting, much weeping, and much praying.
   When Alice arrived for the Sunday service at
nine-twenty
   this morning, accompanied by her mother and a
   bodyguard of priests and policemen,
she found it difficult
   to get anywhere near the church, let alone inside.
The
   Mass was delayed for forty-five minutes as her
protectors
   struggled to get this diminutive child, palefaced and
dressed
   in white, obviously distressed by the loss of her
father, so
   tragically killed last Thursday . . .
   Radio broadcast from LBC, after midnight:
   . . . further interest in Alice Pagett was
aroused only last
   Thursday when eyewitnesses say she quelled a
fire which
   threatened to devastate a large part of Banfield
village. The
   fire was started when a car in which Alice's own father
   was passenger collided with a bus and a petrol
tanker. The
   fire was spreading, fueled by escaping petrol from
the
   damaged tanker. The tanker itself had been
refilling tanks
   beneath a garage's pumps, and the danger was
that the fuel
   below would ignite too, when Alice appeared and,
eyewitnesses
   say, put out the fire. Ironically, Leonard
Pagett
   was killed before his daughter arrived on the scene.
   How Alice Pagett could have stopped the fire
nobody
   knows, but those who were there claim that the flames just
   seemed to extinguish themselves as soon as she
appeared.
   Accident and fire-prevention officers who have
made a
   thorough examination of the wreckage maintain there is
no
   logical explanation for the incident. There was little
rain
   that day, although it was bitterly cold. Apart from the
   initial explosion when the petrol tanker was
hit, there were
   no others big enough to have blown out the fire. The
   investigation officers found half-bumed timber which
should
   have been totally charred had the fire followed a
natural
   course, and petrol still awash on the ground which had
not
   burned. Only small, scattered, and
relatively harmless fires
   were still alight when the local fire brigade
arrived. A
   fuller report is expected within the next day
                                       Page 219
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
or so but, for
   the moment, the experts are saying very little.
   Yesterday I spoke with people who had traveled from
all
   over the country to St. Joseph's in
Banfield, many of
   whom were infirm themselves, or had brought along sick
   relatives or friends to the place they now consider
to be a
   holy shrine . . .
   Extracts from interviews on Today, BBC
Radio 4, UK, early
   Monday morning:
   "We couldn't get near the place. Somebody said
the girl
   was there, but we didn't see her ..."
   "Yes, we were inside the church. There weren't
supposed
   to be cameras in there, but there were, going off all
   the time. The priests couldn't control the newsmen,
so I
   suppose they gave up in the end ..."
   "She's a saint. I saw her. She looks like
an angel. I suffer
   from chronic arthritis, but as soon as I saw her
I felt
   better. It's her, I know it's her. She did
it, no question . . ."
   "Well, we got into the field by the side of the
church.
   We weren't supposed to be there, the priests were
trying
   to turn people back, but there were too many, you know?
   I carried my sister, I wanted to get her
inside the church.
   She's crippled. We couldn't get anywhere
near, though.
   Even the graveyard was swamped with people ..."
   "Oh, no, I'm not a Catholic. No, I just
wanted to see
   what all the fuss was about. I saw her in the car
going up
   to the church, but that was all. Just a flash as
she went
   by. Still it was a day out, the kids enjoyed it . .
."
   "The village is chock-a-block. I couldn't
even get out of
   my shop doorway earlier for people. Business was
good.
   As a newsagent I was open till lunchtime.
Had to close up
   long before, though--ran out of stock. I think the
other
   traders were upset. Couldn't open up, you see,
not licensed
   to. All the same, business should be good for the
   rest of the week ..."
   "I camped out all night. Myself and a few
hundred
   others. We all wanted to get into the Sunday
service. I managed to, me and the wife. Yes,
we saw Alice. She's got an aura about her,
                                       Page 220
                            James Herbert - The Shrine
you know, like a saint ..."
  "She's a holy child, you can tell just by looking at
  her. She smiled, even though she must have been
dreadfully
  unhappy over her father. I'm sure she
smiled directly
  at me. I felt her love go right through me, it
seemed to fill
  every part ..."
  "I'm still blind ..."
  Extracts from interviews on World at One,
BBC Radio 4, UK,
  Monday lunchtime:
  "People were pushing, shoving. A girl in front of me
  fainted. It was terrible. Just like the Beatles all
over again . . ."
  "Everyone felt peaceful, everyone was serene. It
was
  wonderful, like a wave of love flowing over us
all . . ."
  "Somebody stood on my foot. I think a
toe's broken ..."
  "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 fathkr BURIKD
  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
                                      Page 221
                            James Herbert - The Shrine
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, F'ather
  Andrew Hagan, to whom she was very close, died
of a
  heart attack . . .
  Transcript of interview on Nationwide,
BBC still, 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 know.
  Q: Perhaps parapsychologists should be looking
into the
  matter. Or at least there should be one or two
included
  on your committee of inquiry.
                                      Page 222
                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   A: We have several members of the medical
profession--
   Q: That's hardly the same thing.
   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: "I hat'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 you for answering my question. Can you tell
us
   the kind of, uh, preparations you're making?
   A: We're simply constructing an altarpiece
in the field
   adjacent to St. Joseph's--
                                       Page 223
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  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 Bumes: 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 Chrissakes! 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.
                                      Page 224
                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   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 mira-
   cles 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 law 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 ebStoughton,
   1968):
   ... in his book Vraies et Fausses clans
I'EGLISE, 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 banreld miracle
girl
   The curious events surrounding the 11-vear-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.
                                       Page 225
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  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

  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,
psychophotography, 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,
to which those disillusioned with the overwhelming materialistic
aspects
  of today's society and the spiritually deflating
                                      Page 226
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
discoveries
   of modern-day science have clung . . .
   Extract from conversation heard in The Punch
Tavern, Fleet
   Street, Friday, early evening:
   "dis . . it's all a load of shit . . ."
TWENTY.FIVE
   "I thought you were a caret host or a dream," he
said. "You
   can't bite a ghost or a dream, and if you scream
they don't
   care. his
   The Secret Garden, Frances Hodgson
Burnett
   it HAS PAPI-.R.
ROUGGBBH-1bbDggbb1:D, 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 smolder. Brown stains caused
by small flames
   crept inward.
   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, Venn!
   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 toward the altar, and as he did so,
he looked
                                       Page 227
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  down at the burning paper. One sheet lay at his
feet, as
  yet untouched by the flames, although it was beginning to
  curl inward. 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, toward 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
  toward 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
                                      Page 228
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
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, "Not 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
   "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
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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,
   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.
   She came back to the bed and he winced as she
dumped
   the case on his belly. She squashed out the
cigarette and
   jumped in beside him, the pointed brown nipples of
her
   small breasts as eager as the expression on her
face. "I
   knew you'd level with me sooner or later," she
said, smiling.
   He grunted, working the dials of the briefcase
locks
   with his thumbs. When the six-digit combination showed,
   he flicked back the locks and opened the lid.
The inside of
   the case brimmed with pencil-scribbled notes.
   Nancy reached in and took out a handful,
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                            James Herbert - The Shrine
turning back
  to the light with them. "What the hell is this,
Fenn?" She
  saw dates, names, short notes.
  "That's the fruits of one week's solid
research. And
  partly the cause of the nightmares."
  "How d'you mean?" she asked, sifting through the
notes
  and reaching for more.
  "When I was a student, I worked one summer in a
  restaurant. In a fairly high-class
tearoom, to be exact; you
  know, the kind matrons and aunts go to for afternoon tea
  and scones. It was a busy place and the work was
pretty
  new to me. In the first couple of weeks, all I
could
  dream of at night was silver teapots and scalded
fingers.
  This week I've been dreaming of old parchment
papers.
  Tonight--and the other night--a little extra was thrown
  n
  in.
  "Bur what's it all for. You writing the history
ofBanfield?"
  "Not quite. I'm looking into it, though. You know the
  Church is paying me to write about the Banfield
miracles--"
  "That doesn't mean you can't write for us as
well."
  "We've been through all that, Nancy. It
doesn't exclude
  me from writing for anybody, but for now, I want
to get
  the whole story straight in my own head."
  "You've been acting kinda strange since the
fire." She
  touched the discoloration on his forehead; the swelling was
  gone but the mark was still ugly. "You sure the
damage
  wasn't permanent?"
  He took her hand away. "You want to listen or
not? I
  needed to get the whole historical background on
Banfield--"
  "Come on, Fenn. I don't buy that. You could
get all the
  background from the local library. That's
what I did, and
  so did the other reporters."
  "I wanted some in-depth material."
  "Okay, treat me like a hick, I'll go along
with you for
  now."
  He sighed in exasperation. "Just listen, will you?"
  "Sure."
  "The local library was the first place I went
to. It doesn't have too much--just a book written
by a guy who
  used to be the vicar to the village in the thirties,
and a
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                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  couple of volumes on the history of
Sussex."
  "Veah, no meat."
  "So I went to the village hall, the public
records office.
  The parish clerk was helpful, but their records
only went
  back to the 1960's. From there I went to the county
records
  office in Chichester and that's where I've spent the
past
  week. I think the archivist who helped
me is sick of the
  sight of me by now. I've been through every piece of
paper
  on Banfield from the eighth century onwards--not
that I
  understood much of the earlier stuff. Most of it was either
  illegible or written in Latin. Even the later
scripts were
  difficult, all those 'fs instead of 's's, you know
the kind of
  thing."
  "What were you digging for?"
  He looked away. "I can't tell you."
  "Why not? What's the big secret?"
  "There is no big secret."
  "Then why are you in such a state?"
  He fumed to her once more. "What?"
  "Have you seen how you look?" She brushed her hand
roughly against his chin. "Aren't you aware of how you've
  been acting? Getting back here each evening
juiced up,
  keeping your goddamn papers locked away like they
were
  state secrets, your nightmares, mumbling in your
sleep--
  screwing me like you were a goddamn zombie!"
  "You don't like my technique?"
  "Shaddup! What d'you think when we're in the
sack,
  that you're just paying your dues on the use of this
pad?
  What the hell d'you think I am?"
  He put a hand to her shoulder, but she slapped it
away.
  "I thought maybe we could get together on this thing,"
she
  said angrily. "I've stood back and let you
get on, waiting
  for the time you'd open up to me. Just now you could've,
  but you chose different. Okay, my friend, since we
have
  no deal, it's time for you to scoot."
  "Hey, there's no need--"
  "Get out!"
  "It's . . . it's ..." He scrabbled for his
wristwatch lying
  beneath his pillow. "It's after three ..."
  "Tough shit! Get moving."
  "I can improve my style," he said, brushing
hi:; palm
  against her nipple.
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   "I'm not kidding, Fenn. Out!"
   His hand slid beneath the covers and around her waist.
   "I'll shave."
   She pushed against his chest. "Get lost."
   He gently ran his hand down her thigh.
   She punched his shoulder. "I mean it, you
fucker."
   He rolled on top of her and her legs clamped
tight
   together.
   "You think," she hissed, "you're suddenly a hot
lover?
   You think I'm going to swoon away, you little
shit?"
   He slumped against her, defeated, then rolled
over onto
   his back and stared at the ceiling. "Jesus," he
breathed,
   "you're rough."
   Nancy sat up and looked down at him. "I'm
rounh and I
   mean it. You've used me, Fenn, and given me
not.'thing in
   return--"
   "Okay, okay, you're right."
   "I guess it's your style using people, situations.
But not
   with this lady."
   "Aren't you the same. Nancy?" he said
quietly. "Aren't
   you the same kind of animal?"
   She hesitated. "Sure, it takes one to know
one. That's
   why I'm wise to you. That's why I know I'm not
getting
   anywhere--"
   "Hold it. I said you're right and maybe I'm
beginning to
   feel guilty. I've felt strange this week,
almost . . . well,
   almost obsessed with this kid Alice. Ever since the
fire,
   ever since she came through those flames ..."
   Nancy was silent, fuming still, and he looked at
her as
   though seeking an answer. Her body was thin, her
breasts
   not as firm as they probably once had been,
faint lines
   around her neck betraying the passing years. The
hardness
   in her face was softened by the dim light, but the
fierceness
   in her eyes could not be muted. Even when she was
   younger he felt sure she had never been classed
as beautiful,
   yet she had the attractiveness that any woman
would
   envy, that would make most men want her (maybe just
for
   one night, perhaps two--she would prove too hard
to
   handle for much longer).
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  "I was there, too, you know," she said, disturbed
by his
  gaze. "Alice didn't have the same effect on
me."
  Fenn lifted himself up on one elbow so that his
face was
  closer to hers. "Tell me what effect she did
have on you."
  "Wha--his Hey, you're sneaking out of this, you're
changing
  the subject."
  "No, tell me. I promise I'll come
straight with you after
  you tell me."
  She looked at him doubtfully, then shrugged.
"What the
  hell do I have to lose?" She thought for a few
seconds,
  thinking back to the Thursday of the fire. "Okay.
She had
  absolutely no effect on me at all.
Nothing. Zilch. I didn't
  believe what was happening and I still don't."
  "But you saw it."
  "Yep. And I still don't believe it."
  "That's crazy."
  "Sure. I saw her arrive on the scene, I
saw the fire die
  out. But something in here"--she tapped her temple--
  "won't, or can't, put the two together."
  He shook his head. "And how about Alice herself?
Do you have any feelings about her?"
  "She's just a kid. A skinny, undersized kid.
Quite pretty,
  but nothing special."
  "A lot of people say she has a radiance
about her, a kind
  of holiness."
  "Maybe to some she has--not to me, though. In
fact, if
  I have to be perfectly honest, she leaves me a
little cold."
  "Why?"
  "Well, I guess it's because she doesn't
seem to sparkle
  like other kids. I know she's been through a lot, but
there's
  something ... I don't know . . . something flat
about her.
  It's as if her emotions are locked away somewhere
deep
  inside. She was obviously upset by the death of
her father,
  but I didn't see her shed a tear at his
funeral. Maybe she
  cried herself out in private."
  He sank back down in the bed. "Lately
I've had the
  same feeling about her. When I first saw her, the
very first
  night I chased her into the field, she was
just a scared,
  vulnerable little girl. Now . . . now she seems
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different.
  She probably saved me getting badly burned
last week,
  yet I can't seem to find any gratitude
towards her. And
  . . . oh, Christ, I remember now! I saw
her just before the
  car crashed! I'm sure it was her." He was
sitting up again,
  arms over his raised knees. "She was standing in the
  window of the convent, watching. Just before the cars
  went out of control."
  "What are you saying, Fenn?"
  "The cars. Don't you remember? The Capri in
front
  went out of control, then so did mine. The steering just
  went."
  "I don't remember. I thought the Capri went
into a skid
  and you tried to avoid it."
  "That's what I thought--until now. It just came
back to
  me. Nancy. I couldn't control the
bloody car. And she
  was watching all the time."
  "I don't get you. What the hell are you trying
to say?
  That she was responsible?"
  He nodded slowly. "Maybe that's exactly
what I'm
  saying."
  "You're insane." She reached for her cigarettes
again, lit
  one.
  "If she can control a fire, she can interfere with a
car's
  steering."
  Nancy opened her mouth to speak, then just shook her
  head.
  "Strange things have been happening around her,"
Fenn
  insisted.
  "Shit, that's an understatement. But there could be other
  factors involved, psychological reasons for
these so-called
  miracles. And besides, her father died in that fire.
The kid
  wouldn't have had anything to do with that."
  He rubbed a thumb across his lower lip. "No,"
he said
  slowly. "No, of course not." He became lost
in his own
  thoughts.
  Nancy ran a hand up his back toward his
shoulder.
  "You were going to level with me."
  Fenn relaxed against the headboard and Nancy
withdrew
  her hand, letting it rest on his thigh.
  "Simply, it's this," Fenn said. "Monsignor
Delgard is
  seriously concerned over what's happening at the
church--"
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                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  "That's hardly surprising."
  "Let me finish. He feels something wrong is
going on
  there--"
  "With all those miracles? He should be jumping for
  joy."
  "Perhaps he should be, but he isn't. He's
worried about
  Father Hagan's death--"
  "That was a plain old coronary."
  "Will you shut up and listen. He's also worried
about
  the atmosphere of the church. He feels it's--
to put it in his
  own words--'spiritually devoid." his
  "What does that mean?"
  "I suppose it means the sanctity has
disappeared."
  "You can't be serious. You're not trying to tell me
the
  place is possessed by demons?" She gave a
short laugh.
  "No. St. Joseph's is empty. There's
nothing there at all.
  Father Hagan felt the same before he died."
  "Hey, I can't write this kind of junk."
  "For Christ's sake, I don't want you
to write about it.
  I'm telling you in confidence, because you wanted to know.
  You've baled me out this week, you've helped me
stay
  away from the scavengers so I could get on with all
this.
  I'm returning the favor by letting you know what
I'm up
  to, but I don't want it broadcast to the
bloody nation."
  "Don't worry, that won't happen. My chief
would bury
  me. Now if you're saying there's some kind of
fraud going
  on, then I'm with you all the way."
  "Yeah, maybe it is all some elaborate
fraud, who knows?"
  "Why go into this, uh, "spiritually devoid" shit,
then?
  You're spoiling the chance of a good story, Fenn,
probably
  the biggest that'll ever come your way, by going off on
that tack."
  "It's hard to explain, but I feel there's something
wrong,
  too."
  "You're a cynic. It's natural for you."
  "Thanks, but I mean deeply wrong. Like you,
I think
  there's something strange about Alice."
  "I only said she didn't have much personality."
  "You implied more."
  "All right, you and the priest think something
wicked
  this way comes. So what's the point of all this
research?
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                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  Where's it going to get you?"
  "Probably nowhere, but I might uncover something
in
   the church's history that could shed some light."
   "You mean root out some dark secret from St.
Joseph's
   past. Fenn, I don't believe this of you. I
thought your flat
   feet were firmly on the ground and your grubby little
   fingers always ready to grab the golden egg. I'm
not knocking
   you. From me it's a compliment, it's how I
operate
   myself. But now you're beginning to disappoint."
   "Monsignor Delgard sees me the same way
--that's why
   he hired me."
   "Oh, yeah, that makes sense."
   "It does in a crazy way. He wanted someone
to look at
   the whole business coolly and logically, someone
who
   wasn't wrapped up in religion and someone who
would
   scoff at bad vibrations."
   "Until a few moments ago I would have said
he'd chosen
   the right boy. Now I'm not so sure."
   Fenn sighed and his body sank lower against the
   headboard. A smile slowly formed on his lips.
"Yeah," he
   said, "could be I was getting carried away. The
crash, the
   fire--maybe it just scared the shit out of me, enough
to
   make me think too much, anyway. I could have
panicked
   and imagined the car's steering had gone. There may have
   been oil on the road--that would account for the other car
   losing control. Anyway"--he emptied the
suitcase full of
   notes onto the floor--"I found nothing nasty
in the history
   of Banfield or St. Joseph's. Nothing,
at least, that hasnt
   happened in every other village, town, or city in
England
   over the past few hundred years. I guess it
should be a
   relief."
   Nancy looked down at the scattered paper.
"D'you mind
   if I go through your notes sometime?"
   "Help yourself, there's nothing there that'll interest
you."
   She settled down closer to him and her hand moved
   toward his inner thigh. "What about us, Fenn?"
   "Us?"
   "Working together."
   "I thought you wanted me to leave."
   "That was before. Now you've told me what vou've
   been up to."
   "There wasn't much to tell, was there?"
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                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  "No, but at least you confided in me. What about
our
  deal?"
  "I'm working for the Church, Nancy."
  "Come on, Fenn. You're working for yourself--you're
using the Church. It's a way of being right up there in
  front and getting all the inside information you need.
  Whatever they're paying you, you'll make triple,
probably
  quadruple, from other sources when your job for the
Church
  is done. Isn't that why you accepted in the first
place?"
  His smile was slow to surface, and when it did, it
was
  strained. After a while, he said, "I won't work
with you,
  Nancy, but I'll pass on information, try
to get you a
  ringside seat for any special occasions, and
generally help
  in any way I can."
  "Up to a point, right?"
  "Yeah, up to a point."
  She groaned, giving up the fight. "I guess
it's gonna
  have to do. I think you're a foot, though--I could have
  improved anything you wrote, given it style. I
mean it, I
  could have. And I could have gotten you a good deal from
  the Post."
  He reached over and kissed her neck, the
pressure of her
  hand having some effect. "When do you have
to get back
  to the States?" he asked.
  "Soon as I figure I've got all I'm
going to get on this
  miracle thing. I can't stay forever, that's for
sure. Maybe a
  coupla weeks--unless, of course, even bigger
things break."
  "It's hard to imagine anything more mind-blowing
  happening." He wondered, though. Just a few
weeks ago
  he had been saying the whole affair would fizzle
out and
  Banfield would sink back into anonymity once
more. For
  his own personal motives, he didn't want that
to happen,
  but some small instinct which became elusive when he
  tried to focus upon it warned him that it might have
been
  for the best.
  Nancy nuzzled her cheek against his forehead.
"What
  I'm saying, Fenn, is if you're going to help
me, it's gotta
  be soon. No keeping it to yourself Okay?"'
  "Sure," he agreed, not believing himself He'd
help her
  but, as he had already said, up to a point. Newsmen
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were
   generally selfish creatures where their work was concerned
   and he was no exception to the rule. Her hand had
moved
   upward and her fingers began to close around his
stiffening
   penis. For the first time that week (and much to his
   own relief) his desire became much more than just the
   need to fulfill a bodily function. He
squirmed when her
   movement gained a pleasurable rhythm.
   He kissed her lips, turning toward her
to press close,
   but she did not relinquish her possession, nor
break the
   rhythm. Her palm, her fingers, were soft, knowing just
   the right pressure, knowing when to tighten, when to
   release. His kiss became hard, his lips
moist. She bit
   down on his lower lip, gently, just enough to excite and
   not enough to hurt. Her tongue sought his and his
whole
   body became tensed, the area of excitement
spreading
   from his loins to his arms, his thighs, the muscles of
his
   buttocks, his nipples. His own fingers slid
over her hips,
   reaching for her breasts, caressing them, each one in
turn,
   pressing and pulling at the erect nipples,
flattening his
   hand to encompass every parr, dissqueezing hard one
moment,
   fondling tenderly the next.
   She could feel his passion and it was unlike any
of the
   other times during the week. It was as if he had
finally
   roused himself from a semidrugged state. She smiled
   inwardly. Or she had roused him from that state.
   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
ex-Clore
   more of his body. Both hands felt their way across
   is stomach, moving upward in small circular
motions,
   gently kneading his skin, the pressure spread with
                                       Page 239
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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 onward, 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
molding
   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
   upward 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 upward 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
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                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  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 upward, 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
  upward, 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, skillful 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 upward, and
her lips
  were parted just enough to show her teeth, her smile
  almost a grimace of agony.
  @yenn 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
fulfilled.
  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 upward.
  He felt the juices deep within begin their
turmoil,
  erupting, pressure building for the moment they would
  break free.
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   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 inward. 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 living room and placing them on the 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.
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  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.
  "Jemima," Anon.
  monsignor DRLGARD'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
  toward 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 safely 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
                                      Page 243
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
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 labor. He
looked
   toward 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 curb 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 paralyzed 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
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                            James Herbert - The Shrine
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.
  "Ves, 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
MarieClaire,
  the reverend mother of the convent as well as
  headmistress of the convent school, walked toward
them,
  the silver cross she wore outside her gray
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."
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                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  "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 yon 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 anymore. 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.
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                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   Mother Marie-Claire unconsciously fingered the
silver
   cross dangling from the chain around her neck, then
walked
   back toward 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
   toward 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
   "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
hardback,
   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
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                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  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 . . ."
  She looked up and her eyes were shining through the
  unshed tears, an inner glory that she could not, nor
tried
  to, conceal. "It's a wonderful, holy thing,
Monsignor. Leonard . . .
  Leonard ... he couldn't understand it, couldn't
  appreciate what's happening to my Alice.
He didn't believe
  in God, Monsignor, so it had no meaning for
him."
  He was shocked by the distaste in her voice when she
  spoke of her late husband.
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                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  "He just thought he could make money out of it, did
  you know that, Monsignor?" She shook her head as
though
  disbelieving her own statement. "He wanted
to make money
  out of my little girl."
  "I'm sure he was as concerned for her welfare as
you are, Molly. I don't think he would have
exploited her."
  "You didn't know him" the way I did. He
hated everything
  that was happening at first, scolded her, as if it were
  her fault. He didn't want us in this convent,
didn't want
  us surrounded by these good sisters. Then he realized
little
  Alice could make him less-than noney.
Everybody else was cashing
  in, he said, so why shouldn't he, her own father?
He was
  going to tell everything to the newspapers, to the highest
  bidder, everything about Alice, everything about me and
  him. He was wicked, Monsignor, wicked!"
  "Please calm yourself, Molly." His voice had
become
  firm, but was still low. "You've been through too much,
  you don't know what you're saying."
  "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean . . dis8Her
body rocked back
  and forth on the bed and now the tears fell onto her
lap.
  "Would you like me to fetch you some tea, some water?"
  She shook her head and continued to look down, her
  rocking motion slowly becoming more steady.
  Delgard was annoyed at himself for allowing her to
  become upset, the exact reverse of his
intentions, but the
  outburst had been so sudden, so unexpected. He
decided
  there was little point in attempting to redeem the
situation.
  "Why did you want to see me, Molly? Was it
about
  Alice?"
  Her body seemed to hunch into itself and she did not
  answer immediately. Finally she pulled a crumpled
handkerchief
  from the sleeve of her woolly cardigan and dabbed
  at her eyes before looking up. "It's more to do with
me and
  Len," she said, her voice unsteady.
  He leaned forward in the chair. "What is it that's
troubling
  you?"
  "I . . .1 never even told Father Hagan.
In all those years
  I never confessed to him. Now it's too late."
  "You can make your confession to me, Molly. You
  know whatever you tell me will be between ourselves and
  God."
  "I was always too ashamed to tell him,
Monsignor."
  "I'm sure Father Hagan would have understood. He
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                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   wouldn't have judged you, Molly."
   "I just couldn't . . dis8A shudder went through her, but
   she seemed to make an effort to gain
control.
   "What couldn't you tell your parish priest?"
Delgard
   quietly urged.
   She would not look at him and her words faltered as
she
   spoke. "He . . . Father Hagan knew I was
pregnant when
   he married Len and me. I told him that, I
confessed that..."
   Delgard remained silent, his own large hands
clasped
   together.
   "But I didn't tell him everything." The words
came in a
   rush, and none followed.
   "What did you omit to tell your priest?"
Delgard was
   forced to ask. "You know there can be no complete
forgiveness
   if you have not confessed everything."
   Molly gave a small moan. "I know, I
know, but I
   couldn't say it, I couldn't tell him!"
   "You can tell me now, Molly. There's
no need to punish
   yourself further."
   She sniffed and raised her head slightly, but her
eyes
   were still downcast. "It's . . . it's just that the
field . . . the
   field next to St. Joseph's . . . it's
become sacred ground,
   Monsignor. It's a holy shrine."
   Delgard waited patiently.
   "Len . . . Leonard used to wait for me
outside the church
   before we were married. He wouldn't come inside, said
he
   didn't feel right there. I didn't realize then
just how much
   he hated religion. Perhaps I would never've
married him if
   I'd known." She dabbed at her damp cheeks
with the
   handkerchief. "I used to work for the church even in those
   days, Monsignor. I loved the place, just as
... just as
   Alice loves it. And Len . . . he'd wait
for me, like I said."
   She took a deep breath, as though resigning
herself to
   the confession. "One day he was there, just beyond the
   wall, watching me--I was collecting the dead
flowers from
   the graves. He called me over. We'd been
going out together
   for a couple of months by then, but . . . but nothing
   had really happened between us. You know what I mean,
   nothing . . . nothing really serious ..."
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                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   Declaringard nodded siowly.
   "But that day . . . that day, I don't know what
got into
   us both. It was evening--dusk really--and it was in the
   summer. Warm, the end of a fine day. We kissed
across
   the wall, sure no one could see us. And then he
lifted me
   over. He was so ... so strong, so demanding. And
I
   couldn't resist, Monsignor, I couldn't help
myself." Her
   breasts rose and fell almost in a panting
movement, as if the
   memory of her passion was still alive
inside her. She flushed
   red, embarrassed by her own emotions. "We lay
down by the
   side of the wail, in that field, in that sacred
ground, and
   we made love. I don't know what possessed
me! I'd never
   gone that far with anyone before, please believe me,
but
   that day I was helpless, I was swept away. We
both were.
   It was as though we were different people, almost strangers
   to each other. There didn't even seem to be any
love
   involved, just . . . just passion, just lust! Oh,
God, can I
   ever be forgiven?"
   His hunched shoulders seemed even more pronounced
   as he spoke. "Of course you are forgiven.
You've been
   foolish to hold on to this unreasonable guilt all
these years.
   If you feel you need absolution, I--"
   "Alice was conceived in that field, Monsignor,
don't you
   see? And now there's a shrine to the Blessed Virgin
..."
   He suddenly felt nauseous. But it was
ridiculous! Such
   a sin so long ago had no bearing on what was
happening
   today! Yet his head reeled with the notion. He fought
to
   conceal his dismay. "You . . . you confessed your sin
to
   Father Hagan all those years ago."
   "He was new to the parish. I was too timid
to tell him
   where it had happened, so near the church and all."
   "That wasn't important."
   "But it was on sacred ground."
   "No, Molly, it was beyond the church boundary. And
   even now, even now a service is to be held in
the field
   tomorrow, the land hasn't been consecrated. There is
no
   need for your confession." He searched for the right words,
   needing to be sure, but aware of her distress. There
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                             James Herbert - The Shrine
was
   no delicate way to ask, though. "Why
. . . why are you so
   sure Alice was conceived there? were there no other
   occasions--"
   "No, no, Monsignor. It was just that time. I
felt so
   ashamed afterwards, so very ashamed. And I was
pregnant,
   I knew almost right away. Don't ask me how
I knew--I
   just did. I never allowed Leonard to touch me after
that,
   not till after we were married. But I was happy
to be
   pregnant. I wanted my child. Despite our
sin, I felt my
   baby was a gift from God. And she was, she
is, don't you
   see? I wasn't young, Monsignor, I could have
remained a
   spinster." She gave a choked laugh. "I'd
almost resigned
   myself to that. Spinster of the parish! Perhaps that's why I
   devoted so much time to the church. It had become my
   life. But God gave me something for myself, something
to
   cherish in the way I cherished the church. But that can't
   be right, can it, Monsignor? My sin shouldn't have
provided
   such a gift, should it? God doesn't reward
sinners."
   Delgard sighed inwardly, saddened by the woman's
   confusion, depressed by his own. If only there were
simple
   answers. A priest had to conceal his own doubts,
his
   own confusions; he had to appear strong in his
beliefs,
   convinced that God's way was always right, never allowing
   the perplexity of those ways to infringe on his own
   faith. How to reassure this woman when her question
   pricked his own uncertainty? And when her words
caused
   a peculiar revulsion within him. The revelation could
have
   no special significance, yet why did it
distress him so?
   "You were blessed with a child," Delgard found himself
   saying, "and for that you must be grateful. You need not
   look beyond that." It was inadequate, but what more
   could he have said? "Don't concern yourself with
what
   happened all those years ago. You raised a fine
child in the
   ways of the Church, as God knew you would. Be
content,
   Molly, look no further. God can reward now
for what will
   come to pass later."
   She smiled, tears still sparkling in her eyes.
"I think I
   can understand what you're saying, Monsignor.
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                            James Herbert - The Shrine
Yes, Alice
  is a very special gift; He chose me to be the
mother of ...
  of . . .
  "Hush now. The miracles have still not been proven.
  You must not be so convinced, not yet."
  Her smile broadened, telling him she was sure,
she knew.
  Her face clouded for an instant. "Then . . .
then there was
  no desecration of hallowed ground?"
  "How could there be? It was more than eleven years
  ago, long before the field was thought of--he paused
--"as
  sacred. Your sin was one of passion, not irreverence,
and
  for that you've already been forgiven."
  A weight seemed to have been lifted from her.
"Thank
  you, Monsignor. I'm sorry if you think
I'm foolish."
  He patted her hands. "Not foolish, Molly.
Recent events
  have put concerns into your mind that are not so
important
  as you may think. I can only urge you to put such
worries
  behind you; the coming weeks, months, will impose their
  own new burdens. Would you like to say a short
prayer
  with me?"
  "A penance?"
  "No, not a penance. I told you that the sin you
spoke of
  has long since been forgiven. Let's both
pray for strength
  to sustain us in whatever the future may bring."
  Delgard bowed his head and for a few quiet minutes
they prayed together. He made the Sign of the
Cross
  before her, then rose to his feet. She smiled up
at him, and
  he could see there was still ill-concealed anxiety in
her
  eyes. "Thank you, Monsignor," she said.
  "Peace be with you." He turned back to her before
  opening the door, not sure what prompted the question.
  "is there anything you'd like to tell me about
Alice?"
  Molly looked startled. "Alice? What do you
mean,
  Monsignor?"
  He stared at her for several seconds before turning
away
  again. "It doesn't matter, Molly." He
opened the door.
  "But if you ever need to speak to me, if anything at
all
  about your daughter gives you cause for concern,
please
  don't hesitate to tell me." He closed the
door behind him
  and stood in the dark hallway for several moments,
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                              James Herbert - The Shrine
collecting his thoughts. Alice, conceived in the
field where she now saw the visions! It could have no
meaning. Surety it
   could have no meaning? Her illness, when she had been
   struck deaf and dumb--had she been in the field
then?
   No, no, that had nothing to do with it. It had just been
a
   perverse legacy from a child's normal illness.
There could not possibly be any connection. Why the
unease in his
   mind? Why did what Molly Pagett had just
revealed trouble
   him so? His fingers went to his brow, moving to a
   point below, between his eyes, squeezing the bone there
to
   relieve the pain. He had never been so
unsure. In all the
   days of his ecclesiastical career he had never
been quite as
   uncertain as now. Perhaps the sudden death of Father
   Hagan had unsettled him more than he knew.
He began to
   walk quietly down the corridor toward the
stairs, still
   careful not to wake those sleeping beyond the
doors on
   either side. Father Hagan had seemed so--
   He stopped abruptly, a rush of blood
causing his heart
   to beat rapidly. A dark shadow moved from the other
   shadows toward him.
   "Who--?"
   "It's me, Monsignor Delgard, Mother
Marie-Claire. I'm
   sorry if I alarmed you."
   Delgard let his breath go. "Reverend Mother, a
man of
   my years shouldn't be subjected to such frights."
He endeavored
   to keep his voice light. "A tired old heart
doesn't
   enjoy the shock."
   "Forgive me, but I want you to hear something."
Her words were whispered.
   "What is it, Reverend Mother?" he asked,
immediately
   concerned.
   She drew him back along the corridor. "Every
night
   since Alice has been with us I, or
one of the sisters, has
   stopped by her room to see if she is sleeping
soundly. On
   two separate occasions I've heard her voice
beyond the
   door. Sister Theodore has also heard her."
   "Is Alice having difficulty in sleeping?
Many children
   talk to themselves when they're alone."
   "Oh, no, Monsignor, she has no problem
in sleeping. In
   fact, I would say the child sleeps too much and
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too often.
  However, the doctor thinks it's just as well
considering the
  stress she's under."
  "You mean she's talking in her sleep?" His
voice was too
  loud and he adjusted it as he said, "It's nothing
to be
  alarmed over. Reverend Mother. It's just a
symptom of the
  turmoil she is going through. The loss of her father
--"
  "It's the words she says that concern me,
Monsignor.
  They're . . . strange, unchildlike."
  Intrigued, Delgard moved closer to the door
beyond
  which he knew Alice slept. "What kind of
words?" he
  whispered. "What does she say?"
  "Hear them yourself, Monsignor." The nun
turned the
  handle quietly and slowly opened the door a few
inches.
  They listened. Delgard looked at Mother
MarieClaire
  quizzically, and although she could not see his face in
the
  gloom, she sensed his puzzlement. "She was
speaking just
  a few moments--" Her voice broke off when
they heard
  the murmurs from the bed. The nun pushed the door
open
  farther and slipped through, Delgard following close
behind. A night-light on a small table standing against
the wall threw a dim glow around the sparse room,
revealing the
  small, white-sheeted bed, the bundle lying beneath
the
  covers. The figure stirred and the priest and the nun
held
  their breath.
  "O do not deny me, sweet ..."
  Delgard tensed. It was Alice's voice,
soft-spoken, mumbled
  almost, but there was a difference to it. He strained
  to hear the words.
  "... let thy passion fill me ..."
  The voice was heavily accented, the vowels
broadened,
  almost coarse.
  "dis . . mad, exceeding mad . . ."
  Almost unintelligible, sometimes too soft to hear,
sometimes
  too . . . too strange to comprehend.
  "... have used me unmannerly ..."
  It wasn't a foreign accent, but one of an
English county
  that he could not quite place. West Country, yet not
quite.
  Too thick, too heavy . . . She said a name,
but Delgard
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                            James Herbert - The Shrine
  did not catch it.
  "... passion that flails my body ..."
  He made as if to move toward the bed and felt his
arm
  held lightly by Mother Marie-Claire. "Best
not to disturb
  her, Monsignor Delgard," the nun whispered.
  He hesitated, wanting to hear more. But
Alice's voice
  had deteriorated into a droning mumble, the words
slurred
  and joined almost into one continuous sound. Even as he
  watched, she seemed to drift off into a deeper
sleep and
  soon there were no more words, just a regular deep
  breathing.
  The nun beckoned him to follow her from the room
  and, reluctantly, he did so. She closed the
door quietly.
  "What manner of speech is that, Reverend Mother?"
Delgard asked, remembering to keep his voice low.
"Is it the same each time?"
  "It seems to be, Monsignor," she replied.
"Please come
  with me--there is something more I'd like to show
you."
  Delgard glanced once more at the door before
following
  the dark shape down the corridor. As they
descended the
  stairs, the nun said, "It's hard to understand what it
is she
  is saying. At first I thought it might be an
impediment of
  speech working subconsciously in her sleep.
All those
  years of deafness--it would have had to have had some
  effect."
  "No, I'm sure that would be impossible. If the
situation
  were reversed, if she spoke with an impediment
while
  conscious and perfectly when asleep, there might be
some
  sense to it. Not this way, though."
  "I agree, Monsignor. It was just a silly
first thought, and
  quickly dismissed. Besides, I believe the words are
well-formed,
  though strange to our ears."
  "Are they a dialect?"
  "I believe them to be so, but one I can't
place."
  "Nor me. Cornish, perhaps, but not quite."
  "No, not quite. Unfortunately, Alice talks
in her sleep
  only in brief snatches, never enough to identify the
source
  of her accent or the meaning of her words."
  They reached the bottom of the stairs and Mother
MarieClaire
  crossed the hallway and opened the door to her
  private study. She indicated a chair for the
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                            James Herbert - The Shrine
priest to sit in.
  "May I offer you a hot drink now,
Monsignor Delgard?"
  He shook his head. "No, no. Perhaps in a
moment. You
  said you had something to show me."
  She turned away and went to a chest of drawers.
Before
  opening the top drawer, she said, "Alice has
been forced to
  spend a lot of time alone in her room. Perhaps
too much
  time for one so young. There isn't much the convent can
  provide to keep her occupied, but she appears
to enjoy
  working with paints and crayons." She opened the
drawer
  and drew out a folder. "I've kept her discarded
work since
  she's been with us."
  She returned to her desk and laid the folder on
the top.
  "Her fascination is for one subject alone."
  "Ah yes," Delgard said, leaning forward. "Father
Hagan
  showed me some of her pictures before he died. Her
  mother had allowed him to take them from the house.
  They were all of one person, a person we
surmised to be
  the Blessed Virgin."
  "Yes, Monsignor, that's right. Alice has
no real skill as
  an artist, but she has a certain . . .
enthusiasm for her
  subject. To the point of obsession, I would
say."
  "The child worships Mary." He allowed
himself a smile.
  "I think that's obvious to all. I think her
devotion may ..."
  "Devotion? Is that what you think,
Monsignor?" Mother
  Marie-Claire opened the folder and held the first
sheet toward him. He took it and the sheet trembled
in his grip. "It can't ..."
  "The same figure throughout, Monsignor." The
nun
  spread other sheets of paper from the folder on the
table.
  All bore the same crude workmanship, the
same garish
  colors, the same broad, slashing strokes of the
paintbrush.
  Even the painted-in obscenities were the same,
although
  an erect phallus in one might be different in
size and color
  from the next, the shape of the breasts different from
  another, the grinning red mouth more distorted than the
  one next to it.
  Their belief in the Magic was an abiding thing.
  The Secret Garden, Frances
Hodgson Bumett
                                      Page 257
                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   ben SCOOTED ALONG THE ROWS of benches,
Indiana Jones
   fleeing from hundreds--no, thousands--of screaming
Arabs,
   ready to turn and whip swords from the hands of any
who
   got too close, his imaginary bullwhip
settled comfortably
   over his left shoulder and no weight at all.
Up one row,
   down the next, slipping once on the damp
grass, but up in a flash, pausing only to gun
down the seven-foot-tall,
   black-clothed assassin brandishing a long,
curved sword,
   laughing at his scream of surprise, speeding on
in his race
   to find the Lost Ark before the dirty Nazis got
to it and
   used its power to win the world. Indiana Jones was
better
   than Han Solo (even if it was the same man)
and Han Solo
   was better than Luke Skywalker.
Run, out of breath,
   mustn't stop, mustn't catch me, out of breath,
got to keep
   going, mustn't--somebody's foot!
   He sprawled on the ground and hands reached down
to
   pick him up. It hadn't hurt, just jarred his
knee. He
   rubbed at the earth on his jeans and a voice said,
"Careful,
   son, you're going to hurt yourself if you tear around like
   that."
   He said nothing, remembering he was still Indy, a
man
   of few words. The hands released him and with one bound
   he was free.
   The field was fast filling up with people, the benches
   nearer to the scaffolded centerpiece--not those
specially
   roped off for particular Church and non-Church
dignitaries,
   nor those reserved for certain religious
associations--
   becoming more and more full, the crowd spreading outward
   like a blossoming flower. It was still early,
two hours
   before the Mass was due to begin, but already the people
   were pushing through the newly constructed entrance gate
   to the field, eager to find a seat near the altar,
many
   wanting just to see the Miracle Girl, others
wanting to be
   close so that her holiness would wash over them,
fearful
   that it wouldn't stretch too far back.
   The sun was just a dull glow in the hazy sky and
there
   was a harshness in the air that was particularly unkind
to
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                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  the invalids in the crowd. The buzz of conversation,
of
   excitement, andofa certain fear increased as the
numbers
   swelled; the well-organized stewards, ushers,
the young
   priests called in to help marshal the expected
huge
   congregation, could not help but feel a trembling of
their
   own senses as the intoxicating
atmosphere spread. Voices
   were hushed, reverential, as though the gathering were
   inside a cathedral, only their multiplicity
giving them an
   overall loudness. Wheelchairs, their passage
through the
   field not easy because the soft earth had been churned
up
   by too many feet, were already beginning to obstruct the
aisles and the ushers made mental notes that an area
would have to be sectioned off for such invalids on
future occasions.
   Ben ran on, this time careful to avoid
booby-trap feet,
   keeping to the less occupied benches, a
seven-year-old
   enjoying his game, oblivious to the gathering tension,
lost
   in the excitement of his own mind's creation. A
truckload
   of dirty Nazis was tearing down on him and he
rolled over
   the bench to his right, shooting the driver in the face
as he
   went by. Then he was up again, running
on, fearless and
   to be feared. He was dimly aware that the game would
   have to end soon, that his mother had made him promise
   to return to the church before the field became too
full. If
   she wasn't there, she would be in the priest's
house. It
   wasn't too full yet, there were plenty of
empty benches,
   plenty of dark, Arab alleyways, plenty of--
   The man had just entered that particular row and Ben's
   hurtling body caught him momentarily off
balance, knocking
   him onto the bench on which he was about to sit. He
held the boy's shoulders to steady him and Ben,
startled
   and breathless, looked up into his face. The man
cringed
   inside when he saw the boy's eyes widen in
shock, his
   mouth drop open, his body become rigid. The
man could
   only smile to reassure him, but even that made
his physical
   mask more grotesque.
   He released his grip and the boy slowly shrank
away,
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                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   never taking his eyes off the man's ulcerated mouth
and
   nose, the terrible disfigurement of facial
tuberculosis. He
   lifted the silk scarf, dislodged when the boy had
cannoned
   into him, to his face again, the mask natural enough
on
   such a cold day. He shouldn't have been here, not with
   this terrible affliction; people were afraid of him, friends,
   so-called loved ones, afraid his disease was
contagious. In
   the old days lupus vulgaris was known as "dog's
muzzle" and
   the description was appropriate; sometimes they
treated
   him warily, like a crazy dog, afraid he would
bite them
   and they would become as he. The skin disease was rare,
   but that gave him no feeling of distinction, just a
sense of
   hopelessness, a feeling of impotent fury that he
should be
   chosen to bear the hideous brand which, for him, no
antibiotics
   could clear. One last hope. Today, one last
hope. If
   not, if he could never again feel another's lips
against his,
   never look into another's eyes without seeing the
barely
   hidden revulsion therein--never hold a child without
feeling
   its muscles tense to run away--then there was no
   point to it all, no reason to go on. What was so
precious
   about life that you felt obliged to live it?
Better cold,
   senseless oblivion than a scorned existence.
He watched
   the boy run from him and tried to retain the numbness
in
   his mind, his only barrier against the seeping
self-pity.
   Ben ran on, afraid now of this big field,
these people
   pouring in, all strangers, all suddenly a
threat. Time to find Mummy; Indiana
Jones had faded without final credits.
   "You'll have to move on. Nowhere to park here."
   "Press." Fenn leaned across and flashed his card
at the
   constable.
   "Yeah, you and eight thousand others. Keep
moving."
   Fenn forced his car back into the slow-moving
traffic.
   "Bloody carnival day again," he muttered.
   "What?" Nancy asked.
   "It's amazing how many'll turn up for a free
show, isn't
   it?"
   "I think a lot of them have stronger motives for
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                            James Herbert - The Shrine
coming than that, Fenn."
  "Maybe."
  They were nearing the drive to the priest's house and
  Fenn saw even that was blocked with vehicles,
presumably
  those of visiting clergy and helpers. He swore.
"I should
  have cleared it with Delgard to get parking space.
I'm
  supposed to be 'official." his
  "the guess we should have gotten here earlier."
Nancy
  studied the shuffling people, the queue spilling into the
  road, police and stewards at various points
endeavoring to
  keep some kind of order, preventing the thoroughfare
itself
  from being swamped. The bus in front of Fenn's
hired car
  came to a halt and he reluctantly eased his
foot down on
  the brake pedal. Nancy poked her head out the
window on
  her side to see what was causing the holdup.
  "There's an ambulance up ahead--by the entrance to
  the field, I think," she told him. "Yeah,
it's unloading.
  Jesus, coupla stretcher cases."
  "Doesn't surprise me. They'll be bringing
their dead
  along next."
  Nancy rummaged in her bag for cigarettes.
"I'm not
  sure why you're still so cynical," she said as she
lit up.
  "You gotta face it, there's been results."
  "I know, but look, look over there." He
indicated to the
  opposite side of the road where makeshift
stalls were set
  up on the grass verge. Through the gaps in the
crowds
  around the stalls they could see small statues and
holy
  trinkets hung from wire frames, while
flimsy posters of the
  Virgin Mother, the Virgin and the Christ Baby, the
Virgin
  at the Crucifixion, hung limply from long
strings tied
  to the branches of trees behind the stalls. They
caught a
  glimpse of a poster of the Pope in a cowboy
hat, another
  blurred one of him being shot. The traders looked
sullen,
  even though business appeared to be brisk. A
Mr. Whippy
  van looked busiest of all, and Fenn wondered
if Madonna
  popsicles were on sale.
  "I'm surprised your police allow it."
  "Probably too busy keeping the crowds under
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                            James Herbert - The Shrine
control to
  worry about unlicensed traders," Fenn
replied, moving the
  car on again as the coach in front advanced.
  "Looks like nobody's getting into St.
Joseph's today,"
  Nancy said as they approached the church gate.
  He saw the policemen moving the queue along
past the
  locked gate, patiently explaining to the more
insistent that
  the service was to take place in the field today, not
the
  church. "They don't look too happy about it."
  "I'm not surprised--it's goddamned cold
outside."
  "It's not going to do some of those invalids much good."
  Fenn shook his head. "I can't understand their
doctors
  allowing it."
  "You can't stop human nature, Fenn. If they
think
  they're going to get cured, nothing'll keep them
away.
  How would you feel, say, if you had an incurable
disease
  or a terminal illness? Wouldn't you take one
last desperate
  chance, even if you thought the possibility of being
cured
  was a thousand--or even a million--to one?"
  He shrugged. "Who knows?"
  "You'd have nothing to lose."
  "Except to feel pretty stupid."
  "What's stupid against a chance to live again?"
  He remained silent, accepting the point. Then
he said,
  "There's the entrance to the field. Look, it's
jammed solid."
  They could now see that the queue converged on the
  gate from both directions, forming an untidy
mass at the
  entrance.
  "If only I were selling tickets," Fenn
muttered.
  They drove on, the journey slow, cars, vans,
and buses
  now parked bumper to bumper along the roadside,
only
  the immediate area around the church and field entrance
  kept clear by the police. "You want to jump out
here while
  I find somewhere to park?" Fenn suggested.
  "You're going to see Delgard, aren't you?"
  He nodded.
  "Then I'll stick with you."
  "Suit yourself."
  "Like glue."
  "Okay."
  Ahead, he saw the driver of a bus parked half
on the
  grass verge having a heated argument with a
policeman.
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                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  Guessing what the dispute was over, Fenn swung
in toward
  the vehicle's rear tire and stopped. Angry
blasts from
  horns behind greeted the maneuver as other drivers
were
  forced to swing around and squeeze through the gap between
  his hired Fiesta and approaching traffic.
  "What the hell are you doing, Fenn?"
  "The road isn't wide enough for parking so the bus
  driver's being moved on now that his passengers are
  unloaded."
  "It doesn't look like he's moving to me."
  "He will be."
  Fenn was right. With a last gesture of disgust the
driver
  disappeared back inside and the bus throttled
into life. He
  pulled out into the traffic without signaling and without
  waiting for space. Fenn whipped in quickly, two
cars
  behind following his strategy. "There you go," he said
  triumphantly as he pulled on the handbrake.
  They left the car and began the walk back to St.
Joseph's,
  keeping to the opposite side of the road from the
shuffling
  queue. "There's gotta be thousands upon thousands
here
  today," Nancy remarked, pulling her scarf around
her
  throat to keep out the cold.
  "There were thousands last week."
  "Yeah, but not this many. Even the Pope
couldn't haul
  in these kind of numbers."
  Soon they were forced into the roadway to avoid the
  people clustered around the traders' stalls. They
stopped
  for a closer inspection of the wares.
"Unbelievable," Fenn
  said, shaking his head and smiling at the same time.
"Look,
  over there." He pointed. "F'lasks containing
Holy Soil
  from the field of the Madonna. Jesus wept!"
  Nancy picked up a small dome-shaped
transparent container
  filled with water in which an ill-defined plastic
  version of Mary stood. She shook it and
snowflakes almost
  obliterated the image.
  Fenn shook his head again in amused dismay when he
  saw a seven-inch shrine, again made of plastic,
small red
  candles in holders on either side of an inset
photograph of
  Alice which had obviously hastily replaced
another kind of
  holy picture. The black-and-white shot had
been reproduced
  from a newspaper, for the blow-up revealed the fine
  printed dots to a crude degree.
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                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  Nancy pointed out a white-painted grotto whose
lights
  flashed on intermittently to reveal a Madonna
and what
  could only have been Bernadette of Lourdes.
  They watched as a pilgrim picked up a tiny
doll which
  bore the faintest resemblance to Alice
Pagett, and a mechanical
  parody of a child's voice said, "Hail Mary,
full of
  grace, the Lord is . . ."
  "I don't believe it," Fenn said. "How can
they manufacture
  these things so fast."
  "They call it enterprise," Nancy said, not
amused by
  any of the trivia on display. "They're just quick and
simple
  adaptations of junk that's been selling for years.
I'D bet
  under some of those labels saying "Alice, the
Miracle Worker"
  or "Our Lady of Banfield" you'll find
others referring to
  something totally different."
  They moved on, passing medallions of all
shapes and
  sizes, crucifixes plain and gaudy,
chinaware, handbags,
  even umbrellas, somehow alluding to the fact that
they
  were all touched by holiness. They were approached by a
  man selling postcards of Sussex villages,
Banfield itself not
  among them. Fenn declined the offer to buy with a
bemused
  wave of his hand.
  They crossed the road when they were opposite the
gate
  leading to St. Joseph's, dodging between the
slow-moving
  cars and plunging into the queue. The policeman
they had
  spotted earlier directing the crowd barred their
way.
  Fenn took out his press card. "Monsignor
Delgard is
  expecting me."
  The policeman turned toward a steward who was
lurking
  beyond the entrance. "D'you know anything about a Mr.
Gerald Fenn?"
  The small man, who had spoken with Fenn on a
previous
  occasion, nodded his head. "He's okay, you can
let
  him through."
  The gate swung open and Nancy made as if
to follow
  her companion.
  "Sorry, miss, Mr. Fenn only."
  "But I'm with him." Nancy opened her bag and
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                            James Herbert - The Shrine
took
  out her card. "Look, I'm press too."
  "Miss, er, Shelbeck?" The policeman had
scrutinized
  the card and turned toward the other man again.
  "No, don't know anything about her."
  "Sorry, miss, you'll have to use the other entrance
farther
  down. Only authorized persons allowed through
here."
  "But I told you, I'm with him." She pointed
at Fenn,
  who was trying not to grin.
  "I'd like to oblige you, miss, but I'm afraid
I can't."
  "Fenn, will you speak to this guy?"
  "Sorry, Nancy. I guess orders is
orders."
  "You bastard! You knew this would happen."
  Fenn held out his hands in mock denial. "How
could I?"
  Nancy's mouth became a straight line across her
face.
  "Now, look, officer, I'm from the Washington
Post. I'm
  here to cover this--"
  "I'm sure you are," came the polite but firm
reply, "but
  if you'll just join the queue. You can go straight
to the
  front, just show your press card."
  "But--" She saw there was no point in arguing.
"I'll see
  you later," she snapped at Fenn before shoving her
way
  back into the crowd.
  Fenn passed through the gate, the grin broad on his
  face. It slowly faded as he walked along the
shadowed path
  toward the church. He felt uncomfortable, as though
the
  old building itself were watching him, the black open
  doorway waiting to devour his soul. If there was
such a
  thing as a soul. He wasn't sure (he'd reached
no definite
  conclusions--and how could anyone?), but he thought he
  believed in the "spark" of life, an essence
inside which
  gave man his drive, generating energy as well as
thoughts,
  through chemically derived impulses. A tiny
pilot light, if
  you like, that was necessary to set everything else in
  motion. So what was God? A bigger spark? were
his and
  all the others just offshoots from the big one? Or was
God
  everything the different religions wanted Him
to be? And
  did it really matter? Not to Fenn. And maybe not
even to
  God.
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                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   But the church puzzled him. There was a coldness to it
   that seemed to be more noticeable each time he
visited--
   unless he himself was absorbing the fears of first
Hagan,
   and now Delgard. "Spiritually devoid" was a
strange expression
   to anyone who had no particular beliefs in that
   direction, so why did it seem so apt to him?
He had been
   disappointed that his week's research had uncovered
no
   deep mysteries or scurrilous activities
surrounding St.
   Joseph's or the village, but only because it would
have
   Erovided an interesting, perhaps intriguing, story
line. Yet
   ad he been that cynical when he had first undertaken
  research, or was it just rationalization after discovering
no
  hidden skeletons? He remembered that his
attack on the
  archives had been almost obsessive. The fire,
the deaths of
  the priest and Alice's father, the strangeness of
Alice herself,
  and the veiled insinuations of Monsignor Delgard,
had
  instilled doubts and suspicions in his own mind,
had kindled
  a peculiar fear within himself, one that he had not
  understood and could not ignore. Perhaps the week of
  relentless research had purged the fear from him, the
  multitude of mundane historical facts and
dates overwhelming
  the real purpose of his searches.
  He stood outside the worn building and gazed
up at the
  small tower. Its origins dated from way back
--no one was
  sure just how far back its history went--and he
wondered
  at how much the ancient stones must have
witnessed, how
  times had changed beneath its spire, those changes
escalating
  with each passing century. It had stood, or parts
of it
  had stood, from premedieval England to the era of
  microchips and space rockets, through sorcery and
superstition
  into the age of the realist. If the church were human,
  if stone and mortar were flesh and blood, the window
its
  eyes, the altar its brain, how would it absorb
those vast
  changes, what effect would they have on its living
being?
  And would its spiritual aura survive the debasing
onslaught
  of materialism? Or would the wisdom-giving
                                      Page 266
                            James Herbert - The Shrine
years
  pass on a new perception that far surpassed the
achievements
  of scientific knowledge?
  He shook himself. Jesus, Fenn, a
philosopher yet. It was
  just a pile of stones standing before him, with no
feelings,
  no brain, and no soul. Manmade, stamped and
packaged
  by the Roman Catholic Church. End of profound
philosophical
  contemplation. Footsteps made him turn
sharply.
  "Can I help you?" It was a different priest to the
young
  Irishman that Fenn had spoken to in the church
house
  more than a week before.
  "Ah, yeah. My name's Fenn. I'm looking for
Monsignor
  Delgard."
  "Oh, yes, Mr. Fenn, I've heard all
about you. I've just
  left the monsignor up at the presbytery."
  "Thanks." The reporter turned in that
direction.
  "He's rather busy now, preparing for Mass."
  "I won't take up much of his time," Fenn
replied over
  his shoulder.
  The priest went into the church.
  As he walked, Fenn could see the gathering in the
field
  just beyond the graveyard. He paused and squinted his
  eyes, looking toward the distant oak tree,
noticing with
  interest the platform built before it, the raised
altar.
  "Showtime," he muttered, and went on.
  He knocked on the door of the presbytery, then
rang the
  doorbell too, his usual method of announcing
his arrival
  when given two options, and raised his eyebrows in
surprise
  when Sue answered.
  "Hi," he said.
  "Hello, Gerry."
  "You on the team now?"
  "Just helping. So much is going on." She stood
aside so
  that he could enter. "Did you want to see
Monsignor
  Delgard?" Sue asked, then added pointlessly,
"Of course
  you did."
  "It's good to see you." And it was, even though she
  looked tired, dark shadows under her eyes, hair
not as
  springy and vibrant as usual. "You been losing
sleep,
  Sue?"
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  "What?" She brushed a wisp of hair away from
her face
  and looked away as though embarrassed. "Oh,
no, no, I'm
  fine," she said with false lightness. "Working too
hard, I
  suppose."
  He moved closer. "Doing two jobs: the
radio station and
  the church."
  "St. Joseph's doesn't take up too much
time, not really."
  "What do you do here?"
  "It's not just me, there's a few women from the
village
  who come in to help. We clean the church, the
house. Buy
  food in for the monsignor--he's terribly
busy, you know.
  This morning I've been answering the phone for him
--it seems to have been ringing nonstop."
  "And answering the door?"
  "Yes, that too."
  "Is Ben with you?"
  "He's around somewhere, in the field, I think. I
tried to
  call you lots of times this--last--week." She
looked at him
  with concern.
  He smiled, pleased that she had. "I got snowed
under.
  Thought I needed to keep away from people for a while."
  "You weren't at the Courier."
  "No, I was doing some digging for Monsignor
Delgard.
  Sorry you couldn't reach me, but then I didn't
think you
  wanted to."
  "After the accident last week, the fire? You
didn't think
  I'd care? I heard you were involved, heard it from
others."
  Her eyes glistened softly.
  "Oh, Chri-- I really am sorry.
Sue, but you know you've
  been kinda funny towards me. I didn't even
know if you
  wanted to see me again." He reached out and put a
hand
  on her arm.
  She looked down and was about to say something when
  the phone, nearby in the hallway, rang.
"I'll have to get
  that." She turned away from him and picked up the
receiver.
  "Oh, Bishop. Yes, did you want the
monsignor? No, I
  haven't been out there myself for a while, but one of the
  priests told me it's getting very crowded ..."
  Delgard emerged from a door just off the hallway.
He smiled and gave a small wave when he saw
Fenn. Sue
  handed him the receiver and whispered, "It's Bishop
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Caines,
  wants to know how everything's going."
  Delgard nodded and took the phone. Sue came
back to Fenn. "It's pretty hectic just now,"
she said, speaking
  quietly so that the priest would not be
interrupted.
  "Can I see you later?" Fenn asked, feeling
slightly ridiculous
  having to ask.
  "Do you really want to?"
  "What kind of question is that?"
  "Where were you last week? I mean, where did you
  stay?"
  The lie came easily. Only he decided not
to tell it.
  "We'll talk about it later." He was
surprised himself that
  he had not immediately told her he had stayed in a
  Chichester hotel, near to John Dene House,
where the
  historical records of Sussex were kept.
  "You're not keeping something from me?"
  He decided honesty couldn't run too deep.
"Nothing." he replied.
  Detgard had replaced the receiver and was coming
  toward them. "Gerry, I'm certainly glad
to see you again. I
  thought perhaps I'd frightened you away."
  She looked at the priest sharply, but said nothing.
  "You don't know how much you got me
to chew off,"
  Fenn said. "I haven't crammed so much since
I left school."
  He added as an afterthought, "Although I didn't
cram too
  much then."
  "You can tell me on the way over to the church. I
have
  to get into my vestments for the Mass."
  "You're taking it?"
  "I seem to have inherited a parish, at least
temporarily.
  Susan, will you look after Alice and her mother
while we
  go to the vestry?"
  "Alice is here? In the house?" Fenn's
voice rose in
  surprise.
  "I thought it best we install her in here early.
That way
  she won't have to fight her way through all the people who
  have come to see her. We'll just go through the churchyard
  into the field."
  "Seems like a good idea. Could I see her?"
  "I really must make ready for the service
now and I'm
  anxious to hear what you've uncovered. I'd rather you
  came over to the church with me."
  "Sure. Maybe later?"
  The priest did not answer, but glanced at his
watch and
  said to Sue, "Bishop Caines is on his way from
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Worthing,
   he should be here in twenty minutes or so, unless the
   traffic holds him up. Will you wait here with
Alice and the
   Reverend Mother until he arrives, then take them
to their
   places five minutes before Mass begins?"
   She nodded.
   "I think the bishop may arrive with an
entourage."
   "I'll take care of them, Monsignor."
   He smiled his thanks and led Fenn outside. As
they
   walked back toward the church, he said, "You
look tired,
   Gerry."
   "You know, I was just about to say the same thing to
   you. And so does Sue. I think she's
taken on too much."
   "Perhaps we all have." He turned his head to study
the
   reporter's face. "She's a good woman, very
able, very
   sincere. She told me her faith had wandered for a
while,
   but now it seems to have returned with a renewed
vigor."
   "Because of Alice?"
   "They say the true miracle of Lourdes is not
the sick
   that arc cured, but the replenishing, the strengthening, and
   even the beginning of faith for the pilgrims."
   "Sue appears to have caught the bug."
   The priest laughed. "I think that's an
appropriate description. It is rather like catching a
bug, although there
   are no ill effects, just good ones."
   "That's a matter of opinion."
   "Ah, yes, I understand your relationship is under
some
   stress. But do you really blame Susan for that,
Gerry?"
   "Not entirely."
   Delgard thought it best to leave the subject
alone; there were far more important issues to concern
himself with at that time. Fenn was an impulsive and
certainly selfish
   young man. Some aspects of his skepticism were
healthy
   and clearly intrinsic in the profession he'd
chosen, while
   others were somewhat destructive. He had an air
of ruthlessness
   about him, although it was often disguised beneath
   an apparent nonchalant attitude; yet
Delgard suspected
   the reporter was a compassionate man, again that
sensitivity
   concealed beneath an indifferent exterior. It was the
   priest's understanding of the human character through years
   of listening, delving, consoling, that allowed his harsh
   assessment--not judgment--of Fenn to be tempered
by
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  more kindly impressions. The man was complex but
uiti-
  mately likable, someone whose faults could
irritate but
  could be soon forgotten.
  "Have you discovered anything of interest, Gerry?"
  Delgard asked.
  Fenn took a deep breath. "Nothing that
relates to our--
  your--particular problem. I'll type out my
notes for you
  in some kind of order, giving correct dates and
names, but
  I can give you a brief rundown now."
  They had reached the church door and Fenn shivered
  when they entered the gloomy interior. "It's
cold."
  "Yes," was all the priest said.
  The church was empty, the priest that Fenn had
passed
  earlier either in the vestry or having left to join the
congregation
  in the field.
  "Let's sit here." Delgard pointed to a bench.
  "I thought you were in a hurry."
  "There's time to talk. Please proceed."
  They sat, Fenn on one bench, Delgard in
front, his
  body twisted to face the reporter, his back to the
altar.
  "Okay, here goes," Fenn said, taking out a
notebook
  from his pocket. "I'm afraid this place isn't
famous for
  much. I'll amend that: it isn't famous for
anything. It gets
  its first official mention as far back as A.d.
770, when the
  Saxons had a castle nearby at Stretham.
The lord of the
  manor was granted a charter by Osmund, the King
of the
  West Saxons, to assign fifteen hides of
land to endow the
  church in Banefelde. Presumably it was this
one, St.
  Joseph's, since there's no record of any
other churches
  existing at that time. The village seems to have had
a variation in spelling over the years, by the way.
Banefelde, Banedryll, Banefetd without the
"e" on the end, Banfield
  got to be the final handle.
  "Before the coming of the Saxons, prehistoric men had
  track right across the county, east to west, and it went
  right through the settlement which eventually became this
  village. You've got to remember this part of the
country
  was nearly all forest land; the settlement was
probably just
  a clearing in the forest.
  "Its second earliest official mention was in the
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Domesday
   Survey in 1085, when William wanted to know
just how
   much the kingdoms were worth and who exactly was in
   them. Not much seems to have happened since. A little
   excitement around Reformation time and the Civil War
in
   the following century. Sixty-two villagers
died of the plague
   in the seventeenth century. Not much of any
importance
   until it became a staging post on the
LondontoBrighton
   turnpike in the eighteenth. Oh, yeah, that's when
it got its
   own workhouse, too, for the parish destitutes. The
villagers
   also got their own railway line around 1880 and
kept it
   until the cuts a hundred years later. It could
be the line
   will be reestablished with all the attention
Banfield's getting
   now.
   "A few familiar names keep cropping up over
the years,
   some going right back to the thirteenth and fourteenth
   centuries. Southworth's one of them. Two
others, Backshield
   and Oswold, are with him on the parish council
today.
   There's a Smythe who gets several mentions,
Breedehame,
   Woolgar, Adams, and a Charles Dunning, who
seems to
   have been of some note. He was knighted in the time of
   Henry VIII. Most were independent landowners
or farmers.
   There was conflict between some of the families during
   the Civil War--some supported Charles I,
others hung in
   with Cromwell. Knowing village
feuds, they probably resent
   each other to this day. A few of the villagers have
   been involved in smuggling. I suppose it was an
open road
   from the coast with pFenty of places to hide along
the way.
   That was about all the skulduggery that went on, or
at
   least was recorded." He smiled at the priest.
   Delgard waited for him to continue and frowned when
   he didn't. "That's it?" he asked in
surprise.
   "That's the bones of it. You'll get the details
in my
   typed notes. Sorry I couldn't provide you
with murders,
   pagan sacrifices, or witch burning, but
they're just not
   there."
   "It's something of an anticlimax."
   "Especially when you've been through just about everything
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                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   written on the place since Saxon times.
Dead ends
   are never fun."
   "The church itself. There must be more on the
church."
   "There is. Not much, though. In England, Sussex
was
   one of the last pagan strongholds. It was cut off
from the
   north by forests, on the east and west by marshes, and the
   south by sea. Augustine and his Christian
followers from
   Rome got short shrift from the natives at that
time. It took
   a bishop called Wilfred, who was driven onto
the Sussex
   coast by rough seas, to make the breakthrough. He was
   appalled by the barbarism and resolved to come back
and
   convert the savages. He did, twenty years
later, and got
   his way. The story goes that Banfield, or
Banefelde as it
   was known, was one of the last settlements to hold out.
   The interesting thing is that the first Christian church--
   and we can only assume it was St. Joseph's--
was built
   over the pagans' place of worship. And their
burial grounds."
   There was an iciness in Delgard's stare that was a
reflection
   of inner thoughts and not directed at Fenn. He
said,
   "That's probably not significant; many
churches have been
   built over pagan altars as a firm and
symbolic rebuttal of
   what previously took place. And burial
grounds have always
   been sacred in the minds of men, Christian or
pagan."
   "Sure. It's just a statement of fact from me, not
an
   insinuation."
   The priest nodded. "Please go on."
   "The first curate to get a mention here was"--he
consulted
   his notebook--"a John Fletcher. That was in
1205.
   The church records, by the way, only go back as
far as
   1565, and they deal solely with marriages and
deaths. I got
   the information on Fletcher from a book on
the village."
   "Are you sure?"
   "Yeah. But I discovered something else that I'll
get to in
   a minute. As I said before, Banfield was
particularly resistant
   to Bishop Wilfred and his followers when they began
   converting the Sussex people. A lot of blood was
spilled.
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  Once the church was established, though, there were no
  more problems--at least, none that have been recorded.
  Some trouble with Charles II--THE minister here was a
  Royalist and was involved in sneaking the king across the
  Downs to the coast where he took a boat
to France.
  Cromwell had the priest executed. Apart from
that, the
  clergy have kept a low profile in Banfield:
no scandals, no
  misuse of church funds, and no anarchy.
  "But the records only date to the late
sixteenth century.
  We don't know how this church was affected with the
  spreading of Lutheranism in England. Those were
troubled
  times for Catholics.
  "The Reformation brought change and problems to all
  the churches in this country, but I couldn't find
anything
  specific to St. Jos'eph's. One or two
dignitaries in the area
  got into heavy trouble when they wouldn't swear
allegiance
  to Henry VIII as head of the English Church, but
  most decided to go along with the idea for the sake of
  peace. Besides, many were benefiting from the
transformation;
  Henry was selling off the lands available with the
  dissolution of the monasteries, and the gentry were the
  recipients."
  Something was nagging at the back of Delgard's
mind, a
  teasing, darting thought that dissolved like a disturbed
  dream each time he tried to focus on it.
  "There were opposing factions in Banfield,"
Fenn
  continued, "and the controversy was probably used to
  continue feuds that had been going on for some time.
  Anyhow, there are no church records touching that
period
  in the archives. And that leads to the matter I
mentioned
  earlier."
  Delgard leaned toward the reporter as though hearing
  his confession.
  "Is there an old chest somewhere in the church?"
Fenn
  asked.
  The priest looked at him in surprise.
  "An old chest made of thick elm or oak?"
Fenn went on.
  "It's held together by bands of Sussex iron.
And, oh,
  yeah, it has three locks."
  The priest shook his head slowly. "I don't
know of any
  such chest. I haven't seen it."
  "Could it be stored away somewhere?"
  "There's only the vestry and the crypt. I'm
sure it isn't
  in either."
  "In the house? The attic?"
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                            James Herbert - The Shrine
  "What size is it?"
  "'I'm not sure. Something like five feet
by two. It's ancient, dates back to the
fourteenth century."
  "No, it's not in the presbytery. Why is it
important?"
  "Because that's where old documents, church valuables,
  books, and records were kept. I found mention of
it in the
  archives. Henry VIII ordered that every church had
a
  strong coffer, paid for by the parish, in which records
  were to be kept. That was in fifteen-somethingor-other,
  but according to the archives, Banfield already had its own
  chest dating back two centuries before. We may
be able to
  find more about St. Joseph's from it."
  It was important. Somehow Delgard knew the
chest was
  important. It tied up with the elusive thought he
had had
  moments before. "I can check the crypt later, after
Mass."
  "I can do it now."
  Delgard hesitated, looked at his watch, and
said, "Very
  well. Come with me into the vestry and I'll give
you the
  key; the entrance to the crypt is outside."
  He rose, a tall, dark-clothed man, his
eyes in shadows.
  Fenn, still sitting, looked up at him and
remembered how
  indomitable the priest had appeared when he had first
laid
  eyes on him; now some of that strength seemed to have
  waned as though Delgard were drawing into himself, his
  vibrancy not gone but diminished. Although the change
  was barely discernible, Fenn was sure it wasn't just
in his
  own imagination.
  "Is something wrong?" the priest asked.
  Fenn pulled himself together. "Uh, no, just thinking.
  Let's get the key."
  As they walked toward the vestry, footsteps
unnaturally
  loud in the empty church, Fenn glanced over at
the statue
  of the Madonna. There was no whiteness left to it.
  Then a child's puzzled voice was clearly heard.
"He's got
  nothing on!" "The Emperor's New Clothes,"
Hans Christian Andersen
  ben JIGGLED HIS BUTTOCKS ON the hard
wooden bench,
  one cheek to the other, hands cammed beneath his legs.
His
  mother sat beside him, eyes closed, oblivious to the
noise
  around her.
  Ben was over his earlier fright, having seen a lot
more
  worse sights than the man with the funny face:
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men with
   no legs; children with heads too big and silly
wobbly eyes;
   women with lumps and bumps and jelly limbs; and
nervous
   eyes peering out of rag bundles in wheelchairs.
   "I'm cold, Mummy," he complained.
   "Hush," Sue told him. "Mass'll be starting
soon." She
   looked around, amazed at the vast numbers. Here
and
   there banners waved above the sea of pink faces,
proclaiming
   districts and religious associations. Many in the
row
   she sat in wore small badges denoting the
wearers as
   Eilgrims to Lourdes. A smart young man
directly behind
   er bore a plastic identity card boasting that he
was An-thonv
   Roberts of St. Peter's Tours. Others around
him
   sported different-colored badges than those on
her bench.
   A leaflet lay in the churned earth at her
feet, discarded
   with some disgust by a pilgrim farther along who had
   received it from a young girl as he had entered the
grounds;
   it asked for contributions toward the followers of the
Rev.
   Sun Myung Moon in order that the Unification
Church
   might become an important economic force.
A muddy
   heelmark had sullied the moon face of the man
beaming
   from the leaflet, reducing the image to that of a soiled
   oriental Mr. Happy. A contingent of
white-robed figures sitting a few rows back
had puzzled her at first, their
   bright ribbons and cloaks unfamiliar to any
ecclesiastical
   order that she knew of, until the woman sitting
next to her
   had noticed her gaze and given her a nudge.
I They're just
   a lay society," the pilgrim had confided.
"Knights of the
   Holy Sepulcher they call themselves. We often
see them at
   Lourdes."
   She and Ben were fortunate enough to be seated close
to
   the recently erected altarpiece, its platform
raised five feet
   above the ground so that all the congregation could witness
   the ceremony; a young priest, acting as usher and who
   knew Sue as a voluntary helper, had made
the pilgrims
   shuffle along the bench until there was room for her
and
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                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  her son. The only reserved area was the benches in
front
  of her and that was now filled with a mixture of
clergy,
  nuns and civilians, some of whom in the latter
group she
  recognized. The man called Southworrh was one
and she
  could see him chatting and laughing quietly with
Bishop
  Caines, giving the impression that they were waiting for
  an open-air concert to begin rather than a holy
service.
  Across the center aisle from her a wide area had
been
  left clear for stretchers and wheelchairs;
members of the
  St. John's Ambulance Brigade, crisply
dressed young women
  who were obviously private nurses, and
relatives of the
  invalids, sat on benches directly behind them.
The press
  had been given no special privileges, apart
from being
  allowed early entry, and most had managed to find
places
  near the front, where they grouped together, some with
  notebooks poised, others who had seen it all
before (though
  nothing quite like this, they had to admit) passing wry
  comments and wondering if it would be sacrilege
to smoke.
  Cameramen were squeezed onto ends of benches, and
  many squatted on the grass in the central
aisle, having
  already been moved back from directly beneath the
altar.
  Television cameras had not been allowed inside
the grounds,
  but cranes leered over the tall hedge along the
roadside,
  zoom lenses focused on the twisted oak tree
and the simply
  decorated rostrum before it.
  From certain sections of the congregation voices
raised
  in gentle hymn could be heard; the chanting drone of
  prayers came from other groups.
  Sue was tense and she sensed the people around her felt
  the same. If anything, the excitement that Sunday
was at a
  higher pitch than on the previous week. The
expectancy
  had somehow increased. Even Ben's eyes were shining,
his
  usual boredom with just "hanging around" not voiced,
nor
  even hinted at. He was cold, but she felt his
shivering was
  more akin to hers than to the chill; it was pure
exhilaration,
  a feeling shared with everyone present. There was a
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                            James Herbert - The Shrine
sudden
  hush, and then a low, wondrous moan rippled through
  the crowd. Alice had been seen emerging through a
newly
  created opening in the church's boundary wall.
  Molly Pagett held her daughter's hand and the
Reverend
  Mother from the convent led the way to the seats in front
  of the altar. There was white apprehension on
Molly's
  face, yet Alice was expressionless, her gaze
only on the
  tree, not once looking at the crowds who watched
her with
  reverent awe. Total silence descended.
  Ben jumped to his feet, anxious to see what the
grownups
  could see, but was too small to get a clear look
over the
  heads and shoulders in front. Before his mother could stop
  him, he clambered onto the bench. He saw
Alice and was
  unimpressed.
  Fenn descended the short flight of steps,
careful not to slip
  on the moss-slimed surfaces, and inserted the
long key into
  the door's rusted lock. Surprisingly, the key
turned easily.
  He pushed open the door and stood there for a few
seconds,
  allowing his eves to become accustomed to the gloom
  inside, remembering the old TV program he
used to watch
  as a very young kid. Inner Sanctum it had been
called, and
  the credits each week always began with an old
crypt door
  slowly swinging open, the creaking sound
classically drawn
  out. He'd had bad dreams about that door and the
unknown
  thing that lay beyond, but morning had always
  brushed the memory aside like a hand sweeping
back a
  drape. Only now it was morning and this wasn't a
dream.
  A damp, musty smell lurched out to greet him.
  He smiled at his own nervousness. Delgard had
assured
  him that St. Joseph's no longer kept its dead
belstairs.
  His hand groped around the wall just inside the door,
  feeling for the light switch. He found it, clicked
it on.
  "Wonderful," he muttered. The poor light
barely reached
  the chamber's four walls.
  He moved in and felt a fresh--no, a dank--
coldness
  creeping under his skin. Something scuttled away
into
  some dark recess. Cardboard boxes littered the
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floor. An
  old table with heavy Michelin legs and battered
surface
  stood in the center, a wooden, paint-blotched
ladder leaning
  like an inebriate against it. Other gray shapes
loitered
  just beyond the circle of light.
  Fenn looked around, hoping to find the chest without
  searching. A low, squarish object covered by a
dust sheet
  caught his eye and he cautiously headed toward
it. The
  floor was uneven and his shoes became wet as he
walked
  through puddles that had formed in the dips. He
squatted
  and reached toward the mildewy cover.
  Monsignor Delgard turned to the congregation, his
large
  hands resting on either side of the lectern, eyes
looking
  into the expanse of expectant faces rather than the
missal
  before him. He drew in a sharp breath, his stooped
shoulders
  almost straightening.
  Dear God, there are thousands, thousands.
  Why have they come here? What do they want of the
  child?
  His heart grieved for the sick among them, the
cripples
  and invalids who regarded him with shining eyes, with
  lips that were parted, smiles of anticipation
lightening
  their haunted features. Oh, dear Lord, please
help them in
  their faith; don't let disappointment taint it.
What happened
  before with the child cannot be repeated, they must
  realize that. Let today be the end of all this! Show
them
  there are no miracles here.
  The two microphones skillfully fitted into the
lectern
  whined disconcertingly for a few moments.
  A small breeze licked at the pages of the
missal.
  The emotions of the congregation seemed to sweep over
  him in euphoric waves and his head felt light
with its
  directed energy. Flushed faces spread out before
him, pink
  pebbles on an undulating beach, reaching back,
beyond
  the point where there were no more benches, the change
  in level resembling a tide-caused step,
stretching to the
  entrance of the field, the high hedges that bordered the
  road a green, containing seawall. It's madness,
he told
  himself. A foolish delusion in which the Catholic
Church
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                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  should take no part. Bishop Caines was smiling
encouragingly
  below him. Southworth had his head turned, watching
  the crowds. There were many other priests out there,
  their presence giving credence to the deception. But,
no,
  there was no deception. Alice Pagett was a
sincere child.
  There could be no deep, grievous sin on her young
soul.
  Perhaps it was he, the priest, who was in sin with this
  doubt, this refusal to accept that which he himself had
  witnessed. Perhaps he lacked the humility
to believe that a
  child could evoke such spiritual power. Perhaps . . .
  He raised his hands to shoulder level, palms
outward,
  and began the service. Alice was watching him
intently,
  her eyes staring yet somehow glazed,
expressionless, looking
  right through him . . . looking . . . looking not at
him
  . . . but at the tree . . .
  The cover felt clammy to his touch and Fenn had
to force
  himself to grip the material and pull it away. A
wooden
  box lay beneath and tiny black things fled across its
surface
  from the exposing light. He knew immediately that it
  wasn't the chest he sought--it was too small and not
  ancient enough--but decided to open it anyway; the
relevant
  documents might well have been transferred to it
  some time in the past. There was no lock; he lifted
the lid.
  Swirling dust particles caused him
to sneeze and he
  looked down at the old books and papers with
watery
  eyes. The lid fell backward as he reached
inside and grabbed
  a book. It was a well-worn parish Mass
book, the words
  inside in Latin. Dead. Defunct. Only
to be used by religious
  diehards since the Vatican had decided that
modern-day
  native language was flavor-of-the-month. The
book
  beneath was the same, the one below the one beneath also
  the same; the box was full of them. The papers were
  yellowing hymn sheets, nothing more. He closed the
lid,
  disappointed. That would have been too easy.
  Fenn stood and, hands on hips, scanned the
underground
  chamber once more. Christ, it was cold! He
moved
  to the center, the light bulb, with its heavy metal
shade,
  just six inches above his head and casting
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                            James Herbert - The Shrine
black shadows
  beneath his brow and nose. Two insects flickered
around
  the light, unknowingly seeking death in their personal
sun.
  How many ancient bones were beneath this floor? Fenn
  wondered. Pagan bones, heathen remains. Did
their spirits
  linger when their bodies were done? He realized he
was
  spooking himself unnecessarily and mentally kicked
his
  own shin. Get on with it, Fenn, and then get out!
  He followed his own advice and strode over to a
pile of
  boxes behind a stack of chairs in one corner of the
crypt,
  whistling tunelessly as he began pulling at them.
A quick
  look-through should suffice, no need to examine
anything
  too closely, it was an old chest he was after, quite
big, too
  big to hide itself away easily. A discarded
radiator, disturbed
  by his searching, began to slither down the wall it
  had been leaning against; it crashed to the floor with a
  thunderous clang, the noise echoing off the damp
stone
  walls.
  Fenn froze, shoulders hunched, until the
reverberations
  died away. Sorry, he apologized to the
ghosts, then continued
  looking.
  He went over to the gray shapes that had been
silently
  watching throughout. They stood like stunted specters,
  and he winced at their disfigurements as he drew
close.
  There were four of them and two still had some faded
  color left in their chipped plaster clothes; the
other two
  had begun life as white, but now were almost as
black as
  the darkness around them. You've got a pal
upstairs who'll
  be joining you soon, he silently told them,
thinking of the
  crazy-paved Madonna. The nearest was
a noseless/chinless Christ, who appeared to be holding
something in one
  curled arm; its other arm was broken off at the
elbow.
  Fenn bent slightly, curious to see what was the
strange
  looking object he held. "Nice," he
murmured when he
  discovered it was a stone heart with a little cross
protruding
  from the top like a faded strawberry stalk.
  The statue behind was taller, its surface
discolored and
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                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   grimy. This one was presumably a sculpture
of Jesus too,
   although, without a head and just part of a beard above a
   ravaged neck, it was hard to tell. 7 he next
was as small as
   the first and its form was slightly bent, the man
depicted
   carrying a child on his shoulders. The staff was missing
   and both faces, the child's and the bearer's, had been
   mutilated, but Fenn easily guessed it was St.
Christopher
   and the Christ boy.
   He turned quickly toward the light as it dimmed
   momentarily. "Don't you bloody dare," he
snapped. It
   grew bright instantly.
   Fenn returned his attention to the damaged
statues.
   There was something familiar about the one at the very
   back. He narrowed his eyes, wishing the light were
stronger;
   the metal lampshade cutting out half its beam
didn't help
   much either. Squeezing past the first statue, he
peered
   between the two blocking his way. The face that stared
   back sightlessly was the same as the face
upstairs in the
   church. It was Mary and she looked serene.
   He frowned in puzzlement. From across the chamber,
   this figure had looked in as bad shape as the
others, soiled,
   cracked, and parts missing; it must just have been the
poor
   light throwing deceptive shadows, for no
mutilations or
   grime were evident that close. He
tried to get nearer; there
   was something about the blind staring eyes . . .
   Resting one hand on the headless statue to his right,
he
   leaned forward. The white face was smiling. And he
had
   the uncanny feeling that the eyes could see him. His
other
   hand touched the St. Christopher and the child-burdened
   figure wobbled dangerously. He steadied the
statue and
   eased his body closer to the shadowy Virgin. It
had to be a
   trick of the light: the smile on the stone lips
seemed to
   have broadened. He blinked. They seemed to have
parted,
   too.
   There was a numbness in his mind as though pain
   freezer iiad been sprayed onto certain brain
cells. The
   pupilless eyes were mesmerizing. Fenn's breathing
was
   shallow, but he hardly noticed. He had to get
closer, had
   to touch the statue, had to touch those parted lips.
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                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   The light was dimming. Or did it appear to be,
because
   he could only focus on those moist lips, those
piercing
   eyes? There was a faint sputtering noise behind, but
he
   barely registered the sound or noticed the
flicker.
   He was only a foot, perhaps just inches away, and
he
   could get no farther; the other two statues held
him in
   check. He stretched forward, craning his neck
toward the
   soft lips, the two guardians beginning to tilt.
   He could not move any nearer, but just before the light
   disappeared, the statue of Mary moved toward him.
   PRIEST: My brothers and sisters,
   to prepare ourselves to celebrate the sacred
   mysteries,
   let us call to mind our sins.
   The wind stirred headscarves and banners and
ruffled the
   hair on uncovered heads. People coughed
above the silence.
   Somewhere a baby howled.
   PRIEST: Lord, we have sinned against you:
   Lord have mercy.
   RESPONSE: Lord, have mercy.
   On top of a crane overlooking the field, a
cameraman
   looked quizzically at his machine.
   "Hey, what's going on down there?" he shouted,
heedless
   of the Mass in progress. "The power's
fluctuating. Do something before the whole thing's messed
up!"
   PRIEST: Lord, show us your mercy and love.
   RESPONSE: And grant us your salvation.
   A press cameraman quietly cursed the
motor on his Nikon.
   "What a bloody time to pack up." He
didn't notice that
   several of his colleagues were having the same
problem.
   PRIEST: May almighty God have mercy on
us,
   forgive us our sins,
   and bring us to everlasting life.
   RESPONSE: Amen.
   A woman reporter who had been quietly
talking into her
   microcassette recorder shook it
impatiently when the cogs
   slowly stopped turning. "Fuck," she cursed,
keeping her
   voice low and smacking the machine against the palm of
   her hand.
   PRIEST: Lord, have mercy.
   RESPONSE: Lord, have mercy.
   PRIEST; Christ, have mercy.
   RESPONSE; Christ, have mercy.
   PRIEST: Lord, have--
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                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  Monsignor Delgard clapped his hands to his
ears as the
  microphones shrieked violently, then went
dead.
  Through half-closed eyes he saw Alice rise
from the
  bench and come toward him.
  The statues on either side of Fenn crashed to the
floor and
  he fell with them. He cried out, suddenly aware
he was in
  total darkness, the smashing of stone joining the cry.
Something.
  crushed his fingers, but the pain was hardly felt. A
  heavy weight fell on his shoulders, bearing him
down,
  stunning him with the blow. Instinctively he tried
to roll
  away and something to his right prevented him. He
thrashed
  out, terribly afraid, remembering the Madonna
statue,
  how it had moved, how it had wanted him . . . the
desire
  in her eyes . . .
  "No!" he shouted, his voice ringing around the
corrupt-smelling
  chamber, and the sound increased his panic. He
  kicked out, pushed, shoved, heaved. The statue was
unreasonably
  heavy, pressing hard against him. He managed to
  half-turn and his hand grasped at the cold stone.
It was
  wet with slime and his fingers slid along its
surface; at
  points his hand ran into what could only have
been lichen
  but which felt like soft, rotting flesh.
  He could almost feel hot, fetid breath warming his
skin.
  Fenn managed to pass an arm beneath the cumbersome
  weight and roared as he pushed. The statue slowly
slithered
  off his body, a grating noise as it hit the
floor. He turned,
  elbows beneath him, gasping in the foul air, his chest
  heaving. He had to get out, the very darkness was closing
  in. Reason told him the cellar was filled with
dead, inani-
  mate things; imagination insisted they could move, could
  breathe, could see, could touch.
  His feet slipped in wetness as he scrabbled
to rise. He
  blinked against the blackness, afraid he would be
smothered
  by it. The doorway, there was gray daylight coming
  from the doorway. He had to reach it.
  He began to crawl over dead, mutilated
figures, through
  the sticky puddles formed on the uneven floor like
stagnant
  underground lakes, knocking aside boxes,
anything
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                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  that got in his way, trying to gain his feet but still
too
  unsteady, desperate to reach the light, desperate
to get
  away from cold, lifeless fingers that stretched toward
him
  from the darkness . . .
  Only the light could return those fingers to stone.
But
  now there was a shadow in that gray rectangle of
open
  doorway, a mass of blackness that devoured the
light as it
  moved closer to Fenn. As it reached out for him.
  There were no more sounds from the crowd, no more
  coughs, no more children wailing, no more mumbled
  prayers. It was as if the thousands present were
holding
  their breath as one. Even though only those nearest the
  raised platform could see what was happening, some
mass-consciousness
  sent the tension eddying around the congregation
  like widening ripples on a disturbed
pond. They
  held their breath and looked toward the centerpiece.
  Then a hushed coalescent "aaaah" escaped them
as the
  tiny figure of the child mounted the steps to the altar.
  Wonder and excitement brimmed in their eyes. The
television
  cameramen, on top of their cranes, could only
groan
  with frustration at the untimely breakdown of their
  generator, none of them aware that their rivals were
experiencing
  the same problem. A policeman outside the
gate,
  oblivious to what was taking place inside, could
only frown
  at the static from his hand radio as he tried
to call in
  reinforcements. The crowds were fast becoming
uncontrollable
  as they tried to push their way through the jammed
  entrance to the field.
  Delgard felt his legs trembling as the
rapturous little
  face approached him up the steps. She
was so tiny and so
  frail, and her eyes saw something that was visible
to no
  one else. Alice passed him and his body
drained of vitality
  as though she were a strange spiritual magnet
attracting
  energy. He swayed and had to reach for the lectern to
  steady himself. The oak tree rose up behind the
altar, a
  black twisted giant, a looming creature that
seemed to
  beckon the child.
  Alice's eyes half-closed when she stood before
the tree,
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                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  white slits only showing between the lids. Her
face slowly
  tilted upward as if she were looking into the upper
branches
  and a smile drew back over white teeth. Her
yellow hair
  fell low between her shoulders and her hands rose
away
  from her sides, ready to embrace. Her breathing
came in
  short, sharp gasps, quickening so that her chest moved
  rapidly, gradually slowing, becoming even,
deep, steady.
  Stopping.
  The air shimmered around her and the clouds seemed
  blacker overhead. But then the sun broke through and the
  field, the altar, the tree, were bathed in a pure
light.
  Alice slowly turned to face her spellbound
audience, her
  small body trembling, shivering with some inner
ecstasy
  which the onlookers could feel growing within themselves.
  Alice suddenly gasped as though an invisible
blade had
  pricked her flesh; the smile remained, though, and
became
  even more serene. And now the crowd gasped as she
  began to rise into the air.
  "Fenn, what the hell is the matter with you?"
  He stopped struggling, stopped trying to kick himself
  away from the figure stooping over him. His mind
began
  to clear, although the panic still remained. "Who . .
. who
  is it?" he asked, voice shaking.
  "Who the shit do you think it is, you idiot? It's
me,
  Nancy." She reached down for him again and this time
  her hand wasn't slapped away.
  "Nancy?"
  "Yeah, remember? The friend you unloaded at the
church
  gate."
  He scrabbled to his feet and she had to hold him
back as
  he tried to break for the door.
  "Take it easy," she snapped. "There's a
lot of junk lying
  around here--you'll break your goddamn neck."
Nancy
  kept her arm through his, restraining him as they
made for
  the open door. The last few steps were too much for
him;
  he tore himself loose and rushed through. She found
him
  leaning against the church wall outside, a stream of
saliva
  running from his mouth as though he had just been
retching.
  She gave him a few more moments to recover, then
said, "You gonna tell me what happened down
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                            James Herbert - The Shrine
there?"
  His shoulders heaved as he tried to regain his
breath.
  "I was on the other side of the wall," Nancy
said,
  concerned at his condition. "I just caught a
glimpse of you
  through the graveyard going down the steps to the door
  back there. It took me a little time to sneak over
without
  the holy mafia stopping me." Her voice
softened. "What
  happened, Fenn? You look as though you've seen the
  proverbial ghost."
  He let out a long sigh and turned to her. His
eyes were
  watery. He said breathlessly, "I ... I ...
think I may
  h."
  Nancy chuckled, and now that he was outside in the
  daylight, in the open air, it seemed almost
ridiculous to
  himself. Only he had been there; he had seen it.
"There . . .
  there was a figure ..."
  "You mean a statue. I heard the crash when you
knocked it over, only it sounded like more than one."
  "There were four of them. But one . . . one at the
back,
  the one of Mary wasn't. It wasn't a statue.
It moved."
  "Hey, Fenn, are you serious? You just bumped
into it
  and it toppled. I saw you from the doorway
scrabbling
  around like a maniac. Why were you stumbling around in
  the dark anyway?"
  "There was a light. It must have blown."
  "Yeah, scaring you to death when it did. That must
  have been when you tripped and knocked over the
statues."
  She chuckled again. "Nice going."
  He shook his head; it all seemed so unreal.
  "What were you looking for?" Her eyes were sharp, the
  amusement gone.
  "Uh? Oh, a chest, an old chest we thought
might be
  down there. It could have some early church records
inside."
  "Let's go back and see if we can find it."
  She turned away and Fenn grabbed her arm.
"No, it's
  not there, I would have seen it."
  "Sure you're not just chicken?"
  "I would have seen it!"
  "Okay, okay, I believe you. Look, the
service has already
  started, so let's get over there before we miss
too
  much. You never know, it might just be another
miracle
  day." She took his hand and pulled him away from the
  wall. "You're shaking," she said in surprise,
                                      Page 287
                            James Herbert - The Shrine
stopping to
  face him squarely. "Jesus, you were really
frightened."
  "I'll be okay in a minute." But would he be
okay when it
  was time to close his eyes and sleep?
  "Sure." Nancy touched fingertips to his
cheek. "Take it
  easy for a moment. We'll take a slow
walk to the field."
  She led him away from the church, away from the
black
  hole in its side that was the crypt. Every so often,
she
  sneaked a look at his face and frowned. She could
understand
  his fright, his crashing around down there in the
  dark; it had scared her, for Chrissakes, just
hearing the
  racket! Tripping through the graveyard with its
crusty old
  tombs and tippling slabs had made her
uneasy, even though
  it was broad daylight. The little mountains of earth
scattered
  around didn't lighten the atmosphere, either. By the
  time she'd reached the steps leading down into what
looked
  like a murky pit, she was more than a little edgy! It
was
  only because she thought Fenn had fallen and hurt
himself
  that she had ventured inside. Still, scary or not,
he was
  panicked to a ridiculous degree. Strange,
he hadn't seemed
  the type to be scared of bogeymen.
  Something felt wrong as they neared the recently
created
  gap in the low boundary wall, and Nancy couldn't
  quite figure just what. Fenn was too preoccupied with
his
  own thoughts to notice. It dawned on her slowly
as they
  drew nearer to the field. It was the silence. In a
nine-or ten-acre plot crammed full with people, there
was total, blanket silence.
  She came to a halt and Fenn looked up in
surprise. He,
  too, finally noticed the absence of sound. When they
looked
  toward the raised altar, they understood.
  Monsignor Delgard sank to his knees, one
hand still grasping
  the top of the lectern. Those watching, those who
  could tear their eyes off the child hovering five feet
in the
  air, would have thought it was a gesture of homage and
  not just a sapping weakness in the priest's
limbs. The altar
  servers, who had been kneeling just moments before, were
  now half-sitting, half-lying on the platform,
arms and elbows
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                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  outstretched to support them.
  Delgard's eyes felt misted; it was like watching
the girl
  through a fine veil. He wiped his free hand across
his
  brow, his arm leaden with its own weight, and told
himself
  that what he saw was impossible. He wasn't
dreaming,
  though; she was there above him, her face still tilted
  toward the sky, her arms slightly outstretched, the
breeze
  ruffling her skirt. His lips moved in silent
prayer.
  One by one, the momentum gathering, people began to
  slip from their seats onto their knees, their action
one of
  worship and not involuntary. Soon it was like a
vast moving
  wave as the reaction spread, the shuffling sound
curiously
  muted. There were tears on the faces of many,
  smiling adoration on the faces of others; some had
to close
  their eyes against the glare that emanated from the girl,
  while others only saw a tiny, still form that
appeared to
  glimmer and fade in their vision. All were humbled
by the
  miracle child.
  Delgard tried to rise and the strength just wasn't
there.
  He watched openmouthed as Alice bowed her head
and
  her eyes, her gloriously blue eyes, opened
fully. She smiled.
  And slowly, singularly, many of those who had been
lying
  on stretchers on the ground or who had sat
helplessly in
  wheelchairs, raised themselves to stagger and iimp
toward
  the altar. They gathered there, supporting each
other,
  faces looking upward, their eyes beseeching, a
growing
  cluster of shattered, shriveled bodies.
Quiet, throaty murmurs
  came from them as they praised the child and the
  Madonna for what they felt was happening to them.
  There was a sudden cry as a man with a hideously
  swollen and marked face pushed his way through the
  throng of invalids and collapsed on the steps
leading up to
  the altar.
  He stretched out a wavering arm and implored,
"Help
  me! Help meeeeee . . ." the sound dying in a
high-pitched
  moan. His uplifted hand shot to his face and he
screamed;
  when he took his hand away, bubbles of pus were
bursting
                                      Page 289
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  from his cheeks, mouth, and chin.
  Only Ben, who could see clearly, for he stood
while
  others knelt, could not understand what was happening.
  "How do you do?" she chirped. "st"w so glad it
isn't yesterday,
  aren't you?"
  Polly anna, Eleanor H. Porter
  riordan CAREFULLY CLOSKD THK DOOR
to the cowshed,
  not wanting to disturb the creatures inside; they were
tetchy
  enough already. He crossed the yard, making for the back
  door of the farmhouse, lights from the windows guiding
him
  toward the warmth within. He shook his head and mumbled
  something under his breath. Times were hard enough
  without livestock playing up. He stopped for a
moment,
  listening, coldness clamping tightly around him like a
blood-pressure
  cuff around an arm. That bloody dog was howling
  again like a banshee in the night. It was the usual
  mutt, old Fairman's, starting it all off.
His own, Biddy,
  would be next, then the Rixby's in the house farther
down
  the road. Three nights they'd been at it and there
wasn't
  even a full moon for them to be making a fuss
of! As if on
  cue, his Labrador, Biddy, began to whine and
then to
  howl from inside the house.
  Mebbe it was that floodlight they kept on all
night in the
  field yonder. It looked eerie enough, the way
it lit up that
  blasted oak; mebbe Fairman's animal could
see the glare
  from its kennel, the light being unfamiliar
en'all. Riordan
  had never liked the tree when he had owned the
field it
  stood in, although he had never understood why--it was
  just ugly, he supposed--but the field was only
used for
  grazing so the oak was doing no harm, wasn't
worth bothering
  with. Still, the land belonged to the Church now,
  and a nice price they'd paid for it. Why they thought
a
  dead oak was special just because a little girl was doing
  some peculiar things in front of it, he couldn't
fathom. But
  it was a bloody nuisance having it lit up like that,
scaring
  the dogs.
  He heard his wife cursing Biddy inside the
house, shouting
  for the animal to keep quiet. Some chance, once
she'd
  started.
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                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   And it was a bloody nuisance having all those people
   clomping through the field on Sundays! That's what
his
   cattle were afeared of; they kept well away from
that area,
   cowering at the far side of their own field as if
they
   thought the crowd might harm them, rolling their eyes
at
   him when he came to herd them in, trembling as
though
   there was thunder in the air.
   He stood in the middle of his yard looking back
past the
   covered siiage pit and machinery store, studying
the beam
   of light cutting through the indigo blue sky two
fields
   away. Somehow it made even him feel
uncomfortable. It
   was a silvery intruder, unfamiliar and
unwelcome, disturbing
   the stability of the country night. He looked up
at the
   stars, the sky clear, no clouds to smother the
shimmering
   clusters; yet there was thunder in the air, an
electricity that
   made his senses tingle. It was unearthly and he
didn't like
   it, not one little bit. When dogs howled at night,
it was
   usually a forewarning of death; tonight, standing there
   alone in the yard, coldness and darkness embracing
him
   like sisters of oppression, he felt the howling was a
warning
   of something more. Much more.
   Oh, bloody hell, not more trouble! He
studiously finished
   filling the pint glass, ignoring the raucous
voices from the
   other end of the bar for the moment. He took the money
   for the round, rang it up, then casually sauntered
toward
   the source of trouble, sighing wearily when he saw
it was
   three locals who were causing the disturbance.
   He was a big man, though not a rough one, and his
   mere arrival on the scene of trouble was usually enough
to
   pacify even the most belligerent of customers.
He'd had to
   make his presence felt twice the night before, and
once
   (unfortunately to no avail) the night before that.
While he
   appreciated the extra trade all the
publicity had brought
   in, the aggravation that came with it wasn't so
welcome.
   The White Hart had always been a peaceful pub
--at least,
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                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  relatively so--and he intended to keep it that
way.
  "All right, lads, keep it down now."
  They regarded him resentfully but, he thought,
respectfully.
  The glass that whistled past his head had no
respect
  at all. He could only stare after the three
figures, stunned,
  as they pushed their way through the crowded bar and
  disappeared outside, an obscenity their good-night
bidding.
  All conversation had ceased when the glass shattered
  against the optics behind the bar, and now the customers
  stood watching the tall barman, as surprised as
he. A
  barmaid rushed forward to mop up the spilled beer
and
  Eick up the broken glass; the barman could
only shake his
  ead in bewilderment.
  "What's got into everybody?" he said, and his
customers
  could only shake their heads in sympathy.
Conversation
  returned, a trickle breaking into a flood, and the
barman
  turned his back on the bar and poured himself a double
  Scotch, breaking his own rule never to drink before
ten
  o'clock. Those three are barred, he told himself
sullenly.
  He had never known them to cause trouble before, but he
  was sure as hell they would never cause trouble in
there
  again. What was Banfield coming to? It had been
alive,
  buoyant, over the past few weeks, but the mood
seemed to
  be changing. At night there seemed to be a
heaviness
  hanging over the village, like in summer when
broody
  black clouds lay low and threatening; yet the air
outside
  was oddly crisp and there were no clouds.
  He gulped the Scotch, pulling a face, but
grateful for
  the sudden rush of warmth.
  "You promised, you bastard!"
  Tucker put up a stubby hand as if to soothe her
temper,
  his eyes staying on the road ahead.
  "It's early days yet, Paula," he said
placatingly. "I don't
  know if the plans are going to go through yet."
  "You know, you bastard. Everything's going
through
  now! Everything!"
  "No, no, we have to wait for the district council
to give
  the go-ahead and you know how slow they are. And even
  if they granted planning permission, it'd take
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                            James Herbert - The Shrine
another year
  to have a supermarket built, maybe more."
  "You said you were going to buy out a couple of shops
  in the High Street and knock them into one."
  "I would have, but no one's selling now there's
likely to
  be a boom on." That wasn't true, for he'd
put in tentative
  offers for two shops side-by-side, the owners
ageing and
  fearful of extra trade rather than eager for it.
No point in
  mentioning it to Paula until the sale was a
certainty. What
  a pain in the bloody arse she was becoming!
  "Even so, even if you build a new
supermarket, why
  can't you say yes to me running the old one? At
least I'll know where I stand."
  "Paula, there's a lot more to running--"
  "You promised!"
  The X-Js swerved as she punched his arm.
  "For fuck's sake, Paula, what's wrong with
you? You'll
  have us off the road."
  He squealed as she lunged for the wheel.
"Paula!" Pushing
  her back with one hand and steering the car with the
  other, he silently cursed the day he had got
involved with
  her. He'd misjudged Paula, he realized.
She was dumb,
  but she was conniving, too. The Jaguar slowed down
and
  he pulled off the main highway into a side
road. He
  stopped the car, switched off the engine and lights.
"Now
  look, pet," he began to say.
  "You don't care about me! You just want me for one
  thing!"
  True enough, he thought. "Don't be daft. You
know
  how much I think of you."
  "You don't care! What have you ever given me?"
  "There were those earrings at Christmas--"
  "Bastard! You don't even know what I'm
talking about."
  Although the car was stationary, his hands still gripped the
wheel and his eyes still watched the road ahead. A
  frantic bird or bat fluttered darkly across
the windshield.
  His grip stiffened and his words came out through tight
  lips. "Just tell me what you are talking about,
Paula."
  "I'm talking about my life! Me! My
future! I've helped
  you--your business and you. I've worked for you night
  and day, never complained ..."
  His eyes rolled upward.
  "dis . . always been there when you needed me. I've
always
  been available, for business or pleasure.
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                            James Herbert - The Shrine
I've given up
  so much for you."
  "What are you bloody talking about? I've given
you a, bloody good job, I've given you
presents, I've taken you
  out--
  "To a sodding motel! That's just about your mark! And
  you give better presents to your wife! I've
seen her parading
  'round the village in her stinking fur coat and
jewelry!"
  "You want a fur coat, I'll give you a
fur coat!"
  "I don't want a fucking fur coat. I
want something
  more!"
  "Just tell me what!"
  "I want the supermarket!"
  There was an astonished silence in the car for a few
  moments. Then he said disbelievingly, "You want
the
  supermarket."
  She turned her head away.
  "You want the bloody supermarket?" His voice
had
  risen several octaves. "You're fucking mad!"
  "I don't want all of it, just part. I want
to be a partner." Her voice had sunk several
octaves.
  Tucker was just as incredulous. "And how d'you
suppose
  I'd explain that away to Marcia?"
  "You could tell her you need a partner for business."
  "Need a partner? You? You must be fucking joking!"
He tried to laugh, but it came out as a dry,
rasping sound in his throat. "You're a good screw,
Paula, and not bad with figures and ordering stock.
But running a business--
  actually running a business--and being a partner? I
love
  your snatch, darling, but I don't worship it.
You can take
  a running fucking jump!"
  She was on him, scratching, slapping, punching,
grabbing
  his hair, spitting on him, screaming at him.
Tucker
  tried to grab her wrists, but her arms flailed
at him viciously,
  hysterically.
  "Paula!"
  The car was rocking with her strength.
  "Paula!"
  "I'll tell her, you bastard! I'll tell her
everything! You're
  not treating me like a piece of dirt!
She's going to know
  everything, you bastard!"
  "Paula!"
  His hands found her throat and the fit was snug,
pleasing.
  He squeezed.
  "You bastard, I'm going to--"
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                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   Oh, that was good! That was keeping her quiet! Her
   neck was soft, mushy. He could feel the beginnings
of an
   erection. Yes, that was good!
   You . . . you ..."
   It was dark, but he could see the whiteness of her
eyes,
   and he could smell her fear. Try to blackmail
him, would
   she? Thought he was that stupid, did she? Stupid
of her, fat
   slug of a cow! Muscles in her neck were trying
to resist the
   pressure and that felt good too; he wanted it
to take time.
   Her hands were on his chest, squeezing the fat there,
   and even that wasn't unpleasant. In fact, it was
rather nice.
   He could see her tongue beginning to protrude from
the
   whiteness of her face, like a beak hatching from an
eggshell.
   Now a funny sound was coming from her, a whining,
   gurgling noise. That's better, you bitch, that's
better than
   all those nasty, blackmailing words. That was a much
   sweeter sound. He increased the pressure.
Funny how
   small a neck can become when you squeeze hard
enough.
   Probably one hand could go around it at the death .
..
   ... at the death . . .
   Oh, my God, what am I doing?
   "Paula!"
   He released her throat and she fell away like a
rag doll.
   "Paula, I'm sorry, I'm sorry . . ."
   Her eyes were staring at him and there were still gurgling
   noises coming from her.
   He leaned toward her. "I didn't mean . .
."
   She cried out, but the sound was still strange,
as though
   still squeezed from a flattened aperture. He
touched her
   arm and she flinched violently. What had he been
trying
   to do, what had come over him?
   He tried to touch her again and this time she thrashed
   out wildly. Tucker jumped back, fingernails
raking his
   cheek before he was out of reach. She was scrabbling
   around, searching for the door lock. She found it,
pushed
   the door open, the light exposing rounded
buttocks as she
   tumbled from the car. She lay in the road, the
squealing
   sounds still coming from her, and he reached over the
   automatic column shift, his own eyes now
wide with fear.
   "Paula!" he said yet again.
                                       Page 295
                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   She was on her knees, panty hose torn
by rough concrete.
   She staggered to her feet, was running, stumbling,
gasping
   for breath.
   "Paula!" he called after her. "Don't tell
anyone ..."
   She was gone, swallowed by the night, and he sat
there
   for a long time afterward, door closed, in his own
cocoon
   of darkness, wondering what had come over him, why
he
   had tried to strangle her. It just wasn't like him.
   Southworth closed the accounts book, a smile of
satisfaction twisting his lips. He flexed his
narrow shoulders and placed his elbows on the desk,
steepled Fingers resting
   against his chin. Then his smile broadened and he
relaxed
   back into the chair.
   Everything was going well, marvelously well.
Banfield
   had changed almost overnight, the merchants flushed
with
   new trade as tourists packed in, the pubs and
restaurants
   packed tight each day and night. And his hotel
had been
   overbooked since the miracles had
begun. Morale in the
   village was high, the excitement sending waves of
adrenaline
   coursing through its inhabitants, bringing them alert
again,
   the sluggish burden of decline thrown off. All
this achieved
   in just under two months, an incredible escalation of
events,
   miraculous in that context alone.
   In the coming months, when the clerics had stopped their
predictable dithering and the shrine had become truly
   established, trade would increase tenfold, for
pilgrims would
   journey from all over the world to see the scene of the
   visitation. Southworth was already negotiating with the
   village's only travel agent, a small
concern whose revenue
   had been slowly sinking with the country's economy,
to
   form a new partnership. St. Joseph's Tours
was to be the title of their joint venture, Southworth
himself supplying the capital (his credit was
particularly good with the bank
   these days) to buy a fleet of buses which
would cover the
   British Isles, the agent's connections
abroad helping to
   form alliances with other, foreign, travel
companies. Such
   a partnership, apart from the obvious financial gain
in the
   tourist business itself, would prove extremely
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                            James Herbert - The Shrine
beneficial to
  his own hotel trade.
  Soon work would begin on a new hotel, one that was
  more modern, easier to run, and geared for a fast
turnover.
  There were other properties, also, that he secretly
owned
  in Banfield, shops that he had acquired
cheaply over the years
  when their owners had given up trying to make a
decent
  living in the lackluster village, bought by him under
a
  company name, his solicitor handling all
negotiations so
  that no one else knew who the true purchaser
was, not
  even--especially not even--his fellow members
of the parish
  council. The tenants he leased the properties
out to would
  have something of a shock when their rents were doubled,
  probably trebled, within the next few months.
They could
  hardly appeal, not with the way business would be
booming,
  and if they refused to pay, well, then, there would be
  plenty of others eager to move in. And their rents
would
  be even higher.
  Southworth rose from the desk and walked to the
drinks
  cabinet. He reached for the sherry bottle, then
changed his
  mind and took out the brandy. The brandy glass
chimed
  pleasantly as the bottle touched its lip. He
sipped slowly,
  pleased with himself, pleased he had been the first to see
  the opportunity and seize upon it.
  Father Hagan had been a problem, the bishop much
  more susceptible to Southworth's
persuasion, but then
  Bishop Caines had his own private ambitions.
Of course,
  Southworth regretted the priest's untimely
death, but it
  had meant the removal of what could have proved to be
a
  minor stumbling block. Yet would he really have?
Bishop
  Caines, a shrewd politician as well as a
respected man of
  the cloth, would surely have stepped in and gently
eased
  the doubting priest from the situation. In fact, in his
many
  private discussions with Southworth, the bishop had
hinted
  that Father Hagan might soon need a long rest,
the fuss
  much too draining for a man of such ill health.
Monsignor
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                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  Delgard, a priest who had much experience of
what might
  be termed as "phenomenal," would have acted as both
  investigator and overseer. Southworth
knew the bishop
  had no other choice but to send in a man with such
unique
  qualifications, and he wondered how skillfully
he had balanced
  his briefing to Delgard. Skepticism well to the
fore,
  no doubt, but with enough receptiveness for a message
from
  God to keep Delgard's mind open. And now
nobody, nobody could deny the miracles.
  On Sunday, before thousands and thousands (eight to
  ten thousand, it had been estimated, had traveled
to St.
  Joseph's, most of whom had not been able to get
into the
  field for the service), more miracles had been
performed.
  None could yet be confirmed, of course, for they could
  have just been temporary improvements, the sufferers
deluded
  by their own hysteria: the boy whose condition was
  known as postencephalitic dementia (brain
damage caused
  by a virus infection) could just be
experiencing a brief spell
  of normality; the young girl whose asthma was an
almost
  constant companion, and whose attacks could send her
  close to death, might find it returned within a
week or
  two; the man whose multiple sclerosis confined
him to a
  wheelchair might find that nerve tissues had not
been
  impossibly regenerated and he would soon need his
wheelchair
  again. 7 here were others, many others, some trivial,
  some literally deadly serious, the victims
claiming they
  "felt better" or that they felt "uplifted."
There was one
  case, though, that was indisputable.
  A certain man had come alone to the field next
to St.
  Joseph's, a man who, through shame, had kept
his face
  hidden from the crowd. His Tower jaw, lips, and
nose had
  been infested with open sores and scabs,
much of the flesh
  eaten away. Lupus was the medical term for the
condition:
  tuberculosis of the face. As he stood below
Alice, whose
  small body had risen into the air (there were those
among
  the vast congregation who swore they had not seen her
  rise, but these were far away, some near the back, and
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                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   their view would have been impaired), the man's
face had
   suddenly begun to blister, the scabs falling away
and the
   sores closing upon themselves. His face had healed in
full
   view of all those present, for he had turned to the
crowd so
   that they could witness the miracle. By the end of the
   service werecompleted with such incredible emotion, the child
   taking her place back among the congregation, her
face
   white, skin taut) the deep pits in the man's
flesh were
   being covered by rapidly growing skin. The most
cynical
   of men could not repudiate what had physically
happened
   in front of thousands.
   Even Monsignor Delgard could not reject such
an
   astounding thing.
   Southworth returned to his desk, taking the
brandy
   with him. He sat, his mind alive with the new
prospects
   that the Miracle Girl had opened up for him. That
was his miracle: the revitalization of his own
expectations. The Southworth name would not sink with
Banfield into the
   mire of obscurity but, like the village, would again
become
   a name to be noted, would enhance its centuries-old
heritage.
   The village would grow, and he, his name, his wealth,
   would grow with it.
   He raised the glass to lips and wondered why an
awful
   instinctive fear had begun to nag at these happy
thoughts.
   The priest rose wearily from his kneeling
position by the
   bed, his compline, the last prayer of the day,
compfeted.
   His knee joints cracked with the effort and he
stretched his
   stiff back, feeling old, spent. He turned
and sat on the
   edge of the bed, too tired for the moment to go through
   the before-bed toiletries. A hand that trembled
slightly
   brushed against his forehead as if it could wipe away
the
   weariness. There had not been many times in his life that
   he had felt this depleted; usually it had
followed particularly
   wearing exorcisms--rare occasions but not as rare as
   some people might think--and times when he had witnessed
   the world at its most dreadful--Biafra,
Bangladesh,
   Ethiopia. At the age of twenty-one he had
helped in the
   aftermath of Nagasaki, and perhaps that was worst of
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                            James Herbert - The Shrine
all;
  the nuclear weapon exemplified man at his most
potent
  and most loathsome. It was at those times that his spiritual
  being had sagged, then plumeted to despairing depths
  awash with hopelessness, but the human spirit had a
buoyancy
  of its own. On each occasion, though, the upward
  journey took longer, the years and events making
the
  burden more cumbersome. But why the spiritual fatigue
  now?
  Father Hagan had not needed to speak of it before he
  died; it was evident in his appearance, the weariness
of his
  soul reflected in his lusterless eyes. Why was this
depression
  hovering over the church, over the house? Why,
  when the sick were being miraculously cured, when a
  dramatic religious interest, perhaps even
revival, was spreading
  throughout the country and, it was reported, throughout
  the world, was he so afraid? The Episcopal
Council
  had convened that very day to question Alice further and
  the child had remained calmly resolute in her
conviction
  that she had conversed with Mary. Why the
miracles?
  they had asked. And why did the Mother of God
choose
  to appear to her, a mere child? What had Alice
done to
  receive such grace? And what was the purpose of the
  visitations? Alice had just one answer to all the
questions:
  the Lady would reveal the purpose in time; now was
too
  soon to know.
  It was an unsatisfactory reply.
  The bishops had been divided, some believing the child
  really had received a divine vision, others claiming
there
  was no evidence at all that the visions had been
divine. It
  was still too early for the cures to be claimed
miraculous,
  and as for the levitation, it was an illusion that could be
  seen in theaters all over the world. When it was argued
  that Alice could not possibly have used trickery in
front
  of so many people and in such an open setting, it was
  counterargued that Indian fakirs also
performed such feats
  in similar circumstances with the use of mass
hypnosis. To
  strengthen their claim, those churchmen who were
"anti,"
  stressed that not everyone present had seen Alice
levitate,
  and furthermore, not one television or still camera
had recorded the phenomenon. It seemed their
mechanisms had
                                      Page 300
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  been mysteriously interfered with; only blank
film had
  emerged. That in itself, those "pro" claimed, was
evidence
  of paranormal influences at work. Quite, the others
scoffed,
  but that did not deem it holy. The debate had
gone on late
  into the evening with no conclusions drawn. The bishops
  would reconvene tomorrow, in London, and the inquiry
  would continue until some kind of official
proclamation
  could be given to an impatient world, although it would be
  a carefully worded avoidance of any specific
acknowledgment
  by the Church.
  Delgard was puzzled by the failure of the cameras
and
  the lectern microphones, wondering if it was
linked in
  some way with his own sapping of energy that Sunday.
  He had fallen to his knees with the weakness that had
  come over him and those in near proximity had done the
  same, although they might now claim they were merely
  paying homage. Could there be some strange
parasitical
  force at work which drained energy from the body and
  power from manmade machinery? It didn't seem
possible,
  but then, neither did levitation nor miracle
cures. Yet
  levitation and miracle cures were not unknown. The
Catholic
  Church had its own levitators such as St.
Thomas
  Aquinas, St. Teresa of Avila, St.
John of the Cross, and
  St. Joseph of Cupertino, as well as many
blessed with the
  miracle of the stigmata, the appearance of
bleeding wounds
  on the hands, feet, and side, resembling the
wounds of
  Christ on the Cross. Some even bled from the head
as if a
  crown of thorns had been placed there. And
miracle cures
  had become almost religious lore. As well as
that, perhaps
  the most stunning miracle of all had been at
Fatima, in
  Portugal, when nearly seventy thousand
onlookers had
  witnessed the sun spiral in the sky and descend
toward the
  earth. Mass hallucination? Was that the explanation
for
  Fatima and for what had happened in England on that
  Sunday? It was a logical man's reasoning, a
scientist's
  smug answer. But even so, what had caused the
hallucination?
  Alice was just a child.
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                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   Delgard walked to the window and gazed out into the
   night sky. He could see the bright
floodlight in the field
   beyond, accentuating the twisted form of the oak tree.
Its
   visibility disturbed him; he would rather it were hidden
by
   the darkness. Vandals--perhaps just worshipers who
cherished
   what the tree represented, in the same way that the
   Church cherished the wood of the Cross--had begun
to
   strip the bark, wanting the aged wood for souvenirs
or
   their own personal sacred relic, and now the tree
had to be
   guarded, the light itself acting as a deterrent. The
tree
   dominated the field as it had never before.
   He drew the curtains together, the sight somehow
distasteful
   to him; but when he was undressed and in bed, his
   eyes unable to close against the shadows around him, the
   light still glowed through the material, reminding him the
   tree was still there, a sinister sentinel. Waiting.
   Alice's head twisted from side to side,
slamming into the
   pillow with a force that would have stunned, had it connected
   with anything solid. Her lips moved constantly and
   her pale body was damp with perspiration, even
though
   the room was winter-cold. The words whispered--
anguished,
   tormented--were said in a voice which scarcely
   resembled that of an eleven-year-old child.
   The bedclothes lay loose and rumpled around her
ankles,
   and her thin legs were stretched and trembling.
   "dis . . aye, good Thomas, fill me with thy
seed . . ."
   Her pelvis jerked spasmodically, her cotton
nightdress
   thrown high upon her chest.
   "dis . diss dear in heart, of such good strength ..."
   Her small chest sank and heaved with her dream.
   "dis . . disperse thyself into me ..."
   She moaned, a long, howling moan, but there was an
   ecstasy in the sigh that followed. For a moment, her
body
   became still and her eyelids fluttered but did not
open.
   She moaned again and this time the sound was
languid.
   "... more filling than e'er it was ..."
   The moaning became deep breaths of pleasure,
sighs
   that exalted the joy to her senses. Something small
and black
   moved against her white stomach.
   Outside, in the hallway leading to the nuns"
cells, a
   dark-clad figure stood listening, breath held,
tensed fingers
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                            James Herbert - The Shrine
  on the door handle.
  "dis . . allay their tongues, my priest ..."
  Alice's eyes snapped open, but her body had
not woken
  from the dream.
  "dis . . cursed Mary . . . cursed Mary
..."
  The nun's eyes widened in shock, her grip
tightening on
  the door handle.
  "dis . . cursed Mary ..."
  Alice's body stretched upward, her heels and
shoulders
  digging into the bed. The black creature
on her stomach
  was almost dislodged and the girl cried out in pain as
sharp
  needles pierced her tender flesh. But she did not
wake.
  She fell back to the bed and lay still, no longer
making
  any sound.
  The nun. Mother Marie-Claire, Reverend Mother
of the
  convent, one hand unconsciously clutching the
crucifix
  that lay against her chest, pushed the door open,
slowly,
  quietly, as if afraid for herself. The beam of
light from the
  hallway broadened as the door opened wider, the
nun's
  shadow an elongated specter on the room's
floor. Coldness
  flew out at her and it was unnatural, almost
painful.
  She moved in, footsteps slow and soft.
"Alice?" she
  whispered, reluctant to wake the child but not
sure if she
  slept. There was no reply from Alice, but
another sound
  came to the nun's ears, a strange yet not
unfamiliar noise.
  It was vaguely repellent, a sucking sound. The
nun's forehead
  creased into a puzzled frown. She approached the
  bed and looked down at the near-naked form lying
there.
  Saw the small, bristling shape hunched on the
child's
  stomach.
  Raised the crucifix to her lips in horror when
she discovered
  it was a cat.
  Felt nauseous when she realized it was suckling
at Alice's
  third nipple.
  Look out! Look out, hoys! Clear the track!
  The witches are here! They've all come back!
  They hanged them high--No use! No use!
  What cares a witch for the hangman's nmse?
  They buried them deep, but they wouldn't lie still,
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                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   For cats and witches are hard to kill,
   They swore they shouldn't and wouldn't die--
   Books said they did, but they lie! they lie!
   "Look Out, Boys," Oliver Wendell
Holmes
   the TWO MEN EMERGED FROM the crypt into the
daylight,
   the shorter one leading, bounding up the stone steps as
if
   relieved to be away from the musty chamber. Fenn
stood
   in the graveyard, hands in his topcoat pockets,
and waited
   for the priest to join him.
   Delgard's progress was slower, his legs moving
as though
   they were tied with weights, his shoulders more hunched
   than usual. Fenn was concerned for the priest: his
pallor
   and demeanor were similar to Father Hagan's before he
   had died.
   The priest reached him and they walked through the
   gravestones toward the boundary wall.
   "That's that, then," the reporter said,
deliberately, scuffing
   the top off a molehill as they passed.
"No chest, no
   information on the church's history."
   They had searched through the underground chamber
   with a fine toothcomb, Fenn's nerves jangling every
moment
   they were down there, only the tall priest's
presence
   keeping him from running out into the open. The light
   bulb had been working, even though Fenn had insisted
it
   had blown the previous Sunday; nevertheless, both
men
   were armed with flashlights just in case the power failed
   again.
   "That may not be so." Delgard's voice was
heavy, his
   eyes focused on the ground before him. "The chest
wouldn't
   have been lost, not if it contained documents referring
to
   St. Joseph's earliest days. It must be
elsewhere."
   Fenn shrugged. "It could have been stolen or
destroyed."
   "Possibly. His
   "Well, where else can we look?"
   They had reached the wall and both men looked toward
   the centerpiece in the field.
   " "That tree gives me the shudders, d'you know
that?"
   Fenn said, not waiting for a reply to his previous
question.
   Monsignor Delgard smiled grimly. "I can
appreciate
   your feeling."
   "You too, huh? It's hard to reconcile it with a
place of
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   worship."
   "You think this ground is sacred?" the priest
asked,
   nodding toward the field.
   "You're the priest: shouldn't you be telling me it's
so?"
   The priest gave no answer.
   Workmen in the field were carrying in benches, the
   rows of seating spreading outward, as yet barely
covering
   half the field. Refinements to the centerpiece were
in
   progress, the makeshift altar of the
previous Sunday replaced by a large and more
ornamental carved-wood version; close by was a
small uncovered credence table. Posts which
   would eventually carry banners were being put up
along
   the aisles and a low rail had been erected around
the raised
   platform for the congregation to kneel at while the
priest
   or priests administered Communion. The
activity gave a
   normality to the scene which belied the extroardinary
events
   that had taken place there just a few days before.
   Delgard thought of Molly Pagett and the irony
of the
   less-than-immaculate conception that had happened
here.
   His conversation with Mother Marie-Claire earlier that
   morning made him wonder just what the illicit
coupling
   nearly twelve years before had spawned.
   "I feel it's vital that we locate the church
chest, Gerry,"
   he said, his hands resting on the cold stone
of the wall.
   "I'm not so sure; what could it tell us? It's
probably filled with Old Mass books and hymn
sheets, like the box
   in the crypt." His flesh seemed to tighten around his
bones
   when he thought of the underground chamber.
   "No, I'm sure it's important."
   "How can you be? I think we're cluthing at
straws."
   "It's just a feeling--a very strong feeling. The
other
   records you found go back to the late sixteenth
century.
   Why not before that, why should it begin there?"
   "Who knows? Maybe that was the first time they thought
   of keeping any documentation."
   "No, the idea of keeping records goes way
beyond that
   period. It could be that they've been purposely
hidden."
   "I think you're guessing. I can't believe--"
   "Still disbelieving, Gerry? Last Sunday you
believed a
   statue of the Virgin Mary--a white
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unblemished statue--
   moved toward you. You said its lips and eyes were
alive,
   that they even tried to seduce you. And today? What do
   you believe today?"
   "I don't know what happened!"
   "But a few moments ago in the crypt. There was
no
   such statue, just a broken and old stone carving,
almost
   unrecognizable as the Virgin, lying behind three
other
   equally disfigured statues."
   "I fell against it, knocked it over."
   "The breaks were grimy with age, not fresh at
all. And
   there was no face on the virgin." Delgard's
voice was
   reasoning, no hint of criticism in it. "Can't
you believe
   something happened there that you cannot logicafly
explain?"
   It was Fenn's turn to remain silent.
Eventually he said,
   "What makes you so certain the answer's
in past records?"
   "I'm not sure, not at all. But the reverend mother
of the
   convent came to me this morning. I'm afraid she
was a
   little agitated." That was an understatement: the nun
had
   been frantic with worry. "Alice has been
speaking in her
   sleep again. Last night, Mother Marie-Claire
listened out
   side the door as I had just a few days ago.
She couldn't
   catch much of what Alice said, but it was in the
same form
   as we had both heard before. She recalled some of the
   words, one or two of the phrases. "Fill me
with thy seed"
   was one. 'Allay their tongues" was another. Mother
MarieClaire also heard the word "priest." his
   "Old language. Sounds like Shakespeare."
   "That's precisely what it is. It was the
peculiar accent
   that puzzled me before; it made Alice's words
sound garbled,
   nonsensical. Today I remembered a new
treatment of
   Shakespeare's plays at the National I saw
several years
   ago. I should say an "old" treatment; all
the actors spoke in
   Elizabethan English, but not just using
Elizabethan dialogue.
   An authority on the subject had tutored them
in the accent
   used at that time. It was quite different, not just in form,
to the language we speak today. It was the same
language used by Alice as she slept."
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  "She was quoting Shakespeare in her sleep?"
  Delgard smiled patiently. "She was speaking the
language
  of that period, possibly before that time, in its
  correct idiom."
  Fenn raised his eyebrows. "You can't be sure of
that."
  "I'm not. However it gives us a basis to work
from.
  How can a child of Alice's years--and remember,
one who
  has been profoundly deaf for most of those
years--know of
  a language she has never heard or probably
even read
  before?"
  "What are you getting at? Possession?
Demonic possession?
  Speaking in tongues?"
  "I wish it were that simple. Perhaps we could call
it retrogression."
  "You mean reliving a past life? I thought
Catholics
  didn't go in for reincarnation."
  "Nobody has ever proved that retrogression
has anything
  to do with reincarnation. Who knows how much
  race memory is retained within our genes?"
  Fenn turned to sit on the wall, his hands still
tucked
  deep into his pockets. A light drizzle had
started while
  they were talking. "No wonder you're anxious
to see what
  records are in that old chest. You know, a coupla
weeks
  back I would have laughed at all this.
Now all I can
  manage is a halfhearted chuckle."
  "There's more, Gerry. Something else I should have
  remembered before." The priest squeezed his
temples with
  thumb and fingers of one hand as if trying to press
away a
  headache. "The night Father Hagan died, the
night we
  had dinner at the Crown Hotel."
  Fenn nodded, urging Delgard on.
  "Remember I was talking of Alice's genera!
state of
  health at that time? I said she was fine except for
feeling
  tired and being a little withdrawn."
  "Yeah, I remember."
  "I also said the doctors had noticed a small
growth in
  her side, beneath her heart."
  "You said it was a--what was it?--an extra
nipple of
  some kind, nothing to worry about."
  "A supernumerary. I happened to be watching
Father
  Hagan when I mentioned that and noticed he became
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even
  more agitated than he had been earlier during the
evening.
  It slipped my mind because of the tragedy that
followed. I
  think it struck a chord somewhere in him, something that
  was in the back of his mind and that he could not bring to
  the fore. I was a fool not to have known myself."
  "Forgive my impatience, Monsignor, but
I'm getting wet.
  Are you going to tell me what it is you've
remembered?"
  Delgard pushed himself away from the wall and looked
  back toward the church. The light rain had created
small
  speckles of dew on his face. "Reverend Mother
told me she
  had found a cat in Alice's room last night.
It was resting
  on her sleeping body and it was drinking from her."
  Fenn's head, kept tucked in against the
drizzle, snapped
  up. "What the hell are you talking about?"
  "The cat was suckling at Alice's
supernumerary nipple."
  Fenn's face crinkled in disgust. "She was
sure? She
  actually saw it?"
  "Oh, yes. Mother Marie-Claire was certain.
When she
  told me I realized what I had previously
forgotten." He
  looked away from the church and directly at the
tree in the
  field beyond the wall. "I remembered the ancient
folklore
  concerning witches. It was generally believed that such
  women bore a mark on their bodies. It could be
a blue or
  red spot, the flesh sunken, hollow; it was known
as the
  Devil s Mark. Naturally enough, in such
superstitious times,
  scars, moles, warts, or any natural
excrescences on the
  body of a suspected witch could be given
diabolical
  significance, but there was another protuberance or
swelling
  which established the guilt of any person bearing the
  deformity beyond question."
  "The supernumerary nipple?"
  Delgard nodded, his eyes still on the tree. He
asked,
  "Do you know what is meant by a witch's
familiar?"
  "I'm not sure. Isn't it something to do with a
guide from
  the spirit world?"
  "Not exactly. You're thinking of a spiritualist's
familiar,
  a spirit who helps the medium contact souls on the
other
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  side. A witch's familiar is alleged to be
a gift from the
  devil, a spirit-beast which helped in divination and
magic.
  Usually it was a small animal, anything from a
weasel,
  rabbit, dog, toad, or even a mole."
  "But more often a cat, right? I've read the fairy
stories."
  "Don't dismiss such stories out-of-hand; they're
often
  based on folklore passed down through the
centuries and
  can contain some element of truth. The point is this:
such
  spirit-beasts were sent on mischievous and often
malicious
  errands by the witch and rewarded with drops of the
  witch's own blood. Or they were fed from the
witch's
  supernumerary nipple."
  The reporter was too stunned to scoff. "You're
talking
  about witchcraft, here, now, in the twentieth
century?"
  Delgard smiled thinly and finally tore his eyes
away
  from the oak. "It's by no means unusual
nowadays; there
  are many witches' covens throughout the British
Isles. But I believe I'm speaking of something
much more. You
  associated witchcraft with fairy tales.
What if such myths
  were based on a reality, something which the people of
  that time could not understand, could only perceive in
  terms of sorcery? Witchcraft would have been
something
  they could not understand, but could accept. We laugh at
  such ideas today because it's comfortable for us to do so,
  and our scientific technology precludes such
notions."
  "You're losing me. Are you saying little Alice
Pagett is a
  witch, or that she's not? Or that she's the
reincarnation of
  some ancient sorceress?"
  "I'm saying none of those things. But I think we
must
  delve into the past for some link with what is happening
  here today. This force must emanate from somewhere."
  "What force is that?"
  "The force of evil. Can't you feel it around us?
You
  yourself experienced it last Sunday in the crvpt.
The same
  force weakened, then destroyed, Father Hagan."
He did
  not add that he felt that same pressure bearing
down on
  himself.
  "There's nothing evil about the miracles," Fenn
said.
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  "That," Delgard replied, "we do not yet know.
We
  don't know where or what all this is leading to.
We must
  keep searching, Gerry. We must find clues.
We have to
  find the answer before it's too late, while there's
still a
  chance to combat this force."
  Fenn let out a long sigh. "You better tell
me where else I
  can look for the chest," he said.
  Fenn was a dumbhead. He should have seen the
connection.
  Maybe all the research he had been doing had
addled his
  brain. Guess it was easy to be objective when
all the work
  had been done and you only had to read through the
  notes. But still, she could be wrong: it might not be
here at
  all.
  Nancy stood before the heavy-looking
door inside the
  porch, its wood painted and marked with time,
wondering
  if it would be locked. She twisted the metal
handle and her
  eyes glinted with satisfaction when it turned and the
door
  opened easily. No reason for it to be locked in
such an
  isolated place.
  It was when Fenn had told her that the old church
chest
  he was looking for wasn't at St. Joseph's that
she realized
  the possibility. If he hadn't played so
cagey with her, she'd
  have told him. That's what you get, Fenn, for
trying to
  cut me out.
  She pushed the door open wider and stepped in from
  the porch. The light inside was dull, diffused
by the thick,
  leaded windows.
  The chest dated back to the fourteenth or fifteenth
  century and must have disappeared some time
during the
  sixteenth, for that was as far back as the records
Fenn had
  found went. That had been her clue.
  The door made a low growling noise as she
closed it, a
  muffled thump disturbing the stillness inside when it
shut
  completely. Nancy looked around the miniature
church,
  loving its quaintness, impressed by its tradition.
A leaden
  font stood before her, the dark, tetter-ornamented
metal
  speaking of another time, a different era. Nearly
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all the
  pews were boxed in, the panels chest-height,
narrow doors
  allowing entry. Whole families probably
sat in each one,
  Nancy assumed, cut off from their neighbors,
enclosed in
  their own small islands of worship. The wood
paneling
  was stripped of any varnish, its bareness
somehow complementing
  the character of the chapel itself. No more than
  thirty to forty feet away, at the head of the narrow
aisle,
  was the tiny altar.
  So this was where the lord of the manor came to pray,
  Nancy mused. Cute.
  She moved around the font into the chapel and at
once
  gave a small cry of triumph. There it was.
It had to be the
  one!
  The chest stood against a wall to her right, immediately
  below a large polished-wood board, the names of
all the
  clerics who had served the church from 1158 to the
present
  day inscribed on its surface in gold. She
stared at the long,
  low chest, scarcely believing her eyes, but almost
certain it
  was the one Fenn had been searching for. It matched the
  description in his notes perfectly: made from
planks of
  thick elm or oak, bound together with
metal bands, the
  wood battered and marked, an indication of its
antiquity
  and there were three unusual-looking padlocks on
its facing
  side.
  Nancy squatted beside it, still smiling in
triumph, and
  handled all three locks. "Great!" she said
aloud. "Now all I
  need is the goddamn keys."
  She pushed herself erect and looked around. Where
  would the priest be? He obviously wouldn't be
resident,
  there was no house, only the large mansion some
distance
  away. The board in front of her said that the
priest since
  1976 was a Father Patrick Conroy of
Storrington. Ah, that
  was it. The priest obviously bused in from the
neighboring
  parish to run the show here. She would have to go to the
  town or village of Storrington to locate him.
But then,
  would he allow her access to the chest? Probably
--no,
  definitely--not. Fenn might get permission,
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though, with
  his Church connections. Shit, she would have to tell
him.
  Unless.
  Unless the keys were kept in the church.
Improbable,
  but worth a look. Maybe in the vestry.
  She strode down the aisle toward the front of the
nave,
  her footsteps brisk. Shadows of light passed
across the
  high windows, heavy, low clouds moving
by outside. The
  sound of wind whistling through a gap somewhere in the
  church roof. A small scratching sound, a mouse
working at
  wood somewhere in the shadows.
  Her footsteps faltered as some subliminal
change in her
  awareness told her she was not alone in the church.
  She stopped for a moment and listened. The scratching
  had stopped as though the mouse also knew
there was an
  extra presence nearby. The clouds outside
thickened, the
  light diminishing.
  Her footsteps were slower, more cautious, when she
  moved on. She peered over the tops of the high
box pews,
  almost expecting to find someone praying in one. To her
  right, by the side of the altar she could see the closed
  vestry door. To her left was a corner, the
interior flanking
  out in that direction possibly to form a side
chapel. Yet the
  unvarnished wood paneling indicated it had to be
another
  pew, this one set apart from the rest. That would be
  where the lord of the manor sat with his family, she
  reasoned.
  No sound came from that direction, but apprehension
  stabbed at her chest like a thin, sharp icicle.
  Get a hold of yourself, asshole. There could be
someone
  there, but why not? It was a church, for Chrissake!
She
  coughed, loudly, hoping for some reaction
if there was
  somebody praying in there. A shuffling of knees or
a
  returned cough would do. Anything to show that whoever
  it was wasn't skulking. There was no other sound.
  It would be stupid to leave, Nancy told herself.
Stupid
  and childish. She walked on, her footsteps
deliberately
  loud on the stone floor.
  The first thing she saw when she drew level with the
  chest-high partition was a picture on the far
wall. It was a
  painting of the Madonna and Child in the style of
Perugino,
  and it hung above a fireplace. The recess, in
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                            James Herbert - The Shrine
fact, was a
  small room, obviously built for the comfort of the
squire
  and his family from the huge Tudor manor house
which
  shared the estate with the tiny church. She moved
closer.
  The door in the paneling was open.
  A figure sat on one of the benches
inside, a small,
  dark-clad figure.
  Nancy almost whistled with relief when she saw it
was a
  nun.
  But the habit was strange. It wasn't the
two-toned gray
  she had seen the nuns in the village wearing, and the
skirt
  was longer. The black hood was pulled forward,
well over
  the face.
  She was sitting sideways to Nancy, her back
hunched
  over, hands hidden deep within her lap, the loose
black
  material flowing around her.
  "Excuse me," Nancv said quietly,
tentatively, standing
  in the doorway of the pew, one hand on top of the
paneling,
  fingers curled around it.
  The nun did not move.
  "I ... I'm sorry to bother ..." Nancy's
words trailed
  away. I here was something wrong. Oh, Ciod,
there was
  something wrong. She moved as if to back away, not
  knowing why she was afraid, only aware that she was
  irrationally, inexplicably, in mortal dread of
this thing
  sitting there; but her limbs would not react, would not
  take her away from the dark, hidden figure.
  Her legs sagged and a small trickle of urine
dampened
  her inner thighs as the nun slowly turned to face
her.
  "Who knocks?" "still, who was beautiful,
  Beyond all dreams to restore. I, from the roots
of the dark thorn am hither.
  And knock on the door."
  "The Ghost," Walter de la Mare
  rain SPATTERED AGAINST THE WINDSHIELD as
Fenn
  drove through the tall iron gates. He slowed the
car,
  expecting to be challenged, but there was no one on
duty.
  Must be out of season, he explained to himself. The
estate
  was probably closed to the public until the
spring. He picked up speed, ignoring the sign
indicating that 10 mph
  was the approved pace.
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   Outside, the clouds were low and dark, overloaded
with
   rain, the speckles on the windows just the
appetizer for
   what was soon to come. Trees rushed by on either
side,
   their barren branches like petrified arms thrown out
in
   alarm. A flicker of movement to the left caught
his eye and
   abruptly he was braking as a deer bounded across the
   narrow road. He watched it disappear into the
trees, a
   fleeting light-brown specter, and envied its
skittish grace.
   It was gone from view within seconds, swallowed up
by
   the stark arboreal sanctuary.
   The hired car resumed its journey, slowing again
when
   it reached an open gate, rattling its
way across the deer
   grid. He frowned at the dullness in the air, the
dismal
   weather making the late afternoon seem like evening.
Winter
   in England could be bearable if only it didn't
drag itself
   through eight or nine months of the year. The road
curved,
   emerging from the trees to be confronted by a sweeping
   panorama of lush green fields, the misty
South Downs in
   the distance a rolling backdrop merging into the puffy
gray
   sky.
   The drive dipped easily, then separated, the
main arm
   going on toward the gray-stone manor house; the
other,
   narrower, arm branching off to the left, toward a
leveled
   compound behind a group of elms, a nonobtrusive
car park
   for sightseers to the estate. Beyond the car park, no

  than a quarter of a mile away, stood a small
church.
  Stapley Park, Barham. The big Tudor
house was Stapley
  Manor. The little twelfth-century church was St.
Peter's.
  Fenn silently swore at himself for being such a
jerk; he
  really should have made the connection. It was all laid
out
  for him, all there in the notes he'd taken from the
archives.
  The trouble was he'd become too swamped in the
history
  to give full attention to details that had not
seemed relevant.
  Well, it didn't matter that much now; he was
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pretty sure
  the chest in the little church was the one he had been
  searching for. Earlier that day, after leaving Delgard,
and
  on the monsignor's advice, he had gone to the
cathedral at
  Arundel, hoping to find further documents concerning
St.
  Joseph's, and it was there that he had learned of
St. Peter's
  at Stapley and of Stapley Manor itself.
  The Catholic Church had owned the Stapley
estate, in
  whose ground St. Peter's stood, before being
dispossessed
  of such lands and properties at the time of the
Reformation
  in England.
  In 1540, with the Dissolution of the Monasteries,
when
  the lands and properties of the Church were being
"legally"
  acquired by the Crown, Henry VIII granted
the manor
  house at Stapley and its entire estate
to Richard Staffon, a
  mercer of London. He lived there with his family
until the
  counter-Reformation under the new Catholic queen
began
  its short-lived but fearsome reign of terror.
Staffon was
  fortunate; he and his family were driven
into exile with
  many fellow Protestants, whereas almost three
hundred
  others were burned at the stake as heretics.
  By devious means, the estate was passed on
to Sir John
  Woolgar as a reward for his loyalty to the
Catholic Church
  in Henry's time. Woolgar was a wealthy
Sussex businessman whose only son was the priest
at St. Joseph's in
  Banfield.
  Fenn had stopped the car and was surveying the
  panorama, allowing the information to assemble itself in
  his mind. He had learned of the connection between
Stapley
  Manor and Banfield from his research into the
Sussex
  records, the warden at Arundel merely
prompting the
  recall; the further information concerning the Reformation
  had been added by the priest he had just left at
Storrington.
  This priest, Father Conroy, as well as serving his
own
  parish at Storrington, also served weekly
Mass at St. Peter's
  in Stapley Park; apparently it was a duty
handed down to
  each new priest to that particular parish. He had
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confirmed
   that there was, indeed, a large ancient chest in
St.
   Peter's, the description matching Fenn's, and a
phone call
   to Monsignor Delgard (for whom Father Conrov
had
   undisguised respect) gave him the authority
to hand over
   the keys to the reporter. Fenn also gained
permission to
   take away any documents he might find
useful, provided
   he made a complete list, signed it, and allowed
Conroy to
   examine those he had taken. The priest would have
accompanied
   him to St. Peter's himself, but various duties
dictated
   otherwise. That suited Fenn fine: he
preferred to
   snoop alone.
   The priest had filled in other details concerning
the
   Stapley Park estate and St. Peter's. There
had originally
   been a small village around the church, but it had
become
   regarded as a source of infection after a mysterious
plague
   had broken out in the early 1400's killing off
most of the
   villagers; subsequently, the houses around the
church had
   been destroyed. Much alteration and restoration had
taken
   place over the years, each new lord of the manor
contributing
   financially to the work, whether they were Catholic or
   not, for, like the mansion itself, St. Peter's was of
historic
   importance and an attraction for the many tourists who
   flocked to the estate during the summer months.
Father
   Conroy recalled reading somewhere that the chest
had
   been taken to St. Peter's from Banfield in
token acknowl-
   edgment of a stained-glass window that Sir John
Woolgar
   had donated to St. Joseph's.
   A crow landed in the roadway, twenty yards
ahead of
   the car, and seemed to challenge its further
progress. It
   was a breed of bird Fenn found hard to admire:
too big,
   too black. He allowed the car to move slowly
forward, the
   tires crunching against the gravel road. The
bird calmly
   walked to the side and watched Fenn with one eye as
he
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   drove past.
   The vehicle gained momentum as the road dipped.
Herds
   of black-backed deer, settled in the grass beneath
trees,
   gazed on with stiff-necked curiosity as he
approached, the
   stags among them, antlers high and menacing, glaring
as if
   daring him to come closer. He drove into the
branch-off,
   making for the empty grass car park, and the deer in that
   area rose as one to move away, their flight
unhurried,
   cautious but unafraid.
   The grass in the compound was cut short, the parking
   areas neatly marked by straight, narrow lines of
soil, unobtrusive
   and neatly patterned. Bullocks in a field
nearby
   bawled at him, the sound echoing around the trees, as
if
   they, too, did not welcome his presence.
   Fenn grabbed a holdall from the passenger seat and
   pushed open the door. The wind tore into him as he
   stepped from the car; it swept over the Downs from the
   sea, carrying with it a damp chill and an
unrestrained
   force. Pulling his coat collar tight around his
neck and
   blinking against the wind-driven rain, he set off
for the
   church, the strap of the holdall over one shoulder.
   A long, straight path led from the, car park to the
medieval
   church; to the right, about a quarter of a mile away,
   stood the daunting manor house, an
impressive structure
   of Tudor design, yet curiously
empty-looking, lifeless.
   Indeed, it probably was at that time, for Fenn had
learned
   earlier that the owner had died some years before and his
   family only stayed at the house for certain
months of the
   year, preferring sunnier climes in the winter
months.
   As he trod the narrow path, the church loomed up
like
   an image framed in a slow-moving zoom lense,
and he
   began to feel very lonely and very isolated. Like the
manor
   house in the distance, St. Peter's was constructed of
gray
   stone, green-stained with age; one section of the roof

  covered with large moss-covered slates, the rest
with red
  tiles; the windows were leaded, the glass thick and
smoothly
  rippled as though each pane had been placed in
its frame
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   still hot and melting. He saw now how oddly shaped
the
   building was and could imagine the various segments being
   added at various times through the centuries, each
portion
   reflecting its own period. The path led past the
church,
   presumably to where the entrance had to be, for he could
   see no doors as he approached. The expanse
he had just
   crossed had been bare; now there were trees,
mostly oak,
   around the church, and the wind rustled through the
   empty branches, an urgent, rushing sound that
increased
   his sense of isolation. Small branches broke
away and
   scuttled in the air before reaching the earth; stouter
branches
   lay scattered, victims of previous, stronger
gusts, resembling
   twisted human limbs. The horizon, just above the
   distant Downs, now glowed silver in a strip that
was held
   level by the dark, laden clouds above. The contrast
between
   broody clouds and condensed sky was startling.
   Fenn stepped off the path into rough grass to get
near
   one of the church windows and, cupping a hand between
   brow and glass, peered in. There was an
unappealing
   gloom inside and he could just make out the empty
pews
   enclosed by wood panelling. At first glance it
reminded
   him of a holy cattleshed. He took his hand
away and
   twisted his neck, nose almost pressed against the
glass, in
   an effort to see more. There were other windows
opposite
   that threw little light into the interior, but he could just
   make out the shape of a font and more
enclosed benches
   nearby. A movement caught his eye and it was so
sudden
   that he drew back a few inches. Then he
realized, the
   blood vessels in his throat seeming to constrict,
that the
   action was not inside the church, but was a reflection
in
   the glass.
   He turned quickly and saw there was nothing there.
   Just a swaying branch.
   Creepy, he told himself. Creepy, creepy,
creepy.
   Hoisting the holdall back onto his shoulder, he
rejoined
   the path and headed for the front of the church. When he
   reached the corner, the wind tore into him with fresh
   force, driving the rain into his face like ice
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pellets. A
  square tower rose above him, too short and stubby
to be
  majestic, reaching no more than forty feet into the
air, its
  rampart top almost as gray as the clouds
above it. A mat,
  rust-colored door stood beneath the tower, the shade
drab
  and unimaginative, paying no dues to the history
it guarded.
  An unlocked iron gate protected the door,
only inches
  away from the wood surface like some early
misconceived
  idea of double glazing.
  Before entering the church, Fenn took a walk to the
  other side. Beyond a flint wall was a small
graveyard, the
  gravestones crammed in as though the corpses had
been
  buried standing up. Here and there were more spacious
  plots and some headstones that appeared to have been
  regularly scrubbed clean; there were also one or
two rotting
  wooden crosses laid in the grass, marking the
resting
  places of those who could not afford better.
Opposite the
  church was a two-strutted fence; beyond that,
waist-high
  undergrowth; beyond that--nothing, it seemed. I he land
  obviously dropped steeply away into a small
valley, woodland
  rising up on the other side toward the slopes of the
  Downs.
  Fenn turned back to the doorway, his hair
flat and wet
  against his forehead. He opened the iron gate, then
the
  heavy door, and stepped into the church, glad to be
away
  from the hostile weather. The door closed behind him and
  the wind outside became just a muted breathing.
  As in all churches he had visited, which wasn't
many,
  he felt uncomfortable and intrusive, as though his
presence
  showed a lack of respect rather than a mark of it.
The
  interior was certainly unusual with its enclosed
pews, low
  barrel ceiling, and tiny altar. A raised
pulpit stood near the
  altar, behind it a door he assumed led to the
vestry. Would
  the chest be in there? The priest at Storrington had
omitted
  to say.
  Then he saw it, no more than five feet away
to his right.
  His eyes lit up and he smiled ruefully. You
better be
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  worth it, you bugger, he said to himself, remembering the
  experience of searching the crypt at St.
Joseph's. Above it
  was a plaque of highly polished wood, names and
dates
  inscribed on its surface. He took a
closer look, realizing it
  was a list of clerics who had served at St.
Peter's. He
  found one that was familiar:
  REV. THOMAS WOOLGAR
  Thomas would be Sir John's son, the priest
from Banfield.
  Presumably he arrived after his father had been
granted
  the estate, so if he had died in 1560, the
service had been
  only for a few years. He quickly worked out the
priest's
  age at the time of death: thirty-five; young
by today's
  standards, but reasonable for that period.
  Rain lashed at the windows with a new intensity,
beating
  at the thick glass as though demanding entry.
  Fenn rummaged in his pocket for the keys that would
  open the three locks. He hesitated before
inserting the first
  one. Maybe this is crazy, he told himself.
How could
  something that had happened--if anything significant
  happened--over four hundred years ago have any
relevance
  to what was happening at St. Joseph's today? Just
  because a kid used an old, outdated language in
her sleep and had a blemish on her body that used
to be thought of as a witch sign, it didn't mean the
answer lay somewhere
  in history. Was Delgard truly convinced of it,
or was he
  just desperate? Alice, the Miracle Worker, was
a modern-day
  phenomenon; why should the past play any part?
  The wind outside became louder as it battered
against
  the old church walls; a fresh squall of rain
threw itself at
  the windows like thousands of tiny shrapnel pieces.
  A noise somewhere near the front of the church made
  Fenn turn his head.
  He straightened, uneasy.
  The noise came again.
  "Someone there?" he called out.
  No reply and no more noise. Just the wind and rain
  outside.
  He walked to the center of the aisle and waited. The
  sound again. A small scraping sound.
  Could be anything, he reassured himself. A mouse,
a
  trapped bird. Then why was he so sure that there was
  someone else in the church? He felt he was being
watched
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                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   and automatically his eyes went to the pulpit. It
was empty.
   The sound again. Someone or something near the front
   of the church.
   "Hey, come on, who's there?" he
called out with forced
   bravado.
   He began to walk toward the alter, refraining from
   whistling a happy tune, eves searching left
to right at every pew he passed. All were empty, but the
last one
   disappeared around a corner, the building jutting out
in
   that direction. He was certain that was where the sound
   had come from. He reached the corner and stopped, for
   some reason reluctant to go farther. He had the
distinct
   feeling that he really did not want to see whatever
was
   lurking there. The noise came again, louder this time,
   startling him.
   He took several quick paces forward and peered
over the
   enclosure.
   Empty.
   Fenn breathed a sigh of relief.
   It was a strange room, a fireplace at the
far end, a
   picture of the Virgin and Child hanging above the
mantel.
   Cushioned benches stretched the full length on
either side.
   He heard the sound again and saw the tree branch
outside,
   buffeted by the wind, scraping at a window. He was
too
   relieved to even smile at himself.
   Going back to the chest, he knelt and turned the
first
   key. When nothing happened, he remembered the
short
   metal rod Father Conroy had given him. As
instructed, he
   inserted it into a small hole at the side of the
padlock,
   pressed a lever, then twisted the key again. The
padlock
   came away in two parts.
   He repeated the procedure twice more and laid the
   separate sections on the stone floor. His
tongue flicked
   nervously across dry lips as he prepared to open
the lid.
   The porch door rattled as though someone were banging
   their fists against it. It was the wind, he
told himself, just
   the wind.
   The lid was heavy and at first resisted his efforts.
Then
   it came slowly up, hinges groaning at the
unfamiliar
   movement. Fenn swung the lid right back so that it
rested
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   against the wall behind. He looked down into its
depths, a
   musty odor leaping out at him like a released
animal.
   Old vestments lay scattered on top, their
colors faded,
   the material no longer springy soft. He pulled
the clothing
   out, draping them over the side of the chest. Beneath lay
   sheaves of yellowed paper and various books,
worn and
   wrinkled with age. He took the latter out one
by one, quickly leafing through the pages, placing them on the
   floor when he discovered they did not date back
far enough.
   He felt some of the various papers would have proved
   interesting to a historian, but to him they were
useless.
   Next he drew out several loosely bound
books, the covers
   in hide of some sort, the paper inside thin and
rough-edged.
   He opened one and saw it was a form of ledger, an
   accounts book for St. Peter's. In neat
script it listed payments
   made to workmen for tasks carried out for the
   church. The first page gave the year: 1697. The
other
   books dated back farther, but none to the century
he
   sought.
   There were more scattered papers, several Latin
Mass
   books, and then he found what he had been looking
for.
   There were three of them, each book roughly measuring
   twelve by eight inches; the covers were of stiff
yellow
   vellum, the inside leaves bound together by twisted
vellum
   tackets, braided through hide strengthening
pieces. The
   writing on the pages was forceful in style, each
letter
   precisely angled, the ink brown and,
unfortunately, very
   faded. Even more unfortunate was that it was all in
Latin.
   But the date said 1556.
   Eagerly he looked at the other two, and the
dates ran in
   consecutive years. As he handled the third
book, a sheaf of
   loose leaves fell from the back into the chest. He
reached
   for one and noticed it was undated. The writing was in
the
   same brown ink, and although similar in style to the
   previous handwriting, it was scrawled, less
tidy, the lettering
   spidery and undisciplined. It, too, was in
Latin. Fenn
   gathered up the other scattered pages, quickly
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scanning
   them for a date, smiling when he found one.
   The roof groaned loudly as the wind pounded on it;
   something broke away, probably a
slate, and slid down, its
   fall muffled by the soft earth around the church. Fenn
   looked up anxiously and assured himself that the
church
   had stood up to such battering for centuries and was
   unlikely to collapse around him now. Nevertheless,
he
   quickly opened the holdall and put the three
vellum-covered
   documents inside, first placing the loose leaves
in the back
   of the book they had fallen from.
   The church door was rattling insanely and nothing
could
   be seen through the windows, so fierce was the rain. He
   began stuffing the other books, sheets, and vestments
back
   into the chest, unwilling to search any further, the
urge to
   be away from the church too great. He had the same
sense
   of black oppression that he'd experienced in the
crypt of
   St. Joseph so. The lid closed with a heavy
thump and Fenn
   stood, relieved that it was done. Back to the car
now, away
   from this godawful place, with its tearing wind and
dark,
   dark church. ... He hadn't noticed before just how
dark it had become.
   He stepped into the aisle, averting his eyes from the
altar. The howling wind outside sounded like the wailing
   of lost souls. The door before him shook
violently and
   something made him back away. The lift bar above
the lock jiggled up and down as if some neurotic
hand outside
   were playing with it. The wood trembled within its
frame
   and he could sense the pressure behind it, the gale
screeching
   for entry.
   An awareness crept upon him with dank, scaly
fingers.
   Something else, not just the wind, wanted to get into the
   church. Something wanted to reach him.
   He was still backing away, his eyes on the
agitated
   porch door, drawing closer to the altar,
passing pews
   one by one, the partitions screens behind which things
   could hide. The pulpit came into the periphery of
his
   vision, rising over him like a tensed predator.
To his
   right was the strange segregated room, with its
empty
   fireplace, its picture of the woman and the
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                            James Herbert - The Shrine
Christ child,
  with its window, the branch tapping and scraping at
  the glass like a hand begging for admission . . . with
  its dark-clad figure sitting by the empty
grate . . .
  He stopped, his legs paralyzed, his throat
constricted.
  The figure was hooded, the head crouched low over
its
  knees. It began to straighten, to turn toward
Fenn.
  And the porch door burst open with a force that shook
  everything inside the church.
  There never more she walks her ways
  by sun or moon or stars;
  she dwells below where neither days
  nor any nights there are. "Shadow Bride,"
J. R. R. Tolkien
  fenn WAS THROWN BACKWARD, MORE by shock
than
  force. He stumbled, fell. The floor was hard
against his
  back, but he felt no pain, only a jolting
numbness.
  The wind howled around the church, a banshee let
  loose, so that even the leaden font seemed
to tremble
  against its wrath. Fenn's clothes were buffeted by the
  wind, his hair swept back, coat collar
flapping against his
  cheek. He was forced to turn his head aside from the
  initial onslaught, his eyes squeezed tight
against the blast.
  Rain was carried in, dampening the walls, the
pews, an
  ally to the whirlwind. The roar of air was
amplified by the
  tight confines of the stone building, assaulting his
ears
  with its frenzied screaming.
  Something was moving to his right, something
black,
  small, rising from the seat in the side room, standing
in the
  opening. Bending to touch him.
  He dared not look. He sensed its presence,
glimpsed the
  dark shape only on the edge of his vision. He
did not want
  to see.
  Fenn scrambled to his knees, swayed there for a
few
  moments, the circling wind rocking his body. He
tried to
  rise, found his legs were not strong enough to support
  him, even though the gale was not as fierce, its force
  deflected by the walls into confused and separate
currents.
  He began to move forward, dragging the holdall
along the
  floor with him, fearful of the storm bursting through the
  open doorway, but more fearful of the hooded figure
that
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                             James Herbert - The Shrine
   watched him.
   He flinched as though he had been touched, but
reason
   told him he was not within reach of the thing that stood
   there. It seemed that cruel fingers had raked his
arm,
   leaving the flesh beneath his clothes torn and branded.
   The same sensation clawed at his cheek, and he
gasped,
   the pain searing, yet unreal. More heat--for that was
what it
   felt like, raw, white heat against his skin--touched
his
   outstretched hand, and when he glanced down, he saw
the
   red weals already beginning to rise. His head was
snapped
   up as though long fingers had tangled themselves in his
   hair and pulled. His body arched as jagged nails
scored
   bloody tracks down his back.
   Yet the figure was still beyond touching distance.
   He staggered to his feet, fear lending him
strength, and
   stumbled along the aisle, fighting the wind as a
drowning
   man fights an undertow, forcing himself toward the gray
   light of the doorway, collapsing against a
partition, clasping
   its ridge, pushing himself away, feeling
malignant eyes
   on the back of his neck. He fell again, the wind
shoving
   him with giant, unseen hands, knocking him to the
floor.
   The large wooden door swung on its hinges,
banging
   into the wall, cracking the plastered stone.
Outside, the
   driven rain had turned the landscape into a hazy,
moving
   pattern of muted greens.
   Fenn was still afraid to look back, not understanding
   where the dark-cloaked figure had come from, only
knowing
   it was there, an unearthly presence that burned with
   malevolence. He crawled again and something tugged
at
   his ankle. He screamed as the scorching grip
tightened and
   dragged his leg backward.
   His hand reached for the corner of a pew, the other
   scrabbling at the cracks in the uneven
floor. His heart felt
   it would come loose in his body, so wildly was it
beating.
   He was shouting now, ranting at the thing that drew him
   back, tendons in his wrists high and rigid against
the flesh
   as he struggled to pull himself free. Then he was
kicking,
   frightened yet enraged, eyes blurred with the tears of
his
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                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  own anger and frustration. Kicking, kicking, his
knees
  scraping raw against the stone, globules of blood
collecting
  beneath the fingernails of the hand that scratched at the
  rough floor, kicking, kicking, eyes closed with the
effort
  but mouth open to force out the shouts.
  He was suddenly free, thrusting at empty air.
He found
  himself moving forward once more, the wind still pressing
  against his shoulders, whipping his face with rain
icicles.
  He was on his feet, staggering toward the door, still
refusing
  to look over his shoulder, hot, corrupted breath
warming
  the back of his neck. His footsteps slowed . .
. slowed
  . . . slowed . . . the compulsion behind dragging at
him,
  creating the nightmare of legs in quagmire . .
. the childhood
  dreams of ...
  . . . the Frankenstein monster ploddingly catching
up, arms
  outstretched to grab, huge clubfoot boots
shuddering the
  ground . . .
  . . . the grinning Fe-Fi-Fo-Fum giant
swinging his ax ...
  . . . the slush-slurp of the creature emerging from
the
  Black Lagoon . . .
  . . . the dead son returning from the grave,
thumping
  against the other side of the bolted door for his mother,
  who clasped the monkey's paw, to let him in
...
  . . . the thing that was always waiting in the
dark at the
  bottom of the cellar stairs . . .
  . . . the green-faced bogeyman tapping at the
bedroom
  window in the middle of the night . . .
  . . . Norman Bates, dressed as Mother, behind
the shower
  curtain . . .
  . . . the white shape at the foot of the bed who
would not
  let him wake from the nightmare until it had
dissolved
  back into the night . . .
  . . . the hand that would coldly curl around his
ankle
  should he let it slip from beneath the bedsheets . . .
  ... all the nightmare companions of his
childhood were
  gathered there behind him in the church, every late-night
  dread creeping up on him, their images the
tentacles that
  bound him . . .
  And like a nightmare, it had to break when the terror
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   became too much.
   The release was like being blasted from a
cannon. He
   burst through the doorway, skidding and falling
heavily
   onto the path outside the church. He rolled
over, resting
   on one elbow, and the rain beat against his upturned
face
   with such force he was sure it would leave indentations
on
   his face. The arched door loomed over him, the
interior a
   murky cavern of gargoyles; the stunted tower
rose above,
   and for one brief moment he imagined he was looking
   down from the ramparts at his own prone figure lying
on
   the path. He blinked his eyes against the rain and
against
   the confusion.
   He began to push himself away from the threatening
   doorway, using heels and elbows, his clothes and
skin
   already soaked, the holdall dragged across the path with
   him. Chill softness brushed his back as he slid
into the
   rough grass. He stared back at the ancient
church, his eyes
   wide and face deathly pale. His brain screamed
at him to
   get up and run. As he pushed himself upright, he
saw a
   fleeting figure just on the other side of the
perimeter fence.
   It had risen from the sea of green like a swimmer
breaking
   surface, and then it was running, pushing a path
   through the foliage, heading away from Fenn, away from
   the church.
   The figure looked familiar, but his thinking was
too
   haywire to allow recognition for a moment or
two. When
   he finally realized who it was, he was even more
bewildered.
   Grabbing the holdall and tucking it under his arm, he
ran
   to the fence, used one hand to leap untidily over, and
fell
   into the foliage on the other side. The figure
had disappeared
   by the time he regained his feet.
   A low gust tore across the undergrowth creating a
sweeping
   ripple that reached him and made him unsteady.
   "Nancy!" he called out, but the storm smothered
any
   reply. He pushed through the foliage, gathering
speed as
   he went, shouting her name. He wasn't just
afraid for her;
   he needed her. He was frightened for himself.
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   Fenn ran on through the rain, the wind, almost
blinded,
   recklessly crashing through the undergrowth. Then he was
   falling, slipping, tumbling over and over, rolling
into an
   abyss he hadn the realized was there. Stalks and
brambles
   snapped at his face and hands, and he thought the
slide
   would never end, that the world would never restabilize
   itself. lie came to a cushioned halt at the
bottom of the
   slope and leaves closed over his eyes like
mischievous
   hands.
   He sat up and tried to shake the dizziness from his
head.
   The movement only made it worse and the world
continued
   to tumble for long seconds after. When the spinning
   finally settled, he searched for her running
figure. He was
   in a narrow valley, woodland rising up on the
opposite
   side. A rough, earth roadway led through the
valley, disappearing
   in the distance around a jutting slope. Directly
in
   front, no more than two hundred yards away,
was a barn,
   the likes of which he had never before seen. It was very
   old and obviously no longer used, such was its
disrepair;
   immediately below a thatched roof supported by stout
   beams were openings, the covered sides of the barn itself
   reaching only to a certain level. The wood was
faded and
   weatherworn, the thatch still thick but dark with age.
   Fenn knew she would be in there.
   He got to his feet and picked up the bag.
Then, hunching
   his shoulders against the pounding rain, he lurched
   toward the barn. The wind in the bottom of the dip was
   weakened, its rushing sound softened. He turned
quickly
   to look back up the hill and saw that St.
Peter's was out of
   view, not even the tower showing above the false
horizon;
   the foliage at the top of the slope swayed back
and forth, bowed but resilient to the elements.
   There was no door to the barn, just a vast opening
   running half the length of its side, a post from
floor to roof
   dividing the entrance. From where he stood he could
see
   the interior was crammed with old logs, wood
planking,
   and some rusted machinery. He had no desire
to enter, for
   it looked even darker and just as foreboding as the
church.
   Only the whimpers above the noise of the muted wind
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                            James Herbert - The Shrine
  urged him in.
  He found her crouched behind a pile of wood at the
  back of the barn, her frightened sobbing guiding him to
  her. Her head was buried into her knees, arms
clenched
  tightly around herself, and she shuddered violently when
  he touched her shoulder.
  "Nancy, it's me, Gerry," he said softly,
but she would
  not look at him.
  He knelt beside her and tried to take her in his
arms;
  with an animal yelp she pushed against the side of the
  musty barn, scrabbling to get away from him.
  "For Christ's sake, Nancy, calm down.
It's me." He
  gently pulled her back to him and rocked her in his
arms.
  "It's me," he kept telling her, his voice
falsely soothing, for
  the hysteria was not far from his own mind.
  It took some time before he could lift her head and
force
  her to look at him. And when he did, the
expression in her
  eyes frightened him almost as much as the thing
inside the
  church.
  Wake all the dead! What ho! What ho!
  How soundly they sleep whose pillows lie low,
They mind not poor lovers who walk above
  On the decks of the world in storms of love.
  No whisper now, nor glance can pass
  Through wickets or through panes of glass;
  For our windows and doors are shut and barred
  Lie close in the church, and in the churchyard.
  In every grave make room, make room!
  The world's at an end, and we come, we come.
"Wake All the Dead!" Sir William
Davenant
  delgard PUSHED THE READING GLASSES up
from the
  bridge of his nose and rubbed at the corners of his
weary
  eyes. The reflection from the ultraviolet light
cast a bluish-white
  comtinge over his features, the stark, artificial
glare
  ruthlessly exposing lines of fatigue. The faded
papers lay
  spread on the table before him, parchment
edges rough
  and flaky through time; to one side was a thick,
heavily
  bound book, an aid to the translation of the ancient
but
  enduring language on the parchments. He clicked
off the
  fluorescent tube, no longer needing its
peculiar light to
  enhance the faded script, and quickly scribbled more
notes
  onto his writing pad. Then he laid the pen
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                             James Herbert - The Shrine
down, held his
   spectacles with one hand, and massaged his forehead
with
   the other. His shoulders appeared even more hunched, his
   chest even more sunken.
   When he took his hand away, his eyes were
haunted,
   filled with disbelief. It couldn't be true, the
papers had to
   be a madman's dream, the guilt-ridden
imaginings of a
   man born nearly five hundred years before.
   Delgard's mouth felt dry and he
flicked his tongue uselessly
   across brittle lips. There was a tightness to his
skin,
   a stiffness to his joints, the tension of the last few
hours
   the cause. He craned his neck toward the
reporter, who
   lay slumped in a nearby armchair, and imagined
he could
   feel his own bones grind against one another as he
turned.
   Fenn was fast asleep, exhaustion, and perhaps even
boredom,
   stealing him from the late-night vigil with the priest.
   He should rouse the reporter, tell him what he
had
   learned, but for the moment Delgard felt a stronger
need.
   A need to cleanse himself, to pray for spiritual
strength
   and guidance. And to pray for the defiled soul of one
who
   had perished centuries before.
   Delgard rose and his large frame was unsteady.
He had
   to rest his hands on the desk for several moments before
he
   felt able to stand fully erect. The room
settled around him once more, but his strength and
vitality were still fading. He pushed back the chair and
walked to the door, pausing to look back at Fenn
before going through.
   "Gerry," he said, but not loudly enough.
   The reporter slept on and it was hardly
surprising; his
   mind was taking refuge from the terrors of the day.
When
   Fenn had brought the old manuscripts to the
priest's house
   earlier that evening, his whole demeanor had been one
of
   bewildered nervousness. A cynic who did not
believe in
   ghosts believed--knew--he had now seen such an
apparition. It had taken two hastily swallowed
whiskeys before he was calm enough to tell the story
coherently.
   Delgard regretted having let the reporter go
to the church
   at Barham alone; he should have realized
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                            James Herbert - The Shrine
the danger sooner.
  After the incident at St. Peter's--an incident
which
  Fenn had described in great detail, as though
needing to
  rationalize it with the spoken word--he had found the
  American reporter. Nancy Shelbeck,
hiding nearby. She
  had refused to be taken to a hospital where Fenn
hoped
  she might be treated for the obvious shock she was
in, and
  he had been too afraid to leave her alone in his
or her own
  apartment. So he had taken her to Sue Gates,
in whose flat
  she had fallen into a dazed sleep.
  Sleep. The tiredness was upon him, too. It was as
  though the unseen presence, the presence that had
emanated here, in these church grounds, was
parasitical, taking its strength from the human
psyche. The weakness he had
  felt at the onset of the miracles, the interference
with
  electrically operated machinery, the
strange atmosphere,
  the vibrancy in the air itself, all suggested a
reaction was
  taking place, perhaps a sapping of existing energy
to create
  a new form. And, he now felt sure, the
catalyst, both
  physical and spiritual, was Alice Pagett.
  He glanced back at the faded manuscript
papers. The
  answer lay there, written in Latin, the ancient
language
  common to priests since the Christian religion
began. It
  was incredible, but then he had witnessed the
unbelievable
  as reality many times before. The link, centuries
old, was
  in those papers, the tortured, quirky handwriting
giving
  evidence of the tormented, even demented, man who had
  written the shame-filled words. And that man had
been a
  priest, a sixteenth-century cleric who had
sinned not just
  against his faith, but against humanity itself.
  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 fellowman's false
perceptions for
  his own purposes and, in so doing, had invoked a
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                             James Herbert - The Shrine
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 fervor: 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 burned
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, worshiping 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 overrode
   all others: what was the purpose of it all?
   Foreboding dragged at him with such intensity
that his
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                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  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 draft 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 extensions
  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 living room. 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 naturaFrom 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
                                      Page 333
                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   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 insensitivirv 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 fulfillment 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, were
   trials 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
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                            James Herbert - The Shrine
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 hodv racked 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 revelers returning
to their homes.
  The bedside clock ticked away the minutes.
  It was some time before Nancy's sobs ceased and her
                                      Page 335
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  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

  prefer that?"
  "Anything."
  Sue left her and went into the kitchen, opening the
  larder, where she kept her meager 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.
  "This--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.
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                            James Herbert - The Shrine
"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?"
                                      Page 337
                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   "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 parr 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 toward 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 toward 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 burned gristle poking through.
I he
                                       Page 338
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  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 toward
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!"
  And sleep shall obey me,
  And visit thee never,
  And the curse shall be on thee
  For ever and ever.
  "Kehama's Curse," Robert Southey
  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 Srapley 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 draft 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
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                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  had translated most, if not all, of the ancient
papers,
  adding and initialing 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
  burned 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.
  The wood sizzled as gas escaped and small
                                      Page 340
                            James Herbert - The Shrine
flames began
  to lick at the underneath. He grunted with
satisfaction and turned toward the desk. For some
reason his eyes were drawn toward the window and at the
long narrow gap
  between the curtains; he drew them tightly closed
as if the
  night outside were a sinister voyeur. He sat
once more and
  pulled Delgard's large notebook toward him.
He began to
  read, and he was still cold.
  Seventeenth Day of October in the year 1560
  She is dead yet dwells not in the underworld. At
night I see her
  before me, a vile thine from Hell that cannot rest,
nor yet let
  me be, a rotting creature of the grave that once
I cherished.
  But then, her beauty was unspoiled. Now
sweet, Damnable,
  Einor will not leave, not until she has me with her
amongst
  her corrupted brood.
  "Tis true I deserve such fate, for my
Sins cry out and are not to
  be forgiven by Our God in Heaven. Mayhap my
madness is an
  earthly Penance and this makes better choice than
the Hell to
  which she draws me. But she has bid me, and she,
my Einor,
  will surely take me.
  My hand trembles for she is here! Her corpse's
presence surrounds
  me and makes foul the air!
  (script impossible to read here and no meaning can
be guessed
  at. D.)
  My father, that noble Lord, forbids that I confess
to my
  Bishop, for he sees only madness in my eyes
and would mute my
  madman's utterings. Thus he keeps me
prisoner in this mean
  Chapel where only the servants and landsmen bear
witness to
  my decline. No longer am I a freeman, for
I have fallen in his
  eyes and no blame to him for that. Yet how long
must I hear
  his Chaucer jibe:
  'That if gold rust, what then will iron do?
  For if a Priest be foul m trust
  No wonder that a common man should rust!"
  For all his scorn, still I know he understands not the
depths of
  my Sin. Haste now! Though my brow be fevered
and my hand
  trembles as if with ague, this must be set down that
others may
  read of she whose vengeance is boundless nor leashed
by earthly time.
                                      Page 341
                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   Give me strength. Dear Lord, and deny me not the
courage to
   carry out this duty, that others shall know her vileness and
be
   warned. My guilt lies open in these my words.
You who read
   them dismiss them not as a madman's
ravings. But keep close
   hold of the vision of Our Saviour that is within you,
lest your
   Soul he tainted by this Confession.
   (scrawled lines at this point and many deletions.
As if writer
   cannot put his thoughts on paper. D.)
   still served long years at the Church of St.
Joseph's in Banefeld and
   there I knew joy. The village was my house,
the villagers my
   trusting children. Disputes I settled and they had
Faith in my
   Word for they believed it the Word of God.
"I'he womenfolk
   unburdened their worries upon my shoulders and I
was pleased
   to give counsel to these simple people, for it gave
purpose to my
   life and (irace to my Soul. 'I'he children had
some small fear of
   me for my countenance is not pleasing. Yet fear of
God's
   Servant on Earth is proper to the young. My
Holiness was
   revered and the True Faith was kept in my Parish
throughout
   all those troubled Heretical times.
   (he refers to the Reformation and the establishment of the
   Church of England during the reign of Henry
VIII. D.)
   to right-brace 'o man betrayed my trust, though
Evil entered my Soul and
   yet holds sway.
   It was the Prioress who brought Einor to me,
unknowing that
   she did the Devil's work. Einor, this Cursed
Nun, was fair and
   gentle to look upon; a child, an innocent, whose
treachery to
   God and Mankind I did not perceive. Blacker
than jet was her
   Soul, her mind full of guile and her
personage well-armed with
   deceit. Her mistress considered her spirited, but
her own cheveril
   conscience could not perceive Einor's subtle
wickedness.
   She was to be of help in the (church, an aid much
needed, for
   my duties were plenty. Then was I stirred
by carnal desires,
   urgings of the flesh that could not be subdued, unholy
dreams
   that betrayed my Cha/y. And it was as though
straightway
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                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   she had Knowledge of my hidden Sinfulness, for her eyes
saw
   clearly into my very Soul. Such was her Mystery.
I no soon I
   knew that Einor was as no other woman and that her
Holy
   Vocation was but the aberration of a perverse mind.
Yet it was
   her mind that first distracted me from my duties.
My studies
   have encompassed astronomy, medicine, physics,
and even the
   ancient esoteric craft of alchemy; and of
medicine and alchemy
   her knowledge was hy far the greater.
   I was sonn to become fascinated by her Knowledge and thus
   captivated.
   (as the son of a wealthy nobleman, his learning may
well
   have included such diverse subjects. But how could
this nun
   know of such things? D.)
   From the beginning, she was like no other Religious of
my
   acquaintance; m truth, like no other woman.
Kinor fulfilled
   her duties pleasingly well, but always there was the
smile that
   held some veiled secret, the gaze that lingered
too long on my
   own. I was soon Bewitched and was later to deem that
term
   rightly used. In those first days I saw only
guileless innocence,
   not the true self which made fool of me. We
prayed together
   and her adoration inclined most towards the Blessed
Mother of
   Christ, daughter of Still Anna. 'I'here was at
this time a sickness
   in the village, no plague this, but illness that
sent many to
   their beds. 'I'wo children died, yet these were frail
from birth,
   so dod was praised fur His Mercy and for sending so
skilled a
   mortal in the tending of the sick. I'or her powers
of medicine
   were soon made manifest and even our
physician, a pompous
   though well-meaning fellow, ventured his admiration.
'I we
   other young Holy Sisters joined us in our work.
Novices these,
   whose names were Agnes and Rosemiind, and they
remained at
   the C.hurch when the sickness was passed. It was said
that a
   Divine Hand guided hers, that hy gazing upon a
man, he he reeve
   or hay ward, she could tell if he were dry nr
cold, moist or hot.
   (a person's body was conceived of being composed of the
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                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  four elements: Earth, Water, Air and Fire.
Earth--cold and
  dry; Water--cold and moist; Air--hot and
moist; Fire--hot
  and dry. Sickness was an inbalance of these
qualities. D.)
  'I'hus would she administer her restorative
simples and cures.
  She also used images
  (effigies. D.)
  to he worn about the neck when the planets were
favourably
  inclined; energies descended into the image with great
benefit to
  the dependent. I had cause to scold Kinor for
such practices, but she would smile and say it was
Faith that offered the cure and
  nothing more. If I found this sacrilegious, I
would keep my
  peace because of the deep interest it aroused in me. Such
then
  was my initial Enchantment with Einor that I did
not consider
  to consult with the Prioress. It was when a mysterious
malady struck down my own body that pending
illfortune bad its consummation. Einor was sent by her
Prioress to tend me
  and, in my delirium, I felt her hands upon my
body, soothing
  my pains, bathing away fever's moisture; and
kindling a desire
  that had been smouldering. Perchance it was her own
potions
  which aroused my passion. Thus ensnared was I, and
once so, became her willing captive. My
abandonment was complete, my taste for her delights
insatiable. I am too shamefaced to
  relate all that took place in our sinful
fornication; suffice to say
  that our carnal acts plunged into bestiality of such
low nature
  that I fear my Soul is perished, never more to be
reborn in God's light.
  (more incoherent writing here, much of it
indecipherable.
  Although priest has stated he vvill not detail
his indecencies
  with this woman, i! appears he has done so to a
certain
  extent. Unclear whether it is guilt that has
subconsciously
  made writing almost illegible, fear, or his own
reawakened
  excitement. Much sacrilege and the use of holy
objects seems
  to be involved. Names here and there, but can
make no
  sense of them. D.)
  As Einor opened her flesh to me, so too did
she open her mind.
  She spoke of things ancient and of matters not yet
of this Earth.
  She spoke of voices that were from the dead, and of
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                            James Herbert - The Shrine
forces that
  rode the air like silent thunderstorms; forces
perceived only by
  the Chosen. She likened these incorporeal powers
to great unsighted
  tidal waves that sought entry into the shallow world of
  men, Furies that if unleashed would destroy and
recreate in
  their own image. I would ask her if it was the
Devil's power
  she spoke of and she would mock me and tell me there
was no
  greater power than the Will of Man. I cowered at
such
  blasphemy and believed her to be a sorceress;
but in the passage
  of time I learned that she was much more. To her, magic
  but a product of the Will, and potions, poisons and
transmitters
  the tools of alchemists and physicians, not of the
sorceress.
  I was irrevocably lost in her; this wretched
Nun dominated my
  existence. My frail body, so exquisitely
scourged by her
  instruments, lived only to gratify itself with her
pleasures. As well I sought her K; yet still am
I mystified. From whence does your Evil come? I
would ask of her. And
  from where your Goodness? For still she cured the sick.
Why do
  you venerate the Holy Name of the Sacred Virgin,
yet blaspheme
  her presence hy fornication before her Image? Why
  choose the righteous path of handmaiden of Christ when
your
  secret deeds are not to His Way? And why have you
made
  prisoner of this poor Soul? These questions I asked
many times,
  but she answered them not until one year had gone
hy and, I
  think, until she was sure that the invisible chains which
girdled
  my Will could not be loosed. She cured the sick that
her name
  should be exalted as was the name of .mary; and she
exalted
  Mary's name that she, Einor, be as the Virgin
Mother, an
  intermediary of power, though not yet fully tested,
if am a
  Nun, Einor told me, because I seek position
over others, that I
  may be revered and obeyed. As Prioress, I
shall gain that trust
  and 'tis you, sweet Thomas, who will help me in
this, for has
  not your noble father great influence with the Church?
  As I write the Chapel goes colder, swift
dissolving breath
  clouds falling to the page below. I he wind
                                      Page 345
                            James Herbert - The Shrine
shakes windows and
  doors, and Demons seek me out. Stay away,
Einor." This
  ground is Sacred, its Sanctity inviolate.
Still my fingers grow
  numb with the freeze and become brittle as if
fit to snap. O
  God have Mercy on this miserable creature and
allow my
  Chronicle to be written.
  Methinks I hear a voice that calls my name from
without.
  Would that it were the mewlings of some night animal, but
I
  fear "tis the voice of my dead mistress. The
Chapel is dim and
  the lamp cannot light up the dark places. There is
no peace for
  me here, nor will be until she is laid to rest.
But who will do
  that deed? Not if, that I know.
  In truth then I knew Einor, but still could not
resist her W.
  She laughed at my words and scorned my
horror. She spoke of
  poison for the Prioress: Orpiment or
Realgar would be the
  insidious assassin.
  (trisulphide of arsenic and disulphide of
arsenic. D.)
  The poisoning would he slow that no suspicion would
arise.
  I he Prioress would suffer a long and wasting
sickness and it
  would be seen that even the skilful and tender
administrations
  of Sister Einor would not prevent the aged Nun's
death. O
  cunning Witch." Yet Witch you are not. No
sorceress you,
  sweet. Damned Einor; something more, something much
more.
  Too late I learned of these ambitious, poor
debauched fool that I
  was. Weak, lecherous disciple of Sin! Help
me. God, before my
  dying comes.
  Yet so lost to her own lust was Einor that her
downfall was of
  her own doing. And Blessed be to Jesu for that. My
people
  revered her for they considered her pure of heart and
she had
  cured many an ailment. They brought to her gifts,
some mere
  trinkets and others of value. The latter kind
she stored secretly
  in the Crypt of Still Joseph's lest the
Prioress discover them, and
  those of little value she gave to the Priory. And
all thought her
  most fair and generous.
  The children flocked to Sister Einor, this vile
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                            James Herbert - The Shrine
creature of
  depravity, adoring her, beseeching her Blessing, for
they knew from their elders that here walked a Saint on
Earth; and her black heart welcomed them, for they were
as lambs to a wolf.
  What makes a Soul thus? There is no answer
in this World,
  but lies in a place of darkness, where shadowed spirits
conspire
  with devils to destroy Mankind's peace.
  In Church she prayed long hours, her body
prostrate before the
  altar, that all might witness her devotion. At
night, when
  observers were none, then would she defile that same
altar in
  practices that now cause sickness in
my throat, for I was her
  willing accomplice. Still I know not what led me
to this
  disgrace, what Spirit released this carnal lust in
me. I reason
  that her Will governed mine, her thoughts controlled my
own;
  but in my heart I know the Will had first to come from me.
Her temptations were so cursedly sweet, the
torture upon my body so cursedly glorious!
Her child's face, her white flesh, that
  Devil's gateway between her thighs from which she
bade me
  drink, these were too wondrous to forswear.
  Yet I wander, my thoughts no longer gathered.
My father,
  that steadfast patron of the Church, thinks me mad;
and
  perhaps "tis so. Still I have not the madman's
escape into
  delirium and there is no comfort in my dreams.
  But in the second year of my Knowledge of Einor,
suspicions were whispered abroad. My demeanour
bad changed. I had never been a robust man, but
there was a weakness upon me, a
  stoof) to my stature that was plain to see. My
obsession with the
  young Nun would no longer he disguised. Worse
yet was the
  disappearance of the children, lost over several months in
the
  nearly forests, never to be seen again. Three children in
all, whose names I have already set down.
  (set down? D.)
  How these simple peasant children had believed in
sweet Sister
  Einor, and how I had to stifle their screams when
her punishment
  was visited upon their small bodies. Dear dud,
there can
  be no forgiveness for my part in these foul deeds. I
could not
  even pray over their hidden graves.
  (the names must be those mentioned in the earlier unclear
  passage. The priest and the nun killed the children!
D.)
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                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  The Prioress had become weakened, her life's
Spirit ebbing more
  each day. Stealthy was her demise, for Einor would
not allow
  that any should say the hand of another played part in the
old
  nun's death. Bolder became this Devil's
Daughter and more
  demanding in her excesses. My endeavours were no
longer
  sufficient for her lusts and less often could my
tortures satiate
  her appetite. As well, it had become
dangerous to take more
  children from the district. Her appetites were turned
upon the
  two young novices who came daily to Still
Joseph's. One accepted
  her debasement willingly, for her heart was already
lost to
  Einor; the other submitted but fled shamefaced
afterwards.
  I his novice took her own life in remorse,
but first Confessed her
  Mortal Sin to the ailing Prioress.
  Outrage gave the Mother Superior a newfound
strength. But
  so too was she cunning, for my father's coffers were ever
open to
  the Church. His loyalty to our Holy Roman
Pope had not
  wavered during the Heretical time of Henry's
iMthensm, nor
  during the confused reign of the young Edward. Now my
father
  was favoured by good Queen Mary and justly rewarded
for his
  fortitude and loyalty. To have him as enemy would not
have
  been wise for the Prioress, who had oft times
benefited from his generosity.
  This wise woman sent for me and, knowing all was
lost, I
  threw myself on her mercy. The blame lay all
with the vile
  temptress. Sister Einor, whose magic potions
had robbed me of
  my reason. I wept and scourged myself before the
Prioress; I
  confessed my most grave and sinful fornication with
Einor and begged forgiveness. But I did not tell
all, for I was afraid for my life.
  'though she looked upon me with loathing in her eyes,

  Prioress gave me her forgiveness. Einor's
Spirit was darkened
  by spectres who rejected the Christian Path.
She was a child of
  Satan whose sorcery had overcome my W. A
mere mortal, I
  could offer scant resistance to the leeching of my
strength and
  the magic potions she fed my body. I eagerly
                                      Page 348
                            James Herbert - The Shrine
accepted these
  judgements, well knowing they were my Salvation,
willing to believe I was but helpless victim
to Entrancement. That day we discussed the punishment of
Sister Einor.
  The Prioress doubted not that Einor was Witch and
Profaner
  and, 'though I knew she was more, I readily
agreed. Good
  Queen Mary had decreed that both Witch and
Dissenter should
  he driven from her Realm and from this Mortal World.
  Rumour had it that two hundred and more Heretics
bad
  already been burnt at the stake, and the County of
Sussex had
  played part in many of these burnings. I myself had
witnessed
  two in nearby Lewes. The Summoner was sent
for and I
  denounced Sister Einor as Heretic and Witch.
  (summoner: someone paid to bring sinners to trial
before an
  ecclesiastical court. D.)
  The Prioress was well pleased with this and seemed
satisfied
  with my Contrition. When the Summoner had left us
to make
  arrangements for Einor's confinement, she bade me
warn my
  congregation of the Nun's evil-doings lest more
suffering ensued.
  There was a gleam to her eyes when she hinted that
Einor
  might lie too well at her trial, and my own
person would be
  brought to book. I well knew that the truth would
indeed
  bring this about, and I suspect the Prioress, my
new found
  guardian, knew this too. I journied
hack to Banefeld with much haste, my brow as
fevered as when the true fever had been upon me. I
was mindful of my own safety and wished to
  protect the good name of my father. In the village
I quickly
  told certain members of my Congregation of what
the Prioress
  and I had discovered of Einor, and word spread like
flames in a
  forest fire. These good people were full of wrath, for to have
  their Faith abused and in such a manner was more than
they
  could hear. ""hose whose children had been lost
screamed for
  vengeance and their cry was taken up, along with
sticks and
  cudgels, by their fello-iss. 'I'hey hastened
to the Church of Still
  Joseph's, a vehement, threatening muh, and I
followed, spurring
  them on, enlivened with their passion, for had I not
been
                                      Page 349
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  unwittingly Seduced into her Wickedness? There were
children
  amongst us, those who had once revered this
Holy Nun and
  who now despised her. So sudden was our descent
upon the
  Church that f"'ddlnor was found by the altar, beneath the
statue of Our Lord's blissful Mother, there
embraced in the arms of the novice, Rosemund, who
had so easily succumbed to her
  wiles. As had I. Einor was dragged screaming
from the Church,
  her protesting companion in desire thrown to one
side. O how I
  cowered when Einor's eyes met mine, it seemed
poison-tipped
  daggers had plunged into my heart. She knew at
once that I
  was her betrayer and such was the malevolence in her
eyes that
  I fell to the ground. My flock believed me
Spellbound and tore
  at her eyes with fingers and sticks. Even when she
wailed
  piteously, sightlessly, they gave no mercy but
flailed her for her
  witchcraft. She cried out that if, their spiritual
leader, was
  partner to her iniquity, and I denied her charges
most absolutely,
  bidding them pay no heed to the Heretic's lies,
urging them to
  look for the Devil's Mark about her person, for
secretly I knew
  that upon her body was a third nipple, an
aberration that the
  ignorant believed to be a suckling breast for a
witch's Familiar.
  (alice! D.)
  "I'hey stripped her of her Nun's robes and
found the Accursed
  Mark. Their rage all but consumed them. The
menfolk beat
  her relentlessly, their women and children urging them on,
  until her naked body ran with blood. And all
the while they
  bcsecched her to Confess to Witchcraft. Hut still
she did not;
  curses were her only words. They pulled hair,
greased with her
  own blood, from her body, until she was an
obscene, hairless
  figure; yet still she would not admit
to Sorcery. O the torture
  they inflicted upon her! A nd yet my pleas for the
punishment
  to end were feeble and went unheard. They broke her
limbs,
  these Christian men, and dragged her through the mire as
the
  children and women stabbed at her with pointed sticks. I
could
  not stop them and I no longer tried.
                                      Page 350
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  Einor implored mercy but still did not Confess to the
crime of
  which she comwas accused. So angered were they that they
dragged
  her to a nearby ditch, the river too far for their
seething
  passion. The water ran scarlet when they put her
to the Test and
  her tortured body gave way at last to the
agony. She Confessed
  to Witchcraft, and such was my nun fear and need for
vengeance
  that I almost believed this to be true. May He that
  Harrowed Hell forgive me, but this I wanted
to he true.
  They carried Einor to a young oak nearby and there
they tied a
  rope about her neck and hoisted her aloft. Still she
screamed,
  and those screams filled my head until I felt
my skull must
  needs burst. And when they lit the fire beneath her
naked, dangling feet, it seemed her agony
consumed my own flesh. Those blood-filled
sockets, once the holders of the softest of eyes,
  stared at me through the mob each time her twisting
body
  turned in my direction, and her broken lips
poured Curses upon
  my head, and upon all those present, each man,
woman and
  child, and their descendants. And she cursed the name of
Mary. I knew not whether she meant Christ's
Holy Mother, or our own doud Queen Mary, and I
wonder if by then this demented
  creature knew herself. Even when the carpenter, a
strong man
  this with no weak stomach, cut into her bowels and
drew down-her
  organs so that they sizzled and roasted upon
the fire below,
  her Curses still filled our heads.
  At her death I knew that this woman was indeed more
than
  Witch, for the sky darkened and the ground trembled beneath
  our feet. Those that could ran, whilst others cowered
in the
  mud. I thought my Church nearby would topple,
but its sturdy
  build held fast, though several stones fell.
So afraid was this
  poor Mortal Soul that I believed I saw
spectres rising from the
  graveyard. I know not what foul force from Hell
had been
  released by Einor's death. The very earth appeared
to open
  beneath my feet and I stared into a Black Pit and
there I saw
  the twisted creatures of the lower world, wretched
Lost Souls,
  whose sins so foul were irredeemable, whose anguished
moans
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                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  rose up in torment to pervade the darkened
landscape. What
  manner of creature she to invoke such horrors!
Now fallen,
  crawling on my belly like a worm, I turned
my head from this
  Hellish sight and looked upon the black-charred
carcase of she
  who once had been my sweet, wicked
mistress.
  The rope from which she hung broke and its gruesome
burden
  dropped into the fire below where it did seethe and
hiss until it
  was as charcoaled wood. I thought that I heard from this
blackened thing one last howling screech, but this could
only have been my own tortured imaginings for, in
surety, there was nothing human left of that once
fair body.
  It became as night, though day was not spent,
darkness
  falling upon darkness, and I ran from that Infernal
Place, the
  vile stench and inhuman cries rising from the
Black Pit to
  assail my senses. I fled, unsteady on my
feet, for the ground
  still shook, and beseecbed the Lord Christ to save me
from
  Satan's Anger. The Church Crypt comwas
my refuge, my Sanctuary,
  and I covered my eyes against the demons that rose
and
  beckoned me from their disturbed resting places.
Three days I
  bid in that tomb of darkness, curled in the
blackest corner, my
  head covered by coarse sacking, my eyes closed
tight against the
  shadows. Mayhap the time spent in that lonely
dungeon loosed
  my reason completely, for when my father's
servants found me
  at last, no words of meaning came from my lips.
  They took me from there and my eyes were blinded by the
light
  of day. It was well, for I had no desire
to look upon that
  ravaged scene again. I was locked in a room in
my father's
  house and physicians endeavoured to soothe my
rumblings with
  medicines and kind words. When at last my ravings
had
  calmed, my Bishop came and spoke auietly
with me, my father
  at his side, a staunch rock of reality. They
told me that the
  people of Hanefeld, the landsmen, their womenfolk,
their children,
  would not speak of that Evil day but to say that Elmr
had
  Confessed to Witchcraft and the slaughter of three
                                      Page 352
                            James Herbert - The Shrine
children, and
  had Cuned them in her dying breath. A thunderstorm
had
  shaken the land and dark clouds had gathered low
overhead,
  though no rain had fallen. But they did not tell
of rising
  demons, nor black openings to Hell. I
implored my father and
  the Bishop to believe me, but their reply was
gentle admonishment:
  Einor had poisoned my mind with her drugs and
I bad
  seen that which was not, had lived only in the
realm of my
  own thoughts. At this I further ranted and two
servants were
  summoned to strap me to my bed.
  Weeks passed, though I know not how many, and in that
time
  it was decided between my father and the Bishop that my
  health, by which they meant the condition of my mind,
might
  be better served if I stayed away from Sf
Joseph's and Banefeld.
  I suspect the hand of the Prioress was in this, for
while she
  would not condemn me before my father, her (conscience
mould
  not allow my tainted person within her Province.
I hus my
  days would be spent at the small Church of Still
Peter's, on my
  father's estate, where my babblings would he ignored
by his
  servants and the tenants. I would serve as
Pastor. Here I
  would stay safe, locked in my own cell of
madness. Money was
  given to Still Joseph's by my father for repairs
to fallen
  stonework--ha! Struck by lightning they said, and a
new
  stained-class window was set into the south wall.
He brought to me several items from my old Parish,
vestments and such like. 'I'he Church chest was also
carried to Sl Peter's and I believe it was of this
he was most mindful. Methinks private words had
passed between my father and that wily Sister of the
  Cloth, the Prioress, for he seemed eager
to obtain this chest in
  which were kept all records of Sl Joseph's
and the parish of
  Banefeld. He need not have been thus concerned,
for if had not
  been foolish enough to set down my carnal acts with
Sister
  Einor, nor any statement which would speak foul of
her. How
  he must have pored over these letters and scripts,
searching for
  that which would bring down shame on the Woolgar crest,
and
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                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  how he must have sighed when none was found.
How then
  would he view this paper that I know scribe for
future reading,
  which will remain well-hid until God deigns it
shall be found?
  Hark now! I he door rattles once more, but
already she is
  within. Her stench grows stronger and I will not look
at the
  dark shadow that lingers at the edge of my vision.
My body is
  stiff with cold and the quill with which I write
scratches deep
  into the page. Yet my fear will not let me rest!
I must finish
  this task quickly lest my courage fail and others
he not warned!
  I have served my days here with diligence and with
Godliness,
  knowing my Soul is forever Damned. After a while,
many
  months to be sure, I learned to keep dread
contained within me,
  giving vent only when alone to the anguish
and remorse that
  tortured me. They thought me still mad and their gaze
avoided
  mine. But no longer were they burdened with my
runtings, my
  impassioned pleas against unseen forces. Once more
our Holy
  Pope in Rome is denied now that Elizabeth
has come to the
  throne, but that concerns me little, for I am left
alone in peace
  here. In peace! What insanities I write!
Yet would I gladly exchange persecution from our
new Queen for the vile pursuance of this soul-less
spirit. I have not seen the Prioress since I
  was ensconced here and she ignores the messages
I send through
  my father's servants (it may be that he intercepts
them). His
  reeve had told me that Sister Rosemund was
cast out of the
  Priory after Minor's death and took to living in
the forests near
  the village. 'I'bis may well he true;
I care not. My pity is for
  myself alone. None is to spare for that unfortunate.
Elmir
  breathes upon me and it is the fetid breath of
Death! She wills
  me look into those blood-filled eyes, to fall
into her lover's
  embrace. A withered band touches my shoulder and still
I will
  not look! Not yet, dear Einor. Not 'til this
task be done, these
  words set down that others may learn. Doubt not
these words,
                                      Page 354
                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   reader; denounce them not as the ravings of a
madman, but
   pay them heed! Her Evil is not yet done and
her maligned
   Spirit is not yet at rest.
   The door is irtggened and the howling wind enters the
Church. It
   shrieks at these papers, seeking to tear them from my
hand. But
   I will resist. She shall not have them. They will be well
kept,
   hidden away, and then shall I turn to my Einor.
And I shall
   embrace her as I have embraced her in dreams of
late, for my
   desires are still of her. I see only her
beauty, not this scarred, blackened creature who stands
over me, whose lipless mouth stays close to my
cheek, whose
   Enough of this! She has me, for there are no lies between
us
   now. I still fornicate with her in my thoughts and it is
my
   Sinful lust that binds us forever. I leave this warning
for those
   who seek it. She touches me and I am hers
once more!
   Guard your soul. With this script I may find
some Redemption.
   Guard your Soul and Pray for one who is already
lost.
   (end of document. Beyond doubt Thomas
Woolgar, priest of
   Still Joseph's, Banfield, and latterly of
Still Peter's, Barham, son
   of Sir Henry Woolgar, is author. D.)
   Questions:
   I. Was Thomas Woolgar insane?
   2. What did he mean: Einor more than just a
witch?
   3. Is curse coming true??
   4. Father Hagan/mollv Pagett:
catalysts?
   5. Is .mice Kinor?!
   D.
   Fenn sat back in the chair, his eves never
leaving the
   papers. He let out a long sighed breath.
Jesus Christ! Was
   it possible? were these words just the rantings of a
madman
   or were they the truth? Could this event, this terrible,
   misguided witch burning that happened nearly
five hundred years ago be the cause of everything that
was happening at St. Joseph's today? No, it had
to be superstitious
   mumbo-jumbo! Witches were from fairy tales,
folklore,
   legends that parents loved to tell their kids around
a cheery
   fire on a dark night. But then Woolgar
wasn't claiming
   that F"'ddlnor was a witch. In fact,
                                       Page 355
                            James Herbert - The Shrine
he disclaimed it. But was
  the supernatural any more real than tairv
tales or folklore?
  F.ven though he, Fenn, had witnessed events in
Banfield
  that could only be called paranormal, his logical
mind
  found it difficult to accept such a term as fact.
But how
  could he dismiss what had happened to him that very day?
  I here had been something in that church with him, something
  that threw out a malignant aura of evil. It
had scared
  Nancy half to death and l less-than xggsened his
own bowels somewhat.
  So what the hell was it? I he ghost of poor
Sister Fddlnor?
  "Aaah," he said aloud in disgust. It just couldn't
be.
  There were no such things. "Keep telling yourself that,
  Fenn," he muttered. Fie studied his hand and there
were
  no weal marks on it, no demon marks on the
skin. Vet
  there had been inside the church, tor he
had seen them
  appear. And there were no other marks on his body
save
  where the foliage had lashed him during his tumble
down
  the slope.
  He wondered what Delgard's opinion would be.
As a
  priest, the supernatural was part of his dogma,
and the
  concept of life after death was the basis of his
religion.
  But the manifestation of an evil woman's curse
from another
  era? How would that grab him? If he believed in
all
  this, maybe he'd gone over to the church to pray for
help!
  Fenn shook his head. It was all too incredible.
And yet
  it was happening.
  He pushed back the chair and stood, suddenly
realizing
  how stiff and cold he was again. The fire had
burned low
  once more. He reached for his topcoat and shrugged it
on,
  pulling the zipper all the way up to the neck.
Better find
  Delgard, talk it out with him. The priest was no
fool,
  despite his vocation; if he felt there was some
relevance to
  the document, then there sure as hell was. And if
that was
  the case, the problem would be what to do about it.
  Fenn left the room, pulling the neck of his
coat tight
                                      Page 356
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  around his cheeks, not sure whether it was the coldness
of
  the night that made him shiver or the faded script
lying on
  the desktop.
  He closed the door and walked the length of the
hallway,
  an icy draft greeting him from the doorway
ahead. He
  stepped out into the night and automatically looked
up at
  the sky: it was clear, as if freshly
scrubbed of clouds by
  the winds of the day, its blueness deep, almost
black, the
  star clusters sharp, vivid. There was a light showing
dimly
  through the windows of the church and Fenn walked
  briskly along the path toward it. His pace
quickened until
  he was almost running. There was something strange about
  St. Joseph's, something he could not understand. It
seemed
  totally black, darker than the night around it, no
starlight
  reflected from the flint walls, no relief in
its shape, no
  shades of gray. Unnaturally black, just a
dim light glowing
  from its windows. He could feel his heart pounding and
  suddenly he did not want to reach the church; he
wanted
  to turn away, to run from the grounds, away from this
  malevolent place. He felt as he had at
St. Peter's earlier in
  the day: afraid and lggewildered.
  But he knew Delgard would be in there,
alone, unguarded,
  unaware of the transformation that had occurred.
  Fenn had to warn the priest, to get him away from
there,
  for he suddenly understood that St. Joseph's was
no longer
  the house of God, but the sanctum of something
unholy.
  When he touched the door, it felt repellent
to him, as
  though the wood itself were unclean. He was badly
  frightened, but he forced himself to push the door open.
  "But I want my payment too," said the witch,
"and it's not a
  small one either ..."
  was The Little Mermaid," Hans Christian
Andersen
  monsignor DRLGAR-N'So WRISTS
RKSTF.D AGAINST the low alter rail and his head was
bowed into his chest, his
  back arched into an unpleasant shape. His lips
moved
  silently in litany, vet there was an
immobility about his
  face, as though his features had been
carved from gray
                                      Page 357
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  stone. He had no idea of how long he had
prayed at the
  altar in St. Joseph's--an hour, perhaps
less. His fear and
  confusion had not yet subsided, nor had any
solutions to
  the imminent problem presented themselves. He had no
  doubts that the ancient words he had translated
had been
  written in truth and he was equally sure that the
curse was
  coming true. He believed that the power of the human
  mind had no limits on this earth, and neither did the
  human psyche. Einor had possessed a power
far beyond
  the knowledge or understanding of her fellowmen; she was
  of a breed that was rare, unique, a development in
genetic
  terms that most men could barely perceive let alone
strive
  to attain. She had had the ability to draw the
wills of
  others, their energies, their beliefs, into a
collective power
  that could transcend mere human forces. She had not
  cured the sick; they had cured themselves.
Fddlnor's role had
  been one of psychic "director." That power was
now
  acting through Alice and in a more potent way than in
the
  nun's own lifetime. Had death, that entry into the
spiritualistic
  world where no physical restrictions controlled the
  mind's energy, enabled her power to increase to this
awesome
  degree? Something more had occurred to Delgard.
  He had reasoned that Father Hagan and Molly
Pagett
  might have been the catalysts for unleashing these
terrors:
  now he also wondered if it had taken Fddlnor's
spirit this
  long to develop her strange powers in the "other"
world
  (what were a few centuries to infinity itself?). And
it was
  this thought that frightened him most for, if Einor really
  had returned, how strong would her
psychical forces be
  and to what purpose would she put them?
  He felt inadequate and defenseless. How could
he combat
  something he could not even fully comprehend? Through his
bishop he must seek the help of those skilled in such
  matters, laymen some, while others were men of his
own
  calling; perhaps together they could control this evil. But
  mostly he would seek God's help, for only the
omnific
  could truly vanquish such a creation.
  A sharp sound made him raise his head. He
looked
                                      Page 358
                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   around and the church interior was dim, the lights
fading.
   He could see no one else in the church. His
attention
   turned back to the crucifix on the altar and his
heavy
   eyelids closed as he resumed his prayers. His
joints fett
   brittle, and once more, as it had frequently
over the past
   few weeks, his body reminded him that
age and weariness
   of mankind's ills were taking their inevitable
toll. Perhaps,
   when all this was done, he would seek his own peace,
a
   retreat into--
   The sound again! A sharp, cracking noise. It had
come
   from his right.
   He looked over at the disfigured replica of the
Virgin
   Mary and his lips moved, this time caused by an old
man's
   trembling rather than prayer.
   Delgard pushed himself upright, the effort seeming
to take more than it should have. His footsteps were slow,
   almost a shuffle. He approached the statue and
stood
   beneath it, looking up with curious eyes at the
grotesquely
   cracked face. The Virgin Mother's hands were
spread
   slightly outward as if to welcome him, but her
smile was
   no longer the tender expression of
maternal love: the cracked
   stone had distorted it into a sinister leer.
   His eyes widened as the once-beatific face
seemed to
   change expression and he quickly realize-d that the
cracks
   were deepening, running into longer jugged lines.
Several
   pieces of stone dropped away, falling to the
floor to crumble
   into dust. I he smile became broader,
malevolent. Its
   lower lip fell and it was as though the mouth had opened
   to silently laugh. I he surface plaster
began to move, currents
   moving through it, and Delgard tried to back away,
   but found himself transfixed, fascinated by the change
in
   its structure.
   He stared up into the statue's eyes and powdered
dust
   slid from them so that they became hollow, empty.
   His mouth opened in horror and he began to raise
a
   trembling hand to protect himself, as it
suddenly aware of
   what was going to happen.
                                       Page 359
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  Fenn stumbled into the church and immediately saw the
  tall priest at the far end, near the altar.
Delgard was
  looking up at the statue of the Madonna, one hand
  halt-raised.
  And there was something else in the church. A small
  hooded figure, sitting in one of the pews just a
few rows
  behind the priest.
  The dark coldness that enveloped Fenn was now a
familiar
  sensation. I He felt his stomach muscles
grip together
  and his hair stiffened. He tried to call out to the
monsignor,
  but just a hissing sound escaped his lips. lie
began to
  move forward, but was already too late.
  I he statue exploded and thunder roared through the
  church. Thousands of stone pieces tore through
Delgard's
  exposed body like metal shrapnel, lacerating his
flesh,
  cutting through his face, chest, hands, groin, throwing
  him backward so that he fell over the first bench
into the
  next row, fragments that had found entry through his
eyes
  already lodged deep in his brain, destroying cells
so that
  the incredible pain was only momentary. His body,
now
  unfeeling, twisted and twitched in the narrow confines
  between the benches, and one large torn hand raised itself
as if pleading with something unseen. It gripped the
back
  of the bench and tightened, closing around the wood in
  death's grip, a last contact with the material world.
  Fenn ran toward the fallen priest. He stopped
in the
  aisle, his hands on the backs of benches, looking
down at
  the bloody, twisted figure, Delgard's face
ripped open, his
  white collar stained crimson. He screamed
Delgard's name
  even though he knew the priest would not hear, nor
ever
  hear again.
  With eves filled with enraged tears, he looked
toward the dissmall black-garbed figure. But there was
nothing there. "I he church was empty. Apart from himself
and the dead
  priest.
  "But is there nothing I can do to get an immortal
soul?" asked the little mermaid.
  "The Little Mermaid," Hans Christian Andersen
  hr LOCKI-"disD THK BOX, TESTING the
lid to make sure it
  was secure. Satisfied, he picked it up from the
table and
  crossed the tinv room to the wardrobe, taking no
more
                                      Page 360
                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   than three paces; stretching his l greater-than
ody, he placed the box on
   top of the wardrobe and shoved it hard so that it slid
to the
   back out of sight. He presumed his snooping
landlady had
   already discovered it, but saw no reason to rearouse
her
   curiosity by letting her eves fall on it each
time she inspected
   the room. He smiled, imagining what her
reaction
   would be if she ever discovered its contents. But that was
his secret. He was sure even his mother did not know it
was missing; or, if she did, had not reported the
loss to the
   police, for it was, after all, an illegal
possession.
   He sat on the narrow, single bed, brushing away
the
   blond hair that fell over his eyes. The
newspaper lay
   spread on the floor at his feet and once more he
quickly
   scanned the article he had t greater-than een
reading. A local Sussex
   reporter had tried to discredit the little saint, had
maintained
   that the priest had not been killed by a bomb
   planted by some fanatical antireligious
movement, had
   made himself a laughing-stock by denouncing all that
had
   happened at Banfield as some crazy witch's
curse!
   He looked thoughtful, nodding his head several times
as
   he read the article, A bishop, in turn, had
denounced the reporter as a sensation-monger who was
trying to make as much mileage out of the storv for his own
financial gain.
   Although the Church could not yet acknowledge the St.
   Joseph's cures as miraculous, they could most
certainly
   issue a firm rebuttal to the idea that they were the
work of
   some ludicrous "fairy-tale witch."
   He smiled.
   Furthermore, the little saint had asked that a
special
   service should be held for the murdered monsignor
and the
   parish priest who had died earlier. She had
told the Church
   authorities that the Lady of the Vision had asked
tor a
   candlelight procession through the village in
memory of
   the good priest and that a Revelation was to follow. The
Church was to comply with her wishes, for it was
felt
   that, while they did not cpect to receive any such
revelation,
                                       Page 361
                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   the priests, one of whom had been a courageous
victim of those who denied Christ's work here on
earth, merited
   such a tribute.
   He was not smiling now.
   He lav back on the bed, his head and shoulders
resting
   against the wall behind, his teeth chewing at a
thumbnail
   that had already been bitten to the quick. Three faces,
   cut from old newspapers and Scotch-taped to the
wardrobe
   door, stared back at him. Pasted across the
dot-printed
   photographs was the name of each man. Soon he
would
   take the images down and put them back among the
   other newspaper articles he had kept in a
scrapbook dedicated
   to them.
   But for now he silently mouthed the three names, his
   faraway smile returning:
   CHAPMAN
   ACBBCA
   H1NCKLEY
   The Hag is astride
   This night for to ride;
   The Devil and she together:
   Through thick, and through thin,
   Now out, and then in, Though ne'er so foul be the
weather.
   The storm will arise,
   And trouble the skies;
   This ni caret ht, and more for the wonder,
   The ghost from the Tomb
   Affrighted shall come,
   Called out by the clap of the Thunder. "The Hag,"
Robert Herrick
   IT WAS MADNESS. SHEER BLOODY madness.
   Fenn brought the Mini to a half and wound down the
   window. "What's the holdup?" he called out,
gesturing
   toward the snarled traffic ahead.
   The policeman, who was trying to bring some order
to
   the chaos, strolled over, the slow walk a
disguise for his
   agitation.
   "You won't get through the village," he said
brusquely.
   "Not for some time, at any rate."
   "What's the problem?"
   "The High Street's chock-a-block. The
procession starts
   from there."
   "It's only seven; I thought it didn't start
till eight."
   "They've been arriving since six o'clock this morning
   and pouring in all day. God knows how many there are
in
   the village by now, but it's a good few thousand,
that's for
   sure."
                                       Page 362
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  "L less-than xggk, I'm from the Courier.
I need to get through to the
  church."
  "Yeah, well we all have our problems, don't
we?" The
  policeman scowled at the cars that had stopped behind
  Fenn's, several farther back tooting their
horns. His arm
  lifted toward them like a conductor's
baton bidding silence.
  You could try the backroads. Go around through
F'lackstone;
  it'll get you nearer at least."
  Fenn immediately put the car in reverse and backed as
  far as he could go toward the vehicle behind. When he
felt
  the gentle touch of bumpers, he pushed into first and
  cased the wheel around. It took four
backwardstforward
  shuttles, even though he used the grass verges
on either
  side of the road, but eventually he was pointed
away from
  Banfield and heading into the dazzling lights of
oncoming
  traffic.
  He should have realized it would be this bad; the media
  had been full of the story over the last few days.
Why
  hadn't the bloody fool of a bishop listened
to him? Fenn
  banged the steering wheel with the flat of his hand, his
  anger boiling over.
  He soon reached the sign pointing toward
Flacksrone
  and swung into the unlit country lane. It was a
winding
  road, few houses on either side until he
reached the hamlet
  itself; even here there were just one or two country
cottages
  and flint.stone houses set on a blind bend.
To his left,
  he could see a strange glow in the sky and he
knew it was
  from Banfield, the village lit up as it had
never been
  before. He swore under his breath. And then aloud.
  Fenn reached another main road shortly after and
groaned
  when he saw the amount of traffic all headed in the
same
  direction. He made a quick decision and pulled
over onto
  the grass verge. He locked the car and started
walking,
  knowing that the traffic moving slowly past him would
  soon be brought to a halt. It was at least a
mile to the
  church, but walking was the only way to get there before
  everything, even pedestrians, came to a standstill.
  Madness, he kept repeating to himself as a rhythm
to his
                                      Page 363
                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   walking. They've all gone bloody crazy.
   A strong white light shone high into the night, a
beam
   that was separate from the diffused glowing of the
village. It was the main searchlight of the shrine itself
and it seemed to him like a siren beacon luring
wayfarers to some
   devious destruction. The eerie whiteness made
him shiver.
   There were heavy rolling clouds above, their fringes
occasionally
   caught by silver moonlight, briefly
accentuating
   their ragged and turbulent form.
   The pilgrims he passed, in their coaches,
minibuses,
   cars--and even on motorbikes and bicycles--
all seemed in
   good humor despite the long delays in any
kind of forward
   movement. Hymns of praise came from
many vehicles, the
   low intonations of prayer from others. Yet it soon
became
   obvious that there were groups among them whose journey
   derived from curiosity only, those seeking
thrills, the
   unusual, the inexplicable. And there were others who
had
   made the trip because there was nothing much on TV.
   Again, as Fenn drew nearer to St. Joseph's,
he felt the
   peculiar vibrancy in the air. It was akin to the
atmosphere
   in London in the summer of "81, on the day
of the Royal
   Wedding, or Pope John Paul's visit the
following year. Yet
   the coming together of this conscious energy had a peculiar
   potency of its own, a heady surging of
impulses that he
   knew would find its peak in the area around the shrine.
He
   knew now that this was Alice's source of power, just
as it
   had been Einor's so many years before.
He knew this as
   surely as if dead men had whispered the secret
to him.
   The omnipotent mind-energy that transcended the
physical,
   which allowed disabilities in the physical form to be
overcome
   in those who would allow the scavenging of their
   own psyche. In those who truly believed. And that,
he was
   convinced, was the gift of all faith healers: the
ability to
   direct the psychic energies of others. The words
of the
   wretched sixteenth-century priest had provided
the key;
   the dream-whispers of latter-day priests who, like
                                       Page 364
                            James Herbert - The Shrine
their
  early predecessor, no longer lived, had
provided the answer.
  But Bishop Caines had not listened to Fenn. A
sensationalist
  reproter's beleaguered dreams had meant nothing
to the
  clergyman. Proof, Fenn, it was proof
that was needed.
  Where was the manuscript he spoke of?
  Dust on the floor of the priest's house.
  Where was the late monsignor's translation?
  Dust on the floor of the priest's house.
  Where, then, was the proof?
  Dust, like the statue of the Virgin Mary inside the
church.
  Fenn's shoulders were stooped, his eves pouched through
  nights of disturbed sleep. He had known when
trying to
  convince the bishop that his intensity was near-demented
  and his words frantic, too emotive for Caines
to regard
  him seriously, but in truth, he had felt a
shade too close to
  insanity for his own liking. He had even less
luck with
  Southworth, the businessman behind the scenes, whose
  greed had skillfully engineered the commercial
aspect of
  the shrine. And no luck at all with the head of the
Catholic
  Church in England. It was hardly the eminent
cardinal's
  fault, he knew, for Bishop Caines' warning
of a lunatic
  reporter on the loose had preceded his own
attempts to
  reach the cardinal archbishop. His alternative was
to turn
  to his own profession and it, too, had shunned
him. Even
  the Courier, still miffed that he had turned his back
on the
  newspaper but desperate for his story anyway,
had baulked
  at his revelation. They had compromised with an
interview,
  a piece written by one of his own colleagues very.
ith the same
  skepticism he would have allowed himself just a few
weeks
  before had he been the interviewer. It was a
comeuppance
  that was hard to take, and yet he could sec the
ironic
  humour of the situation. I he cynic was being paid for
his
  past cynicism; the sensationalist was
disbelieved because of
  his past sensationalism.
  Fenn could almost smile at himself. Except it
hurt when
  he tried.
                                      Page 365
                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   A car's horn made him jump and he realized
he had
   wandered into the path of a slow-moving vehicle. He
kept
   to the side of the road, his breathing heavy now, but his
pace faster than the traffic traveling alongside
him.
   He reached a T-junction and there was the church far
   there down to his left. The main road was jammed
with
   people and vehicles, the hubbub tremendous; There were
   more stalls than ever by the roadside, selling
food, drinks,
   and all kinds of trinkets, as well as the usual
religious
   paraphernalia; the police were obviously having
enough
   trouble coping with the crowds to deal with the flagrant
   infringement of trading laws.
   He pushed his way into the shuffling mob,
heading for
   the side entrance to the church, and it took a good
twenty minutes to cover no more than five hundred
yards. He
   reached the gate, now brightly lit, and attempted
to push
   it open.
   "One moment," a voice said from inside.
   He recognized the man whose whole life seemed
to be
   devoted to guarding the church entrance. This time he was
   flanked by two priests and a constable.
   "It's okay," Fenn told him. "It's me,
Gerry Fenn. I
   think you know me by now."
   The man looked embarrassed. "Yes I do,
sir. But I'm
   afraid you can't use this entrance."
   "You're kidding." Fenn showed his press pass.
"I'm
   working tor the Church on this."
   "Er, that's not what I've been informed. You'll have
to
   use the other entrance."
   Fenn stared at him. "I get it.
Persona non grata, right? I
   must have really pissed off the bishop."
   "There is a special press entrance now, Mr.
Fenn. It's
   just farther along."
   "Yeah, I passed it. Looks like I'm no
longer among the
   privileged."
   "I'm just following instructions."
   "Sure, forget it." Fenn moved off, knowing there
was no
   point in arguing.
   He made his way back to the small entrance
marked
   PRESS, which had been cut through the hedge
surrounding
   the Field, and was relieved when his pass got him
through
                                       Page 366
                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   without further hitch; he wouldn't have been at all
surprised
   if the ban had extended to all entrances, including
   the public one. He stopped just inside and his
tired eyes
   widened.
   Jesus, he thought, the beavers've been
busy.
   A network of benches beill but covered the field
like a
   carefully constructed spider's web, at its
center the spider
   itself. The twisted oak may have been inanimate, but
to
   I'enn it now had all the sinister predatory
aspects of the
   creature he had likened it to. The altarpiece
below the tree
   was more ornate than before, although there were no
   statues, no images of Christ and His Mother that
would
   mean the Catholic Church was fullv committed to the
   popular belief that this was hallowed ground. The
religious
   authorities had been subtle: there were no
extravagant
   displays of crucifixes, save for the solitary
cross on
   the altar itself, but there were many such symbolisms
woven in the cloths that covered certain sections on and
   around the main platform. I he centerpiece itself
had been
   broadened to allow for more seating above congregation
   level, with a deep-red canopy on either side
to protect the
   worshipers from the more inclement weather; a special
   tiered section had been constructed to the left
to contain,
   he guessed, a choir. Banners were nxited at
intervals along
   the side aisles, their bright reds, greens, and
golds giving a
   rich, though dignified, cast to the vast arena. He
noted PA systems at strategic points in the
field so that no one should miss the words of the service.
And the cameras-were no longer confined to the outer
limits, for platforms
   had been erected inside the boundary hedges where a
   congregational view could be taken of the proceedings.
   The overall lighting was dim, enhancing the startling
   vividness of the centerpiece with its bank of flo
less-than xllights
   and dramatic single searchlight, which gave the
tree and its
   upper branches a peculiar flatness against the
night sky.
   This central blaze of luminescence
dominated the field, a focal point to which every
worshiping mind would be
   drawn.
   As he watched, two figures in white
cassocks mounted
   the platform and began to light rows of tall
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                             James Herbert - The Shrine
devotional
   candles that had been placed behind the altar. The question
   struck him again, as it had repeatedly over the past
   tcw days: why had the Church acquiesced
to Alice's strange
   request for a candlelight procession througli the
village of
   Banfield? She had told them that the Lady had
asked for
   this to be done in memory of Father Hagan and
Monsignor
   Ddgard, and (hat a divine revelation was soon
to
   come. Bishop Caincs had been restrained in his
announcement
   that a procession was to take place, playing his
   now-familiar public role of reluctant
advocate. He had
   stressed that the ceremony was more in the way
of a tribute
   to two fine priests, one of whom had been
assassinated by
   what would appear to be an antireligious
fanatic's bomb,
   than compliance with the wishes of a young girl who may
   or may not have had a vision of the Sacred Virgin.
But
   why had the bishop been so vehement in his attack
on F'enn when the reporter had tried to persuade
him that
   there was no goodness in what was happening, only
evil?
   Ambition--for oneself, for one's cause--could be a
great
   blinker to truth, and a formidable dismis.ser of
argument--
   religions and ideals had succumbed to its
influence throughout
   time--yet he had expected more of this Church
   representative. He, the unbeliever, wanted
more from those
   who professed to believe. At any time, the
disillusionment
   would have been bitter, but could have been
accepted with
   a cynic's shrug; now it provoked a deeper
resentment, a
   desperate anger whose root cause was fear.
   He moved down the aisle as if attracted by the
bright
   light, the soft layer of churned mud beneath his feet
sucking
   weakly at each disstep.
   rhe Field was filling up fast and he vaguely
wondered
   how so many people--those in the vehicles that he had
   passed, those who were to walk in the procession, and
   those still milling around the entrance, eager for a ringside
   seat--were to be accommodated. And where would they
   all run to?
   "Fenn!"
   He stopped and looked around.
   "Over here."
                                       Page 368
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  Nancy Shelbeck was rising from a bench in a
section
  marked PR1-:SS.
  "I didn't expect to see you here," Fcnn said
as she
  approached.
  "I wouldn't have missed it." There was an
excitement in her eyes, although trepidation was just behind
it.
  "After what happened to you? Didn't it scare you
off?"
  "Sure, I got spooked. I still have to make a
living though.
  Can you imagine what my chief would say if I
flew back
  without a report on the main event?"
  "I he main event?"
  "Can't you feel it? The tension? The air's thick
with it. It's like everybody knows something big's gonna
happen."
  Fenn's voice was low. "Yeah, I can feel
it." He suddenly
  clasped her arm. "Nancy, what did you see in
the church
  the other day?"
  They were jostled as people pushed by, eager for seats
  near the front.
  "Didn't Sue tell you?"
  "I haven't seen her since I took you to her
flat. I've been
  pretty busy the last few days."
  "She tried to reach you--we both did. No
reply to our
  phone calls, no one there when we went to your
place.
  Just what have you been up to?"
  "I've been trying to yet this show called off.
Now answer
  my question."
  She told him and was surprised he wasn't
shocked. "Is
  that with you saw, too, in St. Peter's?" Nancy
asked when
  she had finished.
  "I guess so. To tell the truth, if didn't
take too close a
  look. But it all fits."
  "Fits into what?"
  "It's t less-than it greater-than
complicated to explain now." He looked around
  and was surprised to see just how full the field had
become
  in the few moments he had been speaking to the
American.
  "Is Sue here?" he asked her.
  "I saw her just a little while ago. She
had her kid with
  her. They're somewhere near the front, I think."
She
  pulled his face around toward her. "Hey, are you
okay?
  You look kinda rough."
  He managed to smile. "A couple of restless
                                      Page 369
                            James Herbert - The Shrine
nights, a few
  bad dreams. I've got to find Sue and Ben."
  She held on to him. "I had a long chat with
Sue, Gerry;
  she knows about us."
  "It's not important."
  "Thanks."
  "I didn't mean it--"
  ""I hat's okay, I know what you mean. She
wants you,
  schmucko, you know that? I think she's reached some
  kinda decision about you."
  "It's taken a long time."
  "It would have taken me longer. And then I think
I'd
  have dumped you."
  "You trying to make me feel good again?"
  "I figure it'd have been hard to live
with you; we'd be a
  bad combination."
  He shrugged. "I'm relieved I didn't ask
you to."
  "I'm not saying I couldn't change my mind, you
  understand?"
  He held her and kissed her cheek. "Take
care of yourself,
  Nancy."
  "I always do." She returned his kiss, but on the
lips.
  Fenn broke away and she watched him disappear
into
  the crowd. The tension showed in her face once again.
She
  was frightened, badly frightened, and only her
professionalism
  had brought her back here. She knew that she would
  never have returned to the other church, St.
Peter's, not
  for a million bucks or her own network chat
show. For
  those around her, the atmosphere must have been vastly
  different; their faces revealed only shining
expectancy, a
  willingness to believe that the Holv Virgin had
blessed
  this field with her presence and that, if they wished it
  enough, she would appear again. Or, at least, the child
  would perform more miracles.
  Nancy stood aside to let an old woman,
assisted by a
  younger one, both bearing a vague resemblance
to each
  other--mother and daughter perhaps--shuffle by. I he
reporter
  turned away, desperate for a cigarette but not
sure
  it was proper in such a place, and made her way
back to
  the press section. To hell with it: Alice had
given these
  people a new hope in a sick world where optimism was
  considered banal, trust in a higher goodness
misguided.
                                      Page 370
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  While it was true that the shrine had proved a
rewarding
  commercial venture for opportunists, it had also
succored
  the faith of thousands--maybe even
millions throughout
  the world. Bur the nagging doubt persisted: should the
  word have been suckered"-" Nancy sat in the
reporters" bench
  and pulled her coat tight around her; the desire
for a
  smoke took second place to her yearning for a
stiff bourbon
  on the rocks.
  Paula helped her mother down the aisle, hoping
to get
  her as close to the aharpicce as possible. She had
been told
  at the gate that spaces had been provided beneath the
central platform only for the very sick, those brought on
  stretchers and in wheelchairs; those who could walk,
whether
  assisted or not, had to take their place among the
other
  members of the congregation. An arthritic hip and
hypertension
  were not considered severe-enough ailments, even
  as a combination, so her mother could be given no
special
  treatment. I laving seen the number of
walking wounded
  that had turned up, Paula wbbls hardly
surprised. God, it
  made a person teel ill just to look at them
all.
  "Not far to go, Mother," she coaxed her burden.
"We're
  quite near the front row now."
  "What's all the bright lights" came the
querulous response.
  "Hurts my eyes."
  "It's just the altar. They've lit it all up with
floodlights
  and candles. It looks lovely."
  Her mother tutted. "Can't we sit down now?
I'm tired,
  dear."
  "Nearly there."
  "I want to see the girl."
  "She'll be here soon."
  "I've suffered enough."
  "Yes, Mother. But don't expect too much."
  "Why not? She's cured all them others; what's
she got
  against me?"
  "She doesn't even know you."
  "Did she know them others?"
  Paula groaned inwardly. "This'll do. Mother.
We can sit
  on the end of this bench if this gentleman will kindly
move
  up a bit."
  The gentleman seemed reluctant, but the
                                      Page 371
                            James Herbert - The Shrine
squinty stare
  of Paula's mother encouraged him to do so.
  The old lady groaned aloud as she sat,
assuring those in
  close proximity of her disability. "This cold
weather isn't
  going to do my hip any good, is it? When's it
all start,
  when's it all over?"
  Paula was about to give an impatient reply when
a
  familiar face caught her attention. Tucker was
standing by
  a bench just a dozen or so rows ahead and he was
calling to
  someone. Paula's eyes narrowed when she saw a
plump
  hand tugging at his elbow, obviously urging him
to sit
  down. She half-lifted herself from the seat to peer
over the
  heads of those in front, and her eyes frosted when
she recognized the bulky fur-coated shape next
to Tucker. So
  the Fat slug had brought the fat she-slug along
with him.
  Dear, pampered Marcia. Trust her not to want
to miss
  anything! Well, maybe tonight she'd Icarn something
new
  alggou the pig she was married to. A little
confrontation
  between them, mistress and wife, might offer some
compensation
  for the scare she, Paula, had suffered under
Fucker's podgy hands! She hadn't been into the
supermarket
  since--hadn't even sent in a sick note--and
her boss
  was too much of a coward to ring and find out how she
  was. Well, tonight, in front of Miss
Piggy's ugly sister, she
  would tell him exactly how she was! loot's
see how he
  coped with that.
  Paula's mother was muttering something about the dampness
  from the ground creeping into her boots and the man
  beside her hadn't moved up far enough and she was being
  squashed and wasn't that Mrs. Fenteman in
front who
  never went to church except at Christmas and
Easter and
  wasn't she carrying on with the man in the hardware
  shop?
  Paula did not even look at her mother. She said
slowly
  and evenly, "Just . . . shut . . . up."
  Tucker ignored his wife's tugging and pushed his
way
  past knees to reach the side. "What are you doing
here,
  Fenn?" he said loudly when he reached open
space.
                                      Page 372
                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   Fenn turned back and recognized the fat man.
"My
   job," he said, ready to walk on.
   "You're not working for the Church anymore,
I hear."
   "No, but I'm still working for the Courier."
   "You sure of that?" "I he question was accompanied
by a
   sneering smile.
   "Nobody's told me otherwise."
   "Well, you're not very welcome here with all the
lies
   you've been spreading."
   Fenn moved nearer to him. "What're you talking
about?"
   "You know very well. George Southworth gave
me a
   personal account."
   "Yeah, Southworth and the bishop must have had a
   good laugh between them."
   "We all did, Fenn. Pretty lunatic,
wasn't it? Witchcraft,
   nuns coming back from the dead. Did you expect
anyone
   to believe it?"
   Fenn waved his hand toward the altar. "Do you
believe
   all this?"
   "It makes more sense than what you've
been saying
   lately."
   "Financial sense, don't you mean?"
   "So some of us are making a nice profit. It's
good for the
   village and gggKggd for the Church."
   "But particularly good for you and Southworth."
   "Not just us. There are plenty of others who've
reaping
   the benefit." Tucker's sneer became more
pronounced.
   "You haven't done so badly yourself, have you?"
   The reporter could think of no adequate reply.
He
   turned away, forcing himself to ignore the chuckle of
   derision from behind.
   He drew nearer to the centerpiece, the bright
lights
   causing his eyes to narrow. A broad section before
the
   platform had been kept clear and stewards were
directing
   stretcher bearers and those pushing wheelchairs into it.
He
   stopped beneath a squat, scaffold tower
where a cameraman
   was aiming his television camera into the invalid
   section. Fenn was jostled from behind and he reached out
   toward the metal scaffolding to keep his balance.
He quickly
   withdrew his hand as a tiny static shock tingled his
fingers.
   He frowned and, as an experiment, touched the
metal frame
                                       Page 373
                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   of a passing wheelchair. Again, a tiny shock
crackled at his
   fingers. He knew that every possible safety
precaution
   would have been taken with all the electronic
machinery in
   the field, particularly bearing in mind the damp
soil that
   the insulated cables would be buried beneath. He
looked
   up into the night sky, at the dark, thunderous
clouds, now
   so low and menacing. A storm was in the air, its
charge
   already in the atmosphere. Sudden feedback from
several
   of the amplifiers spread around the field made the
gathering
   congregation gasp and good-humoredly rub their ears,
   laughing and smiling at their neighbors.
   Fenn could see no humor in it at all; in
fact, the peculiarities
   in atmospherics increased his dread. He looked
ahead
   at the tree, the twisting of its gnarled limbs
accentuated in
   the glaring light, and remembered the first time, just a
few
   weeks before (it seemed a lifetime), when patchy
m less-than x8tion-light
   had exposed its grote.squeness, hovering over the
   kneeling child like a monstrous angel of death. The
sight
   of the oak had frightened him then and it frightened him
   even more at this moment.
   He eased his way through the long line of invalids
until
   his path was blocked by a man wearing a steward's
armband.
   "Can't go through this section, sir," he was told.
"Invalids
   only."
   "Who arc those benches for?" Fenn asked, pointing
at
   the rows behind the open space.
   "I hey're reserved for special people. Can you
move
   back please; you're blocking the way."
   Fenn spotted Sue sitting on the end of one of the
privileged
   benches, the small figure of Ben next to her.
He
   produced his press card. "I just need to speak
to someone
   in there--can I go through?"
   "I'm afraid not. You reporters have got your
own section
   back there."
   "Just two minutes, that's all I need."
   "You'll have me shot."
   "Two minutes. I promise I'll come back
then."
   The steward grunted. "Make it quick, mate.
                                       Page 374
                            James Herbert - The Shrine
I'll be
  watching you."
  F'enn was through before the man could change his
  mind.
  "Sue!"
  She spun around and he saw relief flush across
her face.
  "Where've you been, Gerry? My God, I've
been so worried."
  She reached out for him and Fenn quickly kissed her
  cheek.
  "Hi, LJ-NCIC Gerry," Ben greeted him
cheerfully.
  "Hi, kiddo. Good to see you." He tweaked the
boy's
  nose as he squatted down by Sue. The rest of the
bench
  was occupied by nuns from the convent and they looked
  down at him disapprovingly. He drew Sue
close and kept
  his voice low.
  "I want you to leave," he said. "Take Ben and
get out."
  Sue shook her head, consternation in her eyes.
"But
  why? What's wrong, Gerry?"
  "I don't know, Sue. I can only tell you
something bad is
  going to happen. Something nasty. I just don't
want you
  two around when it does."
  "You've got to tell me more than that."
  His grip tightened on her arm. "All these things,
Sue,
  these strange events, there's something evil behind them.
  Father Hagan's death, the fire in the village,
these miracles.
  Alice isn't what she seems. She caused
Monsignor Delgard's
  death ..."
  "There was an explosion ..."
  "She caused that explosion."
  "She's a child. She couldn't possibly--"
  "Alice is more than just a child. Delgard knew;
that's
  why he had to die."
  "It's impossible, Gerry."
  "For God's sake, all this is impossible!"
  The nuns began to whisper among themselves, gesturing
  toward him. Several be caret an to look around
for a steward. He glanced at them and tried to keep his
voice calm.
  "Sue, please trust me."
  "Why didn't you come to me? Why didn't you
ring?"
  He shook his head. "I just didn't have time.
I've been
  too busy trying to stop this thing."
  "And I've been bloodv frantic! I've
been so worried . . ."
  "Yeah, I know, I know." His hand brushed her
cheek.
  "Nancy told me what had happened at
                                      Page 375
                            James Herbert - The Shrine
Barham. That
  wasn't true, was it, Gerry? It couldn't have
been."
  "It was true. She saw something there--we both
did.
  It's all connected with the past; this whole business
is the
  result of something that happened centuries ago."
  "How can I believe you? It ('ust doesn't
make any sense.
  You say something evil is happening, but look around
you.
  Can't you see how good these people are, how much they
  believe in Alice? AlThat the good she's done?"
  He held both of her hands in his.
"We found an old
  Latin manuscript in the church on the Stapley
estate.
  Delgard translated it and found the answer. I
hat's why he
  was killed, don't you see?"
  "I don't see anything. Nothing you say makes
sense."
  "Then just trust me. Sue."
  She raised her eyes slowly and looked deeply
into his.
  "Is there any reason why I should? Are you really
that
  trustworthy?"
  He knew what she was referring to and became
silent.
  Then he said, "If you love me, Sue, if you
really love me,
  you'll do as I ask."
  She jerked her head away angrily. "Why now?
Why
  have you left it so late?"
  "I told you: for the last couple of days I've
been running
  around like a lunatic trying to get this
whole thing stopped. I didn't get home till
early this morning, and then I just slept and slept.
And the dreams were clearer than ever."
  "What dreams?" she asked wearily, wanting
to believe in him again, wanting to forget his
opportunism, his
  unreliability, his infidelity, but telling herself
she would be a fool to.
  "The priests, Hagan and Delgard, spoke
to me. I saw
  them in my sleep. They warned me about this
place."
  "Oh, Gerry, can't you see you're deluding
yourself?
  You've become so wrapped up in this thing that you
don't know what you're doing, what you're saying."
  "Okay, so I'm going nuts. Humor me."
  "I can't leave ..."
  "Just this once, Sue. Just do as I ask."
  She studied him for long seconds, then grabbed
Ben's
  hand. "Come on, Ben, we're going home."
  Her son looked up at her in surprise and
                                      Page 376
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
Fcnn's head
   slumped with relief. He kissed her
hands, and when he
   lifted his head again, his eyes were sparkling with unshed
   tears.
   Fenn stood and pulled her up with him. It was at
that
   very moment that a hush fell over the crowd. The
voices
   became whispers, the whispers fading, the settling
of a
   breeze. F.veryliody was listening intently.
   Voices could he heard in the distance. Voices
singing in praise of God and the Virgin Mary. The
strangely haunting sound grew in strength as the
procession from the
   village approached.
   Fenn looked hack at the oak and he closed his
eyes as
   though in anguish. His lips moved in silent
prayer.
   But the old "woman 'may only pretending to he
friendly. She was
   really an evil witch.
   "Hansel and Gretel," The Brothers Grimm
   "okay CAM-LIKE-WAS'.RA ONE., LET'S
GK.T a nice close up. Slow
   zoom in on Alice. That's good. Keep it
slow. We'll cut to
   Two in a moment for the overall disshot. Keep the
CU
   coming. Two. Good, it's a good one of the girl--
what's
   happening, One? Picture's breaking up. Oh,
for Christ's
   sake, cut to Two. That's better, keep on
that. What's
   happening. Camera One? Where's the interference coming
   from? Okay, sort it out. Stay on two.
We'll cue Richard
   in five. Camera Three, that's good on
Richard. Slow pullb'ack
   to show congregation in field as soon as he starts
   speaking. I want a good shot of the altar and that
bloody
   tree in the background. Okay,
Richardfourthree-two-Camera Three."
   "As the procession approaches the Field, now
called by
   many "The Field of the Holy Virgin," the
lights around
   are dimmed. Soon, the procession will
enter this, what has
   become, open-air temple, led by the Bishop of
Arundel,
   the Right Reverend Bishop Caines, followed
by priests,
   nuns, and of course, little Alice Pagett herself.
It seems
   that thousands have joined this holy march, many from
   the village of Banfield, while others have
journeyed from
   far and wide to be here today. Not all have held
                                       Page 377
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
deeply
   religious beliefs before; indeed, when I spoke
to many of
   them earlier in the day, they told me (static) in
this small
   Sussex vill--Banfield that has made--
realize a deeper
   truth--"
   "What's happening with sound out there. John,
we're losing Richard's voice. Keep talking,
Richard, we're having
   problems, but still receiving."
   "Perhaps, then, this vast gathering this evening is a
   symbolic gesture of people's faith in a
world--turmoil (static)--(static) prevails--"
   "Oh, God, we're losing picture now!"
   "dis . . in memory (static) priest who was
cruelly struck
   down--Thursday by (static) explosion--the
perpetrators of
   such--(static)--knows, but----"
   "Jesus bloody Christ! Everything's gone!"
   F'enn turned with the rest of the congregation as the
leaders
   of the procession entered the field. Flashlights were
   popping from all points, casting strobe effects
on the chanting
   leaders. Even from that distance he recognized
Bishop
   Caines, who was flanked by robed priests on either
side.
   The first candles were thick and high, held by young
altar
   servers, their small flames flickering with the
breeze. The
   singing grew louder and the people already in the field
   joined in. Voices broke oft as Alice
entered and the worshipers
   and the curious alike rose to catch a
glimpse of her.
   Fenn stood with them trying to peer over their heads.
It
   was no use: all he could see were the raised
candles and
   banners carried by the marchers. Sue stood by his
side and
   Ben clambered onto the bench tor a better
view.
   The emotions of the crowd seemed to swell like an
   ocean tide as the singing grew louder and the four
lines of
   marchers drew deeper into the field, the bobbing
candles a
   dazzling display of warm light. Fenn scanned the
faces
   around him: even in the darkness he could see their
eyes
   shining, their lips smiling in some deep-felt
rapture. The
   same expression was on Sue's face. He
touched her hand
   and flinched as another tinv spark snapped at him.
Staring
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                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   at his fingers, he thought, The whole
bloody field's alive. He shook her gently,
this time touching only the cloth of her coat.
   "Sue," he said quietly. "We've got
to leave now."
   She looked at him blankly, then turned
away.
   Ben stifled a yawn.
   Fenn tugged at her arm once more.
   "No, Gerry," she said without turning, "it's
too wonderful."
   The head of the procession had reached the centerpiece
   and Bishop Caines was mounting the steps, smiling
down
   at the invalids spread out on blankets and in
wheelchairs
   below. Alice Pagett followed him, her mother
close behind,
   hands clasped tight together, head bowed in prayer.
   Voices all around rose in a crescendo of
sound, the
   hvmn soaring into the sky as if to push back the low,
   brooding clouds. Fenn thought he heard the rumble
of
   distant thunder, but couldn't be certain. Bishop
Caines
   took his seat by the side of the altar and beckoned
Alice
   and her mother to sit next to him as priests and servers
   filed onto the platform. I he benches in
front of Fenn
   began to fill and many of the faces were familiar
to him.
   Some were those cured by Alice in previous weeks,
while
   others were local dignitaries and clergymen. He
watched
   as Southworth took his place and saw the
hotelier cast a
   long sweeping look around the congregation; his smile
   seemed to be one of satisfaction rather than
blissful worship.
   A movement on Fenn's bench caught his
attention: one
   of the nuns had fainted and her companions were gently
   lifting her onto her seat. He felt Sue beside
him sway and
   he held her steady. Others here and there in the
congregation
   were silently collapsing, their neighbors catching
them
   before they could harm themselves.
   Fenn drew in a breath. Hysteria was in the air
like a
   rampant germ hopping from person to person.
   The hvmn singing reached its height, the voices
ecstatically
   unified in the repetitious refrain. He felt
strange:
   there was a lightness in his head, an unsettling in his
   stomach. This time it was he who felt dizzy and he
clutched
   at Sue. She almost fell, but instead they both
                                       Page 379
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
sank to the
   bench.
   Ben knelt on the seat and put his arms around his
   mother's shoulders, one outstretched hand brushing
Fenn's
   cheek. Immediately, the dizziness left the
reporter; it was
   as though the uncomfortabie weakness had been discharged
   into the boy. Yet there were no visible signs of
distress in
   Ben.
   The hymn came to its end and the sudden quiet was
   almost stunning in its effect. The silence
was soon broken
   as the congregation sat, but it returned once they
had settled.
   There were no coughs, no whispers, no shuffling of
bodies.
   Just a hushed, reverential quiet.
   The young priest who was to take the service stepped
   forward to the lectern with its array of microphones.
He
   raised his arms toward the congregation, then made the
   Sign of the Cross in the air.
   "Peace be with you," he said, and the vast crowd
responded
   as one. The priest spoke tor a few moments of
   Father Hagan and Monsignor Delgard,
dedicating the special
   Mass to the two late priests, paying homage
to the
   exemplary work they had carried out in the name of the
   Holy Catholic Church. He was forced to stop
several times when the microphones whined and hummed, and
   seemed relieved when the preliminaries had been
completed. He nodded toward the choir, which had taken
its position in the specially erected tiers, and a
fresh hymn began.
   Candles all around the field were lit, creating a
myriad
   star cluster around an effulgence that resembled the
sun.
   In the village of Banfield, less than a
mile away from the
   church of St. Joseph's, an old man stumbled
along the
   curbside. It had been a long walk for him,
ten miles or
   more, but he was determined to reach the shrine before
   the service was over. Although walking had been his
sole
   occupation for the past fifteen years--tramping the
quieter
   roads of southern England, surviving on the
kindness of
   others, embittered by the noncaring of yet others--
his feet
   were sore and blistered, his breathing labored.
Brighton
   was his base, for there were enough churches and charitable
   organizations in the seaside town to keep his
belly fed
   and his body warm on the coldest of
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                             James Herbert - The Shrine
nights. Never too
   well-fed, never too warm; enough to keep him
alive, though.
   What had brought him to this level of existence was not
   important--not to him, anyway. At that moment,
he was
   what he was; dwelling on the past would not make
him or
   his circumstances different. On the other hand,
dwelling
   on the future might do so.
   The belief that he was not completely irredeemable
had
   come to him only that morning when the word had spread
   along the reprobate grapevine, the efficient
word-ot-mouth
   communications system of his kind that never failed to
   report "easv pickings." He had been told
of the little
   miracle girl, of the service that night where
thousands
   were expected to turn up, people of goodwill who would
   not reject the entreaties of those less fortunate
than
   themselves. But curiously, it was the
miracles of this child
   that the old man was interested in, not the chance to beg
   from others.
   He had knocked on the door of a priest, a
man of God
   who knew him, who had always shown kindness without
   reprimand toward him. The priest had told him it
was
   true, that there was a young girl in Banfield who
had
   performed certain acts that could be described as
miracles,
   and that tonight there was to be a candlelight procession
   through the village. The old man had resolved that
he
   would be there, that he would see this child for himself.
   He knew, as any man who was dving
instinctively knew,
   that his death was not far away, yet he did not want
the
   miracle of further life. He craved
salvation. One last chance
   to witness something that was bevond this mortal and
   despicable world. A chance to believe once again, a
positive
   sign that "atonement would not he in vain.
   Like thousands of others who flocked to the shrine, he
   sought the means of his own redemption, a physical
symbol
   of the immaterial. A living saint who disproved
omnipotent
   evil.
   But would he get there in time to see her?
   He leaned against a shop window, a hand resting against
   the cold glass. The High Street of the
village was dimly
   lit, but there was a beacon in the distance, a bright
light
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                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  that pierced the sky, striking out from a suffused glow
  around its base. He knew that this was his first
glimpse of
  the shrine, a brightness in the night that called him to
  observe the greater goodness.
  And as he leaned there against the window, gathering his
  strength, a new gleam in his rheumy old eyes,
something
  touched his soul and passed on. Something cold.
Something
  that produced a shudder in his brittle nones.
Something
  that made him sink to his knees, leaving him bowed.
  Something whose destination was his own. Had been his
  own.
  His head sank to the pavement and he wept. It was
  some time before he crept into a dark doorway and
curled
  up into a fetal position. He closed his eyes
and waited.
  The tall, bearded barman of The White Hart
blinked
  glumly at his only customer. He sighed as he
leaned on the
  bar. A bloody pint of mild and a packet of
pork rinds
  would last the old trouper all night. I we
barmaids stood
  idly chatting at the far end of the bar, enjoying the
quietness of the usually busy Sunday evening.
  Still, the barman thought, the service can't go on all
  night. They'll be piling in here in an hour or
so, desperate
  for a drink, and he certainly couldn't complain about the
  recent trade: his turnover had not just doubled--it
had
  tripled! If he had had a bigger pub
it would have quadrupled!
  The brewery could hardly refuse to put up the
  money for an extension at the back now. What a
great little
  miracle worker that kid was.
  He wiped the bar for the eleventh rime with a damp
  cloth, then poured himself a bitter lemon.
Cheers, he
  saluted the absent crowds. Don't stay away
too long.
  Lifting the bar flap, he crossed the floor and
retrieved
  two glasses left by earlier customers.
  "Judy," he called to one of the barmaids,
placing the
  glasses on the counter. Let the lazy cow do
something for
  her money, he thought.. He turned and, hands in
pockets,
  strolled to the door. Standing in the opening, one foot
  jammed against the door, he surveyed the High
Street.
  Empty. Not a blessed soul where, less than an
hour before,
  it had been packed with marchers.
Banfield was like a
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                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  ghost town, nearly all its residents gone to the
shrine. The
  village was empty without them, all right, he
thought,
  then chuckled at his own irrefutable logic.
  The chuckle ceased and the smile froze as something
  cold passed by him. It was like standing in a chilly
draft,
  except that it seemed to cling to his body, searching
out
  hidden crevices, covering every part of him like cold
water
  before being sucked away, journeying onwards
to who-knew-what
  destination. 'I he lights in the pub behind him
  seemed to flicker momentarily, then gain their
normal
  brightness.
  He looked down the road toward the church and saw
  the sudden breeze as a shadow creeping toward the
light.
  The tall man shivered and quickly went back
inside. He
  resisted the urge to lock the door behind
him.
  To the north of St. Joseph's, little more than a
mile away,
  a motorist kicked at the deflated rear tire
of his Allegro.
  Nearly there and this had to happen, he complained
bitterly
  to himself.
  "Is it flat?" a woman's voice asked from the
passenger
  window.
  "Aye, it's a bloody flat. All the way from
Manchester
  and we get a blowout now. The place must be just
down
  t'road."
  "Well, you'd better just get crackin" then.
Our Annie's
  fallin' asleep already."
  "Better that she is. It's been a long journey
for her. I
  just hope it's worthwhile."
  "Our John traveled to Lourdes with cancer."
  "Yes, an a lot of bloody good it did
"im," the woman's
  husband muttered quietly.
  "What did you say, Larry?"
  "I said he didn't last long afterwards, did
he?"
  ?"'gg"hat's not the point; he made the effort."
  Aye, and it finished 'im off a lot bloody
dissooner, the man
  thought. "Bring the flashlight out, will yuh?" he said
  aloud.
  His wife rummaged around the glove compartment and
  found the torch.
  "What's wrong. Mummy," a voice came from
the
  backseat.
                                      Page 383
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  "You just hush now, pet, and go back to sleep.
We've
  got a puncture and your father's going t'fix it."
  "I'm thirsty."
  "I know. We'll be there soon, never fear."
  "Will I see Alice?"
  was 'Course you will, pet. An" she'll sec you
and make you
  better."
  "An' I won't need sticks no more?"
  "That's right, pet. You'll be runnin' like
t'others."
  Their daughter smiled and snuggled back down beneath
  the blanket. She pulled Tina Marie's
plastic cheek close to her own and she was smiling as
her eyes closed.
  The wife left the car, guiding the flashlight
toward her
  husband as he opened the trunk and reached inside
for the
  jack.
  The errant wheel was off the ground when the light
  beam began to fade.
  "Hold bloody light steady," he told her.
  "It's not me," she replied testily.
"Batteries must be going."
  "Eh? They're fresh uns in."
  "Bulb, then."
  "Aye, "appen. Get a bit closer, will
yuh?"
  She bent toward him and he searched for a wrench in the
car's tool kit.
  Suddenly she dropped the torch.
  "Aw, flamin" "eck!" he groaned.
  Her hand clasped his shoulder. "Larry, did you
feel that? Larry? Larry!" She could
feel him trembling.
  At last, he said, "Aye, I felt it. It
must have been the
  wind."
  "No, it wasn't the wind, Larry. It went
straight through
  me. Right through me hones."
  His reply was slow in coming. "It's gone," he
said,
  looking toward the glow in the sky just about a mile
away.
  "What was it?"
  "I don't know, lass. But it felt like someone
walking over me grave."
  From the car came the whimpers of their daughter.
  In the Riordan farmhouse, on the land adjoining
the field
  in which the nighttimc service was taking place, a
dog
  yelped and ran helplessly around the kitchen. At
the end
  of each circuit, Biddy would hurl herself at the
door,
  despearare to get out into the open. Her owners had
left
  her to guard the place--"too many strange people
wander-ins;
                                      Page 384
                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   around the area because of that blessed shrine"--while
   they themselves took part in the Mass--"better then
going
   to the pictures"--and now the dog sensed the agitation
   from the cows in their stalls. Sensed and heard, for they
   were frantically kicking in an effort to break
free, and their
   piteous bellowing was driving the dog into a frenzied
Fit.
   Biddy scratched at the door, raking the paintwork
with
   her claws, howling with the outside ululations,
matching
   their pitch. Around the kitchen the dog ran, back
to the
   door, jump, scratch, push, bark, yelp,
howl, around the
   kitchen once more. Round and round, and round and--
   'I he commotion had stopped. Had stopped more
suddenly
   then it had started.
   The dog stood in the center of the darkened rggxggm,
one
   ear cocked head to one side. She listened. There
were no
   more sounds. She sniffed the air. I here were no
strangers
   outside.
   She began to whine.
   Something was moving through the farmyard, quietly,
   stealthily, some-tiling that had no smell, that made
no
   sound, that had no shape. The dog's tail
dropped and her
   legs bent, her back bowed. Biddy whimpered.
She whined.
   She shook. The dog crawled beneath the kitchen
table.
   And one eye watched the kitchen door, fearful of
what
   was out there.
   It crept through the night, unseen, intangible, a
thing of
   no substance, which existed, but only in the deep
corridors
   of the mind. Now it was drawn inward, focusing
   toward a center induced by a kindred power, slithering
   through the darkness like an eager reptile
toward a helpless
   insect, guided by someone, something, that had
transcended
   the natural.
   It was sucked into the vortex to be absorbed and
used.
   But evil belongs to the individual and, as any one
marching
   soldier can upset a platoon's rhythm, so
individual evil
   can disrupt the purpose of the whole.
   "I did it" he said, reflecting. "When
ladies used to come to me in
   dreams, I said, 'Pretty mother, pretty
mother." Rut when at last
                                       Page 385
                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   she really came, I shat her."
   Peter Pan,. be. Barrio
   the. THIRD HYMN WAS DRAWING to its close
and he
   tucked his hands between his thighs so that those around
   him would not see how much they trembled. His head
   was bowed, lank, yellow hair falling across his
forehead,
   curling inward and almost touching the tip of his nose.
He
   stared into his lap and there was a shiny brightness to his
eyes that was not akin to the brightness in the eyes of other
worshipers. His vision was not focused on his own
   body; it was focused on the future.
Pictures of his own
   destiny flashed before him: he saw his name written
in
   large, black headlines, his face, smiling,
flashed on screens
   all over the world, his life, his motive,
discussed, dissected
   and wondered at by knowledgeable persons, by eminent
   persons, by . . . everybody!
   He could hardly contain the shuddering expansion of his
   inner self, the blinding whiteness that pushed outward
   against his chest. The sensation left him so weak he
could
   hardly breathe.
   He had traveled down the night before, sleeping
rough
   inside a bus shelter near the village, feeling
certain he
   would freeze to death with the cold, only the thought of
   what was to come sustaining him, giving him comfort. He
had hardly slept, his brief dozes
fitful and full of bad
   images.
   He had been dismayed at the size of the gathering
   outside the church of St. [oseph's next
morning, thinking
   he would be first there, wanting to find a prime
position
   on the benches inside the field. To his further
dismay, no
   one was allowed into the shrine that early; work was still
   in progress to accommodate the expected
crowds, and entrance would not be permitted until early
evening. So he
   had queued with the rest of them, joking with his fellow
   pilgrims, playing the good guy, pretending
interest in
   boring stories of their little lives, feigning
devotion to the
   Church and all its works, secretly laughing at
these insignificant
   fools who had no idea who they were standing
   next to.
   At last they were granted entry and he faced what
he
   imagined might be the severest test. But
although bags and
   containers of any kind were glanced into for security
   purposes, no body searches were made; so the
                                       Page 386
                            James Herbert - The Shrine
object tucked
  into his underpants and taped against his groin, and which
  caused a semierection whenever he was conscious of
its
  weight (which was most of the time), was not found or
  even suspected. Even if they had asked him
to unbutton
  his old gray overcoat, the shirt he wore
outside his trousers
  would have covered any unnatural (or unseemly)
bulge
  around his fly area.
  Although it was hours before the benches were filled
  and the procession started, he was not bored with the wait;
  too many visions screamed into his mind for that.
  Like everybody else, he craned his neck to see
the girl
  when she arriveu with the procession, and because he had
  chosen a seat right on the center aisle, as near
to the
  altar as possible, Alice passed within feet of
him. The urge
  to do it there and then--no one could have stopped him--
  was almost overwhelming, but he knew it would be
better,
  more spectacular, to wait. He wanted them all
to see.
  And now the third hymn was almost over. He had
  watched her at the beginning of the service, had soon
  found he could not study her small, enraptured
face for
  too long; her goodness, her divinity, seemed
to spread
  outward and it made him uncomfortable. The words of
  the Mass were just a mumble in the back of his chaotic
  thoughts, and although he stood when the congregation
  stood, knelt when they knelt, sat when they
sat, he did it in automated fashion, a robot
response to the activity around him. And all the
while he kept his head bowed.
  The singing suddenly began to fade, taking a short
  while to die completely, tor not everyone saw
Alice rise to
  her feet and walk to the center of the platform at the
same
  time.
  He looked up, puzzled by the
interruption to the background
  wall of noise, and he saw the little girl in the
  middle of the stage, her face pointed upward, her
glazed
  eyes looking at something no one else could see.
Behind
  her was the altar and, behind that, the brilliantly
illuminated
  and grotesquely twisted oak tree.
  The field was quiet, all eyes on the small
figure in
  white, breaths held in excited anticipation.
There was tear
  also in their expectancy, for the unknown always
generates
  such emotion.
                                      Page 387
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  Alice lowered her head and looked down at the
crowd,
  scanning the multitude of adoring, tearing
faces. She smiled
  and to most it was enigmatic.
  In the distance, thunder rumbled.
  She spread her arms outward and began to rise
into the
  air.
  He left the bench and nobody saw him
unbutton his
  coat, lift his shirt, and reach into his trousers,
tor everyone was transfixed by the small figure in
white rising above them.
  He strode down the aisle to the altar, the
German
  Luger, the Pistole '38, a relic of the last
big war when half
  the world had gone mad with bloodlust, held down
by his
  side, barrel pointed toward the churned earth.
  When he was directly below the platform and just a
few
  feet away from the girl in white who hovered at
least
  eighteen inches in the air, and before anyone could
realize
  what he wadds about to do, Wilkes raised the gun
and fired
  point-blank into Alice's young body.
  He kept firing until the fifth of the Luger's
eight bullets
  jammed between chamber and magazine.
  And it was only a moment before she opened
her eyes, raised up
  the lid of the coffin, and sat up ulive again.
  "Little Snow White," The Brothers Grimm
  it WAS A SCF.NF. FROM a nightmare, a
sluggishly unfolding
  drama of horror.
  Fenn saw but could not understand,
  Alice had walked to the center of the platform and the
  hvmn had faltered, then died on the people's lips.
Her face
  had been beatific--even he, knowing what he did
--had
  been enchanted. She had l less-than xggkcd
skyward and then slowly
  down, scanning the crowd; and that was when he had
  shuddered. She had smiled. And it seemed that her
eyes
  has found his. He saw her smile as a
rictus grin, wide,
  malevolent, and somehow, greedy. It mocked him
personally
  and sneered at the crowd generally.
  Yet it was just a child's sweet smile.
  The crowd was mesmerized, and to him, it was the
  fascination of a fear-paralyzed rabbit
staring into the deadly
  eyes of a snake.
  Yet it was just a child standing there.
  He felt weak once more, his vitality drawn from
                                      Page 388
                            James Herbert - The Shrine
him
  and those around him, drawn into this malignant thing
  standing in a blaze of light.
  Yet she was just a child too voung to know evil.
  The lights had flickered, dimmed, and then
Alice was
  moving up, rising above them in a slow but steady
ascent,
  her arms stretched out, as though beseeching their love.
  Their trust.
  The crowd moaned as if in rapture, and there were
gasps and cries from different parts of the field.
Fenn felt
  his throat constricting and dizziness invaded him
once
  more. It was difficult to breathe, difficult to keep
on his
  feet.
  He was only vaguely conscious of the thin, blond
person
  striding down the aisle toward the altar and
did not understand
  when that person raised his arm and pointed something
  at the small figure floating above him.
  He did not even hear the gunfire--at least, the
four
  sharp reports did not register in his brain--but
he saw the
  blood spurt from four points in Alice's
chest, gushing out
  in separate fountains to fall back onto the
whiteness of her
  dress, a crimson dye scattered on a
field of snow.
  There was shock, disbelief, and finally pain in her
small
  face, before she fell to the platform to lie in a
crumpled
  heap. The blood spread outward, finding the edge
of the
  platform, flowing over in two sickeningly
plentiful streams.
  There was no sound among the crowd. The pilgrims,
  the sightseers, the believers, the unbelievers,
all stood in
  total uncomprehending silence.
  Until thunder roared directly overhead, and
pandemonium
  erupted in the field.
  Fenn caught Sue as she slumped against him.
  The rush of noise was terrifying, a chaotic
babble of
  screams and shouts that soon became a wailing
lamentation,
  the anguish affecting groups, individuals, in
different ways;
  many--men as well as women--were reduced
to hysterics,
  while others merely wept quietly; some just
stood in numbed
  silence, too shocked to do or say anything; the
anguish of
  others quickly turned to rage, shouts of
                                      Page 389
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
vilification against
   the assassin passing from person to person, joining in
a
   vehement chant for revenge. There were yet others
among
   them who had not seen the brutal act and who pulled
at
   their neighbors, demanding to be told what
had happened.
   Ben was frightened and grabbed at his mother's limp
   body. Fenn put a protective arm around him
while still
   holding Sue upright.
   Figures broke from the mass to rush at the
blond man
   who had shot Alice Pagett and who still held the
German
   pistol at his side. Fie went down under a
tumult of bodies
   and screamed as he was flailed by fists and feet.
Sharp
   fingernails raked his face, a lower eyelid was
pulled down
   and torn, bones in the bridge of his nose were
crushed,
   and he felt the crushed fragments pour from his
nostrils
   with the blood. I he gun was torn from his grasp
and the
   fingers on that hand were caught awkwardly beneath
   someone's weight. The snapping sound was lost in the
   cries of the mot), but the sharpness of the pain could not
he lost to his own consciousness.
   He shrieked as his limbs were pulled and joints were
stretched tree of their sockets. His tears ran
into his own
   blood as impossible, suffocating, weight pushed
against his
   chest. Something was giving way there and he could not
   quite reason what. "I'he bones in his chest slowly
caved in,
   pressing against his heart and lungs, restricting the
pumping
   organ and squeezing life-giving air from the
delicate
   sacs. It slowly dawned on him that perhaps he had
made a
   mistake.
   Nearby, a young girl who had come to the shrine
to pay
   homage to the little miracle worker for the gift she had
   bestowed on her, stared at the still, blggKggdstained
bundle
   before the altar. I he girl's face suddenly
twitched. One
   side of her mouth moved downward, grotesquely
twisting
   into a gargoyle's grimace. An
eyelid flickered once, twice,
   and then would not stop. Her arm jerked, then shuddered;
   it began to move spasmodically. Then her leg
joined in the
   unsightly and uncontrolled dance, the girl
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                            James Herbert - The Shrine
screamed and
  collapsed to the ground.
  --As did the boy in another part of the field, who
had
  come to the shrine in adoration of the child called Alice,
  the living saint who had restored the use of his
legs. Their
  strength was gone and he floundered between the benches,
  calling out in frustration, afraid to be a
cripple once more--
  --Elsewhere, a man's vision rapidly began
to fade, the
  blaze of light in the middle of the field becoming
a hazy
  cloud, the cataracts which the child had caused to clear
  returning with a speed that was unnatural and
inexplicable--
  just as their disappearance had been. He cupped his
hands
  to his face and slowly sat down on a
bench, a low moaning
  sound coming from him--
  --While in a different part of the field a young
girl
  found once more that sounds emitted from her throat
  could not be formed into words and that her distressed
  mother did not understand her when she asked what was
  happening--
  --And a boy in the crowd whose hands had began
to fill
  with ugly verrucae could only wail and beat his
fists
  against the bench in front--
  --A bench where, farther along, a man felt his
face
  exploding into open sores, his skin cracking like
parched
  earth. He gasped, not just because the opening wounds
  hurt, but because he knew he was becoming a freak
once
  more, a man wearing a dog's muzzle of hideous
lacerations
  and dripping ulcers.
  From all over the field came such moans and
cries of
  piteous despair, for there were others who fell to the
  ground, others whose limbs became useless, others
whose
  afflictions suddenly and cruelly returned
to dominate their
  lives. They had thought, had prayed, that their
cures were
  permanent, that Alice Pagett had granted them
a new and
  lasting hope, a divine manifestation of God's
caring that
  would not be erased with time. Now they were betrayed,
  lost. Defeated.
  Fcnn no longer felt weakened, and the dizziness
had left
  him. His nerves were taut, tightened, so that his
actions
  were swift, his senses aware. He huddled Sue
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                            James Herbert - The Shrine
and Ben
  close to him, protecting them from the confusion all
around.
  Sue began to revive and her legs took her own
weight.
  "Gerry?" she said, still dazed.
  "It's okay. Sue," he replied, his
head nestling hers. "I'm
  here; so's Ben."
  "Is she ... is she dead?"
  He closed his eyes tor a second. "I think
so. She must
  be."
  "Oh, Gerry, how could it happen?" She was
sobbing.
  "How could someone do that to her?"
  Ben clutched at his mother, wanting to comfort her,
  upset but still not understanding everything that was
  happening. "Let's go home, Mummy. I
don't like it here
  anymore. Please let's go home."
  Fenn looked over the sea of moving heads toward
the
  altar. "Christ," he said, "nobody's gone
to her yet. They're
  all too shocked." And he knew that they were all
too
  afraid, even her own mother, to approach the inert
body.
  Afraid, possibly, to discover that Alice
really was dead.
  "I've got to get up there," he said.
  Sue's grip tightened on him. "No, Gerry.
Let's just get
  away from here. There's nothing we can do."
  tie looked down at her. "I've got to make
sure . . ." He
  could only shake his head. "out wait here with Hen;
you'll be okay."
  "Gerry, it's not safe. I can feel it's not
safe."
  "Sit here." He gently lowered her to the bench.
"Ben,
  keep hold of your mother; don't let go." I ie
knelt beside
  them both, oblivious to the chaos around them. "Stay
here
  and wait for me. (ust don't move from this spot."
  She opened her mouth to protest, but he quickly
kissed
  her forehead and then was gone, climbing over benches,
  pushing his way through the disoriented crowd.
  Fenn found himself in the clearing before the platform,
  the ground littered with beseeching invalids, a
battleground
  after the war had passed. To his right was a mot) of
  shouting, tearing people, and he knew what lay
beneath
  their stomping feet, sure that the man with the gun could
  no longer be alive. They had always been
impotent over
  past publicity-blazed assassinations and
assassination attempts,
                                      Page 392
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  torced to contain their anger, their spite, against
  the perpetrators, frustrated in their grief,
despising those
  who mocked and flaunted the very rules of
civilization. But now the aggressor was within their reach,
one of the
  devil's legion lay beneath their feet; tor
once, the people
  had the power to take revenge.
  He kept clear of them, making for the stairs at the
side
  of the platform. A man, visibly distressed and
wearing a
  steward's armband, made a halfhearted attempt
to bar his
  way, but the reporter easily brushed him
aside. Fenn was
  almost at the top of the steps when he stopped.
  Most of the altar servers were weeping; some
were on
  their knees praying, their faces wet with tears,
while others
  could only rock their bodies to and fro, heads
buried in
  their hands. The priest who had been conducting the
service, ashen-faced, his lips moving in silent
prayer, supported Molly Pagett; she was
obviously in a state of extreme
  shock, for her eyes were wide, her mouth open, and
  her movements stiff. Bishop Caines, in all
his Finery, had
  the same unsteady awkwardness, the blood drained
from
  his face.
  Fenn shared their grief and wondered if he had
lggeen
  wrong about her. It was impossible to believe that
evil could exist in that tiny, prone body, in a child that
had brought so much happiness and renewed faith.
  He climbed another step and the lights--even the
  candles--began to dim.
  He fell to one knee, a hand dropping to the
platform to
  steady himself. Giddiness struck him once
again and he fought against nausea. He was faintly
conscious of the
  lightning flash, followed by rolling thunder.
  He shook his head and looked toward the group on
the
  stage. Bishop Games, the priest, and others
around them
  were sinking to their knees. Only Molly Pagett
stood
  transfixed, one hand outstretched toward the
bloodied bundle
  that had been her daughter.
  The bundle that was beginning to stir, beHinninu
to sit
  up. The daughter who had been shot four times and
wlio
  was rising slowly to her feet.
  The daughter whose face no longer resembled nny
earthly
                                      Page 393
                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   child's, who looked around with malevolent intent and
   smiled. And grinned. And chuckled.
   We spelled our loves until close of day.
   I wished her ifood-ni caret ht and walked
away,
   But she put out a tongue that was Innif
and red
   And swallowed me down like a crumb of bread.
""I he Two Witches," Robert Graves
   wereby '"F.ns-l.umpi-disD AGAINST "I
HE STF.PS, one elbow supporting
   his upper body, a hand still on the platform itself.
He
   wanted to run; if not to run, then at least
to slither down
   the steps and crawl away from this monstrosity that
stood
   in the center of the sanctified stage. But there was little
   strength in him. He could hardly move. He could
only
   watch.
   Her head was turning in his direction and every nerve in
   his body tensed; it seemed as though a deeply
cold shock
   were running through him, paralyzing his muscles,
scraping
   the inside of his skin, working its way into his
bloodstream
   so that even his life's fluid was almost frozen,
   moving slowly, nearly stopping. He tried
to draw in breath,
   but his lungs would hardly stretch, would hardly
expand
   to take in air.
   Her eyes found him. But there were no eves, just
deep,
   black holes. Her flesh was burned, charred,
her body
   misshapen. Her head was at a strange angle,
almost resting
   against one shoulder, and her neck was scarred, a
tight
   restricting band of indented flesh cutting across her
windpipe.
   Thick oozing blood still poured from the wounds in her
   body and the child's dress was no longer white: it was
a
   red, blood-smeared rag. And then the hideous
doll-like
   figure was smoldering, curls of smoke rising from
the cloth
   and flesh. Her face began to blister, the skin
began to tear.
   Her skin turned black.
   And she was Alice once again.
   Confused, lost, a small child who had
experienced death's
   advent and could not understand why she did not lie
   dying.
   "Alice, Alice!"
   The girl turned, her eyes wide, afraid,
to face her
   mother.
                                       Page 394
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  "Oh, God," Fenn moaned softly as he saw
her features
  change once more.
  Her voice was low, rasping. "Rosemund."
  Molly Pagett, who had found strength to move
toward
  her daughter, stopped and her mouth opened in a
scream
  that tried to deny the sudden perception. "No, no!"
Molly
  fell, vet her eyes would not leave the little
figure standing
  before her. "No!" she screamed. "I'm not
Rosemund! Not
  her!"
  The steps on which Fenn lay seemed to reverberate
with
  the thunderclap, but the trembling did not
stop. He clung
  to the wooden stairs as they shook, the agitation
becoming
  more jarring, more violent.
  An explosion to his left as a floodlight
popped, sparks
  leaping outward like dragon's breath. A
fluctuation of light
  as other lamps dimmed, became bright, exploded.
Cries of
  panic from the crowd as an earth tremor ran beneath
their
  feet. The ruffling of his hair and clothes as a
wind swept
  across the platform, bending the candle flames before
extinguishing
  them. A crash as the crucifix on the altar
fell to
  the carpeted boards.
  Sue and Ben huddled together as panic-stricken people
  rushed by. I he nuns, with whom they had shared the
  bench, were filing into the center aisle, the vibrations
from
  the ground causing them to lurch from side to side. I
hey
  held on to each other as though they were a blind group
  being led to safety.
  Others of the crowd were clambering across the benches,
  shoving their way through fellow worshipers who were too
  shocked to move, or who could not flee fast enough.
Those
  who had brought along invalid relatives or
friends struggled
  with them through the thronging mass, desperateFy
  trying to keep up with the human tide, falling with
their
  charges when the merciless crush became too much,
  pleading for help, protecting their sick with their own
  bodies, disappearing under a welter of thrashing arms
and
  legs.
  The bench on which Sue and Ben clung to each other
  was toppled over and they found themselves on the shuddering
  ground, the narrow crevasse between fallen bench
  and the one behind affording them some protection against
                                      Page 395
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  the frenzied mob. Sue pulled the boy close,
a hand against
  his check, an arm around his shoulders, while he
closed his
  eyes against the terror and tried to shut out
the noise, the
  screams, the cries, the low rumbling that came from
  underground.
  Television and film cameramen were leaping from their
  perches into the throng, their machines and the very platforms
  they were mounted on live with dangerous power,
  the current running through the technicians"
bodies in
  swift waves, not strong enough to kill or maim, but
enough
  to shock their systems rigid. Photographers,
many who
  had steadfastly continued to shoot the bizarre scene
on the
  central platform despite the panic around them,
were forced
  to drop their instruments as the metal casing scorched
  their fingers.
  I he congregation which had come to worship,
to idolize,
  to witness, fled toward the field's three exits,
converging
  on these points to form their own human blockade.
Many
  were squashed against the tall locked
gates that had been
  erected at one side of the field, a wide
entrance meant for
  lorries bringing in construction materials and film
equipment,
  before the heavy lock gave way under the strain. As
they burst open, those people pressed against them fell and
  others fell on top, and still more fell onto the
scrambling
  heap.
  Police at the central entrance gate tried
to control the
  fleeing mobs, but were swept away with them. Children
  were held high by their parents and many suddenly felt
  themselves adrift on moving waves of heads and
shoulders.
  The less fortunate slipped into the smallest
openings to he
  drowned in the pulverizing human current. Those
who
  managed to escape the field, bruised, battered
and almost
  demented, fled into the road, many running toward the
  lights of the village, others just fleeing in all
directions,
  into the darkness of opposite fields, along the
road heading
  toward open country, dragging helpless companions
with
  them, thanking God that they were safely away from the
  dreadful place, that ground they had thought to be
hallowed,
  sacred. And they thanked God that the earth no
                                      Page 396
                            James Herbert - The Shrine
longer
  shook beneath them.
  The press entrance was too narrow to take the
deluge; it
  was totally blocked. The pile of crushed bodies
grew higher
  as more and more people tried to scramble over and became
  entangled themselves in the mass of writhing bodies.
  Others were lacerated as they attempted to force
themseves
  through the tough bramble hedges surrounding the field,
  the natural barrier acting as hundreds of
barbed-wire
  coils
  Those who had been outside the shrine throughout the
  service--the stallholders, the police, the
pilgrims and sightseers
  who had arrived too late to be allowed enrrv
into the
  already overcrowded compound--could only stare aghast.
  They had heard the rumbling thunder overhead and had
  glanced anxiously at the troubled clouds, somehow
aware
  that the atmosphere had changed, that there was danger
  close by. They could not explain the feeling and had
  looked at one another with uncertainty; something had
  seemed to pass through them, a frigid coldness, a
nerve-tingling
  iciness, and their apprehension became an overt
  fear. Many of the stallholders had began to pack
away
  their goods, all good-natured bantering between them
gone.
  Disappointed worshipers and tourists suddenly
felt relieved
  that they hbbggd not gained access; they began
to hurry
  back to their vehicles, not sure of their feelings,
but wanting
  to be away from this place. Their anxiety increased
  when the engines of their cars, vans, and minibuses
whined
  and refused to start. The police and officials
outside the
  grounds were alarmed and a uniformed sergeant tried to
  radio through to his chief inspector who was inside
the
  field keeping an eye on proceedings. The
sergeant received
  only static on the handset.
  Despite their concern, nothing untoward had
occurred
  until the third hymn was drawing to a close.
There had
  been a long silence, then four unmistakable
gunshots had
  rung out, followed by pandemonium. Even though they
  had heard the clamor from within, they did not
rcalii'e the
  extent of the panic until the congregation had come
pouring
  out, sweeping over the uniformed men who stood in
  their way.
                                      Page 397
                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   But not everyone inside had tried to escape.
Certain
   individuals fell to their knees and clasped their
hands
   together in praver, their eves raised upward to the
turbulent
   skies; some were collected in groups, quavery
voices
   raised in hymn, afraid but stalwart; others
cowered on the
   shaking ground, clutching grass and mud as though
afraid
   they would slide off the face of the earth. And yet
others
   lav there never to move again, life pressed from them
by
   trampling feet.
   Paula was pulling her gibbering mother to her feet, for
   they had both fallen in the initial rush.
Bewildered, she"
   looked around; everything was in gloom, confused,
chaotic.
   She could hear singing above the cries for help, but it
was
   farawav, remote. Brittle, claw-like fingers
scratched at her
   throat and her mother's fear-struck, tremulous
pleading
   filtered through to her. She pulled the
feeble hands away
   and tried to see more clearly.
   The only light came from the altar, the bright
beacon
   still shining high into the sky, lighting the misshapen
tree
   whose branches quivered and oscillated as though it
were a
   living creature. There were silhouettes in front
of the light, a black drama acted out on the stage.
She understood, even in her confused state, that the fear
stemmed from that
   centerpiece: the people were not just running because the
   ground shook beneath them, but because they were repelled
   by the abhorrent thing that stood before the altar and
   had looked at each one of them personally and
mockingly
   invaded the intimacy of their very souls. It had
scorned
   and reviled each man, woman, and child, and had known
each one's cruelness, every sin and iniquitous desire
they
   held. It knew them and made them recognize
themselves.
   Paula put her arms around the frail
shoulders of her
   mother and led her unsteadily along the row toward the
   center aisle. They staggered and nearly went down
several
   times as the ground lurched; it was exhausting, dragging
   her mother along, pushing her way through those who had
   become paralyzed with terror, fighting off others
who
   were desperate to get by. They made it to the end
                                       Page 398
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
of the
   bench and paused, gathering strength to join the
mainstream
   of struggling people.
   Somebody collapsed against them and they fell,
rolling
   over the bench behind to crash into soft earth. Paula
   scrabbled onto hands and knees, feeling for her
mother, a
   moving jungle of legs passing within inches of her
face.
   She touched her mother's body and tugged at it, but it
did
   not move. Her fluttering hands moved along the
shape
   toward her mother's face: they found it and the
mouth was
   gaping open, the eyes closed.
   "Mother!" she screamed, and the tremoring earth became
   still. The surrounding cries of terror quietened with
   the stillness of the earth. People stopped and looked around.
   Whimpers came from everywhere, but they were soft, the
   moans of animals after a harsh beating. Even the
hymn
   singing had stopped. Even the praying.
   On the altar, something burned.
   Paula knew instinctively that her mother was dead,
even
   though she pushed a hand beneath the old woman's coat
to
   feel her chest. The heart was as still as the air around
   them. She felt no grief, only a numbness.
And in a way,
   a release.
   But the numbness dissipated when she saw Rodney
Tucker
   collapsed against a bench nearby. Hatred seethed
within
   her, a fury that quickly devoured the numbness and
sent
   emotion soaring through her.
   And then, just as an uneasy calmness began
to settle
   over everyone, the earth opened.
   ***
   George Southworth had fled toward the church
wall, all
   dignity shed, naked terror revealed.
   Everything had gone so well, his dreams easily
within
   his grasp. The shrine--hidds project--had
become a huge
   success, a fantastic money-spinner. He, and
others in the
   area, those with the foresight to invest, to deal themselves
   in at the very beginning, were about to see their shrewd
   business acumen rewarded. Indeed, the rewards
had already
   been made apparent; now they could only increase.
   The village of Banfield was no longer dying;
it flourished
   and would continue to do so, just as had the French
village
                                       Page 399
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  of Lourdes, now a bustling town, a thriving
community
  that was known worldwide.
  But she, that thing, that bl less-than xggdicd
monster who had
  impossibly risen from the dead, had looked at
him, just
  him, and seen the greed in his heart. And she had
laughed
  at it, and had welcomed it, for it was part of the evil
that
  gave her existence.
  He was running even before the earth had begun to
  tremble. Those around him were too blind to see, too
  horror-struck to realiz.e the meaning of this
unholy resurrection.
  He knew, but did not understand how he knew,
  that this creature was the manifestation of their own
evil,
  that she existed on the power she drew from their own
  blackened souls. The awareness had struck him because
  she willed it so. That instigation was this creature's
torment:
  the realisation of one's own infinite vileness. I
he guilt that
  the Church taught all men to suffer was founded on
  actuality: the culpability was real because the
wickedness
  had always been there in each and every person. Even in
  the innocent, the children. Children like Alice.
  He brushed by those who could only gaze up at the
altar
  and he fought the weakness and dizziness that assailed
  him, knowing that catastrophe was to follow this new,
  obscene miracle.
  Vaguely, somewhere in the far distance, he heard the
  hunched thing speak, one word, perhaps a name, and the
  echo in his mind was drowned by thunder, a sound diss
  loud, so shattering, so near, it seemed to rip
into his heart.

   Bur he was still moving, staggering among the invalids
   stretched out on the ground.
   "I hen there were others fleeing with him, screams
breaking
   loose from terrified souls, entreaties from those
too
   crippled to move. A hand grabbed at his leg and
he looked
   down to see a wasted, skeletal man wrapped in
a heavy red
   blanket, begging him with wide, frightened eyes
to carry
   him away from the disorder. He knocked the yellow,
   withered hand away and staggered onward, the ground
   vibrating beneath him, the low rumble seeming to rise
up
   through the soles of his feet to shake him like a rag
doll.
   It was an eternity before he reached the low wall
surrounding
   the church grounds, and the oscillation had grown
   more violent. I here were others with him, those who
                                       Page 400
                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   realized the exits would be blocked, and they, too,
climbed the wall, leaping into the graveyard beyond.
   He fell heavily and lay panting in the rough
grass, hands
   clenched into the earth. He was kicked as others
scrambled
   over and a blow caught him on the temple, sending
him
   reeling. Southworth pushed himself back, rolling
close to
   the wall and lying there gasping for breath,
cautiously
   waiting like a dislodged jockey under a jump.
   High-heeled boots scraped off his shoulder and
he vaguely
   recognized the American journalist who had
been at the
   convent when Alice's stomach had refused the
Communion
   wafer. He called after her fleeing figure,
needing
   help, too dazed to move, but she was gone,
disappearing
   between the gravestones.
   He had no record of time, no knowledge of how long
he
   lay there, for his senses were jumbled, both fear and the
   knock he had received combining to confuse. He
became
   aware that the ground was no longer trembling and that a
   quietness had descended. He wiped a palm
across his face
   and found it came away wet; he hadn't realized
he had
   been weeping.
   Southworth groaned as the pandemonium broke
loose
   again. The tearing, wrenching sound felt as it the very
   earth was erupting. Everything shook: the trees, the
ground,
   the gravestones. Lush, fresh soil trickled in
rivulets down
   the tiny pyramid molehills. As he watched,
a gray slab no
   more than eight feet away tilted, then fell.
The stone lids
   on the tombs reverberated; one was jolted in quick
shuddering
   movements so that it slid from its perch, breaking
   into fragments when it landed, leaving the tomb gaping
   open.
   He had to reach the church. There he would find
sanctuary
   from this bedlam. He tried to rise, but the quaking of
   the earth would not allow it; he staggered forward bent,
   sometimes on all fours like an animal, sometimes
flat on
   the ground propelling himself with arms and legs.
   Figures around him stumbled through the graveyard,
   falling against the headstones, leaning on trembling
tombs
   for support.
   Occasionally, the rolling clouds allowed a
                                       Page 401
                            James Herbert - The Shrine
glimpse of
  moonlight, its brightness sparing and soon
gone.
  A mound of earth near Southworth moved and he
stared
  spellbound, telling himself it was the earth tremors
causing
  the disturbance to the grave. But the soil was being
pushed
  upward, from within, as though something beneath it
  wanted to breathe the air of the living once more.
  More shifting of soil nearby. An urn containing
fresh
  flowers tipped over. Earth beneath it began
to bulge,
  began to break.
  A trickle of soil touched his outstretched fingers
and he
  pulled his hand away, tucking it beneath his chest. He
saw
  the small grave nearby, a child's grave--or
perhaps a dwarfs.
  A tiny hillock was forming, rising from the flatness
around
  it, and before the moonlight was swallowed by the heavy,
  thunderous clouds again, little white things pushed through
  the soil. Little white things that could have
been worms.
  Worms that were stiffened, upright. Five of them.
Joined
  by five more.
  Southworth screamed and staggered to his feet. He
ran,
  stumbled, crawled, to the door of St.
Joseph's, aware of
  the moving shapes in the ground around him.
  He slammed into the old wood, whimpering, his
legs
  drenched and stained with his own excrement, his eyes
  blurred by tears. He scratched at the wood as
if to claw his
  way through, scrabbled for the metal ring at waist
level,
  twisted it, once, twice, pushed the door open,
and stum-
  bled inside. He slammed it shut and stood there
in the
  dark church, his back against the dour, his chest
heaving,
  gasping for breath.
  Until he froze, his lungs half-filled.
  And listened to the scratching against the wood
outside.
  Where have the dead if one? Where do they live now?
  Not in the grave, they say, Then where now?
"Grave by a Holm-oak," Stevie Smith
  ff.nn RAISED HIS HEAD FROM the platform's
surface and
  tried to take in a deep breath. The air was
fetid, though,
  full of corruption and the stink of burning; he
choked, his
  stomach heaving in short gut-wrenching spasms.
                                      Page 402
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  He was vaguely aware of the turmoil below, the
panic-stricken
  people staggering toward the exits, earth tremors
  causing many to fall to the ground where they lay and
  were trampled. But it was dark out there and virtually
  impossible to make out more than a contused melee of
  struggling bodies; it was the screams and piteous
wails that
  revealed the true horror.
  Somewhere in the channels of his fuddled mind, reason
  told him he had to get away, that he had to go
back and
  find Sue and Ben and lead them away from the
danger, for
  this abhorrence meant to destroy, to devastate.
He had no
  strength; his muscles felt sluggish even though his
nerves
  were tautly stretched. He wanted to look away
from the
  smoldering, bloody monstrosity, but the vision
held his
  gaze, held his debilitated body, held him
there as if chains
  restrained any action.
  He heard her speak and there were other voices
inside
  his head that told him he must resist her power.
Her
  strength was his strength, was the strength of all those
  present, was accumulative potency drawn from the
evil of
  others, the negative force torn from the
positive, creating
  an imbalance over them all. But resist.
Resist! [he voices
  repeated the word and they were the same voices and the
  same words as in his dreams. EITHER-NOR could only
exist through
  the kinetic energy of those living. Resist her!
She could not
  govern those who opposed.
  Was it mere self-delusion that the voices in his
mind and
  dreams were those of the two dead priests?
  Fenn moaned and he tried to resist, but the effort
was
  too much. He could not even look away from the
disfigured
  creature. In the church at Barham he had run
from
  his nightmares, refusing to confront them, denying their
  reality; now he had no option in the confrontation.
His
  will was too weak to leave.
  Every person on the stage around the altar was in a
state of near collapse. Bishop Caines was on
his knees, one hand against the flooring, the other waving
feebly in the air in
  an uncoordinated movement that vaguely
resembled the
  Sign of the Cross. His lips moved
ceaselessly, and spittle
                                      Page 403
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  drooled from them to glisten against his chin.
The words
  were almost inaudible, but they were clear in Fenn's
mind:
  "dis . . Holy I caret ord, Almighty
Father, Everlasting God and
  Father of our Eord Jesus Christ.
  "Who once and for all consigned that fallen tyrant
. . ."
  The priest who had been conducting the service lay
  prostrate on the floor, his arms outstretched as
if in
  supplication. He was motionless and Fcnn could see
his
  eyes were rolled back into his head, only
whiteness showing;
  the priest's mouth was open but there was no indication
  that he was breathing.
  "dis . , to the Hames of Hell.
  "Who sent your only begotten Son into the world to
  crush that roaring lion; hasten to our call . . ."
  Some of the altar servers were crouched over, their
  knees drawn up, foreheads pressed against the
rich carpet
  of the centerpiece, hands tucked around their heads as
if to
  shut away the evil that had manifested itself; others
swayed
  as they knelt, white, draining horror in their
expressions,
  but eyes riveted on the small, unclean
figure.
  "dis . . for help and snatch from ruination and from the
  clutches of the noonday Devil this human being
made in
  Your image ..."
  Only Molly Pagett stood.
  Yet even she was sinking, her arm still raised toward
her
  daughter.
  "Aliiiiicccc!" she moaned.
  And the malevolent voice hissed back, "Your
daughter is
  in death, sweet Rosemund. She, our
devil's spawn, is
  between this place and the underworld, her service to me
  almost complete. None can save her. Nor save
you." The
  scarred, bent creature turned her head toward the
blackness.
  "Nor those who slew me and denied my
right."
  "dis . . and likeness.
  "Strike terror. Lord, into the beast now laying
waste
  Your vineyard. Let Your mighty ..."
  "Noooooo!" Molly Pagett stumbled forward,
sinking to
  the floor, moving toward the smoldering thing, both
hands
  reaching out.
  And the creature who was Alice, who was Einor,
laughed,
                                      Page 404
                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   and Fenn saw a shape hanging from a lower branch
of the
   tree, and it was burning and twisting, and its neck was
   stretched, its feet twitching and turning black,
and substance
   was dripping from its body to fall steaming onto the
   altar below, and its head was aflame and its flesh
burnt,
   and as it turned it was Alice
   "dis . . hand cast him out, so he ... he ... she
. . . may
   no longer hold captive this person ..."
   With a screech of sheer despair,
Molly Pagett lunged
   forward and touched the charred and rotted body of
Einor,
   then screamed in pain as rivulets of fire ran
along her
   fingers, along her arms, engulfing her head and
shoulders.
   There was a silence. A silence that was as terrifying
as
   the clamor preceding it.
   Bishop Caines became quiet.
   Molly Pagett blazed but did not move.
   Fenn felt his senses beginning to fade.
   And the image-corpse of the sixteenth-century nun
chuckled
   as thunder suddenly roared and the field began to open.
   ***
   Paula let go of her mother's dead body.
   The deep rumbling noise reverberated in her
head as the
   earth wrenched itself apart, the cacophony of screams
and
   shouts beginning anew. She watched mesmerized as
a
   gaping wound appeared in the soil; it
widened, ran jagged
   along the center aisle, sending the petrified
crowd clambering
   back into the rows of benches.
   The ground yawned open and Paula saw the
blackness
   down there, so deep, bottomless, an infinity of
darkness.
   Yet, as moonlight fought its way through the massed
   clouds and cast its glow into the chasm, she saw
movement,
   hands reaching upward, limbs clinging to the soft, rent
   earth. Shapes climbing from the depths, figures
that were
   twisted, that moaned and stared openmouthed at the sky
   above, tormented souls that yearned for the world above.
   Paula closed her eyes, telling herself it
wouldn't be true,
   that this was not really happening. She opened them again
   and saw it was true, it was happening.
   There were figures on the edge of the opening chasm,
   backing away, pushing each other to keep clear of the
   widening gap. Even in her own terror, Paula
recognized
   two of them.
                                       Page 405
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  Tucker was struggling away from the pit, hindered by
  his wife, who had slipped, one leg over the
edge, disappearing
  into the blackness. She scrabbled at his clothes,
desperately
  trying to cling to him, but he pulled her hands away,
  afraid she would take him with her, knowing he amid
not drag
  her weight clear. She screamed at him,
imploring him to save
  her, but he shouted back at her, shrieked for her
to let go,
  slapped at her face, prised at her fingers.
She held on with
  one hand, the other grabbing at the soil beneath her, one
  knee on the very lip of the chasm. The earth crumbled
  beneath her heavy body and the material of his coat
tore as
  she fell screaming.
  Tucker stumbled back, then righted himself. He
stood
  with hands against his thighs, struggling to recover his
  strength, soon realizing he had to keep moving
back, that
  the opening was still widening.
  He turned just as Paula rushed at him.
  Hatred drove her forward, loathing for a fat
bastard
  who had betrayed her, used her, abused her
body, and
  lied, lied, lied right-brace Beneath the ground was
where he belonged,
  to wriggle and squirm with the slugs and worms and
  underground creatures that he was akin to.
  She slammed into him and he caught her. But her
  impetus was too forceful: he could not keep his
balance.
  He toppled backward and clutched at her,
taking her with
  him.
  Together, locked in screaming embrace, they
plunged.
  Southworth ran from the door.
  He touched every pew with his left hand as he passed,
  like a child touching every spoke in a railing, an action
that
  had no logic, panic its prompter.
  He reached the low rail in front of the altar and
slumped
  against it, whining against the solitude of the
church,
  afraid of the frozen corpses outside seeking
entry.
  The church began to vibrate. Statues around its
walls
  moved, shifted by the tremor. The rail he
clung to became
  impossible to grip. I he cracking of ancient
stone rang out
  like a report from a cannon, jerking his head in the
direction
  of the sound. He watched in fascinated horror as
the
                                      Page 406
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  jagged tine ripped across a wall. More
ear-splitting sounds
  and more lines joining the first. Now from the other side
  of the church. Now from the roof.
  Pieces of masonry began to clatter onto the
stone floor.
  Powdered concrete descended as white dust, and the
dim
  lights of the church began to falter, flickering as
if candlelight
  caught by the wind. On--off--on--off. Then, just
  very low.
  His hands were at his mouth, stilling the cries that
  nobody would have heard over the tearing of old stone.
  Behind him, candlesticks toppled from the altar; the
tabernacle
  door swung open, revealing the white silk
emptiness
  inside; the huge stained-glass window, donated
to St.
  Joseph's by a sixteenth-century nobleman
flew inward,
  sending shards of colored glass spearing through the
air.
  He gasped as several pieces struck his head,
scything
  through his hair and scalp, leaving the fine cuts that
quickly
  oozed with blood. He was fortunate that the rail
he clung
  to protected most of his face and neck.
  The turbulence became more intense, the cracking and
  rumbling sounds deafening. A long, jagged line
appeared in
  the stone floor, running beneath the pews and across the
  aisle. A gap began to open, a scission so
black it seemed
  painted. Pews shifted, fell against one another
as the cleft
  became a fissure, the fissure a wide
split.
  I he knuckles of his hands began to bleed as he
bit hard;
  he watched slime-covered fingers appear over the
edge of
  the hole. He bit down until his teeth were
grinding against
  bare bone.
  Hands, then arms, filthy with earth and mold
appeared.
  Small btack things scuttled out, disappearing
into darker
  corners; something long slithered across the floor and
curled
  itselt around the abase of a statue. More fingers
slid over
  the edge, more arms reached into the air. More hands and
  naked, death-discolored shoulders began to appear.
  The door at the far end of the church began
to splinter,
  pressure from the breaking stone around it forcing it from
  the frame. It burst open and the dead
creatures entered.
                                      Page 407
                            James Herbert - The Shrine
  Sue felt strangely calm.
  "What's happening. Mummy? Why are all the people
screaming?"
  She held Ben tightiv, one hand against the back
of his
  neck, his head tucked against her chest.
  "It's all right," she soothed, stroking his hair.
"Don't be
  frightened."
  He pushed his head away from her, looking around to
  see what was going on. "I'm not afraid," he
said seriously,
  eyes w idening at the spectacle.
  Someone hurtled over them, tripping on their
recumbent
  bodies. The figure scrabbled to his or her
feet--there
  was no way of telling whether it was man or woman
in the
  poor light--and rushed on.
  Ben sat up again. "I can see Uncle
Gerry," he said,
  pointing toward the altar.
  Sue pushed herself up, using the
overturned bench next
  to her for support. The ground was still trembling,
although
  not quite as violently as before, and the rumbling
  sound was now deep down as if in the bowels of the
earth.
  For some reason people were fleeing from the center aisle,
  but it was impossible to see why. She followed
Ben's
  pointing finger and gasped when she saw the scene on
the
  altar.
  There were bodies dressed in the robes of the Mass
  littered all over the platform. She recognized
the portly
  figure of Bishop Caines, his sparse, gray
hair flat against
  his forehead, dampened with perspiration; his hand waved
  uselessly in the air. Not more than two yards from
him
  something was bright with flame. It was a figure, a
kneeling
  figure that did not move, nor squirm, in its
agony.
  Only the head, arms and shoulders were
burning, the
  hands outstretched toward someone who stood just beyond
  the light thrown from the one remaining lamp. It was just
  a small black silhouette, a child's figure,
standing before
  the gruesome display, watching, perfectly still,
smoke eddies
  from burst lights swirling around the altar. And
dominating
  everything, towering over the shrine, was the oak
  tree, its stout lower branches twisted downward
like arms
  about to scoop up the fallen bodies.
  She saw Fenn lying on the steps of the platform.
                                      Page 408
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
He looked so helpless and afraid.
  She stood, bringing Ben up with her.
  "Where are we going?" he asked.
  "Away from here," she replied. "But we have to get
  Uncle Gerry first."
  "Sure!" he shouted, and scampered over the bench.
  At once. Sue felt nauseous and dizzy.
Her knees began
  to sag.
  "Ben!" she cried out, and he was back with her,
arms
  wrapped around her waist, little face peering
anxiously up
  at her.
  The dizziness vanished. She swallowed and the
sickness
  was gone. Sue looked curiously down at her
son.
  She bent close. "Don't leave me, Ben.
Don't let go of
  me."
  He took her hand and together they climbed over the
  benches toward the altar.
  Sue forced herself to ignore the pitiful cries for
help
  coming from the invalids scattered on the stretch of
ground
  between the front benches and the altarpiece, knowing she
  could not go to their aid, that she had to reach Fenn, then
  perhaps together they could carry just one or two away
  from there. She clutched Ben's hand tightly, not
understanding
  why her strength, her calmness derived from
  him, just aware that it was so.
  She tried not to look at the burning figure and
saw that
  Ben had become fascinated by it. She pulled his
head
  against her hip, a hand covering his face to shield
him
  from the sight, but he pulled her fingers open and
peeped
  between them.
  They reached the foot of the steps and began to climb.
  "Gerry?" She was beside him, peering anxiously
into his
  face. He blinked his eyes, seeming not
to recognize her at
  first.
  "Sue," he said softly, and she breathed a sigh
of relief.
  Fenn suddenly grabbed her arm. "Sue, you've
got to get
  away from here! Now, right away! Wherc's Ben?"
  "It's all right. He's here. Come on, you're
coming with
  us."
  His head sank against the step. "No, I can't
move. I'm
  too weak. You've got to go without me."
  She pulled her son up the steps.
"Touch him, Gerry.
  Hold his hand," she urged.
                                      Page 409
                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   Fenn looked at her uncomprehendingly. "Just
get away, Sue. Just go!"
   She put her son's hand into his and Fenn looked
from
   her to the boy, then down at their joined hands. His
   sapped vitality began to return.
   Shrieks of agony made all three look
toward the altar.
   Molly Pagett was slowly rising from her
knees, beating
   at her enflamed hair with hands that were also alight.
The
   sound of her screams struck into them, chilling them.
   "Oh, God, I've got to help her." Fenn
tore off his coat
   and climbed the rest of the steps onto the platform.
He
   stumbled forward, coat held before him, ready to be
   thrown over the burning woman's head and shoulders.
   But Molly Pagett was beyond help.
   With one last piercing scream she lunged at the
dark
   figure standing just beyond the light. The
figure did not
   appear to move, yet the burning woman's arms
did not
   strike it. Molly plunged off the platform,
falling into the
   darkness to lay writhing in the field below, a fiery
rag, the
   agonized shrieks slowly becoming weak, fading,
stopping
   abruptly when her life was spent.
   Fenn groaned and slumped to the floor, rocking
track on
   his heels, his eyes closed, coat held
uselessly in his lap.
   The small figure stepped forward into the arena of
light
   and stood before the altar, looking up at the tree.
Then it
   turned its gaze on Fenn.
   Lightning flashed, freezing the shrine, the field,
the
   church in the distance, in its silvery light. Fenn,
whose
   eyes had opened, felt he was not part of the scene,
  hovering somewhere above, viewing from a great height
  and having no involvement. The jostling, tearing
worshipers,
  the sick left behind, arms upraised beseechingly;
the huge
  black abyss from which crawling things emerged; the
church,
  its tower beginning to crumble, the opening graves; the
  shrine, the stumped bodies before the altar, the
fallen
  crucifix, the hideous, misshapen tree. The
creature who
  watched him.
  The lightning flash expired, a two-second
exposure that
                                      Page 410
                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   ingrained an indelible monochrome vision of
hell's chaos
   on Fenn's mind.
   Thunder boomed, a deafening sound that overwhelmed
   all others and he clapped his hands to his ears in
reflex.
   Ben rugged at his mother and said, "There's blood
all
   over Alice's dress. Mummy."
   Fenn stared back into Einor's knowing
eyes and found
   himself sinking into their softness, a peaceful vortex that
   drew him inward to be exquisitely drowned in
their depths.
   He was aware of her delicately beautiful
features, the
   whiteness of her skin, the moist, natural redness
of her
   lips, even though he looked only into her eyes.
He sensed
   the pleasing suppleness other body, its lithencss,
its vitality,
   and the firmness of young breasts which the nun's simple
   costume could not disguise.
   Finer smiled and his head reeled.
   When she spoke, he barely understood her words,
so
   strange was her accent and so low, rasping, was her
voice.
   "Witness my vengeance," she said. "And be,
thyself,
   part."
   And her eyes were no longer soft and brown, but were
   darkly hollow, deep pits that held him
fascinated, Her skin
   was no longer soft and white, but was charred and torn,
the
   lips burned away to reveal stumps of blackened
teeth and
   weeping gums. Her body was no longer supple
and straight,
   but was twisted, bent, a warped scarred figure that
in
   some curious way resembled the malformed tree which
   towered over her. Her stench clawed at him in
putrefying
   waves. He raised a hand against her, falling
backward,
   pushing himself away.
   Her laughter was insidious, a sly creeping
chuckle.
   "Why is Alice standing there?" Ben asked his mother.
   The laughter grew, filled Fenn's head,
swamped his
   mind. Must get away, he told himself. Must
get free of
   her. O God, Jesus Christ, please help
me!
   The platform began to vibrate. His hands were forced
   from its dissurface, his body rolling
backward. He turned,
   tried to get his knees beneath him, toppling over, the
   splintering of wood sharp against the rumbling noise.
                                       Page 411
                            James Herbert - The Shrine
The
  long black rent in the field was widening, the gash
growing
  longer, flowing like a dark river toward the raised
  altar, stretching toward the shrine.
  The nun's clothes were smoldering as she approached
  Fenn, and her skin was blistering once more. Yet still
she
  chuckled and her lipless mouth mocked him. Broken
charred
  fingers were reaching for him. A streak of lightning cut
its
  jagged way through the sky.
  EITHER-NOR was almost upon him and her breath was as foul
  as her body.
  He screamed, unable to move.
  And she grinned her death's grin.
  But then she had stopped. Was looking hack toward
the
  tree. Was moaning, a low, piteous wail. She
straightened
  and her broken hands clenched tightly at
her breasts. Her
  moans became louder.
  Fenn followed her sightless gaze and saw nothing.
Then
  a shimmering.
  A glow.
  At the base of the tree.
  He felt renewed fear, but this was of another
kind. The
  glow became stronger, became bright, like a
newborn sun.
  His hand tried to shade his eyes, but the radiance was
too
  great, too blinding. Yet there was something in its
center.
  Something standing within its incandescent core.
  And in his mind he could hear the voices of the two
  priests. Pray, they urged him. Pray.
  He blinked. He closed his eyes. He
prayed.
  Lightning struck the tree and his eves shot open.
  The hunched creature was moving away, shuffling
  backward, arms stretched toward the splintered
oak. She
  screamed, cursed, her guttural
voice rising in pitch.
  I he upper branches of the tree were in flame,
its trunk
  torn open, tiny creatures pouring out, maggots,
lice, glistening
  wood leeches. The tree was rotted, dead
inside, a
  nesting place for parasites that fed on dead things.
  Thunder and, almost at once, forked lightning. It
struck
  the tree and every branch became alive with blue
dancing
  flashes, energy pouring through the contorted limbs,
seeking
  earth. I he whole of the oak burst into flames
and a
                                      Page 412
                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   tearing rending sound split the air. "I he
tree began to
   topple.
   Hands tugged at Fenn's shoulders. A woman's
hands
   and a child's.
   Sue and Ben pulled at Fenn until he was
moving with
   them, running from the platform, away from the
screaming
   creature, away from the falling tree. Hand in hand
   they jumped from the shrine into the night.
   They landed heavily, but the mu.v earth was soft,
   yielding. Fcnn, winded, his ankles jolted by the
fall, turned
   to see the small girl standing beneath the descending,
   screeching inferno, the child who was already dead, slain
   by a madman, Alice, who now raised her arms
as if to
   ward off the fiery ncmesis, yet no longer the child
as the
   flames engulfed her, once again the black,
hunched creature
   who could not defy the greater power. Fenn believed
   he heard Finer cry out as the burning tree
crushed then
   incinerated her corrupt and unearthly body.
   The centerpiece collapsed, all those sprawled
on its surface
   falling in toward the heart of the fire. Soon the
whole
   structure was burning.
   Only the crackle of flames could be heard and the
weeping
   of those still left in the field. The earth tremors
had
   stopped. There was no more screaming.
   Fenn reached for Sue and Ben, their distraught
faces
   bathed in the warm glow of the fire. He pulled them
to
   him and they huddled together, moving only when the
   flames of the burning platform came too near.
   And then the rain "ently began to fall.
FORTY.ONE
   "Round and round the circle
   Completing the charm
   So the knot be unkniitted
   The cross uncrossed
   The crooked he made straight
   And the curse he ended."
   "The Curse Be Ended," "I". S. Eliot
   "comi-con IN THIS US."
   Eenn smiled at Sue, who was peering in the open
car
   door, and gently shook his head. "You go with
Ben," he
   said. "I'll pick you up later."
   The boy scrambled from the back seat out
onto the
   curb. Sue leaned back into the Mini, one knee
on the
   passenger seat, and stretched across to kiss Een's
                                       Page 413
                            James Herbert - The Shrine
cheek.
  She tenderly hunged him and then was gone.
  He watched as they walked down the long path
toward
  the church entrance, Sue's hair caught by the
sun, made
  golden at its edges, Ben holding her hand,
skipping alongside
  her.
  It was a Sunday morning, a bright fresh day, the
smell
  of the sea strong in the air. "I he church was of
contemporary
  design, elegantly simple, its structure
rejecting any
  solemnity or oppressiveness. More inviting than
less-than i couple
  of churches I could think of, Eenn thought grimly.
Few
  people strolled the streets in that part of the seaside
town,
  for, although it was a bright, sunny morning, winter's
chill
  still clung; only those with dogs to be exercised,
those who
  were too lonely to stav indoors, and those attending
Sunday
  services at the many and various Brighton temples
and
  chapels, had left the warmth of their homes. One
such person, a dog-stroller, passed by on the
opposite side of
  the road and l'"enn caught a word of the
front-page headline
  in the newspaper the man was avidly reading.
  It said, shrink, and Fenn turned his head away.
  He was tired of their theories, their conjectures,
their
  desperate need for a rationale. The current
favorite was
  that an electrical storm had centered on the
field, its lightning
  destroying the altarpiece, causing the tree to bum
and
  fall, even striking the ground to send shock
currents running
  through the earth. Film, radio and television
technicians
  present complained that electrical interference had
  jammed their equipment. F.ven the film in the
cameras of
  the press photographers had tggeen blanked out,
although nobody could quite explain how an
electromagnetic storm
  could have that effect. I he police, receiving severe
criticism
  for not having controlled the panic, had limply
claimed
  that their own communications svstem had been disrupted
  by the storm. The shock waves had caused mass
hysteria
  among the already highly charged, emotional crowd,
causing
                                      Page 414
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  hallucinations, breakdowns, and panic. That was the
  Number One, highly rated conclusion. Others were
even
  more hmcitui but nevertheless not totally rejected:
Alice
  Pagett had acquired some unknown paranormal
mental powers
  and, having no control over them, had
upset nature's
  delicate balance; an underground eruption had
shaken the
  area, frightening the whole assemblage into hysteria
  (unfortunately no seismographic evidence
substantiated the
  idea); an antireligious organization had
planted a bomb
  beneath the shrine (probably the same group that had
  killed the monsignor). More and more solutions, more
and
  more confusion.
  Over twenty thousand pilgrims had arrived at the
shrine
  on that black Sunday, and if there had been any
miracle to
  that day, it was that only 158 had been killed in the
panic.
  Many had been crushed to death beneath the trampling
  feet of their fellow worshipers; some had suffered
heart
  seizures or fatal fits; others, those on the
central altarpiece,
  or close by, had been burned to death; still others
had died
  in accidents as they had fled the field. Many, many
more
  had been seriously injured and maimed, while the
condition
  of a number of the invalids present had
deteriorated to
  an alarming degree. Strangely, those whom
Alice Pagett
  had cured at other times at the shrine found their
illnesses
  and infirmities had returned, as though the child's
death
  had canceled the miracles.
  Scores of the unfortunate worshipers, clerics
and nuns
  among them, claimed they had witnessed the ground
tear
  itself open. But these people were confused, even weeks
  later, and their mental state could at best be
described as
  "unstable." It was a fact that hundreds,
possibly thousands,
  had blanked the incident from their minds completely;
all
  they could remember was the fierce storm and
running
  from the field.
  Speculation in the media was rife, swinging from the
  wild sensationalism of the so-called popular
press (as if the
                                      Page 415
                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   incident needed any sensationalizing) to the
deliberately
   underplayed scientific and psychological views
of the more
   conservative. Fenn was no longer a part of that
particular
   circus. He had resigned from the Courier and
refused offers
   of employment with the large nationals. He had even
   refused to answer questions concerning the events of that
   night. Maybe one day, when his head was clear and
his
   nerves more controlled, he would sit down and write
a
   definitive book on the Banfield shrine. But
it would have
   to be marketed as fiction, for who would believe the
facts?
   He smiled as he remembered Nancy's
frantic phone call
   from the States. Her bosses wanted him over
there, were
   offering him a job on the Post--"name your own
figure"--in
   return for tHe full story of the shrine. He
declined the
   offer and Nancv had fumed and ranted on the other
end of
   the line. She had been one of the first to flee as
soon as she
   realized "something bad was going down," mindful and
   still fearful of what had happened to her at St.
Peter's. So
   scared had she been that the slightest hint of trouble
had
   sent her scampering. Unlike most of the panicked
people,
   she had headed directly toward the church grounds,
knowing
   that all exits would be swamped, and had followed a
   man she thought was Southworth, the hotelier in the
village, losing sight of him somewhere in the
graveyard.
   She had used the entrance to St. Joseph's as her
escape
   route and had missed the finale. That was why she was
sc
   chagrined. Happy to be alive, of course, but
pissed that
   she hadn't witnessed the grand slam. Nancy had
urged,
   begged, threatened, but he refused to join her. She
was-stilt in a rage at the end of their conversation, but
managed to growl, "I love you, you fink," before her
receiver clunked
   down.
   He rubbed his temples with stiffened Fingers and thought
   of those who had died in the field. The fat
businessman,
   Tucker, found lying in the mud, his face
purplish-blue
   from a heart attack. His chief assistant, a
woman whose
                                       Page 416
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
  name Fenn could not remember, lay on top of him
as
  though trying to protect his gross body from the
crushing
  feet of others. She was in a state of shock.
Ironically, her
  mother was found dead nearby, she too
having suffered
  heart failure. Employer and mother, both lost
at the same
  time from the same cause. No wonder she was still in
  shock. Tucker's wife, also found nearby, could
remember
  nothing, only that she had fainted while trying
to escape
  the fietd.
  Bishop Caines had died, along with other
clerics and
  altar servers, in the fire. Crushed by the tree,
burned by
  the flames.
  George Southworth had been more fortunate, although
  some might reason otherwise. He had been
discovered
  hiding in St. Joseph's, a shivering, slavering
wreck of a
  man. They had to drag him screaming from the church,
  for he refused to walk down the aisle to the broken
doorway.
  Apart from the cracked door and a shattered
stained-glass
  window (both struck by lightning, it was
thought), there
  was no other damage to the church, even though
Southworth
  insisted it lay in ruins around him.
  Then there was Molly Pagett.
  He closed his eyes, but the vision of her enflamed
body
  was even sharper. That poor, poor woman. How
she had
  suffered in the final minutes of her life, seeing
her daughter
  shot, resurrected, changed into something
unspeakable,
  then dying in agony. Perhaps it was better she had
died,
  no matter how terribly, for the memory would have
killed
  her just as surely, only death would have been slow and
  more cruel in its claiming.
  Why had Alice--no, Elnor right-brace
--called her Rosemund? One
  of the two nuns mentioned in the sixteenth-century
priest's
  chronicle had been named Rosemund. She had
been-one of
  the young novices whom h"'ddlnor had seduced,
one that had
  been cast out from the church and was said to be living in
  the forests around the village. Could Molly
Pagett possibly
  have been a descendant of that abbirl? Or was the
                                      Page 417
                             James Herbert - The Shrine
creature
   Fddlnor, this resurrection, this reincarnation,
confused by its
   own hatred? I (e would never know, for there were no
   clear answers.
   There was not even a clear answer as to why the young
   man had shot Alice. His dead body had been
found among
   the others, battered and crushed; nobody would even
suggest
   that he had been torn apart by the mob. The German
   gun was tound nearby, its barrel jammed. His name
was
   Wilkes, and the only abnormality of his
typically middle-class
   background was that he appeared to have, judging by
   the collected newspaper clippings found in his
bed-sit, a
   fascination tor the assassin of John
Ix'nnon, and the would-be
   assassins of Pope Paul and Ronald
Reagan. If he had been
   a little older, then perhaps his heroes would have been
   Oswald, Ray, and Sirhan.
   Whatever his twisted reasons were, a
trigger-squeeze to fame, a rejection of what he
believed to be total good, Alice was dead. Perhaps
evil had defeated evil.
   Einor had sought her revenge and had claimed much
of
   it. Only the child's unpredicted death had thwarted
its
   completeness, and the shrine had been destroyed as
surely
   as if the hand of . . . 1'enn could not accept it.
It was too
   unclear in his mind. He could have imagined he'd
seen . . .
   everything was so confused . . .
   Alice's body--what was left of it--had been
found beneath
   the charred remnants of the tree. She had been
   buried, along with the remains of her mother, in the
   graveyard of St. Joseph's
nearby. Curiously, when the site
   of the shrine had been excavated a week later, the
remains
   of another body had been found buried beneath the
roots
   of the fallen oak.
   But this one was centuries old, just a twisted
skeleton. It
   appeared to be that of a small person, many of its
bones
   broken at the time of death. Burned black, also.
   The remains had been taken away to be studied
by experts who would decide on the date of its
origins. F.ventually the bones would go to the British
Museum, where they would be displayed in a glass
case for tourists and
   those interested in mankind's evolution could come and
   smile at the grinning skull.
   F'enn looked up, and Sue and Ben were nearly
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at the church door. Ben had been distracted and was
squatting
  by the edge of the path, watching something on the ground,
  perhaps an insect of some kind. Sue was speaking
to him,
  obviously telling him they would be late
for the Mass.
  What strange power did Ben have? Was it his
total
  innocence that had protected him, that had not let him
see
  what others thought they saw, not let him hear what
others thought they heard.
  He had never witnessed Alice's radiance, had
never
  witnessed her levitate. And he had not seen
Einor. Nor
  felt the earth shake, nor watched the ground open.
And he
  was not alone, for other children in the field that night had
  not shared their parents' and guardians' terror.
Yet there
  were other young ones who had.
  F'enn had felt his strength return when he
touched the
  boy--so had Sue. It was as though their weakness had
  passed through him, the boy acting as a human
conductor
  and dissipating their weakness into the ground. Was innocence
  so powerful against such evil?
  Whoever said that questions were more important
than
  answers was a fool. Unanswered questions could
drive you
  to insanity.
  He forced himself to relax. Outside the windshield
the
  sky was a clear Disney blue, the sun hazy,
soft-edged.
  Even though there was no strength to its glow, it was
  painful to look at, and he shielded his eyes,
resting his
  elbow on the window-sill. He was reminded of the
glow he
  had seen at the shrine, the glimmering shining at the
base
  of the tree; the one sight more than any other on that
  terrible night that constantly haunted him. Yet it
was not
  an unpleasant haunting. Somehow it gave him
courage.
  Something more. . . . Faith?
  His hand scraped against his chin and he shifted in the
  seat in agitation.
  Why did it disturb him so? Why, out of everything
else
  that had happened, should this drive him to such
distraction?
  Why had the thing called have'.ffnor been so afraid
when it,
  too, had seen the glow?
  And had he really glimpsed the shadowy figure
of a
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                              James Herbert - The Shrine
   white-gowned woman within that-radiance?
   It couldn't be! He had suffered too many
delusions that
   night. His mind had been filled with too many
terrors.
   His own survival mechanism had suddenly worked
against
   them, creating a different kind of illusion, one that
spread
   calmness, peace, a vision that exuded a
quiescent tranquillity.
   Yet why had Ben, who had not seen the other
horrors,
   asked later who the lovely lady in white was
standing by
   the tree that night when everybody was screaming and the
   altar burned down?
   Who was she?
   Who was she?
   What was she?
   His eyes were closed, his hand covering them. He
opened
   them, looked toward the church. Sue was leading Ben
up
   the short flight of steps to the open doorway.
   He clenched his fist and rapped his knuckles against
his
   teeth. He opened the car door and strode toward
the
   church gate. He hesitated.
   Sue turned and saw him. She smiled.
   And he strode up the path to join them. Together they
   went into the church of Our Lady of the Assumption.
Little Alice, sweet and pure
   Come see her if you need a cure
   She'll stop your boils and clear your head
   And smile sweetly when you're dead.
   New Nursery Rhyme
AROUT THE AUTHOR
   James Herbert was born in London's East
End on
   April V,, 1943, the son of Petticoat
Lane Street
   traders. A former art director of a leading
London
   advertising agencv, the terbert is now a
full-time
   writer. He is the author of THE RATS,
THE
   EOC;, THE SURVIVOR, FLUKE,
LAIR, THE
   SPEAR, and THE DARK, and THE JONAH,
   all available in Signet editions.
   Mr. Herbert now lives in Sussex with his
wife
   and two youny daughters.




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