now.
On reaching the end of the deeply sad internment, the crowds dispersed to their homes, heavy at heart. The parents, however, remained at the graveside, unwilling to leave their beloved daughter. Thomas Singleton had arrived the day before from his home in Brentford, Essex, and booked into the local public house for the night. He had had the good grace to come alone, leaving Gwyneth, the former best friend of Elizabeth, at home with their year-old child.
Father McGiven allowed a good ten minutes before walking to the bereaved couple and placing an arm around each in a gesture of comfort. “Come Mr. And Mrs. Singleton. It’s time to leave Debbie to God now,” he said softly, guiding them away from the open grave. “I know you will not feel like visitors just at this time but I would like you to receive a priest. A Jesuit. He is a much travelled and experienced man and he feels he can help you through this tragedy. I must say, he emits an astounding, what shall I say? Karma. He is a most holy man, as you will find if you meet him.”
The couple walked along in a semi-numbed state, only half listening to the priest. However, Mrs. Singleton agreed to allow the Jesuit into her home and an appointment was made for three that afternoon. Thomas was to travel back to Brentford immediately following the funeral.
Brother Saviour guided his motor home along the macadam road, and parked it outside the address he had been given by the parish priest, number 11, Griston Avenue, a cul-de-sac of pleasant houses, built in the seventeenth century and now faced with modern brick, the old having showns signs of distress.
Leaving the vehicle, he ambled up the path to the house, admiring the profusion of pretty flowers covering the small garden area at each side and taking in the wonderful mixture of scents.
He knocked firmly on the door, choosing to ignore the doorbell situated at head height in the centre. On the second knock, he heard sounds of approaching footsteps from within the house. The door opened to reveal a healthy looking young woman, around thirty-four years of age, plain featured, with small, blue eyes set in dark circles. The face, at this time, was unusually lined, undoubtedly due to the strain of the recent weeks. The woman’s hair was of a light brown shade and was brushed neatly back from her forehead and down to her shoulders. She wore make-up, now fading since its application for the morning funeral.
“Hello?” she said, not recognising her visitor and cocking an eyebrow in a questioning way. “What do you want?”
“I’m Brother Ignatious Saviour, Mrs. Singleton,” he said. “You agreed to see me, I believe.” Ignatious smiled disarmingly and he saw the woman melt to his charm. He was fully aware of the effect he had on men and women. They looked on him in awe; saw him as something of a God — and he enjoyed the misplaced adulation.
“Oh, yes, Father, — er- Brother. Please come in.” She had not expected to see a priest, especially a Jesuit, to be dressed in modern clothing. She sought no identification; no stranger would know of the arrangement and, besides, this man exuded the power of a distinctly holy man. He was irresistible.
Ignatious followed Elizabeth into the cosy lounge, noting the days-old dust covering the wooden furnishings and the untidy sprawl of newspapers and magazines lying about the room. It was evident that, beneath the present dirt and untidiness, there was a woman of pride and cleanliness. The death of her daughter had punched the spirit and enthusiasm from her.
She shuffled to a fireside chair and plonked herself into it, not bothering to invite the good Brother to take a seat. He sat near to her on the well-upholstered settee. No drink was offered. Ignatious looked at her sadly. It was a pity that a person had to endure such suffering. However, he was here to do a job; to lift her spiritual level and thus help her to come to terms.
Elizabeth spoke. “I don’t really know why I agreed to this meeting,” she said, dolefully. “God has not been very good to me recently. He is not my favourite person.” She raised her eyes to look the priest in the face. “It might shock you, Father,” she preferred to use the more familiar term, “but I am beginning to doubt His existence.”
Ignatious smiled; a pleasant, comforting smile. “It does not shock me, my daughter. In your present circumstance, who would not feel the same way? Although I carry the Word of God and I live by that Word, I am a man, a human, and I understand the problems and emotions that go with the mortal form.” Elizabeth’s expression softened a little. The aura of the man was enveloping her, in the physical and in the subconscious.
“What I would ask first, Elizabeth — if I may use your Christian name.” She nodded. “Is that you think of Debbie as you last saw her. Don’t let that vision upset you. Think of her as she was: bright? Cheerful? Lively?”
“Yes. She was all of those things before going out on that awful day.” Mrs. Singleton was noticeably brighter in her manner of speech. “She was clean and sparkling. I felt she was going out to meet some young man she had met, but she never mentioned anyone to me. It’s just that she seemed brighter than of late and I caught the slight whiff of perfume as she passed. Her whole attitude was more bouncy.”
Brother Saviour noted the new spark in the mother’s eyes now. “Yes. There you are. Already your spirits have been lifted at the positive thoughts. I can tell you with all certainty that is how Debbie will now be.” His face lit and he stretched his arms out and to the sides, as a conjurer may after performing some astounding act. “You see, Elizabeth, she is with God. Think! Could there be a greater experience than actually meeting our Creator? Believe me. She is happy — happier than she has ever been. She will be watching over you now, caring for you, loving you. She
Elizabeth stared unblinkingly at the Demi-God before her. His presence, his word, was all around her, inside her body, inside her mind. She actually slid from her seat and fell to her knees, her head bowed in complete and utter reverence, her hands clasped tightly together. Her fingers disentwined and scrabbled the short distance across the dusty carpet until they touched the priest’s shoes. She caressed them lovingly, moaning softly, unintelligible words spouting from her. After a minute or so, she forced her head up and looked into the benign face of her God.
The face she saw was the face of a crucified Christ, a cruel crown of thorns digging into His head, blood streaming down the pain-streaked face. Her heart lurched in profound pity before the illusion faded, to be replaced by the face as it was: again benign, still smiling but, this time, the man was naked and sporting a strong erection! This was not real, Elizabeth knew, but the picture was there and she wanted him
Ignatious was aware of the mixed feelings showing in the woman’s bewildered face, and he had some idea of the actual thoughts held within. He placed both hands on her head as she knelt. “Elizabeth. You now feel stronger; you can once again deal with your life, in the sure knowledge that Debbie is in her happiest place. God will protect her. You will not see her, that is fact, but you will know that she is with you. Think of it as though she was on a long holiday and that, one day, you will meet again. Let your new-found strength support you.”
Elizabeth knelt in an upright position, transfixed by the words, by the aura, by the erection that was not really there. She was speechless. She heard, as if through a long tunnel, the priest beginning to speak once more.
“Elizabeth. God loves us all, each as an individual. Each and every person is known and loved personally by God. He gives us meaning and purpose in our lives. Let us pray.”
As the holy Brother’s voice resounded louder now, through the building and through the very soul of the wretched mortal, Elizabeth closed her eyes, joining in prayer with the passages that were familiar to her. When her eyes opened, the sinful vision had disappeared and so too, had Brother Saviour. He had left quietly, without her being aware even of his hands leaving her head. She rose and went to the window just in time to see the motor home disappearing around a bend and onto the major road ahead.
She sat down, feeling utterly exhausted by the experience, bewildered by the wicked thoughts that had invaded her mind, yet with a new awareness of the way ahead; a way without her beloved daughter. The sadness, strangely, had left, to be replaced with a pleasant satisfaction, a glowing of the mind and body. The wonderful, awesome visitor had taken but a few minutes of her life and given, in return, strength and faith.
CHAPTER SIX
Lawrence Maddigan was a schoolteacher — and a damned good one. He taught at the local Grammar school in a hamlet encompassed in the sprawl of Penn. This was one of the few Grammar schools to survive the purge and
