eyes she peered at the crucifix. Did it move? Were there holy tears of blood? The mist cleared and there was nothing. The crucifix stared back, immobile, untouched, unresponsive.
She hid from the gaze of her mother when she brought her food, and the priest spoke only in communion prayers.
In her solitude, in darkness except for a little light which framed the edges of her curtain, she dreamed that her long nails were broken. Blood flowed from her fingertips, blood seeped from the iron nail that had been plunged over and over again into the frame of the trapdoor. She dreamed that she was tearing with bare hands against the crumbling mortar around the wooden frame.
She raised her bloodied hands in despair and, in the slim shaft of light, noticed two tiny holes appearing on the palms of her hand. She watched them grow, indefinably at first, then over the hours she could not be mistaken.
On the fourth day blood began to seep through, although there were no wounds in the palms. Then it stopped. On the fifth day the blood appeared to flow copiously for a few seconds when the Mass began. On the sixth day, it happened again.
She felt the gashes on her forehead, and imagined them as wounds from the crown of thorns. Her shoulders ached, perhaps from the weight of the Cross, she thought, and she babbled in tongues.
This she saw and heard and felt in her fever.
In truth, her hands were a mass of gore, her fingers were ten stumps tearing at the door frame, fumbling for the rusted bolts.
God, she believed, had answered her with the blessing of the stigmata.
And God had answered Duval.
“Don’t S-H-I-T on your own doorstep,” the priest had said to himself and to Bobby more than once, when the dog made a fuss of local women. When occasionally he swore he would spell it out under his breath, as he didn’t like to profane openly. He knew that Christians in medieval times believed that Christ’s body was continually wounded by those who blasphemed in the course of their work.
Duval was cautious, meticulous in his planning, and usually his
Reassured, he returned to his typewriter. For two nights ideas swept across his mind in invading hordes. The words raced onto the page. On the third day the words stopped, the ideas transformed into a vortex of contradictions. Perhaps he was being weak? Should he persist, retreat, wrestle with his muse, not advance into the world of flesh and those pale young girls, frightening in their innocence…? And yet, and yet their fear was so intoxicating. He adored that unique smell of terror which oozed from the flesh of young women, as pungent as the reek of cordite and rotting cadavers on the battlefield, an abiding memory of his brief few months as a military chaplain in the Korean war. The aftermath of battle had appalled and terrified him, and he had been recalled in some disgrace, but now this aroma was sweet to him because it flowed from the women’s demonic desire to live, and it came from every pore of their skin, especially from beneath their pinioned arms. Fear was the precondition for their new life, fear of one man helped them to fear and, ultimately, love the one true God.
Duval had finally decided. He knew that action would have to replace words and ideas, that the frisson of planning must succumb to the surge of adrenaline which always accompanied the capture. It was surely time.
V. The Capture
It was around seven on that chill early October evening when the bus dropped Marda Stewart at the top of Upper Street, and as she walked down Rectory Lane it was almost dark. Gathering the top of her anorak around her neck to ward off the cold, she felt pleased with herself: she had visited a number of car showrooms in Guildford, having saved enough money to buy a new Mini, but a basic Mini rather than the flash Cooper which her friend Jenny’s father could easily afford to buy for his spoiled daughter. Marda had decided on a bright red one, although she hadn’t signed the papers yet. She would take Jenny with her in a few days just to confirm that she had made the right choice. Marda had no mechanical bent at all; she had simply fallen in love with the sparkling little machine. She surprised herself by starting to hum “Yellow Submarine.” Why not? Life was good…except for her brother. The new car had temporarily displaced bitter thoughts of Mark, while the pleasant memories of her former lover in France had almost totally slipped from her conscious mind.
Near the ford at the bottom of the lane she encountered Bobby, who bounced up to her in friendly recognition. She patted his head and carried on down the lane with the collie skipping around her feet.
On the other side of the small ford, by the faint light of a cottage window, she could see a green Morris estate with the back doors open. She could just make out a person whom she assumed was the dog’s owner leaning over into the back of the car. It was difficult to be sure because the stream was surrounded by large trees and bushes, and the footbridge was indistinct in the darkness.
“Hello. Is that you…Michael? I found your dog at the top of the lane.”
From the interior of the car came Duval’s muffled voice: “Can you hold him a minute? I’m looking for his lead. He disappeared on our walk a while ago. Chasing rabbits…I have been out in the car looking for him… Where
Marda was now standing behind the Morris bending over to hold Bobby’s collar, while the dog busied himself with licking her hand. She did not see Duval check all around to ensure that nobody else was in the secluded area. He would take her. He had the chloroform ready.
“What are you doing in there, Michael?” Her voice was so kind, so friendly, so trusting…
The first thing she would recognise was the force used to clamp the cloth around her mouth and an awful sickly chemical smell. For two or three seconds she would be too shocked to do anything except try to scream, but she would not be able to. Then she would try to break free, but he would hold her firmly around her waist. Nothingness would envelop her.
He put the bottle back in the cardboard box.
“I can’t find the lead,” he said, rummaging around in the back of car, and trying to appear slightly helpless.
“No need,” said Marda smiling, “Bobby seems quite happy to stay with me.”
Duval swivelled around and smiled in turn at his prey.
They talked about Bobby for a few minutes and Marda mentioned a forthcoming trip to France, to which she was looking forward. She then risked a personal question.
“May I ask what you do? I thought that perhaps you worked professionally with animals,” she said tentatively.
“I am a priest,” Duval replied. He thought she seemed a little surprised. “I don’t often wear my dog collar when I am off duty.”
“Where’s your church?” asked Marda, trying to recover.
“In Guildford, quite close to St. Mary’s, the old Saxon church near the castle.”
“I like churches,” said Marda. “In fact, occasionally I pop into St. Mary’s. I love the ancient smell, the feeling of so much history.”
“You are very welcome to visit mine, although it’s not nearly as old. I’ll jot down the address,” he said, rifling around in his jacket for a pen and paper. “I have what I call ‘surgery hours,’ when my parishioners call in for tea and sympathy. I usually try to offer them some cake as well as the opportunity for confession.” A small, slightly dry chuckle accompanied this remark.
Marda laughed ruefully. “I could certainly do with a sympathetic ear from someone. I’ve had a terrible row with my brother. I rarely see him, but when I do we always manage to argue… Anyway, I am sure you hear enough of family troubles. You don’t need to hear mine. Sorry I mentioned it. I feel rather embarrassed, imposing on someone I hardly know. Terribly sorry,” she said, obviously flustered.
Duval put on his best priestly manner.
“That’s my job: to listen and to help. To all, whether they are Catholic or not.”
