Absolute Truths (79 page)

He wore a frock-coat and gaiters, the traditional uniform for a
bishop, and although he stood in the shadow of a pillar I saw the
unmistakable gleam of his lambent, amber eyes.

Shocked beyond measure I whispered: ‘Jardine —’

But he had vanished.

I stood there, trembling from head to toe, and
as
the sweat
pricked my forehead I told myself I was the victim of an illusion caused by the rising sun beyond the long slim windows. I found
I was clutching my pectoral cross. How absurd that I should have
chased around trying to grab a cross from an altar! I had been
protected all the time by the cross on my chest — which explained
why I was still alive — but no, that superstitious thought had to
be firmly rejected because the metal itself had no magic properties,
the power sprang not from the symbol but from the reality to
which that symbol pointed — but at that moment I could not see
beyond the symbols, they were crowding in on me, and the symbol
which now dominated my mind was not the cross but the cloven
hoof.

The chain of my cross snapped. I gasped, and as the polluted air began to pour down my throat again I scooped up the cross
from the floor and ran outside
as fast as
if the Cathedral had
vomited me into the churchyard.

FIVE

‘
To say that the psychically weird belongs
to the
bottom of
the soul is not of course to deny that it may be made the
insrrument of noble acts and purposes.’

AUSTIN FARRER

Warden of Keble College,
Oxford,

1960
-1968

The Glass of Vision

As soon
as
I reached the South Canonry I telephoned St Paul’s
vicarage in Langley Bottom. I never even hesitated before lifting the receiver. Possibly I was so shaken that I hardly knew what I
was doing. But possibly too I had reasoned at some subconscious
level that since Hall had already seen me at the end of my tether
he was unlikely to be shocked by anything I might say. There was
no question of me going to see Jon. I did not mIst myself to drive.

Having dialled the number of the vicarage I made an effort to
breathe evenly. It seemed remarkable that I should be breathing at all. At any moment I expected to suffer sinister chest pains.

I was still considering the likelihood of a heart attack when Hall picked up the receiver. ‘Vicarage,’ he said curtly, but
as
if realising
that only desperate people made
calls
at such an early hour, he
added in a more agreeable voice: ‘How can I help you?’

‘
It’s Ashworth.’ To my astonishment I sounded casual. ‘I want
to see you. Urgently. About the Cathedral. Something rather
inconvenient’s happened.’ Even in my distress I found myself bog
gling at this bizarre understatement, so I forced myself to be less
elliptical. ‘There’s been an unacceptable incident,’ I said. ‘An optical
illusion. Of course I don’t believe for a moment that it was real,
but I want it dealt with straight away.’ As I spoke I realised I was
talking norsense. How could one ‘deal’ with an unreality? Fighting
my way out of this metaphysical conundrum I ordered rapidly: ‘Come to the South Canonry at once.’ I sounded like a nervous
sergeant-major, attempting to restore order to the parade ground.

‘
Yes, Bishop,’ said Hall smartly. He too had been in the army
during the war.

I hung up and wondered if he had already decided I was certi
fiable.

By the time he arrived I had toasted myself lightly on both sides
in front of the electric fire and was drinking a cup of very strong
tea. I believe I would have broken my promise to Jon about alcohol
if it had not occurred to me that a bishop simply cannot reek of
brandy early in the morning unless he is the victim of an accident
and the brandy has been forced down his throat to keep him alive.
Besides, I was anxious to appear sane, normal and composed, not
a pie-eyed victim of panic. I did realise that the rational explanation
of my ordeal was that I had gone off my head, but the trouble
with this diagnosis, which so comfortingly absolved me from all
need to enquire further into my paranormal experience, was that
I did not quite believe it to be true.

While I waited for Hall I tested my ability to appear sane, normal
and composed by telephoning the head verger and advising him
not to worry when he entered the Cathedral that morning and
found that some of the alarms had been switched off. Fortunately
bishops are not obliged to explain themselves to vergers. Congratu
lating myself on the calm manner in which I had delivered this
mysterious piece of information, I returned with relief to the task
of drinking my tea.

Hall arrived wearing his cassock, a choice of attire which I found
helpful; I was certainly in no mood for denim and sandals. When we were seated facing each other across the desk in my study, I
did hesitate but only for a moment. Then I cleared my throat and announced: ‘There’s something very wrong with the Cathedral.’ I
sounded as severe and chilly as a nanny much put out by the wilful behaviour of her charge, and just as a nanny might have
recommended a large dose of cod-liver oil I added briskly: ‘It needs
to be exorcised.’

‘Fine,’ said Hall equably, never batting an eyelid. ‘I can do that for you. But there’s a problem.’

‘What’s that?’

‘It’s the Cathedral.’

‘What about it?’

‘It’s very big.’

‘Oh.’

We paused to ruminate on this curious dialogue. After a moment
I opened my mouth but closed it again
as
I realised I had no
idea
what to say next. I was out of my depth. Nothing like this had
ever happened to me before. Paranormal experiences always happened to someone else, usually to people who were peculiar in some way. One sent in the exorcist — I had been accustomed to use Aelred Peters, a very trustworthy old monk from Starwater
Abbey — and he mopped up the mess with the appropriate ritual,
the required pastoral care and absolutely no scandal. I took no
risks; Father Peters only exorcised places. During the years of my bishopric I had received two requests for the exorcism of people but I had referred both cases to a psychiatrist.

The difficulty with exorcising the Cathedral,’ Hall was explain
ing
as
I struggled to adjust to this bizarre interview,
‘is
that I’d
have to go all the way through it and I’d need enough holy water to fill a small lake. I’m not saying an exorcism couldn’t be done,
but I certainly couldn’t do it before the Cathedral opens for matins
at seven-thirty.’

‘Then you must do it tonight.’

‘
Fine,’ said Hall equably again, ‘but there’s always the possibility
that an exorcism isn’t necessary. Can I start asking some basic questions?’

‘Such as?’

‘Well, how many people were involved, for example, and what kind of phenomena were experienced — are we talking about a manifestation, a materialisation, the movement of objects, a cold spot, unexplained noises —’

I held up my hand. He stopped. Very politely I enquired: ‘Can’t
you just do an exorcism with no questions asked?’

‘
I could,’ said Hall equally politely, ‘but I feel bound to say that
in my experience exorcism has a much greater chance of being effective if the exorcist knows not only what he’s doing but why he’s doing it. If you perform an exorcism with your mind on ice
you’re descending to the level of superstition, and in the twentieth
century that’s no longer acceptable.’

‘
Certainly not!’ The implication that I might be willing to
descend to superstition shocked me into making a new effort to appear
tempos mentis.
‘Let me make myself clear,’ I said crisply. ‘I don’t see exorcism — a serious exorcism performed by an experi
enced priest —
as a
dabbling in mumbo jumbo. I see it
as an
aspect of the ministry of healing, and the pastoral after-care is
as
important
as
the rite itself. All I’m saying
is
that in this particular case you can leave the pastoral after-care to me and just focus on performing the rite.’

Hall did not argue with me directly. He merely said: ‘I can
certainly perform the rite and I can certainly leave you to attend
to the pastoral after-care, but I still have to know what I’m supposed to be exorcising. Then I can tailor the rite accordingly.’

‘I
see.’
But I found myself becoming muddled. ‘The problem is
that nothing actually happened,’ I said, ‘in reality. It was an optical
illusion. But because the optical illusion could be classified as a paranormal incident and because it took place in a church, I have to follow this particular procedure. One always has to follow the correct procedures, stick to the rules, respect tradition. There has to be order. There have to be certainties. I can’t have any chaos
here.’ It dimly occurred to me that I was no longer sounding like
a composed bishop but like a disorientated general dispatched to some unknown front line. ‘It was an optical illusion,’ I repeated,
sounding very obstinate and more than a little fractious. ‘That’s
all you need to know.’

‘
Splendid!’ said Hall. ‘I’m an old hand at sorting out optical illusions. No need for you to worry at all.’

I immediately felt so much better that I was able to confess:
‘If I seem a trifle confused it’s because this sort of thing doesn’t normally happen to people like me.’

‘
Let me cheer you up by saying that it might not have happened
to you at all — by which I mean you might just possibly have
misinterpreted the incident. Were there any other witnesses?’

‘No, I was alone. And anyway, no one could have seen what I
saw.’

‘
Why do you say that? It’s perfectly possible for two people to
see the same phenomenon.’

‘But since I was obviously hallucinating –’

‘
What makes you so sure? You seem very keen to rush to conclusions, Bishop! Shouldn’t a former professor be displaying more
intellectual rigour?’ .

I said grandly: ‘I’m displaying intellectual rigour by insisting on
a scientific explanation.’

‘
But there are large areas of human experience which can’t be
interpreted scientifically because they involve matters which lie
beyond the scope of a scientific inquiry. For instance, the key to understanding this experience of yours probably lies in the value
and meaning you attach to it, and that’s something which lies beyond scientific measurement.’

‘But if the optical illusion is the result of illness –’

‘
Okay, since you’re so keen on this idea, let’s take a closer look
at it. Do you normally suffer from hallucinations?’

‘No.’

‘Are you an alcoholic?’

‘No.’

‘Had you nonetheless been drinking steadily for some hours before the experience?’

‘No.’

‘Had you been taking drugs?’

‘Don’t be absurd!’

‘I meant medically prescribed pills which might have reacted sharply with something you ate or drank last night.’

‘Oh, I see! No.’

‘Have you been fasting?’

‘Not exactly. I did skip lunch yesterday but I had a cooked breakfast. And I had a snack last night.’

‘Right. We’ve established that you, a bishop, a man of unim
peachable integrity, stone-cold sober, not taking drugs, not subject
to hallucinations, not light-headed through prolonged fasting, saw something so abnormal in your cathedral that you reached for the
phone and – despite your extreme caution about the ministry of
deliverance – called in an exorcist. What a remarkable case! But I would dispute that this is a hallucination in the conventional sense
of a delusion generated by illness, and although you may be under
stress I would dispute that you’re having a nervous breakdown.
You strike me as being baffled, shocked and very anxious but still
well in control of yourself.’

‘You think so?’

‘
Are you sobbing, screaming, drinking triple-brandies and bang
ing your head against the nearest wall?’

‘
Not quite.’

‘
Exactly. Now ... dare I extend my enquiry by asking just what
it was you saw?’

I hesitated but not for long. Reassured by his willingness to
believe I was not a lunatic, I finally found I could talk about what
had happened.