out about this, as, in my shame, I hadn’t told anyone about theaccusations of the police. I said that I would take them to my office and try to find out who they belonged to. I could ring my predecessor; almost certainly he would know who the artist was.
Mercy grabbed hold of me as I turned to go. ‘Richard, I’ve been meaning to ask you; did you go to Clissold Park, like you said you would? Did you see this man?’ When I didn’t answer, she went on, ‘What do you think Mary saw, Richard? Do you think it was a vision?’
Chris said, ‘I think this kind of talk is dangerous. It’s getting out of hand … you two are not the only people who claim to have seen him.’
‘Who else are you talking about?’ I asked, astonished, pausing in the doorway with the box of paints.
Mercy carried on calmly emptying the cupboard. ‘Gordon says he saw the man walking in London Fields. And that family who were staying here, they saw him too, they say.’
Chris put a box down on the floor. ‘I think you should say something, Richard,’ he said, ‘to put a stop to this. It could be very bad for the church if the press get hold of it.’
‘Why?’ I asked.
‘Well, Mary is already saying that it means there’s some special significance in this church, that we’ve been singled out for some kind of miracle … quite frankly it isn’t healthy.’
‘She hasn’t said anything more to me about it.’
‘That’s because she said you don’t believe her,’ said Mercy, putting down the dustpan and brush.
‘That’s not true. I do believe her.’
‘What?’ Chris straightened up from the cupboard and looked me straight in the eye. ‘Believe what, exactly?’
I felt that to stand here and listen to this conversation, to take part in it, and not admit anything, would be dishonest . ‘Because I went up to Clissold Park and saw the same thing as she did.’
‘So you have seen Him?’ exclaimed Mercy, throwing up her hands in delight. ‘Praise the Lord!’
Chris stood and stared at me, his eyes wide with what looked like horror. Suddenly I realised that I had made a great error. I excused myself, and said that I had some urgent phone calls to make, and that they could find me in my office if they needed me.
I shut the door firmly behind me, sat at my desk and tried to think clearly. I, too, felt that this whole thing could have a serious effect in dividing the congregation. But what could I say? I was more in doubt about what was going on than anyone.
I looked down at the box of paints. I felt it was my clear duty to inform the police about this discovery, and to try to trace the local artist. I went through the church files, finally finding an insurance claim concerning the leak of water through the roof which occurred in the hurricane of October 1987, just before I came to St Michael’s. I photocopied this and attached it to a letter saying I was trying to trace the artist, which I promptly dispatched to Detective Chief Inspector Stone.
T essa
Tessa has been the deaconess at our church for the past three years. She is a passionate believer in women’s ordination . Now that the first women have become priests, it is her firm intention to follow in their footsteps. This will inevitably mean leaving us, an event which I must confess I do not look forward to. In the meantime she continues to be a great support to me and everybody in the church.
On Saturday morning she came to see me in my study in great distress and told me she had been visited by the police. She told me that she had been intimidated by their questioning and that they had asked her many searching questions about me. It seemed they had found out that I had visited a psychotherapist while at university, and thatmy mother had killed herself when in a deep depression following the birth of her second child, my brother Philip. To cut it short, she said, they wanted to know if I was also going off my head.
I must confess that when she said this I was
Mercy grabbed hold of me as I turned to go. ‘Richard, I’ve been meaning to ask you; did you go to Clissold Park, like you said you would? Did you see this man?’ When I didn’t answer, she went on, ‘What do you think Mary saw, Richard? Do you think it was a vision?’
Chris said, ‘I think this kind of talk is dangerous. It’s getting out of hand … you two are not the only people who claim to have seen him.’
‘Who else are you talking about?’ I asked, astonished, pausing in the doorway with the box of paints.
Mercy carried on calmly emptying the cupboard. ‘Gordon says he saw the man walking in London Fields. And that family who were staying here, they saw him too, they say.’
Chris put a box down on the floor. ‘I think you should say something, Richard,’ he said, ‘to put a stop to this. It could be very bad for the church if the press get hold of it.’
‘Why?’ I asked.
‘Well, Mary is already saying that it means there’s some special significance in this church, that we’ve been singled out for some kind of miracle … quite frankly it isn’t healthy.’
‘She hasn’t said anything more to me about it.’
‘That’s because she said you don’t believe her,’ said Mercy, putting down the dustpan and brush.
‘That’s not true. I do believe her.’
‘What?’ Chris straightened up from the cupboard and looked me straight in the eye. ‘Believe what, exactly?’
I felt that to stand here and listen to this conversation, to take part in it, and not admit anything, would be dishonest . ‘Because I went up to Clissold Park and saw the same thing as she did.’
‘So you have seen Him?’ exclaimed Mercy, throwing up her hands in delight. ‘Praise the Lord!’
Chris stood and stared at me, his eyes wide with what looked like horror. Suddenly I realised that I had made a great error. I excused myself, and said that I had some urgent phone calls to make, and that they could find me in my office if they needed me.
I shut the door firmly behind me, sat at my desk and tried to think clearly. I, too, felt that this whole thing could have a serious effect in dividing the congregation. But what could I say? I was more in doubt about what was going on than anyone.
I looked down at the box of paints. I felt it was my clear duty to inform the police about this discovery, and to try to trace the local artist. I went through the church files, finally finding an insurance claim concerning the leak of water through the roof which occurred in the hurricane of October 1987, just before I came to St Michael’s. I photocopied this and attached it to a letter saying I was trying to trace the artist, which I promptly dispatched to Detective Chief Inspector Stone.
T essa
Tessa has been the deaconess at our church for the past three years. She is a passionate believer in women’s ordination . Now that the first women have become priests, it is her firm intention to follow in their footsteps. This will inevitably mean leaving us, an event which I must confess I do not look forward to. In the meantime she continues to be a great support to me and everybody in the church.
On Saturday morning she came to see me in my study in great distress and told me she had been visited by the police. She told me that she had been intimidated by their questioning and that they had asked her many searching questions about me. It seemed they had found out that I had visited a psychotherapist while at university, and thatmy mother had killed herself when in a deep depression following the birth of her second child, my brother Philip. To cut it short, she said, they wanted to know if I was also going off my head.
I must confess that when she said this I was
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