Wednesday morning. The Weekly News was jammed in June’s letter-box again. She yanked it out with a sigh and drifted with it into the breakfast room. There were few of these cosy back rooms left in her street of Edwardian villas; most of June’s neighbours had renovated long ago. It was an open-plan world now, quiet carpeting a thing of the past and hospitals busier than ever with the resulting influx of broken wrists, banged heads and twisted ankles from sliding rugs and skidding heels. June knew all about that - she helped to pick up the pieces. But today was her day off, the cafetière was full, her favourite mug hot on its coaster.
June settled into her chair and flipped open the newspaper. Usual stuff - new roadworks, several drunks in court, letters about seagulls, a fresh troop of well-meaning fund-raisers wearing out poor desecrated Kilimanjaro, grainy grey pictures of dead people amid vanished cottages, adverts for pub meals, stairlifts, tanning salons and yet another pound shop having its Grand Opening - but on page six one headline caught her eye: Short Story Competition. £100 prize. A hundred pounds! Not all that much in this day and age, but the difference between being constantly broke and replacing some of the tatty furnishings in her downstairs flat. A story? She had won a couple of small prizes for her writing back in school; but could she do it now? June squinted at the small print. “1000 words on any theme, fact or fiction.” This could be enjoyable; with luck she might even get to meet local writers, make a few friends. OK. She’d give it her best shot ... but how did you even begin choosing a subject? A phrase popped into her mind that she must once have heard or read:“Write about what you know.”
So, what did she know? At home, solitude, sometimes loneliness. Antiques Roadshow on Sunday evenings off. Puzzle pages torn from the Radio Times. At work, the squeak of safe shoes in polished corridors, blood on sheets, wide eyes reaching into hers for reassurance, the smells of the sluice, her aching back after another day hoisting the helplessly obese into and out of their hospital linen ...
Then of course she remembered The Man.
* * *
A new face had appeared on the ward. He would appear at visiting time and because he charmed the ward sister he always managed to over-stay. The most striking thing about him was his eyes: they were black and lustrous, and seemed to penetrate your soul. And he was always smiling; that wide, direct smile was unnerving and reduced its recipients to jelly.
“Who’s he?” June had asked.
“He’s a minister,” said Netta Jones as she sorted medical records. “Some church I’ve never heard of. Regular chaplain was moved to a new parish so this chap offered to step in. No dog-collar. Very informal. Patients seem to like him anyway.”
“Does he have a name?”
“Calls himself Father Justin. Don’t know his surname.”
“Comforting for some, I suppose.”
“Nice for the patients who don’t get visitors.”
She watched him. Every afternoon between lunch and tea she would find something practical and non-intrusive to do on the ward ... plumping pillows, making up a free bed, closing or opening curtains, topping up water ... the chaplain would move from bed to bed, smiling, greeting patients by name, placing a consoling hand on frail fingers, on gowned shoulders. A woman on her own would engage his total attention as she poured out her frustration and pain or escaped again and again into a long and complex life story. This Father Justin was a paragon of patience.
June couldn’t hear his responses, couldn’t read his lips, but soon she began to notice - whenever the bed curtains were not quite closed - that something material often seemed to pass secretly between him and the sufferer. She became increasingly uneasy.
“Netta? ... is this chap OK?”
“What do you mean, ‘OK’?”
“Is he for real?”
“I think he’s gorgeous!”
“Sorry Netta, but he’s giving me the creeps.”
“Get a life, June. Go and make friends with him. Ask him home for tea. You’re too fond of your own company.”
Maybe she would. Just talk to him. She needed to know what was going on behind the curtains and behind the smile.
“Father Justin?” June touched his sleeve as he left Mrs. Evans and her injured spine to sit by Diane Culver’s bed. He turned sharply and a flash of annoyance was instantly replaced by that heart-stopping smile.
“And you are...?” he looked down at her ID badge “... June. Hallo June! What can I do for you?”
Her mind raced - she hadn’t worked out her approach at all. She improvised.
“For months now I’ve been desperately tired. It’s my back, Father. You know what nursing’s like, all the lifting and turning ... it hurts all night long. Sleep is impossible. Could you pray for me?”
“Of course, June.” No-one had ever said her name like that before. She might have been the only person in his world...
“Would you like me to lay my hands on you?”
So that’s what he was doing! In for a penny, in for a pound.
“Yes please, Father,” she said. “What do I need to do?”
“When I have seen my other patients ...” His patients? Who was in charge here? “...We’ll go into the side ward and I’ll give you a session of healing. In about ...” he glanced at a very expensive-looking watch ...”twenty minutes.”
“Thank you. I’ll be there.”
She didn’t leave the ward immediately. Instead, she busied herself quietly within earshot of Mrs. Culver. She could just make out their voices. Father Justin was saying, “Give me your bank card and I’ll make the donation for you. The church will be extremely grateful.” Then Diane’s weak voice,”The help you give us is worth every penny, Father.” There was a rustling of sheets and clothing and June stepped smartly away as the chaplain emerged from the curtains.
In the side ward June took a deep breath. Her heart was pounding. In came Father Justin. He seemed to fill the room.
“Just sit on the end of the bed,” he said, “take off your uniform, and still your mind. I shall pray silently and move my hands over your back. If it is God’s will, you will begin healing. We’ll continue the course daily until your pain is gone.”
Not promising instant miracles, thought June, but surely he’s fostering long-term dependence in fragile, trusting women. They really believe he’s healing them, even when nothing has changed.
His hands burned on her bare skin.
After ten unsettling minutes he placed both palms on her head and said,
“We’re done for today. If you wish to say thank you to God, our church of course gladly accepts donations. Your gift is entirely voluntary - but most people like to express their gratitude this way.” He gazed deep into June’s eyes. She felt as if he were swallowing her. “I can arrange it all for you; you don’t have to do anything.”
She fully understood. This man was a seducer. He mesmerised people. He was making a rich living off the sick, the gullible, the lonely, the poor. Saying nothing but a hurried Thank You, June excused herself and left. Back at her flat, the first thing she did was brew up some badly needed, extremely strong coffee; the second thing she did was wake up her laptop.
She googled ‘Father Justin.’ Nothing untoward appeared on the screen.
She searched again, this time for ‘chaplain’, bogus’, and ‘fraud’. Nothing. This was a surprise! June thought for a few minutes, then tried ‘unsolved fraud, elderly.’ This time the list of results went on for page after page - but nothing to cast suspicion on a cleric. Her screensaver kicked in while she had another think. “OK. Let’s try Google Images ... ‘Spiritual healing, hospital.’”
And there he was at last. Caught by his vanity. Father Justin smiling beside drip-stands, leaning against ambulances, embracing flushed nurses, cradling sick babies; except these were photos of ‘Father Tom’, ‘Brother Andrew’, ‘Lucas Christian’ and many other aliases of one charismatic con-man already responsible for years of religious quackery and probable financial fraud. Why had nobody noticed? They didn’t want to.
June spent the whole of the next day on the phone. First she got onto the Fraud Squad, and then her hospital. It wasn’t long before she had the expected feedback: vulnerable patients from every hospital where ‘Father Justin’ had been a regular visitor were found to have suffered major thefts from their bank accounts - only discovered by their carers (frequently blamed) or their family. No-one had suspected the charming healer. Things moved fast after that; his arrest, trial and jail sentence were banner headlines for months ... and back on the ward Netta went very quiet. It had been quite a story.
* * *
June opened her laptop, started WordPerfect, and thoughtfully began typing:
“I always said he was up to no good...”