Fifty-Minute Hour (63 page)

I'm surrounded not by anoraks and schoolkids, but by suave and ritzy men in formal suits; women in rich furs like mine, diamonds flashing on their hands, gold medals at their throats. My own medal's rather different – the silver salamander which the fortune-teller gave me, pinned on to my dress as my badge of courage and sanction for my mission. I touch it for a second, to give myself new strength, then try to take the scene in, eyes darting back and forth. I simply didn't realise how sumptuous it would be – even the flowers themselves arrayed in vast battalions, a whole forest of exotic blooms: gladioli, tiger lilies, forced and perfect roses, streaky two-tone tulips, double-frilled carnations, and some fantastic-looking specimens I've never seen before, with speckled purple petals, fleshy yellow tongues. And the whole display backed with fern and greenery, looped with satin ribbon, and smelling so extravagantly my own cheap perfume dies. The colours cut like knives – the sharp and stinging scarlet of poinsettias echoed by the cardinals who are sitting right behind; the deep mauve gladioli reinforced by the showy vibrant purple of the bishops. I've never seen so many churchmen – whole rows and squads and gangs of them; gashes of wild colour, sweeps of flowing robes; celibates like peacocks making up in pomp for what they lack in prick-power. And at least two hundred spare priests in simple black and white, corralled on their own behind the altar, like some huge reserve or backup, impressive in its numbers.

And now the choir are trooping in, dressed in deeper purple with frilled white smocks on top; the boys in wide white collars, the men solemn-eyed, intense. The television cameras immediately close in. I'll be immortalised myself in just another hour or so, caught on film for ever – not cherubic choirboys shuffling into place, but one lone and murderous woman lunging forward with her gun. John-Paul is bound to see me, if not this actual morning, then in the rerun on the news. Will he be proud of me, I wonder; staggered by my nerve, or feel guilty and appalled that he wouldn't deign to see me when I called at his hotel?

The handsome man beside me suddenly touches my left arm. Startled, I swing round, see him smiling quite flirtatiously, offering me his binoculars, a natty little gold pair in a silk-lined leather case. I stutter out my thanks, and he answers in some language I don't recognise at all, his throaty whisper sounding near-obscene. Imagine being chatted up in the most solemn church in Rome, and when my whole mind's on Death, not Eros. I suppose he'll want to meet me afterwards, like Mary. ‘Afterwards' is getting really busy, except I daren't think beyond the Mass. I wish he'd just back off and let me concentrate, instead of using the binoculars as an excuse to touch me up, leaning right across me to show me how they work. Lots of other people are whispering and gossiping, getting up to greet their friends, taking pictures, changing films. I'd no idea it would be so sort of fidgety. I'd imagined prayerful silence, a sacred reverent hush. But I can't afford to alienate my neighbour, make him either hostile or suspicious, so I smile as warmly as I can while I focus the binoculars. The vast splendour of St Peter's suddenly contracts to looming detail – an eye, a wing, a furrowed brow, leaping into close-up; emotion caught and frozen as I track into the statues, arms flung out in wild and frantic gestures, expressions dazed or agonised, robes billowing in storm-clouds.

I turn my gaze from stone to flesh, as I realise those around me are using their binoculars not to admire the carvings, but to focus on a group of pilgrims sitting near the front in the main body of the nave. At first I see just a seething mass of heads, which the sharp lenses individualise into a hat, a wart, a feather, a long fair chunky pigtail, a coarse but waxed moustache. Then, at last, I understand the reason for the scrutiny, recognise that woman who's been splashed all over the newspapers and interviewed on television – the one who claimed she was miraculously cured. It was Giuseppe who alerted me, first pointed out the headlines, jabbing with his finger and shouting ‘English! English!' – one of his new words – then kept switching on the news for me, so I could follow the whole saga, salute my fellow countryman. She did stick in my mind, in fact, not just because she's English and has that absurdly inappropriate name of Mrs Lena Pain, but because she seemed so ordinary – a plain and dowdy matron, with every curve damped down: her body clamped into a corset, her hair curbed in a perm.

I also felt an envy when I read about the case; craved a miracle myself, a release from my own pain, which may not be as obvious as a swollen gammy leg, but still shrieks for help and healing. She's not even alone, as
I
am back in London, but has this doting wonder-son – a scientist, I think they said; someone really brilliant, whom she claims is so devoted to her he's refused to leave, or marry. I can see him now, hanging on her arm, his smile cracking the binoculars, his face bland and rather nothingish, like hers. If only I could swap with them, that happy special smiling pair, surrounded by admirers, picked out by God or destiny to win life's lucky draw. I feel even more an alien when I compare myself to them. I'm totally alone – isolated, terrified, not hero-worshipped by the crowds, but probably torn to pieces by them once I've fired the gun.

I rest my eyes a moment, check my watch instead; realise the great ceremony is just about to start. The basilica is packed now, and an air of tense expectancy is spreading like a fever through the craning congregation. It's like some huge royal wedding, where everyone is waiting for the bride; every head turned towards the door. Suddenly, the lights strobe on, and the mosaics' brilliant colours flame still more intensely; the organ blazing gold and purple as it thunders into life. The pure voices of the choirboys soar above its baritone, and the whole church seems to pulse and throb as it welcomes the procession now flowing up the aisle. Thirty, forty bishops in sumptuous golden vestments and tall white patterned mitres follow a group of younger men in frilled white lacy gowns. The whole vast congregation has now risen to its feet and is cheering and applauding as the procession shimmers past. I struggle to my own feet, dazed and overawed. I never realised people clapped in church, but this show is so magnificent I suppose it's like a theatre-audience applauding some impressive set when the curtain first goes up. Bishop follows bishop in a swishing dazzling pageant; the first ones now so close to me I can see the appliquéd detail of their vestments – shining trumpet-lilies, grapes in velvet clusters, glossy satin vine leaves, ears of ripened wheat.

The applause is growing wilder, and there, behind the bishops, is
Sua Santità
himself, resplendent in rich gold brocade and carrying a silver cross so tall it tops his mitre. He's blessing the huge crowd, smiling, nodding, turning back and forth, as if to give everyone a share of him.
He
's the bride, the superstar, and those pilgrims are all hungry for him, trying to press closer, reach their hands (and cameras) across the central wooden barrier which is there to stop them mobbing him. He turns slowly towards the transept and it‘s my turn now to eat him with my eyes – the man who dared to hold me, embraced me like a father. The choir is singing some exultant hymn of praise, voices rising with the incense which smokes round the altar; incense spreading into tree-shapes, spiralling in columns, cutting through the sunlight which streams through one high window, gold smoke meeting silver. My nose and throat are choking with its pungent musky smell, my ears assaulted by the choir who seem to hurl their hymn to heaven.

I hardly know what's going on – who's speaking, praying, sermonising, though a lot of it's in English, in honour of Saint Edwin, and much of it about him, as a stately English cardinal makes the martyr's case, like a barrister or advocate listing all the reasons why his client should be canonised, then formally requesting that favour from the Pope. I have eyes only for John Paul. I fumble for the binoculars, which I've still not given back, train them on his face. His brow is creased in concentration, his eyes intent and watchful, that expression of deep suffering still etched across his features. My whole instinct is to dart across and seize him, not to blow his brains out, but to have him hold me close again. I don't want to kill this ceremony, all this dignity and ritual which I've never experienced in my life before – the slow grave solemn movements of the bishops at the altar as they bow to one another or read from precious Mass books mounted on gold lecterns; the cascade of dark and silver tongues rising from the choir; the deep faith of the organ as it underscores the hymns; the rays of sunlight streaming from the window and falling on the Pope, as if to stress his specialness, his grace.

It's his turn now to speak. He's returned to his gold chair and is declaiming in Italian to the whole rapt congregation. I can't understand the words, but I gulp them down like a famished Third World orphan starved of spiritual food. Then he switches into English, enunciating slowly like a keen and solemn child who's still a little nervous of the language, still struggles with the harder words, spits them out like prune-stones. He's eulogising Edwin, reviewing the saint's life – his miracles, his virtues, his brave and joyful death. He was martyred on Good Friday, and just before the cruel rope tightened round his neck, he said how proud and pleased he was to die on the same day as his Saviour. He welcomed death, apparently, died blessing his brute hangman, looking forward to another life, to an end of pain and suffering.

I refocus the binoculars, note how tired John Paul looks – not just sad, but drained. His hair is slightly greyer on the left side, whiter on the right, receding on the forehead; his pale skin slack and lined. He's already in his seventies, must crave for peace himself; may bless me as I fire that shot, release him into martyrdom and sleep. Suddenly, he starts to cough, stumbles on his words as he struggles to continue. The attendant bishops hover, tensing in concern. I tense myself, tempted to snatch out my gun and fire it straight away, relieve him from his misery, stop that hacking cough. But Seton's plan was to wait until Communion, when the general stir and bustle of all the people surging to receive it will cover my own movement; provide me with the perfect chance to shoot, as the Pope comes down from the altar and passes right in front of me with his ciboriumful of Hosts.

It's an hour or more till then, and I hardly know how to live through all that ache and void of time, let alone stay cool and uninvolved, when I'm continually caught up in what's going on around me, affected by it, moved by it – the soaring alleluias spilling from the choir, the sense of communion and community which welds ten thousand strangers into one united family, makes them seem at home in a vast and foreign church. I long to be a part of it, envy all these faithful who know the prayers, can join in the responses, understand the ritual, know exactly when to stand and when to sit. (
I
keep making errors, shuffling to my feet when other people are only genuflecting, or subsiding on my seat when my neighbours are all kneeling.)

I'm especially jealous of those who offer gifts, who are allowed to walk right up to the altar, with bread and wine, or scrolls, or precious boxes, to present them to the Pope. He doesn't have a problem like my shrink – who regards gifts as bribes or blackmail and prefers to hand them back – but accepts them with real gratitude, even caresses those who offer them, touching children's faces, squeezing women's hands. I fight a wild temptation to walk up with my gun, present it as my tribute, and as he reaches out to take it, to fire from point-blank range. I need to get this killing over, can't endure the tension, the feeling of sick horror which is spreading through my body. The longer I'm involved in this great and solemn Mass, the worse it seems to wreck it – gag the music, smash the mystery, plunge brilliance into black.

I cling on to the chair in front, to ground myself, restrain myself; watch the Pope returning to the altar, praying silently, intently, over the chalice and the Hosts. Bread and wine. Suddenly I'm tasting Seton's mouth again, tasting our own bread and wine in Giuseppe's shabby flat; following our own ritual, at the table, on the floor. ‘
Sanctus, sanctus, sanctus
,' shrill the choir, but I'm hearing something else – Seton's voice beyond it, crying out in fear. His terror's rooted in me like our ugly monster-child, kicking at my stomach, wet between my legs. Fear's even in my eyeballs; hard, behind the sockets, pressing on my skull, like the cruelly hot and heavy fur which drags my body down. I grope back for my chair, the man beside me fussing, trying to touch me up again under the guise of sham concern. The woman on the other side is also looking anxious, whispers something to me, starts fumbling in her handbag, then offers me a glucose sweet, as if I were a child. I shake my head, assure her I'm all right, though I'm aware how pale I've gone; can feel the blood still draining from my face. I slump back in my seat, pinch my arm quite sharply to stop myself from fainting. Whatever happens, I mustn't draw attention to myself.

Suddenly, a bell rings out, imperious and shrill, and I glance back at the altar, see the Pope standing absolutely motionless, holding up the Host above his head; all the bishops stretching out their arms to it, every head but mine bowed low in adoration, the entire congregation kneeling. He turns slowly slowly round in a full circle, to display the Host to each section of the church. The silence is intense and almost spooky. Despite the thousands present, there's not one single sound – no careless cough or baby's cry, no rustle or cleared throat; not a murmur from the organ nor whisper from the choir. The moment feels electric, sends shivers down my spine. I bow my own head, hide my eyes, hear that urgent bell again; keep looking down, looking down, aware of some strange force or power surging through the church – holiness, or faith, perhaps – something I can't share. Then the organ starts to throb again, and after a high and straining solo from a young boy all in white, the Pope prays aloud in what I guess is Latin. The words are just a mumbled drone until he switches into English, repeating the word ‘peace', spinning out its vowels in his careful stilted English, as if to stress its value.