The Prayer of the Night Shepherd by Phil Rickman

“miracle”.’
    ‘Not one of my very favourite words, Kent.’
    ‘I... I know Ann-Marie pretty well...’
    ‘I’m sure.’ This was the man who, in the cause of preventative medicine, used to lead groups of women from Ledwardine and surrounding villages on fun runs. Until word reached his wife that, for a select few, the serious fun had begun after the run. ‘So your position on this would be... what?’
    ‘I’d say, let them all keep their illusions. Not often people in my profession get to impart that kind of good news. And if it helps you people fill your churches in these difficult times...’
    ‘That’s very generous of you, Doctor. We need all the crumbs we can get.’
    ‘Entirely off the record, it could be a medical anomaly, but it’s my suspicion that there was an error at the hospital with those first tests. Whether it was technical or a mix-up of names is a matter of conjecture, and we’ll probably never really know, but—’
    ‘You mean Ann-Marie Herdman never had a tumour.’
    ‘I can’t say that, obviously.’
    ‘But you must’ve had a reason to refer her to the consultant in the first place.’
    ‘It’s what consultants are for , Merrily. To take the heat.’
    ‘Of course.’
    ‘But mistakes do occur. It’s inevitable.’
    ‘And yet you told the Prossers you’d done some checks and you couldn’t find evidence of any mix-up.’
    ‘Merrily, in these litigious times...’
    ‘I see.’
    ‘Anyway,’ Asprey said, ‘I thought you ought to know. I realize it can be quite embarrassing for someone in your position when people latch on to something like this and blow it up into something it isn’t.’
    ‘Yes,’ Merrily said. ‘That was very thoughtful of you.’
    When he hung up, she was looking at the moon over Paul Klee’s rooftops in the print opposite the desk. The moon was very faintly blue. She looked down at the sermon pad and saw that under the apple she’d printed the words SMUG and GIT.
    At dusk, Merrily went to lock up the church, glancing, on the way out, at the prayer board on which parishioners could write the names of people for whom they’d like prayers to be said.
    There were twice as many as usual. One had the final sentence underlined; it said: THIS IS FOR SUNDAY NIGHT.
    Walking back through the churchyard, an isolated spurt of sleet hit her like grit from under lorry wheels, and she hurried under the lych gate.
    What did you do here? What did you do about healing? How did you explain all those times when there was no cure, when the condition worsened? What did you say to them when, after the quiet times , after the unity , after the being part of something bigger ... what did you say to them when, after all that, God appeared to have let them down badly?
    Back in the scullery, with about twenty minutes before Jane’s school bus was due on the square, she prodded in the number for Sophie at the Hereford Cathedral gatehouse. Time to make an appointment with Bernie Dunmore.
    ‘Gatehouse.’ Male voice.
    ‘ Bishop...? ’
    ‘Merrily Watkins, as I live and breathe.’ Bernie sniffed. ‘Well, with slight difficulty at the moment, seem to be developing a cold. Sophie’s just popped across to Fodder to get me some herbal thing which she insists is going to deal with it.’
    ‘Echinacea?’
    ‘What’s wrong with Sudafed, I say.’
    ‘It’s a drug.’
    ‘And?’
    ‘Bernie,’ Merrily said, ‘where do we stand on healing?’
    ‘As in...?’
    ‘Spiritual.’
    ‘We brought out an extensive report,’ the Bishop reminded her. ‘It’s called “A Time for Healing.”
    “A Time to Heal”. No, when I say we , I mean we, the Diocese. As distinct from we, the Church.’
    ‘Bugger,’ said the Bishop. ‘Have you no pity for a man with a cold? Your department we’re talking about here, isn’t it? Healing and Deliverance. Remember?’
    ‘Is it, though? My job description says Deliverance. Healing sounds like the C of E spin doctors softening it up. Less bell,