Free Still Bleeding (A Jack Nightingale Short Story) by Stephen Leather Page B

desk.
‘There’s creamer and sugar on the tray,’ she said to the priest and
he thanked her.
    Nightingale looked back at the newspaper.
There was one photograph of Ben Miller, the boy who had beaten
leukemia, standing with his parents ‘So how did they know the
little girl has stigmata?’
    ‘Good question,’ said the priest. ‘The little
boy saw the bandages on the girl’s hands. And he said she told him
about seeing the Virgin Mary. But we’ve made our own enquiries and
from what we have discovered, the wounds are genuine and she is still bleeding from her
hands and feet and from a wound in the side. The stigmata
sites.’
    ‘And what’s
your interest? Why is the Vatican so concerned?’
    ‘Because it
could well be a miracle,’ said the priest. ‘And we investigate all
miracles. Especially those that involve the appearance of the
Virgin Mary.’ He stood up, took one of the coffee mugs, and sat
down again.
    ‘And for that
you hire a private detective?’
    The priest
smiled. ‘Generally we do the research ourselves. But this case is
unusual in that the family are refusing to speak with us.’
    ‘Sounds as if
they don’t want any publicity,’ said Nightingale. ‘Who can blame
them?’
    The priest held
up his hands. ‘Absolutely, it’s perfectly understandable. But we
would still like to know if this is a genuine miracle, or something
else. In a case like this it’s sometimes more advantageous if we
use outside help.’
    Nightingale
nodded. ‘You said you’d made enquiries?’
    ‘We’ve managed
to get a look at her medical report. She sees a doctor on a daily
basis. The doctor changes her dressings and takes a blood sample.
We’ve managed to get a look at her blood tests and everything is
fine. Liver function, cholesterol, blood sugar. She’s a fit and
healthy twelve-year-old girl. Except for the fact that she’s
bleeding.’
    ‘So it’s a
miracle?’
    The priest
chuckled. ‘It’s not as simple as that.’
    Nightingale
pulled a pack of Marlboro from his pocket. ‘Do you mind if I
smoke?’
    ‘Not at all,’
said the priest. ‘It’s one of the few vices we’re allowed.’
    ‘You
smoke?’
    The priest
grinned. ‘Like a chimney.’
    Nightingale
took a cigarette for himself and offered the pack to the priest.
The priest took one and Nightingale walked around the desk to light
it for him.
    ‘She has the
stigmata,’ Nightingale said as he dropped back down into his seat.
‘That’s a sign of Christ, right? The marks left from the nails when
Jesus was crucified and the wound in the side where he was stabbed
with a spear.’
    ‘Do you have
any idea how many cases of stigmata the Vatican investigates every
year, Mr Nightingale?’
    Nightingale
shook his head.
    ‘Well over a
hundred. All around the world. And then we have sightings of the
Virgin Mary, angels appearing, vegetables that look like Christ,
the face of Jesus in damp patches on ceilings. Do you know how many
of them turn out to be miracles?’
    ‘I’m going to
guess that the answer is none.’
    The priest
smiled tightly. ‘And your guess would be right. None. There are no
miracles, Mr Nightingale, at least not involving civilians. That is
now how the Lord God demonstrates his presence in the world. In
every case we have ever investigated, the stigmata has had another
explanation.’
    ‘So you think
she’s faking it?’
    The priest
shook his head. ‘Not necessarily. It could be psychosomatic. The
brain is a very powerful organ and can affect the body in ways that
we barely understand. Or it could be the parents doing something to
her while she is asleep. Or forcing her to wound herself.’
    ‘Why would they
do that?’
    ‘In the past
we’ve had parents who want money, or fame, or just to be noticed.
But usually in these cases the parents are keen to get as much
publicity as possible. These parents won’t let journalists near the
little girl.’
    ‘Which means
what?’
    The priest
shrugged. ‘Maybe they’re in for the