The Wonder Worker Read Online Free

Centre. I specialise in the traditional Christian ministry of healing, and that means I work hand in hand with orthodox medicine. Val, the doctor who looked after you just now, has a branch of her National Health practice here, and we have our own psychologist too.”
    As he spoke I was absorbing more details. I realised we had entered the Centre through a route reserved for the staff and that the glass swing doors, now facing me, formed the official entrance; they opened on to a flight of steps which led up into the churchyard. An assortment of plants made me aware that the reception area was not withoutnatural light. The windows, set high up in the walls, were at ground level. Various signs directed visitors to a number of destinations, but apart from the intriguing arrow marked MUSIC THERAPY , these signs failed to register in my brain. I was too busy noticing the comfortable chairs, the table with the magazines and the grey-haired receptionist sipping coffee behind her desk.
    “This is Pauline,” said Nicholas to me. “Friday lunch-time’s quiet for her as everyone’s at the healing service and I have no fixed appointments directly afterwards. I like to leave time to see people who come to the service and stay on.” And having put me at ease by implying I wasn’t wrecking his busy schedule, he asked the receptionist to make us some tea.
    On the other side of the area was a door marked CONSULTING ROOM ONE , and when I followed him inside I found myself in more austere surroundings. Waist-high bookshelves stretched along one wall. A desk and swivel-chair were placed beneath the high window. A small round table flanked by two easy-chairs stood in one corner, and two matching chairs were parked in front of the desk.
    “Have a seat,” said Nicholas, closing the door.
    “Where do you want me to sit?”
    “Where you’ll feel most comfortable.”
    I chose one of the chairs parked by the desk.
    “And where would you like me to sit?” he asked, surprising me.
    “Oh, behind the desk,” I said at once. “In the swivel-chair.” I had already worked out that once we were seated the desk would hide the lower part of my body.
    As we settled ourselves I noticed that above the bookshelves was a portrait in oils of a striking blonde with dark blue eyes and a beautiful mouth, delicately painted but suggesting strong emotions effortlessly concealed.
    “What an interesting picture!” I said, having stared at it for so long that some comment seemed to be required. Of course I’d instantly guessed who she was.
    “My wife says a photograph would have represented her more faithfully,” he said, “but I myself think the artist’s captured the essence of her personality.” As an afterthought he added: “Sometimes the essence of a personality is hard to perceive. In fact sometimes it’s heavily masked by the physical appearance.”
    Below the level of the desk my left hand tried to push in the roll of fat which bulged over my intestines and I found myself picturinghow I must have looked to him when I was unconscious. So appalled was I by this thought that I didn’t hear his next sentence and had to ask him to repeat it.
    “I was asking why you touched me just now in the church.”
    I made the obvious reply. “How did you know I had?”
    He smiled, but although he averted his eyes I didn’t think he was embarrassed. I sensed he was merely concentrating on the task of explaining his eerie awareness in the most prosaic language available. All he said in the end was: “I felt the power go out of me.”
    The words had an oddly familiar ring, as if I had heard them long ago in a different context, but I refused to be diverted by an uncertain memory. Intrigued I said: “What power?”
    “The healing power. It doesn’t originate with me—I’m just the equivalent of a channel, although the word ‘channel’ gives too passive an impression. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that all human beings have a certain