Читать книгу Avenged - Jacqui Rose, Jacqui Rose - Страница 17

Mary O’Flanagan covered her ears. She didn’t want to hear anything else the Gardaí had to say. In fact she didn’t want to look at them either; if she’d had it her way, she wouldn’t be here at all. Though in actual fact, here was only the back room of the tiny hall running alongside the village bakery.

The back room of the hall doubled as everything. For plays, for cake sales, for council and church meetings, even a few times for evening mass when a large sycamore tree had fallen on the church and destroyed part of the roof. And now it seemed the room doubled as a Garda station.

Mary glanced across to her mother who was looking stern, her expression full of shame and blame. It’d been at her insistence that Mary had come here. The Gardaí had already spoken to her, but now they wanted to ask her what seemed to be the same questions all over again.

Her father, Fergus, hadn’t insisted, though only because he wasn’t speaking to her. He hadn’t spoken to her since that night, so he hadn’t been able to insist on anything at all. The only thing he had done was cry. Cry and turn his head away when she walked into the same room as him.

She knew it was a sin to have sex before marriage.

She’d known about the sins of the flesh since she was little, but she also knew her parents blamed her for what had happened and now, she was to blame Patrick, because that’s what Father Ryan had told her.

She’d asked to see him, but they hadn’t let her. Perhaps if she‘d been allowed to speak to him, he’d have been able to tell her this was all a terrible mistake and explain what had really happened.

But now she was so confused about everything, she couldn’t think straight. They kept on telling her over and over again how it was Patrick who’d done this to her, and now they were saying he had also killed the Brogans. None of it seemed to make sense.

She’d tried to tell her mother – who overnight had changed from the happy chatty person she loved into someone cold and harsh – that she really wasn’t sure it was Patrick. But her mother had gone to get Father Ryan who’d once more explained she was being foolish to think otherwise, and that there was no doubt that it had been Patrick who had done this to her. And even though she didn’t want to believe it, everyone had insisted there was no other explanation. So what other choice did she have than to believe it herself?

Ever since that night her love for the boy she was going to marry had turned into shame, hurt and pain. And as she sat in the back room, covering her ears, with judging and accusatory eyes turned on her, Mary O’Flanagan knew that, from this day onwards, she never wanted to hear the name of Patrick Doyle again.

Patrick wiped his eyes carefully. They were sore from crying.

No-one had really told him what was going on and since that night, his whole life had been turned upside down. He’d been taken to the back room of the hall by the Gardaí, who had asked him about Mary and the Brogans. Later, they’d interrogated him about Mary again and when he’d asked to go home, they’d refused him, instead taking him in a car to some place he didn’t know, to ask yet more questions about her.

No-one would tell him anything. And now he was locked up in a room, in a building, in a place he wasn’t familiar with, listening to the sounds and screams of people he couldn’t see. And although he was the grand age of sixteen, he was frightened.

Patrick heard a jangling of keys. The door opened and he was greeted by the sight of two priests robed in black from head to toe, with large wooden crosses and rosary beads hanging down to their beltlines.

The taller priest, whose head was shaved, displaying a large prominent scar, addressed Patrick. ‘Doyle, you’re going to be moved to the west dormitory along with the other boys whose case is still being investigated by the Gardaí. You’ll obey all the rules or face punishment. Do I make myself clear?’

Patrick’s eyes widened with panic and for a moment he couldn’t say a thing. When he was able to speak, his words came tumbling out.

‘I never touched the Brogans! I didn’t! I didn’t! I swear, Father, it was nothing to do with me. You’ve got to believe me! You’ve got to.’

The sudden pain on the back of Patrick’s head was almost unbearable as the smaller priest brought down the wooden paddle he kept on a long piece of string around his waist.

Patrick screamed out, cupping his arms around his head as his tears and blood fell to the floor.

‘Enough of your impudence, boy. Here at Our Lady’s you only speak when asked a direct question. Do you understand?’

Patrick nodded and as he did so he felt the pain of the paddle strike him again, though this time his arms – already holding his head – shielded him slightly.

‘You were asked a question, Doyle. Nodding is for donkeys.’

Patrick wiped the tears away from his face. ‘Sorry, Father … Yes, Father.’

Satisfied that Patrick was beginning to understand the rules of Our Lady’s Industrial Reform School, both priests turned, walking out of the sparse room.

Quickly and empty-handed, Patrick followed. He touched the silver chain and cross round his neck which Mary had given him. He’d never taken it off since the time she had presented it to him on his birthday. That had been his happiest day and all he could do now was to hold onto the memories of it.

Patrick had brought nothing with him and was still dressed in the same clothes he’d been wearing when the Gardaí had come to his house. He was confused and scared. He needed to talk to someone; ask them to take him home, ask them to believe him. But who? There was no-one.

As he continued to think about the nightmare he found himself in, the fear rose up again and Patrick found himself having to breathe heavily in an attempt to stop himself from screaming.

‘Doyle! Hurry up!’ The priest’s shouting startled him.

Jogging to keep up with the priests who strode along the long dark corridors with purpose and pace, for the first time Patrick was able to take in his surroundings. And what he saw, he didn’t like.

The industrial school he’d been brought to was for the neglected, abandoned and unwanted, as well as for juvenile offending boys, and it was larger than any other building Patrick had ever seen. In fact, the largest building he’d seen was the community hall back in the village.

It was overwhelming. The maze of corridors weaved along, forking off into other identical corridors, which were lined with black bolted doors and steel-barred windows. There were locks and chains almost everywhere he looked. Paintings of priests looking fearsome and merciless hung from the dull mint green walls and oversized crosses were strewn everywhere.

Once outside in the large courtyard, the cold and rain hit Patrick, whipping into his face as he was marched across the parade ground. He saw a crowd of milling boys huddled together, trying to defend themselves from the Irish weather.

The boys varied in sizes and age but were all dressed in the same grey hessian trousers and shirts; misery was engrained in their dirty, strained faces. As he hurried to what he’d find out later was the punishment wing, the other thing he noticed were the haircuts. They were short and crudely cut, with not one of the boys having their hair longer than half a centimetre in length. Absent-mindedly, Patrick touched his own thick head of hair. A sense of foreboding rushing into him.

‘Hey, Culchie! What’s the craic with those manky clothes you’re wearing? Fallen out of the donation box, have we?’ The call was from a boy who stood at the far side of the parade ground. His expression challenged Patrick. ‘New boy. Oi! I’m talking to you!’

As Patrick turned to look at the boy, the rest of the gang he was standing with began to laugh; pointing and staring at Patrick as if he were a clown in the circus.

Patrick’s natural fighting instincts suddenly took over and without thinking, he responded. ‘For sure, the only manky thing I see is your fecking face.’ The moment Patrick had spoken, he regretted it. The two priests, who he had forgotten for a moment, swirled round. Their faces full of fury.

The punch to the side of Patrick’s head floored him. He could feel the icy ground underneath as his hands scraped in the wet gravel in an attempt to get back on his feet. He was aware of the catcalling from the boys and the seemingly distant, angry voices of the priests; admonishing him. A moment later, Patrick Doyle blacked out.

‘To be sure, he thinks he’s Sleeping Beauty.’

Patrick’s eyes slowly opened and for one glorious moment he thought he was back at his house, curled up in his own bed. But as the ice-cold cup of water hit Patrick, along with the sound of laughter, the stark reality of his surroundings came flooding back.

‘He’s awake! He’s awake, Father Marley!’ Patrick heard one of the boys shouting out in delight.

‘Quiet, boy! Unless of course you want me to beat out the excitement of the devil in you!’

As Patrick lay on the bottom of the metal bunk bed, the priest’s portly face came into view, looming and peering over, silently studying him.

A minute later, satisfied with the examination, the priest mused, ‘You look fine, boy. I hope you’re not a child who uses ill-health to justify slothliness. It is, as you know, a deadly sin … or perhaps you don’t. I was informed you come from a family of heathens. Those who have turned their back on Christ our saviour.’ Then to himself, the priest said, ‘Very sad. Very sad.’

After a moment of reflection by the priest had passed, he continued speaking to Patrick.

‘Perhaps if this hadn’t been the case and your father had been God-fearing you wouldn’t have ended up here. Now get up, boy. There’s a lot to do. For a start, your hair needs cutting. We can’t live amongst vanity. Another deadly sin – almost as treacherous as the sins of the flesh; though you will, I know, understand a lot about that one.’

Patrick stared at the priest, puzzled by what he’d just said.

‘Another thing which shan’t be tolerated is touching yourself. That, boy, will not be stood for. A punishment fit for the sin will be deployed. Do you understand, Doyle?’

Patrick’s face turned scarlet. ‘Yes, Father!’ The priest nodded, and with that he walked away, leaving Patrick surrounded by the curious stares of the other boys.

The inquisitive glances were broken by a bellowing, angry voice from the back of the dorm. The boys stepped aside, parting the way for the aggressor to appear.

‘So this is the lad who thought he was good to taunt me. Let’s see how hard you are now.’

Patrick recognised him as the boy from the parade ground. He stood facing Patrick, sinewy in frame but clearly able to handle himself.

Patrick got up from the bed, immediately feeling a shooting pain in the place he’d been punched by the priest, but he didn’t let it show. He couldn’t. He mightn’t have ever been outside his own village before, and was admittedly ignorant in many ways of the world, but one thing Patrick Doyle did know was that to show weakness was to show you were inviting trouble.

Patrick glanced at the other boys; up close for the first time. They were all dressed in the same dull clothing with the same dull look in their eyes. How long they’d been here, Patrick didn’t know, but it was clear it was every boy for himself.

There was no question of backing down from the challenger. It was obvious to Patrick the boy was looking for a fight whether he wanted one or not. Sighing with resignation and hoping it wouldn’t come to blows, Patrick squared up.

‘If I remember rightly, I was minding me own. It was you who called me first. I’m not looking for a tear, but mind, I’ll not walk away from one either. It’s down to you.’

The boy looked at Patrick, weighing him up in his disdain. He turned his sneer into a contemptuous smile and as Patrick continued to stand his ground, he noticed there was a look of uncertainty in the boy’s green eyes.

‘Well, ’tis lucky for you I’m in a good mood, new boy, otherwise you may well have felt a bunch of knuckles down your throat.’

Patrick didn’t say anything. He could tell the boy was going to leave it, and that suited him. He didn’t need trouble, not with the boys and certainly not with the priests. All he wanted to do was get out of the place and go back home. The only thing he hadn’t worked out was how the hell he was going to do that.

As the boy turned to go, he barked a warning to Patrick. ‘But let me make it clear to you, new boy. It’s me that runs this dormitory and I’ll not have any country rat coming in to try to take over. They call me Killer, and to be sure, I’m not called it for nothing. You’d do well to remember that.’

Patrick stayed silent. He stared, watching Killer – who couldn’t have been any older than he was – walk across to his area of the dorm.

Patrick was about to sit back down but, for no apparent reason, Killer struck out at another boy who’d been minding his own business lying on his bed. The kick was hard and cruel, carrying the weight of Killer’s heavy boots and hatred behind it. From across the dorm, Patrick listened as Killer taunted the younger boy.

‘You grubby bleedin’ nigger, get out of me fecking sight. I can’t stand the sight of ye and the smell of ye is making me sick to my stomach.’

The boy scurried off his bunk bed, much to the amusement of Killer and his gang. Killer grabbed the boy by his shirt.

‘Knock into me, will you? What were you trying to do, nigger boy? Looking for a fight?’

The boy’s face was full of fear and his eyes darted about the room as Killer held him tightly. Patrick could see tears of terror rolling down his cheeks.

To the delight of the other boys, who cheered and bellowed and stamped their feet in encouragement, Killer’s fist smashed into the boy’s face, splitting open his lip.

The boy, his mouth covered in blood, began to talk, desperate to stop the unprovoked attack. He blubbed an apology to Killer, who stood with amusement on his face at the boy’s obvious terror. The boy trembled as he spoke.

‘Sorry, Killer … Sorry! I never meant to.’

‘You never meant to what? Be a nigger?’

The roars of laughter sounded around the dormitory and, egged on by the boys’ jeering, Killer slapped the small black boy around his face.

‘Leave him alone!’ It was Patrick who spoke. He walked up behind Killer, his fists clenched with anger.

‘I said leave him alone.’

Killer grabbed the boy around his neck, putting him in a headlock before turning round to look at the person who dared challenge him. He sneered. ‘I told you. I run this dorm; ’tis none of your business what I do to the nigger, but mark my words, you’ll be next.’

Undaunted by Killer’s threat, Patrick shouted. ‘Me name’s Patrick. Patrick Doyle, and I’ll tell you again; leave him alone.’

Killer looked around at the other boys who were all entertained by the confrontation. ‘And what are you going to do about it, new boy?’

‘I won’t have to do anything if you let him go. Pick on someone your own size, you bloody bollocks. Now leave him alone; otherwise ’tis you who’ll get it.’

Killer didn’t move. He grinned nastily and gripped the boy even harder so he squealed.

Patrick looked at the boy ensnared in the grip of this six-foot lanky boy. He saw the tears and the fear etched into his face.

‘Let him go, you bastard!’ Picking up a bible that lay on the small locker next to where he now stood, Patrick aimed and threw it with all his might, hitting Killer directly in the face.

The corner of the hardback bible caught Killer on his lip, squirting blood across and down his body. He yelled out, partly in surprise and partly in pain, cupping his hands over his mouth before unleashing his anger. His face was bright red and his eyes bulged as he screamed at Patrick.

‘Come here! Come back here!’

Killer dropped his grip on the boy, enabling the terrified child to wriggle free and scrabble to the safety of his bed. He then lunged at Patrick, taking a swing at his head. He missed; instead grabbing hold of Patrick’s top and causing it to rip.

Patrick allowed his natural gift for fighting and his survival instincts to take over. He turned and head-butted Killer, splitting open the boy’s forehead and causing a river of deep red blood to gush out.

Enraged, Killer swung at Patrick through searing pain to the soundtrack of cheering boys. His fist connected with Patrick’s nose with rifle-like precision.

The pain took under a second to hit him, but instead of it hampering his efforts it drove Patrick on. His eyes widened and his fists beat as he jumped on Killer, battering him in a blind rage.

The two boys’ blood and sweat combined together. Grappling arms, kicks and bites were all poured into the mix as they rolled on the floor, both determined to be the victor.

On the ground now, Patrick felt his sides being booted by the circle of other boys. He knew he had to get up if he were to stand a chance. With one huge effort and summoning the last of his strength, Patrick ground his elbow into Killer’s face, damaging his already broken nose.

With Killer swathed in agony, it allowed Patrick to get up from the concrete floor. He leant over him and began to finish off the fight. He gave a final kick to his opponent, making it clear he was the winner.

Panting and exhausted, blood running into his mouth, Patrick now pointed at the other boys. He stood firm in front of the petrified young black boy as he spoke.

‘This is to all of you. So listen carefully at what I’m saying. You leave him alone, do ye hear me? Any of you come near him again. Anyone. I’ll kill you, make no mistake.’

Patrick held the gazes of the other lads before turning round to look at the boy. He winked and got a grateful smile in return. The boy looked shyly at Patrick. He spoke quietly with a slight lisp. ‘My name’s Cabhan, but everyone calls me Cab.’

Patrick winced in pain as he wiped the running blood from his face. Putting out his hand he said, ‘Well, Cab, it’s good to meet you. My name’s Patrick.’

The boy grinned, relief and gratitude coming out in the form of tears. ‘Not as good as it is to meet you, Patrick. For sure, I’ll never forget what you’ve done. Not for the rest of me life.’