Читать книгу Please Don’t Make Me Go: How One Boy’s Courage Overcame A Brutal Childhood - John Fenton - Страница 11

Chapter 6

The door opened into the large rectangular room we’d been in before but now the benches were lined with boys. We couldn’t even see the entire length of the room as other boys moving around obstructed the view. Two boys who had been standing close to the door looked at us with interest. When we tried to get past they made no attempt to move out of the way and we were forced to squeeze gingerly around them. I was scared and glanced at Bernie for comfort. The look on his face showed me that he was feeling exactly the same and he nervously gestured with his head for me to follow him. We made our way over to a bench that only had one boy sitting on it.

‘Where are you from?’ The boy looked at us with mild curiosity. ‘What Remand Home?’

‘St Nicks,’ Bernie replied. ‘My name is Bernard,’ he pointed in my direction, ‘and he’s John.’

‘What number have you got? I’ll tell you what house you’re in.’

‘I’m 116 and he’s 71.’

‘You’re in St David’s,’ he said, looking at me, ‘the same one as me. You,’ he switched his attention to Bernie, ‘you’re in St George’s.’

‘How does the house system work?’ I asked.

‘Simple. All numbers between 1 and 30 are in St Patrick’s; between 31 and 60 are in St Andrew’s; 61 to 90 are St David’s; and 91 to 120 in St George’s. When we have to line up we do it in houses and in numbers. You should always be standing behind the same person.’ He looked around the room furtively. ‘Be careful about who you upset.’ He gestured towards a group of boys standing against the opposite wall. ‘All of those are nasty. The tall one with the blond hair is called Jimmy Wilkinson and he’s the governor. You can’t have any smokes unless you buy them from him or his mates. If he sees you smoking and you haven’t bought it from him …’ He never finished the sentence. He just smiled wanly. ‘Put it this way; you’ll regret it.’

I looked more closely at the group of boys opposite, especially the blond one. He looked about fifteen years old and was approximately five feet ten inches tall and of medium weight. He had a pronounced Roman nose and watery blue eyes. As I was watching him, he squirted a stream of saliva from between his front teeth, hitting a boy who was walking past him. The whole group laughed uproariously. The boy who had been spat on didn’t react and hurried about his business.

‘Do you see what I mean?’ He stood up. ‘Just be careful.’ He started to walk away, stopped, and came back to where we were sitting. ‘My name is Bill Hedges. I’ve been here two years and if you want to know anything, just ask.’ He gave us a wink and walked away.

‘He’s a nice lad,’ I remarked. ‘I wonder what he’s in here for?’

‘Don’t ask. It’s none of our business and until we know the ropes, let’s keep ourselves to ourselves.’ Bernie shook his head slowly from side to side. ‘I don’t trust any of these scumbags and you had better do the same.’

We sat quietly watching the boys in the room. Their ages ranged from our age, thirteen, to possibly sixteen years old. We were definitely two of the youngest and this thought gave me little comfort. I knew there was going to be a pecking order and we were at the bottom. Bernie was right; we had better keep ourselves to ourselves.

My attention was diverted by raised voices from the middle of the room. As if by magic the crowded floor cleared, except for four boys standing staring at each other. The remainder of the school stood on benches or leant against walls to watch the proceedings. It was quiet, like the lull before a storm.

‘Go for it, you mouthy fucker.’ One of the boys in the centre started walking belligerently towards another boy. ‘Kick it off, you piece of shit.’ Suddenly and without warning he shot out his right fist. The fist landed forcibly in the centre of the other boy’s face and blood leaked out of his damaged nose and trickled down his mouth and chin. From nowhere the aggressor produced a two-foot dangling toilet chain and it hummed and whirred as he swung it above his head in a circular motion.

The injured boy backed away and smiled through his bloody mouth. He spat a mouthful of blood and spittle straight into the face of his assailant and kicked him hard in the crotch. He ran in fast under the swinging chain and crashed his forehead into the startled boy’s face. The momentum of their coming together made both boys lose their footing and they crashed to the floor in an untidy heap.

One of the other boys, who had been standing in the centre, ran forward and kicked the head of the boy with the chain. He was immediately jumped on by the fourth boy and they also fell to the floor.

I was horrified at what I was watching. I had never seen anything remotely like the extremity of this violence. I was so engrossed that I didn’t see two of the Brothers in their black robes approaching the writhing bodies on the floor.

‘If you want to see the nastiest bastard in the school, look at that young Brother.’ Bill had appeared at our side again. ‘Brother Arnold. He’s one nasty cunt.’

I watched the Brothers as they separated the four boys on the floor. The young one that Bill had pointed out seemed to enjoy the task. He had a smile of satisfaction on his face as he yanked a boy off the floor, grasped his left cheek between his thumb and index finger and twisted so hard that the boy screamed in pain. He then slapped the boy on his other cheek with a sound like a pistol shot. It must have really hurt. He released the boy’s cheek and shoved him in the centre of his face with the flat of his hand. The boy staggered backwards for a few strides before falling hard onto his backside. The Brother stood over him, legs slightly apart, swaying gently from side to side.

‘Get up, you little bastard.’ He challenged the boy. ‘I’ll teach you not to fight.’

The boy watched him warily.

‘Get up, I said, or do I have to kick you up?’

The boy rolled sideways away from the Brother’s feet and scrabbled quickly to standing position.

‘Now you can come with me to see Brother De Montfort.’ He shoved the boy in the direction of one of the doors. ‘Get going.’

I was so engrossed in watching the young Brother that I had failed to notice that the other Brother had got the remaining three boys to their feet and was walking them in the direction of the same door. No shouting, no hitting, no kicking – just walking them quietly towards the door. The difference in the two monks’ behaviour was startling.

Bill was right. The young Brother was a nasty cunt. I thought I had best try to stay out of his way. I watched the two Brothers and the four boys disappear through the doorway.

‘Brother Arnold has been here five or six years,’ Bill told us. ‘Don’t let him catch you smoking. He hates it. You don’t just get booked; you get a good smacking as well.’

A shrill blast on a whistle brought our conversation to an end.

‘Line up.’ A man dressed in blue overalls was standing at the far end of the room. He was tall and heavily built, about fifty years old with wiry ginger hair. His ruddy face was covered in pockmarks. ‘Line up and be quick about it.’

The entire school briskly lined up in four rows. I was in the row nearest the wall, Bernie was two rows away. A Brother I had not seen before walked quietly down the length of each row counting the boys. ‘I make it 115,’ he called out to the ginger-haired man. ‘Is that correct?’

The man checked a black marking board attached to the wall. ‘We should have 119. Is this board up to date?’

‘I’m sorry, Mr Lawson. There are four boys with the headmaster that haven’t been put on the board. Everything is correct.’

‘Thank you, Brother Michael.’ He pointed at the right-hand row, ‘File in, and no noise out of any of you.’

There was no talking permitted during mealtimes and any boy who breached this ruling was booked and got the customary slap to go with it. Brother Michael stood on a podium at the front of the room, watching us like an owl seeking its prey. He had a small black notebook in his hand and every so often he would open it and write someone’s name in it; then he would signal that person to come to the podium with a shout and a beckoning gesture with his talon-like finger. When the boy arrived at the podium the Brother reached down and pulled him up onto his tiptoes by grabbing his hair. He gave the boy a sharp cuff around his ear and sent him back to his seat. This was repeated at least five times during tea and I wondered how any of the boys would have points left at the end of the week, at the rate of bookings I had seen so far.

After tea I met up with Bernie again and we sat on the same bench as we had before tea. Bernie wasn’t his usual self. He seemed unusually quiet and withdrawn, and something was obviously worrying him.

‘What’s up?’ I asked. ‘What are you thinking about?’

He had tears in his eyes. ‘Look at my ankle.’ He rolled his right sock down. The inside of his right ankle had a purple and blue swollen lump on it and the skin had been grazed. Small red specks of blood oozed out of the graze and it looked very painful.

‘What happened? How did you do that?’

‘I reached for a cake at the table. The boy on the other side of the table wanted it, so he kicked me.’ A tear trickled down Bernie’s cheek. ‘He was too big to fight. He must have been fourteen or fifteen. He told me that he will always have my cake from now on and there’s nothing I can do about it.’ He angrily wiped away the tear. ‘I hope the bastard is dead before Christmas.’

I put my arm around my friend’s shoulder. I was hurting for him. I wished I had been stronger and older and could have helped him. ‘You always said this place would be rough. Your brother Jimmy was more than likely bullied before he toughened up. He survived and came through it. So will we, Bernie.’ I squeezed his shoulder. ‘Our turn will come. We just have to learn how to fight by their rules.’

We sat quietly together. I was frightened but too scared to show it. The Brothers and their attitude towards discipline terrified me. I had expected the boys to be rough and maybe bully me, but cruelty by the staff had never entered my mind. I was finding it hard not to cry and my whole being was awash with self-pity.

I closed my eyes tightly and concentrated on saying a prayer to the Blessed Virgin. My Catholic schooling had led me to believe that deities could hear your silent prayers and I felt sure that the mother of Jesus would help me through these troubled times.

‘Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with you.

‘Blessed art thou amongst women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.

‘Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death.

‘Amen. Hail Mary …’

I must have said at least three decades of the Rosary in my mind before I reopened my eyes and, as for all fervent believers, it had a soothing effect on my troubled mind. I looked at Bernie and saw that he too was lost in deep reverie, so rather than disturb him, I returned to my silent prayers for divine help.

‘Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with you.

‘Blessed art thou …’