Jacqui Rose - Avenged

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.