Niall Williams - Boy in the World

One by one the children stepped forward. The boy was thirteenth in the line. Already some were coming back down the aisle.

Were they confirmed now? Did they look any different?

Faith full. Faith filled .

Soldiers. Soul jeers .

Stoppit . Concentrate. I believe .

I believe in … NO!

There was no way the boy could have known beforehand, no way that he could have realized earlier and saved himself and the Master the embarrassment that was soon to follow. And perhaps it was just then, while Mrs Conway played a solo on the organ, her whole upper body swaying back and forth and her glasses slipping ever closer to the end of her nose, that the boy realized he couldn’t continue. Perhaps it was only the motion of the line itself as it got smaller and smaller and he moved nearer and nearer to the bishop.

All he knew was a heat along his collar. Then a sense that his shoes were full of warm water, that he was finding it hard to take the next step. Then the heat under his collar was rising and his breath was growing shorter and the panic of his drowning was ever more real.

Then suddenly the bishop was standing directly in front of him.

He was enormous.

‘My son,’ he said, and his fried breath travelled across to the boy. He had a pink palm raised and in its creases the boy could see glistenings of sweat. The bishop’s eyes bulged. His lips he moistened with the tip of his tongue and then opened his mouth to proceed.

Know. No. I believe. St .

No .

‘No, stop,’ mumbled the boy.

The bishop ignored him.

‘Stop!’ said the boy much louder.

And then everything did. The bishop froze, his eyeballs huge, his mouth open. Above in the organ loft Mrs Conway stopped playing. There was a groan of sound out of the organ, a gasp, and then nothing. The church breathed in. Candles danced. There was a moment of absolute silence, as though a grave announcement had been made.

Through the congregation then there began the wave of response in which the Master’s and the boy’s names were whispered. From around the back of the bishop, Father Paul’s small face appeared, his smile loosening in panic.

‘I can’t,’ said the boy in a quiet voice. He said it only once, but his two words were repeated over and over as they were murmured back among parents and relatives, making a rustling like leaves in a sudden breeze.

‘He can’t.’

‘He can’t.’

‘Shsh.’

‘What?’

‘He said he can’t.’

The bishop was not about to have the Confirmation disturbed. The boy was foolish, or nervous and foolish, or stupid and nervous and foolish, and didn’t know what he was doing or saying. These little hiccups in the ceremony could be overlooked. He could just carry on, he decided, as if nothing had happened. But he needed to do so quickly, because there was whispering in his church now. The rule of his majesty was under threat. He raised the sweat-glistening palm to the boy and placed it on his shoulder. ‘Now my son,’ he said.

But the boy stepped away from him.

‘No!’ he said.

The bishop made a little grasp as if the unconfirmed child was a slippery thing about to get away, but the boy pushed off the hand. He turned to where all were watching, his face burning brightly, his eyes like coals, and he ran down the centre of the aisle and out of the church.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.