Boy Number 26

by Tommy Rhattigan

  “I know. And that’s why I am going to give you this one chance. It’s just that, we don’t want the other boys getting jealous, do we? And this is our secret too, do you understand?”

  “I wouldn’t say a thing ta anybody, I promise yah I wouldn’t.”

  “Well, let’s see how it fits then. Take your clothes off and see what you look like in the costume.”

  As quick as a flash I stripped down to my socks and underpants, before I noticed the small grey cine-camera he was recording me with.

  “Take your pants off as well,” he ordered. “Come on.” He noticed my hesitancy and smiled at me. “There’s nothing to be shy about. Come on, quickly.”

  I obeyed and slipped them off before getting into the costume.

  “Come and kneel up on this.” Mr Butterworth tapped the piano stool, which he’d moved slightly away from the piano. I picked up the hem of the costume and knelt with my bare knees on the stool as he fiddled around with the camcorder, which he placed on the table further away from me. Then, putting his hand up the front of the costume he gently felt around my goolies. It was so quick, it took me by complete surprise. It tickled. And when he asked me if I liked him doing what he was doing, I told him “Yes” and he carried on until my mickey went stiff. Then, still fiddling with me with the one hand, he moved behind me and a moment later I felt him pushing himself inside me.

  I didn’t know whether I wanted this to be happening to me. My first thoughts drifted back to the time we’d been camping out in the orchard and I realised that what was happening to me now had also happened with him and the strange man in the hut, and had not been a dream after all. Like then, he wasn’t hurting me. In fact, Mr Butterworth was being gentle towards me, and I liked him playing with me more than I disliked it. I felt a strange, thrilling sensation explode through my whole body. And then it was over.

  I told no one, not even my brother Martin. I felt sly for not telling him, but my guilt for that was far outweighed by the fact that I felt special and didn’t want to share that feeling with anyone else – including my brother. The nativity play went off without a hitch and I kept to the proper script without adding any extra words to my line. The carol concert was also brilliant, though it didn’t go off without a hitch.

  When we finished singing the last Christmas song to the old fogies, Santa Claus made his appearance, to the sound of boos from some elderly folk. I got talking with two old Irish fellas, Sean and Michael.

  “Do yah see Father Christmas there, son?” said Sean. “Him with the big belly an’ the even bigger head. An’ there’s not even a pilla under there, I tell yah lad. He’s a fat, greedy rat is what he is, isn’t that right Mick?”

  “He is dat! A fat feckin’ greedy bastard of the worst kind for sure,” agreed Mick.

  “What’s he done?”

  “What’s he done? Jaysus! Did yah hear that Mick? Come closer, so the whole world can’t hear us.”

  I bent my head closer and got a whiff of Sean’s whiskey breath. “That blue-nose auld fecker sittin’ in that chair over there has a way with all the women, if yah see what I mean?”

  “Sure, we can’t even get one eye in, let alone the two, with all his womanising,” added Mick.

  “Could yah do us a favour son, there’s two shillin if yah will.”

  “Ok.” I held out my palm to him.

  “I’ll give it ta yah after the favour. I’ve just met yah, I can’t be trustin’ complete strangers.”

  “What’s the favour?”

  “Go wait in the line. An’ when yah get ta sit on the feckin’ rat’s knee, tell him ‘Charlie Whiting sent yah over just ta let yah know you’re a blue-nosed fecker if ever he’d set eyes on one.’”

  “Who’s Charlie.”

  “He’s another rat we don’t like. Will yah do that for us son an’ make two old Irish codgers happy old codgers?”

  “Sure.”

  It only took a short while for my turn to come around and I hopped up on Santa’s knees, giving him a big smile before delivering the message. “Charlie Whiting told me to tell you, you are the tightest blue-nosed bastard of a Santa he’s ever set eyes on.”

  “Did he now?” raged Santa. Springing to his feet and letting me drop to the floor, he rushed across the hall and took a swipe at another old fella, knocking him straight off his chair.

  Looking in the direction of Sean and Michael, I saw the pair of them up on their feet, throwing thumbs-up signs at me. But as I headed towards them to get my two shillings, Mr Samson stopped me in my tracks, then hurried the whole choir out of the church hall and away in the vans.

  Torn Apart

  The short drive in the police car to the Manchester courts was a quiet one, with Martin and me sitting in the back, contemplating what fate might have in store for us. The police had handcuffed us, just like they used to do to Daddy when they came to the house to arrest him, only Martin and I were handcuffed to each other.

  The previous day we’d been informed out of the blue that we were up before the beak in the morning and would not be returning to Rose Hill. This obviously meant another place had been found for us, though no one had been willing to tell us exactly where that was. I couldn’t understand what all the secrecy was about, considering we were inevitably going to find out once we got to wherever it was we were going.

  Glancing at Martin, whose hands were clasped tightly together with his fingers interlocked, as if he were in silent prayer, I wondered what he was thinking. I’d noticed the change in him not long after our arrival at Rose Hill. But he still had his infectious laugh and had joined in many of the sports we played, especially his beloved football, with the same passion to win at all costs, which in some way was the difference between us.

  We both had an inborn will not to be broken. Beaten, yes, sticks and stones and fists and feet could break our bones, but they could never break our spirit. And yet, despite this, I noticed the sparkle had left Martin’s eyes.

  He suddenly gazed at me with a serious, almost tearful, look on his face. “Whatever happens ta us Tommy, I’ll never forget yah. Yah know that, don’t yah?”

  “Course I do Martin. I’ll be gettin’ on yer nerves all the while, yea’ll be wantin’ ta get rid of me for sure.”

  “I’d never want that.”

  “I was only coddin’ yah. Anyway, we’re probably goin’ ta end up in Nazareth House, with the others.”

  When we arrived at the court we were taken in through a side entrance below the courtrooms. We had once again slipped our skinny wrists out of the handcuffs and handed them back to the policeman. He was not impressed with our escape act, pushing us into the small cell before slamming the heavy door closed and locking us inside.

  Not long afterwards we found ourselves standing in the dock, like two wretched criminals waiting for our fate to be sealed. The haughty, long-nosed woman glaring down upon us from her high perch had a look of distaste written all over her crabby old face. On each side of her sat another old dragon. The one on the left, with the small head attached to a long skinny neck (which reminded me of a shrunken head on a pole), gave us the once-over, before nonchalantly dropping her gaze to the pile of paperwork in front of her. The other dragon seemed to take an age to pinpoint our location, as her rat-like eyes peering out through her spectacles continued to dart to and fro before homing in on us. She was probably helped by the sound of our giggling, caused by Martin given me the nudge and blurting out, “Will yah get a look at the mop!” He was referring to the obvious thick, jet-black, shiny wig sitting on top of the old woman’s head.

  For someone who had never set eyes upon us until that very day, Mr Mann, the social worker, seemed to know an awful lot about our family. He’d gone on as if he’d been a friend of the family for donkey’s years, telling the court everything there was to know about us. This included how our Mammy and Daddy, both being alcoholics, had ab
andoned the whole family late last year, leaving us to fend for ourselves.

  This had really got up my nose, because that part was a big lie: we’d always had to fend for ourselves, even when Mammy and Daddy were at home.

  He even mentioned each family member by name, telling the three old dragons, who had hardly moved a muscle since we’d peered out over the dock at them, how all our siblings had happily settled in their placements. “With the exception of Martin and Tommy,” he said, “who are beyond control, especially when they are together.”

  “I see by the files, the children have already been made Wards of this Court?” said the Judge, casting a suspicious eye over us. “And are therefore already under the care and protection of the local authority?”

  “That is correct,” agreed Mr Mann. ‘They were both made Wards of the Court in late August of last year.”

  “Then why hasn’t a suitable and more permanent placement been found for them? They are, after all, very young children.”

  “No one will take them.”

  “That isn’t a reason!” snapped the crabby-faced Judge, finally coming to life. “If every establishment declined their charges because they didn’t want them, we’d have thousands of children running amok on the streets.” The thought of such a scenario might have been the reason for the sudden shocked expressions on her two companions’ faces.

  “I meant, Martin and Tommy are unable to deal adequately with normal social relationships and are, at times, disruptive. The local authorities deem them to be beyond the scope of their normal care and protection practices. If you look at their records you will see that both boys have amassed 180 charges of grand larceny – and that’s just since the application to make them Wards of Court last year.”

  I was unable to understand the reason for the shocked gasp that rippled around the courtroom, given I’d heard the word “grand” being mentioned. I always thought that meant something good, as in, “Isn’t it a grand day!” or “That’s a grand-looking horse yah have there.” So, it baffled me as to why all eyes were on us, with almost every head in the courtroom shaking in dismay when the words Grand Larceny cropped up.

  Mr Mann went on to tell the court that suitable places had finally been found for the both of us, near Liverpool. All that was now needed was the Order of the Court to have both of us placed in the care of the Liverpool Local Authority. This was soon agreed.

  “Martin will be resident at St George’s Approved School in Freshfields. And Thomas will be resident at St Vincent’s school in Formby,” said the Judge. This was the moment we learnt we were going to be separated “for our own good” and sent to different homes.

  “Yah feckin’ lesheens yah! Yah poxty auld witches! May the cat eat yah an’ the divil eat the cat!” We cursed the three auld women, calling them every name under the sun, but they just ignored us, and got up out of their chairs and walked out of the courtroom.

  We had people pulling us in opposite directions as my brother and I clung tightly to each other, kicking and screaming and biting at any skin that came into contact with our teeth. But it was all to no avail. There were just too many people pulling and tugging at us. And though it took them a long time to get us apart, they eventually managed to tear us from each other’s grasp, and all we could do was use our voices to reach each other.

  “Martin!”

  “Tommy!”

  “Help me Martin! Help me! Get off me, yah feckin’ bastards yah!” But he was gone. They’d taken my brother away from me. They’d ripped open my chest, grabbed at my heart and squeezed it so tightly that the pain was unbearable.

  How could they? How could people who say they only want the best for the child and to make that child happy do such a thing? I was broken. I felt lost and unable to see how I could ever live without Martin. He wasn’t just my brother, he was my best friend, my life, the only person I could turn to and trust and believe in. And these bastards stole him from me and me from him. I would never ever forgive them.

  Monster Mother

  Mr Mann hadn’t spoken to me since leaving the M26 service station. I think he’d been miserable because of his swollen lip, though he hadn’t said as much to me. He probably blamed me for his injury, but it hadn’t really been my fault, though it was no less than he deserved, considering he was too tight to buy me a breakfast.

  When the lady peering over the counter at me had asked what she could do for us, I’d ordered sausages, eggs, beans and toast, with black pudding and plum-peeled tomatoes, and a glass of Tizer. But Mr Mann had laughed at me, like I’d just told him the funniest joke in the world.

  “Sausages, bacon and eggs, with toast and beans and black pudding? You’re having a laugh, aren’t you?”

  Well, I hadn’t noticed myself laughing when I’d blurted out my order. Nor could I, for the life of me, see what was so hilarious about wanting sausages and eggs and beans and toast and black pudding and plum-peeled tomatoes, swallowed down by a cool glass of Tizer.

  When he’d composed himself, the tight-fisted old git ordered two mugs of tea and nothing else. The lady behind the counter offered me “on the house, sweetie!” her last rock cake on the stand and I exaggerated my sincere gratitude to her for her kindness, just to embarrass the tight-arsed social worker.

  On the house? Jaysus, it must have come off a feckin’ house! It was like biting into a brick. Just the one bite and I felt the pain shoot up through my teeth until I was sure the lot of them were going to fall out on to the table.

  “I’m not eatin’ this shite.” I blindly threw the cake in temper and watched as it flew over Mr Mann’s head, before hitting a workman on his temple as he’d sat chatting with some workmates a few tables along from us. Jumping to his feet, the red-faced man headed in our direction.

  “I should ram this doon yer fackin’ throat Jimma!” screamed the fuming Scottish fella, holding the rock cake up under my nose.

  “I’m sorry about this,” said Mr Mann. “I’m sure it was an accident, wasn’t it Tommy? The boy is upset about –”

  “An’ me name’s not Jimma, yah big blue-nosed twat yah!” I shouted.

  “Whaaat!”

  “Me Daddy says yer all blue-nosed homos, the lot of yah!”

  “Did he!”

  I think Mr Mann was just as surprised as I was when the workman’s fist collided with his gob, knocking him off his chair and to the floor.

  “Yea should be scalping that little shite of yours!” raged the workman, taking one last look at my smiling face before marching off out of the service station, with his laughing workmates following behind and patting him on the back.

  I watched as Mr Mann, breathing heavily, dragged himself up off the floor and back onto the chair. “You’re going to have to change your attitude, or this is the kind of problem you will keep getting,” he advised, wiping the napkin across his swollen, cut lip.

  I shrugged and looked away, unable to fathom out why he was warning me about my attitude when it was him who’d got the smack in the gob.

  As Mr Mann’s soft-top racing-green MG sped along the motorway, I had to put up with listening to the crackling radio spewing out songs such as “Bits and Pieces”, “The Crying Game”, “Anyone Who Had a Heart” – all serving as reminders of my emotional pain and rubbing salt into my wounds.

  Heading into Formby, he drove the car off the main road, in through the open gates and up along the narrow driveway leading to St Vincent’s Approved School.

  “You’ll be taken good care of here,” he said, suddenly breaking the silence, his insincerity all too obvious from his avoidance of eye contact with me.

  Pulling up outside the wooden entrance doors, he squeezed his large frame out of the tiny car and plodded around to the passenger side, opening the door for me. I got out and followed him to the entrance. As I looked up at the tall red-brick building, it crossed my mind to make a run for it. But
it was only a fleeting thought. The fact that I was now on my own was the reason not to run.

  “You can have the privilege.” Mr Mann stepped to one side whilst pointing to the brass doorbell set into the wall.

  Hardly a word out of him throughout the journey, and now he was giving me the privilege to ring a poxy doorbell. Young as I was, I had seen and done and been through more in my life than most kids of my age – including ringing feckin’ doorbells. Sure, I’d rung many a doorbell, running off before they were answered – that was a game, not a privilege.

  “I don’t want ta ring the doorbell.” I wasn’t letting the likes of him have the privilege of giving the likes of me the privilege of ringing a feckin’ doorbell. “Ring it yerself if yah like.” He ignored my scowl, pressing his podgy finger on the button before taking a backward step, waiting for the door to creak inwards.

  “Ah! Good afternoon, Sister Ignatius.” Mr Mann almost genuflected to the giant of a nun standing in the open doorway.

  Jaysus, I’ve never seen a nun as tall as her. She was 6ft high at the very least in her open-toed Jesus sandals. Her suspicious eyes peered out at me through black-framed bifocal spectacles, giving me the once-over while her huge, shovel-sized hands rested firmly on her wide hips. For some strange reason, her wide, unblinking eyes reminded me of big white gobstoppers, with a black spot in the middle of each one.

  “This is Thomas, Thomas Rhattigan.”

  “It’s Tommy,” I corrected.

  “Well, hello there, little Thomas.” Sister Ignatius held her huge hand out to me. And like a feckin’ big eejit, I took it. “Yea’ll be looked after here – if yah behave yerself it’ll be grand.” She squeezed the living daylights out of my right hand, bringing me halfway to my knees. “Do we understand each other?”

  “Yes, Sister.”

  “That’ll be Mother Superior.” She gave my sore hand another hard squeeze for good measure. “Ah, yea’ll soon get the hang of it. They all do,” this powerful curse of a woman, disguised as a God-fearing Catholic nun, sneered down on me.