Boy Number 26

by Tommy Rhattigan

  “What’s what?” I hurried around to the back of the tent.

  “Them!” He pointed a finger into the darkness. “Them pair of eyes!”

  “Jaysus, it’s the Devil, run!’ I let out a girly scream as the large set of evil green eyes headed towards us.

  Riley, the coward, pushed his way past me. But in his rush to get away, he managed to trip over one of the guy-ropes. Stepping over his prone body, I scrambled in through the small opening with Riley close behind me. “Is it the Devil?” I whispered to him.

  “I don’t know. I’ve never seen the devil til tonight.”

  “Did yah see them huge green eyes – Jaysus!” I felt my heart suddenly jump in my mouth as something big pushed firmly against the side of the tent. “Sssh, he’s just outside!”

  “What the feck’s goin’ on?” Pritchard had suddenly woken up.

  “Sssh! It’s the Devil!” I whispered.

  “Do yah think I’m feckin’ stupid or somethin’? Yah pair of – what’s that noise outside?”

  “The Devil,” said Riley, as we heard the heavy snorts outside the tent.

  “He followed us,” I said.

  “Who followed you?” questioned Pritchard.

  “The divil. That’s who.”

  “Why?”

  “I didn’t tink ta fecking ask him!”

  “I want me Mammy!” Pritchard whimpered like a baby who’d just had his doll snatched.

  “Shush the feck up. Or he’ll know we’re in here,” I warned.

  The other three boys in the tent were now awake and wanting to know what was going on.

  “The Devil’s outside the tent!” cried Pritchard, creating a panic.

  “Gather around me,” I advised. “It’s safer in numbers.” And the lot of them immediately huddled in their sleeping bags around me, as we listened to the strange snorting noises outside the tent.

  My thoughts were racing through my head to recall the sins I had committed since being sent to St Vincent’s, especially any sins big enough to warrant a visit from Lucifer to a tent in the middle of a cow-patted field. To be honest, I didn’t class my wrongdoings as sinful, not in the true sense of the word. Admittedly and unashamedly, I stole sweets from the local shop, as well as the odd things from my fellow peers. But what young lad didn’t have these natural instincts? It was like breathing or fiddling with yourself. I was actually finding it difficult to fill up my weekly confessional sins quota and had resorted to making most of them up for the priest.

  I recalled that George Mullins and I had recently thrown the ancient recreation room telly, with its annoying throbbing sound and ghostly black-and-white screen, out of the bathhouse window, just to get a new one. In colour! But I was sure the Almighty wouldn’t have classed that as warranting his wrath. And as I drifted off to sleep, I felt happy in the knowledge that if the Devil did happen into the tent during the night, he was likely to get one of the other sinners nearest the entrance.

  It was very early morning when I awoke, to a slight damp chill inside the tent, along with the smell of old canvas, boot dubbin, bad breath and farts. A quick look around told me we were all accounted for.

  Outside, there was a mad dash of screaming, bare-chested lunatics, rushing from their tents and scattering the wary sheep in their wake, as they headed in full flight across the dewy turd-trodden field to the stream, a few hundred yards away from the campsite. All this to be the first loony into the freezing cold water.

  It goes without saying that I was the last one out of the tent. I could have outrun the lot of them in my bare feet, if I’d been minded to. But I didn’t care which fool got to the stream first. Taking in a deep breath of what should have been healthy Lake District air, my nostrils were hit by the smell of shite. I let my nose and eyes follow to where the stench was coming from and spotted the dinner-plate sized cowpats at the side of our tent. This led me to conclude, either the Devil does cow-sized turds, or our visitor last night might well have been a cow. Not that I was going to let on to those idiots.

  “Rhattigan.”

  “Sir?”

  “With me, after you get back from washing,” ordered Mr Sweet.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Mr Sweet looked much stockier in his string vest, khaki shorts, long grey socks and size-12 hiking boots. His face also appeared much redder in comparison with the rest of his pale white skin.

  Mr Lilly made a sudden appearance from his own tent. Unlike Mr Sweet, the Führer had constantly tanned skin, which was no wonder, considering he and Matron were always jetting off on one holiday or another. I couldn’t help laughing inside as I stared at him. He reminded me of a little overweight boy scout, standing there in his khaki short-sleeved shirt and those ridiculous tight leather shorts he brought back from a visit to Germany, telling us they were called Lederhosen, a traditional piece of clothing worn by most German men. No wonder they lost the war!

  Making my way across the field to the stream, I wasn’t going to be fooled by the mist floating on top of the water, which looked like the steam from a hot bath. Stark bollock naked and all red-skinned with the cold, the others frolicked around in the stream like water babies. But my big toe wasn’t going any further than the little dip I’d intended for it.

  “Yah bastard!” I managed to shout out, just as Collins rushed up from behind and pushed me in.

  My body was numbed by the cold shock, but oddly enough I felt warm inside, instantly becoming oblivious to my surroundings as I deliberately stayed submerged beneath the clear, cold water. I was overwhelmed by a sudden sense of wellbeing as it wrapped itself around me.

  What peace there is to be found in silence. For me, silence was the only lifeline I had, preventing me from sinking deeper into the chaotic, confusing, uncaring existence I so longed to escape from. I was a cared-for child, but I was not cared about. I was tagged with the number 26, which was stamped everywhere bar my forehead – on all my “institutional” possessions. I was told when to sleep, wake, eat, shite, talk, stand, sit, wash, dress, undress, bend over. And I did it all without question, taking all the knocks and the beatings, and all other forms of abuse thrown at me, simply because I refused to let anyone take control of my emotions. Alone, in the silences, was where I felt safest. And whilst I could hear a distant voice calling out my name, I was ignoring it, in favour of the exhilarating feeling now coursing through my body.

  “Tommy!”

  I was hauled to the surface by Collins. “Are you alright?” he asked, without his usual stutter!

  I gasped in mouthfuls of air as I looked up to see him and Donkey kneeling over me, surrounded by a group of other naked lads, as I lay at the edge of the stream.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “‘Y-y-you were d-d-drowning!”

  “I was swimming underwater, was all.”

  “You looked drowned to us,” said the skeletal form of Dougie Bones Taylor, getting a nod of agreement from the others.

  “What does someone look like that’s drowned?” I asked.

  “Dead, I suppose,” he answered, after a brief pause.

  “Well I’m not dead,” I informed him, as I stood up and wrapped my towel around my waist. “Which is more than can be said for you, yer walking skeleton.”

  What Lies Beneath

  I loved the stillness of those early mornings, watching the light dew dancing in the air, with the sunlight turning the hundreds of spiders’ webs into a spectacular show of glimmering, diamond-like droplets.

  This was the fifth morning I’d set off with Mr Sweet to fetch the milk. It would usually take us around 10 minutes to get to the small stone barn, where the farmer would leave the milk for us to collect and we’d leave the empty churns behind for him to refill. Mostly we walked in silence, except for him telling me to stop annoying the rabbits, or to catch up whenever I lagged back.

  Only whe
n we were in the barn, away from prying eyes, did he take a keener interest in me. As usual, there were no words spoken as I automatically pulled down my shorts and pants before leaning up across one of the stored bales of straw, and he pushed himself inside me.

  I was not happy. It wasn’t that I didn’t want his attention – I did. But it did seem, since we came camping, I was not getting anything back from him. It was all over and done with so quickly, I was beginning to think all he wanted was to use me for his own pleasure, without giving me any in return. Back at St Vincent’s, he’d touch and fondle me, and whisper kind words to me, in return for me letting him do what he wanted to me. I was confused. He’d told me love was a two-way thing when I’d first given in to him. But I wasn’t feeling any love as I listened to him grunting and groaning and making no attempt to share his feelings with me.

  “Squeeze your cheeks together,” he whispered in his usual quivery voice, before gripping me by my hips and pushing himself further inside me, which always felt uncomfortable. Not that he cared when I’d tell him.

  It was always the same routine, him holding my hips and pulling me tightly to him. And then, when it was over and done with, I’d pull my underpants and trousers back up, with him warning me each time not to say a word to anyone, otherwise I’d be in big trouble. Then we carried the milk churn between us, out of the barn and back to camp.

  After breakfast, we piled into the school vans and headed off in the direction of Grasmere, to visit Dove Cottage, the home of William Wordsworth. I was surprised to see how dark it was inside his house and had wondered how Wordsworth could possibly have managed to find inspiration writing in a dump like that. Then, when I walked outside and around to the gardens, to see it fall away into those awe-inspiring, breathtaking views of the lakes and fells, it was easier to understand why he had called this place “the calmest, fairest spot on earth”.

  After a dinner of fish and chips, we were split into four groups. While the other three groups visited different places of interest, we were taken fishing by Mr Lilly. The small fishing lake was only a short walk from Dove cottage. We were each given a small fishing rod by the young fella running the little hut a couple of yards away from the water’s edge. Mr Lilly paid him a shilling for the hire of each rod and an extra shilling for a small plastic container full of live maggots, to be used as bait.

  “Enjoy the afternoon,” said the fellow, with a smirk on his lips and a quizzical look in his eyes. I wasn’t sure whether he was laughing silently at Mr Lilly in those stupid leather shorts of his, or at us, standing at the lake with our rods dipped in the water, expecting a fish to swim over and attach itself to the rod.

  Mr Lilly took a large maggot out of the bait container and showed us how to attach it to the fishing hook, before he cast it into the lake. A couple of the sadists copied him, but most of us weren’t interested in handling the squirmy things, especially now, after Sonny O’Connor had just told us about his auld granny being found dead in her bed, eaten alive by maggots.

  “Here we go!” Mr Lilly was all excited, having just got a bite on his line and reeled in a fish no bigger than the maggot in its jaws. He unhooked it and threw the fish back into the lake, telling us we were not allowed to keep any we caught. Jaysus, this was boring!

  I’d spent over an hour standing on the one spot, like a garden gnome around a pond, looking down at the surface of the water, where there wasn’t even a ripple. A little lad of around six was standing a few yards away and off to my left, with his father. He was using a fishing net on a long cane and was catching the little feckers by the dozen. I’d had enough. Taking a few steps away from the edge of the lake, I took a run up and launched my rod into the air like a javelin.

  “Sir! Rhattigan just threw his fishing rod in the water, sir.”

  “No I didn’t Owens, yah big liar.”

  “Then how did it come to end up there?” The headmaster pointed to the rod sticking up out of the water.

  “I had to let it go sir. I think a whale, or something bigger, must have grabbed the hook. It nearly pulled me in sir.”

  “A whale?”

  “Or something bigger, sir.”

  “There are pike in the lake,” said the little lad’s father, who had walked over to us. “Some of them are enormous.” He stretched out his arms to emphasise the size.

  “It must have been one of them things then.” I was saved!

  “You can get in there and retrieve the rod, pronto,” snapped Lilly.

  “It’s too deep, sir. I might drown.” Not that he’d be that bothered.

  “Oh, it isn’t that deep,” said the lad’s father. “It’s quite shallow for about 20 yards out before it drops down deeper.”

  “Oh. Thanks for that.” Nosy bastard! Boots and long grey socks off, trousers rolled up and there I was, paddling in the lake. The rest of the morons looked on from the edge of the water, shouting their warnings about sharks, octopuses and crocodiles.

  It took me a minute to make my way to the small fishing rod and I plucked it from the water. But just as I turned to make my way back, I felt something slimy slip past my right leg and I was suddenly frozen with fear. “Mr Lilly, Mr Lilly, there’s a monster in the water!”

  “Get out now, you idiot.”

  I was frantically searching the surface of the water closest to me to see what it could have been. I didn’t see any shark fins, which was a relief. What was that? Jaysus! The long, slimy thing had just slipped between me legs! Sweet Mary an’ Joseph! What was dat! I’d just seen the ugliest face (barring Donkey’s) I’d ever seen in my whole life pop its head up out of the water and glare straight into my eyes. I’d only got a quick glimpse at the monster, but it was long enough for me to see it baring hundreds of sharp pointy teeth at me as it licked its big pouty lips…

  Instinctively letting out a harrowing scream, I took off, as fast as my legs could carry me. I had always been a good runner, but I was sure this was the fastest I’d ever moved.

  “Jesus, Jesus,” shouted Owens, mockingly bowing his head to me, as the others laughed hysterically.

  “Do not take the Lord’s name in vain,” said Mr Lilly, and he gave the Welsh git a slap around the back of the head.

  “But he ran on top of the water, sir!”

  “Shut up and get the fishing rods back to the hut,” ordered the headmaster.

  “You’re funny!” smiled the young lad. His father agreed it was the funniest thing he’d ever seen in a long while. Me? I couldn’t see what was so funny about running across the water for dear life and I gave the pair of them my best scowl.

  Harsh Lessons

  It had been four days since Mr Lilly left the campsite to go on his pilgrimage to the Holy Land, where he was, no doubt, seeking divine forgiveness for his multitude of sins. He’d told us he was going to Jerusalem to visit the place where Jesus once lived, and then on to visit the Wailing Wall, which, by all accounts, is the holiest place on earth. Apparently people flock there in their millions, from all four corners of the world, to pray and weep to this wall. It cheered me up no end to learn I wasn’t the only wall talker around!

  The evening before he left, we’d sat around the campfire singing that awful song “Ging Gang Goolie”, which must have been written by a complete and utter lunatic.

  Ging gang goolie goolie goolie goolie watcha,

  Ging gang goo, ging gang goo.

  Ging gang goolie goolie goolie goolie watcha,

  Ging gang goo, ging gang goo.

  Hayla, hayla shayla, hayla shayla, shayla, oooooooh,

  Hayla, hayla shayla, hayla shayla, shayla, oooh.

  Shally wally, shally wally, shally wally, shally wally

  Oompah, oompah, oompah, oompah.

  What a load of old bollocks!

  But we made up for it with a few other songs, such as “Kumbaya” and “The Carnival is Over”, two favour
ites of ours. Some boys also sang solo, including me, with the loudest applause for me at the end of my rendition of “Old Tige”. The light was still good when we were ordered off to our beds, only to be roused from them a short while later by the sound of the ARP bell clanging in our ears.

  “Right you lot!” We were now standing, in our pyjamas and bare feet, in the middle of the field. “You’ll stand here all night if necessary, until I find the despicable animal among you who tampered with my bed,” snapped the incensed headmaster. “I want a name.”

  He was referring to the apple-pie bed someone had made for him, complete with sheep droppings, which now plastered his toes.

  I was always surprised that he seemed not to have learnt the simple and most obvious fact, that threatening us as a group was going to have very little impact. But he still threatened us with the dire consequences of our actions, as if we really cared. Perhaps we were all a bunch of “complete buffoons”, but there was no way we were going to offer up a name.

  I’d spotted the sheepish grins Harrison and Mullins were throwing to one another, suspecting they were probably responsible and wishing I’d thought of it first. I would have added a few sloppy cow-turds to the mix.

  It must have been about an hour later, as the light began to fade, when Mr Lilly, now holding a lit tilley lamp, spoke to us again, telling us we were a bunch of despicable excuses for human beings, as well as it being no wonder our parents had given up on us.

  “Baa!” It was a brilliant impression of a bored sheep.

  “Who said that?”

  “A sheep.” Donkey, standing in the front row, just a few lads along from the headmaster, had to open his big gob.

  “What!” growled Lilly, taking the few strides needed to stand facing the idiot. I was taken aback by the headmaster’s distorted, evil-looking features as they were lit up by the tilley lamp and the shadows danced across his face.

  “Baa!” bleated Donkey again, grinning from ear to ear, like it was part of a game we were all playing. And for a split second, I believed Mr Lilly was going to belt him one. But to my surprise, he just exhaled deeply, shaking his head in despair before letting us know we were losing a full week of privileges when we arrived back at St Vincent’s.