Boy Number 26

by Tommy Rhattigan

  Betrayal

  It was 9.30am in the morning and I was off to the library. On the way, I passed the cottage where I would often get a glimpse of the old woman peering out of an upstairs window. Her bright, flower-filled garden had a huge rusting ship’s anchor resting in the centre of the lawn. Sometimes, I’d see her pottering around the garden with another old biddy. I wasn’t sure if they were ever aware I was passing because they never looked my way, even when I would pause to read the poem written on the large piece of grey slate standing by the front door of the cottage. And though I had already learnt it off by heart, I would always stop to read it again, every time I passed.

  The kiss of the sun for pardon,

  The song of the birds for mirth,

  One is nearer God’s heart in a garden

  Than anywhere else on Earth.

  It did make me wonder why churches didn’t have such beautiful flowered gardens, instead of their dismal grey cemeteries.

  Miss Little, one of the two women librarians, was always very friendly towards me, even though she was aware I was from the approved school. She was younger than the other librarian, though not as tall. I thought she might be pregnant, as she had a large, swollen tummy, though I didn’t dare ask her, just in case she wasn’t. Every time I visited, she always seemed to have a pleasant smile and she’d tell me about new books that had recently arrived, even suggesting a book to me that she thought might be of interest.

  By stark contrast, Miss Flower, the other librarian, had such a miserable-looking face. A skinny, lanky woman, she must have been at least twice as tall as Miss Little. I’d always thought miserable people were only miserable because God had given them one kind of affliction or other to be miserable about. But, other than her being as tall as a beanpole, I couldn’t see anything else seriously afflicted about her. There was something about her which, for some obscure reason, reminded me of Harpo Marx. She had tight blonde curls (which could have been a wig) and staring eyes, and she never struck up a conversation – at least not with any of the boys from St Vincent’s, unless it was to throw a few sharp words our way. And she could think again if she thought for one minute I hadn’t noticed, when I was on my way out of the library, her shifty eyes checking out the contours of my trousers, on the off-chance I’d a book stuffed up my jumper or down my kecks. (I never had.) I’d given her something to look at the previous week, when I’d stuffed a sock with paper and shoved it down the front of my trousers on the way in, deliberately parading in front of her. Miss Little thought it was funny. She didn’t say as much, but I could tell by her wide grin. Miss Flower just choked on her coffee.

  I believe her dislike of the St Vincent’s lot had come about some months back, when Alistair Jones jokingly asked both librarians a question. “Miss Little,” he asked, “are you called Little ’cos you are small?” To which she chuckled and said, “Probably”. Then turning to the old dragon, he’d asked her, was she called Flower because she “was a flower?”

  “Oh, and what sort of flower do you suppose I am?” asked the unsmiling old bat.

  “Cauliflower!” came the punchline, which didn’t go down well with her, though there was a loud guffaw from everyone else. She’d barred Jones from the library for three months, but he never did go back.

  Walking along the public pathway running between a group of houses leading to the common, I could have sworn I’d seen two boys dressed in grey trousers and grey jumpers through the gap in the high garden fence on my right. I could see that the lads from my group were all together and walking across the common in the direction of the library, which was just across the main road. So, I knew it wasn’t any of them. Unable to resist a nose, I pulled the twisted fence panel slightly towards me, allowing a bigger gap for me to peer through.

  It was 13-year-old Michael Farr, and that little squirt James Thompson, who was 10. Farr had his hands cupped together, giving Thompson a leg-up to a side window. The police had been to the school three times over the past few months, making enquiries about a spate of burglaries in the local area. And as these two eejits had only been at St Vincent’s for a short while, I wondered if they were the culprits.

  Giving them no more thought, I made my way to the library, to find another lady, Miss Watmore, working in place of Miss Little. She told me Miss Little had given birth to a baby girl, and would probably not be back for some while, though she didn’t say how long that while was going to be. I was disappointed, sad even, to think I wouldn’t be seeing her again for ages, but Miss Watmore seemed to be alright and not like Miss Flower, who was eyeing me up and down. Not wanting to prolong her unwelcome gaze, I handed the sour woman my returned books and hurried off in search of another two, choosing Great Expectations and Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens as my new ones.

  I still had half an hour to get back to the school, so I decided to take a different route, the one I would usually take when I had extra time on my hands.

  Compared with Hulme, the streets of Formby seemed a whole world apart. There were no alleyways, or dirty streets, or row upon row of terraced houses, or gas lamps. I never saw neighbours standing on their doorsteps, gossiping about anything and nothing. There were no bombed houses, or crofts, or kids playing noisily outside. Everywhere was clean, even the air I was breathing was so different from Manchester’s coal-polluted atmosphere. Formby was bright and colourful, with beautiful houses, all with gardens, front and back. And all those la-di-da people living there, amid the different smells of flowers and cut grass. And yet how I still missed Hulme and all the things about it that Formby didn’t have.

  I’d only just plucked the apple off the long branch hanging right over the garden wall, within my arm’s reach, when I heard the car pull up behind me. A quick look over my shoulder told me it was a police car. St Vincent’s was only around the corner and my first reaction was to make a run for it. It would be easy to jump over the school wall and make good my escape, using the trees and shrubs as cover. But on second thoughts, I hadn’t done anything wrong and so stood my ground.

  “Did you just steal that apple from that tree?” asked the copper as he walked right up to me, armed with his notebook and pencil. The other copper, a young woman, remained behind the wheel of the panda car, staring out at me suspiciously through the windscreen.

  “What tree?”

  “Don’t get smart with me, sonny.”

  “You’re not my daddy.”

  “Right, name?”

  “Malone.” Jaysus, why did I say that?

  “Are you aware that taking an apple from someone else’s tree without their permission is theft?”

  “That’s a branch, not a tree. And anyway, it’s not on the property, so how’s that stealin’?”

  “Listen, clever clogs, the apple tree belongs to the owner of the property. And you are committing a serious offence by stealing the owner’s apples.”

  “It was only the one apple. And anyway, I found it on the ground and was putting it back.”

  “Oh really?” smirked the copper, looking happy that he’d got his man. “I was putting it back on the tree,” he muttered, as he wrote in his little black book.

  I must admit, it did sound ridiculous when hearing the copper repeating it back. But I hadn’t meant it the way it came out. And if I’d been a judge, I would have found myself guilty straight away. It seemed the Formby coppers were also a world apart from those coppers in Manchester, who’d have probably plucked off a few apples higher up the branch for me. Surely he wasn’t being serious?

  “Even if you found it on the pavement, it still doesn’t make it yours.”

  He was being serious, he was bonkers. “There!” I threw the apple over the wall into the owner’s garden. “I’ve put it back. Can I go now?”

  “First name.”

  “Paddy.”

  “Paddy Malone. Are you Irish by any chance?”

  Jaysus,
he was clever. But I wasn’t answering that question, afraid I’d probably dig a deeper hole for myself.

  “And where does Malone live?”

  How would I know? I’d just made the name up.

  I was saved by the copper in the police car, who was now making hand gestures for Sherlock to hurry back.

  “Your lucky day, Malone.”

  Plucking another apple off the tree as the police car sped off, I arrived back at the school with a good five minutes or so to spare. As I turned the corner of the school block, I was sure I’d just seen 10-year-old Peter Loss hurry in to the boot-room. And as curiosity always got the better of me, I quickly made my way across the yard to see what he was up to. By all rights, he should have been in class.

  Opening the door, I saw he wasn’t in the boot-room, so I moved quietly to the door leading through into the changing rooms at the back of the stage, where Mr Sweet took me from time to time. The door was usually locked from the other side, so, when I gently turned the handle, I was surprised when it opened inwards and even more so when I heard a few muffled sounds, which caused me to freeze instinctively. I knew where they were coming from and I knew what was happening in there. I could feel my heart pounding in my ears, as I slowly bent down and looked through the keyhole of the old gym equipment storeroom. I couldn’t see anything because the key was in the lock, but I heard Peter Loss whimper and Mr Sweet tell him, “Shh, I’m not going to hurt you.”

  My worst nightmare! The feeling of betrayal made my legs turn to jelly and almost buckle underneath me. I couldn’t believe, I didn’t want to believe this was happening. I was stunned. Shocked. Numbed. I held back the tears I felt welling up. I had never felt so much intense and all-consuming hatred, leaving my thoughts in turmoil.

  I don’t recall taking the bootlaces from the football boots. I don’t recall tying them together or climbing the tree. I don’t recall tying the bootlace around my neck or tying the other end to the branch. I don’t recall jumping. But I do recall the moment my right knee hit me under the chin, splitting it wide open. I do recall lying in the tall grass, hiding myself from the world. No one knew I was there. No one had witnessed what I had just done. And life still went on. The birds were still singing. The pilot in the glider high above me had no notion that I was there. No one cared.

  I so hated the world, I hated myself, I hated everyone and everything about this life I was living. It was pointless. It meant nothing to me and gave me nothing. I so wished I were dead. And yet, I was so glad I was still alive!

  Father Tierney said, “God gave us life. And then left it to us to make our own choices. Therefore, each one of us will have to stand alone and bear the consequences of our own choices.” So, I only had myself to blame for everything that had gone on in my life. After all, it had been my choice, it was what I had wanted. And I would have to bear the consequences of that and of the fact that I so hated the bastard! From that day forwards, I was going to pray night and day for Sweet to die.

  Fighting Back

  In the earlier part of the afternoon I’d been playing a game of war with some of the other boys, when I’d spotted Thompson and Farr making their way into the grotto. I thought Farr may have had something hidden up under his jumper, but I was unable to see properly once his back was to me. They were not part of our game, but even so, I wanted to find out what the pair of them were up to. Continuing to crawl through the tall grass bordering the whole outside of the playground, I made my way to the edge of the grotto and watched them disappear into the old shed, closing the door behind them. They were back out within a couple of minutes, which led me to assume they’d been hiding something – they’d been far too quick to have been smoking cigarettes or getting up to things with each other.

  I’d afforded myself a quiet smile as the pair of them walked past me, without realising I was only a matter of a few feet away, skulking in the grass. And once I felt they were at a safe enough distance, I headed for the shed.

  “What were they hiding?” I wondered aloud, as I scanned every inch of the shed. I soon spotted the disturbance marks on the wooden floor where the large rusting grass roller had been dragged out of the way before being put back haphazardly. Dragging it a foot or so away from the old garden tools standing behind it, I peered down over the top, just noticing the edge of the brown handbag poking out from behind a couple of rusting shovels. Taking a peek inside, I was shocked to find a pile of £٥ notes, along with a mixture of coins, jewellery, and a collection of army medals staring up at me. So that’s what they’d been up to when I’d seen them through the gap in the fence on my way to the library. “They must have burgled that house,” I thought.

  I had bad memories of how my daddy had made me climb down coal holes into the cellars of other people’s houses in Hulme, using me to open the front doors so he could rob whatever took his fancy. Then, I’d had no choice other than to do his bidding. But now at least I was able to do something about these two feckers.

  Forgetting I was a Nazi paratrooper in the middle of our war game, I pushed the old roller back into position, before leaving the shed and crawling out from the grotto, making my way back through the long grass until I was further down by the school block, where Mr McGuinness was standing.

  “Mr McGuinness.”

  “Yes?”

  “If I tell you something that’s really bad, will you not say it was me that told you?”

  “It depends on how bad it is.” His crinkled, weather-beaten face creased into a smile. I really liked Mr McGuinness and often wondered why the teachers couldn’t have been more like him. Though much older than they were, he seemed able to tolerate us much better, without resorting to violence or having to scream at us.

  I hesitated, unsure whether I was doing the right thing, fearful of anyone finding out I’d snitched.

  Mr McGuinness noticed my hesitancy. “If it doesn’t involve you in any way, then I won’t mention your name to anyone.”

  “I’ve just seen Thompson and Farr hiding a lady’s handbag in the old shed up in the grotto. It’s behind some old shovels, behind the big roller.”

  “Off and play,” he said, not looking in the least surprised or interested. And I wondered if he thought I was making it up.

  Later that day, Mr Marron surprised us all with the news that we would be playing a friendly football match against each other, before the big game the following day. The team playing the Taylors Boys would be playing against another home team, which he would choose. I don’t know why they called it a friendly match. We took our football seriously.

  At least it was dry for this game, unlike the match we’d played a couple of weeks back, when it had belted down with rain. It was no wonder it had ended in a goalless draw: the ground was so waterlogged the ball was only able to travel about three yards, if you could even manage a kick at all. Slipping and sliding was bad enough, but heading the ball was out of the question.

  Little Paddy Gavin, our goalie, had stopped a potential goal with his head. I could have sworn his neck had disappeared between his shoulder blades as his head and the ball made contact, with the ball seeming to momentarily stay on the top of his little head for a second or two, before dropping to the soggy ground in front of his feet, where he’d retrieved it safely enough. But we’d then watched in amazement as he’d staggered off the pitch, still holding onto the ball and ignoring the calls from Marron for him to come back. Two of the lads were sent to fetch him and they brought him back onto the pitch. But it was obvious to us all, his brains had been knocked senseless by the weight of the ball. So Marron ordered the two lads, much to their annoyance, to take him off to Matron, who’d put him in sick bay for a few hours of rest.

  Getting my football boots from the boot-room, I made my way to the assembly hall, excited by the game ahead. The smell of White Horse liniment hit my nostrils as some of the boys, already in their kits, rubbed it all over their calves and t
highs. Not that many of them would be doing much running around on the pitch to get aching muscles.

  I was about to take off my jumper when I noticed, from the corner of my eye, Mr Sweet heading over in my direction. I could feel my stomach turning, because I knew what he was going to say to me. But not only did I not want to miss the football match, I didn’t want him to touch me ever again. My thoughts, along with my heart, were racing. I was unsure how I was going to handle the situation, but I could feel an overwhelming surge of anger towards him rising inside me. Suddenly I heard Father Tierney’s voice: “God gave us the choice, and we must bear the consequences of our choices.” Thank you, Father Tierney! The choice had always been mine. Today, I was going to make the choice and would accept the consequences, rather than making a choice driven by the need to be loved.

  “I want you to stay back and help me with something,” Mr Sweet said in a low voice.

  “I don’t want you ta love me any more.” I said it! My anger had taken over any fear that I had of him, or anyone else for that matter. And there was no turning back. “I’m not doing anything for you. So feck off and leave me alone.” I swore at a teacher!

  I felt the bang to my head as it hit the wall, and both Mr Sweet and Mr Marron, who was nearby, suddenly attacked me. But I had already made my choice and I was fighting back. I caught Mr Sweet with a kick to the side of his leg, Mr Marron had hold of my hair and was shaking my head from side to side. This only made me angrier. They could beat me all they wanted, I was no longer aware of any pain. I was not giving in to this pair of vicious, bullying bastards. I would rather die fighting.