Boy Number 26

by Tommy Rhattigan

Mr Marron managed to get his arms around me from behind, holding me in a bear hug. But not before I knocked Sweet’s glasses off his fat reddening face. Between the pair of them, I was half carried, half dragged out of the hall, still struggling and trying to kick my legs free from Mr Sweet’s tight grip. I could hear Donkey hee-hawing and other voices shouting at the two teachers to leave me alone, which lifted my spirits.

  The pair of them managed to get me halfway through the door of the tiny kit store, but they couldn’t get me all the way inside because my hands were free and holding tightly on the door frame. Well, they were until Mr Sweet gave my balls a hard squeeze and I was forced to let go. Throwing me onto the floor of the kit-room, they swiftly left, locking me inside as I kicked the door and continued to use every swear word I could muster.

  I didn’t know how long I had been in the kit-room. It seemed time had a knack of always passing slowly when I was waiting in silence. I had eventually calmed down, having had the time to reflect on what had happened. And although my anger had subsided, the sense of betrayal still lingered inside me. I wondered what was going to happen to me now, having done what I’d just done. But to be honest, I didn’t care. I was sensing an imminent turning point in my life.

  Breaking Out

  Nearly three years had passed since I had first arrived at St Vincent’s and Sister Ignatius had given me her welcoming bone-crushing handshake. Father Tierney told us we should use the time the Almighty gave us on this earth to do good for our fellow man, though there was never a mention in his boring sermons about doing good for ourselves. And just as it was plainly obvious the grown-ups were not listening to what the old priest was telling them, the Almighty never listened to my prayers, otherwise half of that lot in there would have been under the ground by this point.

  For me, time was meaningless, invisible. I had no hopes or plans for tomorrow, or for next week, or for the coming months and years to follow. The reality of my life and the lives of the boys I was living among was that we had no futures. We lived only for the days we found ourselves in. Yesterday was already done and dusted, and tomorrow didn’t exist.

  I looked forward to the end of each day, sometimes willing them to pass quickly, so that I could go off to my bed and creep back into the silence of my dreams, where I felt safest. But reality always found a way of kicking us in the teeth, dictating that tomorrow came around to push our dreams to one side, and leaving us no say in our own destiny.

  Eventually let out of the kit-room, I was frogmarched down to the school block, with Mr Marron leading the way and Mr Sweet following behind us. I’d decided to stay calm and keep my composure, not wanting to be beaten by those two again. But when Mr Keenan snapped at me to bend over his desk, I stubbornly refused to do so, telling him I had done nothing wrong. But he wasn’t interested at all. Not giving me the opportunity to explain my behaviour or get one word in edgeways, Marron and Sweet suddenly grabbed me and between the pair of them, managed to get me over Keenan’s desk. And there, with each of them holding one of my hands across the opposite side of the desk to prevent me from standing upright, Mr Keenan forced down my trousers and pants and beat my backside viciously with the cane, drawing my blood.

  I never did get to play in the match against the Taylors Boys, which had ended in a nil-nil draw, leaving my dream of scoring the winning goal in tatters. But it was great to have witnessed history repeating itself, when both team captains had gone in for a tackle on the ball and our captain, Paddy O’Neil, having taken offence to a poke in his eye, began battering the other captain’s head against the ground, leaving a dent in the pitch. The ensuing brawl, which was more violent than the previous one, saw blood spilled on both sides, but (I’m proud to say) St Vincent’s came out on top – again! And I am sure the toffs came away that day having learnt a valuable lesson: when putting your dukes up like the boxer Gentleman Jim, it is always wise to bear in mind that your opponent might not be as gentlemanly. And so leaving your bollocks unprotected wasn’t a good idea.

  The school did receive another letter from Father Patrick on behalf of the Catholic diocese, with him complaining about having put his own head on the block, only for us to chop it off. The letter had gone on to repeat all the previous personal insults, as well as informing us of the life ban on us ever playing against any other outside schools. Their loss!

  As I had anticipated, Mr Sweet started his campaign of bullying me again, and though the physical attacks were few and far between, some of the cruel things he would say to me were just as bad as the physical stuff. His behaviour towards me wasn’t obvious to anyone else, as he had made sure no one could see what he was doing or saying. On one occasion, he’d deliberately stood on my hand, breaking my thumb, as I crawled out from one of the grass dens we used to build after the football pitch and grass areas around the playground had been mown. In the past, the teachers had not minded us doing this, having no idea of some of the things going on inside them. But Mr Sweet suddenly decided to put an end to the dens.

  “Out! Now!” he’d bellowed at a group of us inside the huge grass den, which we’d only just put the finishing touches to. And, as I had crawled out and looked up at him, he’d suddenly stood on my right hand and twisted his foot, grinding his heel and my hand into the ground and breaking the knuckle of my thumb. I could see the evil in his eyes as I screamed out with the excruciating pain. But he just looked down at me, a wry grin spread across his face.

  I ran off to Mr Lilly’s office and told him what had happened. He wasn’t all that interested and called Matron to have a look at my thumb. Like her husband, she didn’t believe a word of what I had told her, even suggesting it was an obvious accident, “if, in fact, it had even been Mr Sweet’s foot”, she argued, as she’d bandaged my hand up, made me a sling and sent me on my way.

  Thompson and Farr were eventually caught by Mr Alston and Mr Marron. They set a trap for the lads after Mr McGuinness passed on the information I’d given him about seeing the brown handbag hidden in the old shed. We’d all watched from the windows, with some of the boys cheering loudly, as the pair of them, crying and pleading their innocence, were marched out in handcuffs and driven out of the school in the police car, never to be seen by us again.

  As I knew all too well, all good things have a habit of ending badly. In the process of searching the shed, on the suspicion that Thompson and Farr may have hidden other things there, a hoard of contraband was found. Cigarettes, a pipe, lighter, matches, eight miniature bottles of spirits, money and condoms, amongst other things. The discovery resulted in the shed being demolished and the old gardening equipment given to the scrap merchants. What happened to the contraband was anyone’s guess.

  Now vulnerable to unwanted attention from some of the older boys, it had become increasingly difficult, if not impossible, for me to keep my head down and avoid all of them. I eventually came around to accepting the fact that it was pointless to keep saying no and risking a beating, while still getting bummed for my trouble. So, I let the inevitable happen and just got on with it.

  But there came a point when I decided I could no longer accept what was happening to me. I not only hated, loathed, and despised most of my peers and the adults around me, I had come to hate, loathe and despise myself. I’d been getting these sudden urges to cut my wrists or throw myself out of an upstairs window. I was losing control of all my feelings and emotions, unable to stop the urge to hurt myself. Something was eating away at me from the inside out and I didn’t know how to make it go away.

  I came up with the idea of running away from St Vincent’s, and confided in Pete Collins. He begged me to take him along too, almost crying real tears, and I could do nothing else but agree, swearing him to secrecy. The plan? There wasn’t one, save to slip off under cover of darkness, when everyone was sound asleep in their beds.

  The night we’d decided we were going, Collins and I crept, fully dressed, from our beds and out of our dormitory
, only to see Donkey and Barnes, fully dressed and tiptoeing up along the corridor in our direction.

  “I told you not to say anything,” I berated Collins under my breath.

  “I didn’t tell them anything, I swear.”

  “He didn’t tell us anything,” whispered Donkey. Barnes backed him up, swearing on his granny’s life, which convinced me Collins was telling the truth.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “That’s alright,” said Collins with a sheepish grin.

  “It was Butler that told us!” blurted Donkey. “He told us, Pete told him.”

  Shaking my head in dismay, I quickly moved off, not bothering to see whether the others were following or not. Creeping down the middle stairway to the ground floor, with the others in pursuit, I made my way to the back door leading out in to the playground. The door was always locked, but the key hung on a hook next to it. Opening the door, I slipped the key back onto the hook and we were out.

  It was a strange, exhilarating feeling to be outside, feeling free and wanting to be there. I could feel the heavy cloak of despair suddenly fall away from me, as the four of us quietly strolled across the playground, like ordinary kids with all the time in the world to get wherever it was we were going. Not that I had any clue as to where we were going.

  “Look!” Donkey stopped suddenly in his tracks and pointed in the direction of the grotto.

  “What is it, Donkey?” I asked.

  “The ghost!”

  “What ghost?” said Barnes, cowering behind us.

  “The nun!” We had all heard about the ghost of Sister Agnes, who allegedly haunted the toilet block.

  “I can see her!” I’d spotted the faint outline of her head and shoulders above the tops of the flowers. “She’s praying.” I was excited to see her for the second time since coming to St Vincent’s. The first time was a few months after my arrival. She’d seemed so real to me when I’d walked into the beautiful grotto and had knelt alongside her, by the statue of Our Lady, and silently prayed with her. Having not seen her again (until now), I was never sure if she’d been another figment of my weird imagination, which had conjured many strange apparitions in the past.

  “Who’s praying?” asked Barnes.

  “The ghost,” said Donkey.

  “What feckin’ ghost?”

  “Can’t you see her?”

  “All I can see is you two idiots taking the piss.”

  “Shite! The night watchman’s peering out the window!” I spotted the light out of the corner of my eye as the curtain moved. “Keep still. He won’t be able to see us from there.” I was confident about that, considering he was half blind and wore thick-lensed glasses.

  We could see the old fella’s face pressed up against the window as he peered out through the glass pane for a minute or two, before he let the curtain fall back into place.

  “Come on.” I made to head off.

  “I’m not going near any ghosts,” said Barnes, refusing to budge from the spot.

  “She won’t hurt you,” said Donkey.

  “I know she won’t, ’cos I’m not fuckin’ going in there.”

  “Well I am, because it’s the best way to go,” I declared. “You can go another way if you like. Or you can go back. But this is the way I’m going. Anyway, look, she’s gone.”

  “Are you sure?” Barnes, still cowering behind me and Donkey, peered out over our shoulders. “She could be hiding from us.”

  “If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll go and take a quick peek.” I didn’t wait for his reply and made my way into the grotto, seeing no one else but the statue of Our Lady standing in her usual pose, gazing down on the spot where the water used to flow but didn’t any more. I stood for a moment looking at the grey figure, before quietly sneaking back past the other two, coming out from the shrubbery behind Barnes. “Boo!” I shouted, frightening the life out of him so that he screamed and farted simultaneously.

  “The night watchman’s looking out the window again,” I lied, and ran towards the boundary wall, scrambling over it and dropping to the other side, with the others in hot pursuit.

  Freedom

  We spent the rest of that first night sleeping on the sand dunes of Formby beach. Waking early the following morning, cold and tired, we headed in the direction of Blackpool. I don’t know why. It was just the first place I’d thought of when I’d decided to run away. I’d been to Blackpool once before, when my brother Martin and I were in Lynwood Children’s Home and we were all taken there for a one-week holiday.

  My memories of Bellevue amusement park in Manchester will probably stay with me forever. But so too will the memory of those mesmerising illuminations of Blackpool, which ran the full length of the promenade and surrounding streets. The amusement park, the noise, the vast crowds, the rain, the hysterical laughing man! All part of a memory of a happier time. And I just wanted it all over again.

  From the high sand dunes near Formby it was easy to spot Blackpool’s tall tower far off in the distance and having it in my sight went a long way to lifting my spirits. And even though it was still a long way off, we were not in that much of a hurry to get there. This was an adventure – our adventure! And it was all that more exciting because we had no one to bawl us out.

  I wouldn’t have a clue as to how far we walked that day along a seemingly endless desert of sand. The people had now gone from the beach, the light was fading, and the incoming tide had forced us off the beach and back onto the sand dunes. The others looked tired and a little sullen, and I was wishing they hadn’t come with me. I didn’t share their dreams and aspirations and I wouldn’t have minded if they’d decided to give themselves up. I had nothing to give them.

  We eventually came across a large metal road sign telling us we were nearing Southport. Then the heavens opened and it teemed down with the rain, gently at first and then much heavier. I usually loved being out in the rain, but not at that moment in time. I was not feeling that exhilarating sense of freedom I would often get standing out in it (the heavier and stormier the better) and always having to be the last one to get inside, much to the annoyance of those telling me to get in out of the rain.

  Walking along one of the avenues, we came across a small tin workman’s shed standing on a stretch of road that was being re-surfaced. By now the light was beginning to fade fast. Barnes forced open the door with his bare hands to reveal a pile of workers’ tools and some large containers of liquid tar, which ponged. In front of them was a short, tar-stained yellow plastic bench, probably used by the workers to sit on when they were having their lunch. We managed to squeeze into the shed and onto the bench before closing the door, which was only a matter of a few inches from our faces. And there, in the relative safety of the cramped dark shed, we fell asleep, listening to the sound of the rain beating its loud rhythm on the roof.

  In the early hours of the morning, I was woken by Barnes. The others were standing outside the shed, in the grey, dismal light. They looked dishevelled, cold and hungry and I did feel sorry for the pair of them. Donkey was very quiet. In fact, I hadn’t heard him say much since he’d cussed out loudly after banging his elbow on St Vincent’s boundary wall when scrambling over it during our escape. Looking at him now, I wondered what might be going on in his simple head. He caught me staring over at him and he threw me a big grin.

  Running up along someone’s front path, I helped myself to the two bottles of milk standing on the doorstep. Barnes shared his with Collins, while Donkey and I shared the other bottle. The milk made me feel even colder, and I could tell from their silence that the others were probably having second thoughts about running away. I was almost expecting them to tell me they wanted to go back to St Vincent’s. But they said nothing.

  We wandered aimlessly through the empty streets as the minutes and the hours ticked by. I suggested we should knock on people’s front doors and
beg for something to eat. “I did it all the time in Hulme and we always got food.” This seemed to lift their spirits.

  “What sort of food?” asked Donkey.

  “Any sort of food,” I told him.

  “I don’t like cabbage.”

  “Who the fuck eats cabbage for breakfast?” growled Barnes, sourly.

  “Rabbits?” replied Donkey after a long pause.

  “I’ll do the knocking and the asking,” I said quickly, defusing the argument I was sure would kick off between Barnes and Donkey.

  Not long after we’d started our door knocking, a police van pulled up behind us, and two coppers got out, heading in our direction.

  “Run!” I shouted, turning on my heels and charging off along the street. A quick look over my shoulder told me I had a copper on my tail, while Barnes, Donkey and Collins stood talking with the other copper as if it was a Sunday afternoon outing! They’d given up. What did I do now?

  I had this dreadful fear running through me that the copper chasing me wasn’t going to catch me. And the thought of being on my own, now that I knew I was going to be on my own, was so overpowering, I felt as is if I was drowning in my own fear. I was petrified. I didn’t want to be alone. What was going to happen to me? Where was I going? I was bombarding myself with questions to which I had no answers.

  It seemed the only thing I had in my life at that moment was the ability to run and to hide. Nothing else. I’d even lost the ability to beg for food, so it seemed, because no one had offered us a scrap of it. Not even a cabbage! With the realisation that there was nothing I could think of doing that was going to make me feel any better or worse about myself, I decided to slow down to give the copper a chance to catch me. But even then, he seemed too out of breath and wasn’t getting any closer to me. I couldn’t believe I was going to do this, but I was forced to deliberately trip over my own foot, hurting my elbows, just so the unfit, lazy sod could catch me.