Boy Number 26

by Tommy Rhattigan

  Now, we were standing next to each other on the stage, along with the rest of the choir, waiting for the curtains to open and the show to begin. He hadn’t spoken a word to me, nor I to him. Perhaps he hadn’t recognised me. We had, after all, got blacked-up faces, as the show had a Black and White Minstrel theme. But I had easily recognised his ugly mug.

  It was difficult to contain our excitement as we waited, with bated breath, for Mr Keenan to finish his boring, long-winded Christmas speech. Even his attempt at humour only raised the odd laugh.

  “Without further ado,” he announced, “ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls (there were no girls in the audience), will you please give a warm welcome to the Black and White (we were all black) Minstrels!” The curtains opened and Mr Alston struck the first chords on the piano.

  “Mammy, Mammy.”

  “Mammeee!” Jaysus, Donkey had decided to join in the singing.

  “The sun shines East, the sun shines West.”

  “Weeest!” echoed Donkey.

  “Get off!” Mr Alston suddenly pushed Donkey’s hand away from the piano. But Donkey kept stabbing a finger down on any key he could get at. As they fought over the piano, we were singing out of tune. “Get away, you freak,” said the deputy headmaster, before slapping Donkey hard across the face. This was obviously the worst thing he could have done, because Donkey started crying like a donkey, as we continued with the chorus.

  “I’d walk a million miles –”

  “Haw-hee-haw!”

  “For one of your smiles –”

  “Hee-haw! Hee-haw!”

  “My Mammy!”

  To be honest, I expected the audience to have wished they were a million miles away from the awful sound, but for some strange reason, they were loudly laughing and applauding – probably out of sympathy.

  We managed to get through the rest of our part of the show without too many problems. Mr Alston handed the spare tambourine to Donkey, letting him join us on stage. I wasn’t sure if he did this out of the goodness of his heart, or whether he’d just decided nothing could get any worse. But it did cheer up Donkey no end, and he played that tambourine like I’d never seen anyone play a tambourine before.

  I was also taken by surprise when Walters and I did our duet of “Silent Night” and he harmonised all the parts softly, instead of attempting to take all the limelight, which for once was all mine.

  Next, Mr Keenan introduced the Great Wizard and his assistant, Ramondo. Mr Lilly and Gary The Ponce Percival were dressed in long black capes and looked more like a pair of gormless vampires than magicians. And that should have been me!

  We stood in the wings, supposed to wait until Mr Lilly finished the closing act of the show. But, as I had a plan of action to get off the ground, I slipped off, unnoticed, to the back of the stage. Making my way through the small door leading underneath the stage, I crawled over to the secret trapdoor. Above me, I could hear the footsteps of Lilly and Percival The Ponce. The applause was a sure sign that the first couple of tricks had gone down well. But then Mr Lilly set up his little magic table close to the trapdoor. And I knew, because I’d had a sneak preview of them rehearsing, that little Ramondo would be standing on the trapdoor for three of those tricks. Well, that was their plan. But if my plan went the way I wanted, he’d be involved in just the one, unrehearsed, great trick.

  Back went the two trapdoor catches. Job done! Before you could say Hey Presto! I had returned to join the others in the wings.

  “And now, my assistant Ramondo is going to show you all a special trick.”

  Oh, the joy of watching Percival rush around to the other side of the little table where the black top hat sat waiting for him to pull out the stuffed rabbit, followed by the false flowers and all those rainbow-coloured ribbons. Only before he could do that, he disappeared into thin air, along with the hat. The audience gave a hearty clap. Mr Alston began to play “Roll Out the Barrel” on the piano to disguise the loud groans coming up from the open trapdoor. Why that song? I hadn’t a clue, but the audience were happily singing along to it.

  Mr Keenan took two of the older choir boys to help get Percival out from under the stage. A moment or two later, his head popped up through the open trapdoor and he gave Mr Lilly the good news. “I think he may have broken his leg.” I rushed straight out to the front of the stage, volunteering myself to be the substitute assistant. I had banked on there being virtually nil chance of the Great Wizard telling me to clear off – and I was right.

  “Just do as I say and everything will be fine, understand?” growled Mr Lilly under his breath. I obeyed every instruction to the letter and, with the magic show going well, I could see he was pleased with my performance, though he told me to stop bowing at the end of every trick – probably because he wanted all the plaudits.

  “And now for the grand finale.” Mr Lilly gestured with a hand to the tall box that had stood on the stage throughout the show. “When I tell you,” he whispered, looking like a ventriloquist with a false smile on his face and hardly moving his lips, “I want you to stand inside the box. And when I have closed the curtain, I want you to open the black curtain behind you and stand at the back of the box, until I give you further instructions. Am I clear?”

  “Yesh shir,” I said, without moving my lips.

  “My assistant will now stand inside the box.”

  Following his instructions to a tee, though I couldn’t see the point of it, I stood inside the box and smiled out at the audience. When the front curtain was pulled closed, I opened the black curtain behind me and stood behind the box, waiting for further instructions. I had done exactly what Mr Lilly told me, yet he clearly wasn’t happy afterwards, angrily telling me I’d made him a laughing stock of the Magic Circle!

  “But sir,” I protested, “you said nothing about closing the black curtain again once I was at the back of the box.”

  Home Sweet Home

  The woman from the Social Services was standing in the main hall of St Vincent’s, waiting to take me to the Garden of England, where my family now lived. I had with me a small brown case, which contained the new clothing the school had bought specially for me to take home, in order to give a good impression. The woman introduced herself as Mrs Newton, before telling me Martin was waiting outside in the car.

  “Can I go to him?”

  “Yes, of course!”

  Needing no second invitation, I ran outside and I saw my brother’s face in the back of the car, looking in my direction. His smile filled the whole side window before he jumped out and ran across the driveway to me.

  “Tommy!”

  “Martin!”

  How tightly we held on to each other. I didn’t want to let go of him, or he of me, and I’d shut my eyes, praying this wasn’t a dream, before opening them wide again, to see and feel he was still there and holding on to me. It seemed unreal. I’d never dared dream that I would ever hold, or be held, by someone who I truly loved. And although I was desperate to cry, I just could not find a tear to shed.

  On the long drive to meet our family I felt anxious because I hadn’t seen any of them for so many years. I had never forgotten their faces as they had stood watching me and Martin taking off from the driveway of Nazareth House Children’s Home on that January day in 1964. My biggest fear was that they might not recognise us, which Martin and I discussed in the back of the car. And despite the very long drive from Liverpool to Kent, the time flew as we talked non-stop, all the way to our destination.

  The woman told us that if this short stay over the Christmas period went well, we would probably be able to come home permanently. Having had no wish to see my parents, I wasn’t sure about this, especially as my memories of them were still raw. I was only going because it gave me the opportunity to be with Martin once again. As for my other siblings, it was difficult for me to feel emotionally attached to them after all the time a
part, but I was looking forward to seeing how they’d turned out.

  Turning left at Chatham train station, the car drove along Hills Terrace and past St Michael’s church, before pulling up outside a row of terraced houses. Three houses down, the end one had a big sign hanging outside, telling us it was the Rose in June pub. It couldn’t have been a better location for my parents.

  “Here we are,” said Mrs Newton, looking at her watch.

  “What’s the time?” asked Martin.

  “It’s eight-thirty.”

  “Mr Lilly said our house was in the Garden of England?” My comment made the Social Services woman laugh.

  If that laughter was because of what we were seeing through the car windows, then I could see the joke. Though I wasn’t laughing. Garden of England my arse! It was a dump. A tip! There wasn’t even a weed in sight, let alone a blade of grass or a flower. Though admittedly, it was still a vast improvement on Stamford Street.

  Perhaps it was me. Perhaps I’d been so used to living in St Vincent’s, I’d forgotten what it was like living in a hovel!

  Mammy opened the front door of number five. She hadn’t changed since the last time we’d seen her, except for the colour of her hair, which was now blonde instead of dark brown.

  “This is Martin and Tommy.” Mrs Newton introduced us to our own Mammy! And Mammy shook our hands. “Oh, I nearly forgot,” said Mrs Newton, opening her handbag and taking out a large brown envelope, which she handed over to Mammy. “This is for the boys’ keep.”

  “Ta missus,” said Mammy. Only then did she stand aside and allow us to walk into the house and through into the back room, with her following us. “Yea can leave them auld bags on the chair there an’ go an’ play with yer brothers. Der out the back way – somewhere.” She left us and went back to the open front door where Mrs Newton was standing.

  I followed Martin out the back way. It was dark so we couldn’t see much, but we could see the high chicken run, which took up the whole of the garden. We couldn’t see the chickens, but we could hear the racket they were making. The path out the back way led out on to a street, dimly lit up by an electric streetlamp. Across the way, we could see a group of kids playing in the playground of St Michael’s Primary School, which was closed for the Christmas holidays.

  “Tommy! Martin!” Our younger brother Nabby was the first to spot us. Squeezing through the gap in the metal fencing, he was followed closely by Michael and Gosson, who were tiny babies the last time we’d seen them. We didn’t throw our arms around each other, like Martin and I had done. But that didn’t mean to say we loved them any the less. Martin and I had a special bond, which was the only difference.

  “Have yah seen Uncle Oliver and Raphael and the old man yet?” asked Nabby.

  “There’s only Mammy in the house,” said Martin.

  “She’ll be in the Rose in June by now,” said Nabby. “The whole family are over there. The old woman was just waitin’ in the house for you to turn up.”

  We suddenly heard breaking glass, followed by loud, angry voices.

  “Quick!” Nabby ran off in the direction of the side road, which led back around into Hills Terrace.

  Following our three brothers, we rushed around the corner, just as a chair came through the pub’s side window. At the front of the pub, we were met by a riot of 30 or more people, all fighting outside on the road. Our Uncles Oliver, Paddy, Raphael, Christy and Frankie, plus some aunties and a few cousins – and daddy – were all there. Fighting.

  Mammy had a young fella in a headlock. She was reaching down for one of her high heels, but was having a problem getting hold of it because the young fella was struggling to get out of her choke-hold and was knocking her off balance. Rushing over to her, I slipped her shoe from her foot and handed it to her. She paused briefly, gazing into my eyes, before thanking me. Then she started beating the fella over the head with her shoe.

  I looked across to Martin and, as our eyes met, we both knew what the other one was thinking.

  “We’re home!”

  Acknowledgements

  Two of the toughest things I’ve ever had to deal with in my life were acknowledging my past – and then willingly walking back into it.

  For years I have suffered in silence with my mental health. My voice was muted by the ghosts of my past, which were leering, snarling, laughing, tormenting me. I was dragged down into an abyss of suffocating darkness – while the voices spewed their garbage of obscenities and accusations, daring me to do away with myself, launching a tirade of abuse at me: ‘Filthy animal! You asked for it! You’re disgusting! You’re the guilty one! You got what you deserved! Shame on you! Come here, you little bastard! Fool! Fool! You’ll never escape your ugly tortured destiny!’

  And I wake to find I have pissed myself again.

  Having taken a massive overdose of drugs at the age of 15, which should have put paid to my suffering, the psychiatrists attempted to help me cope with the traumas blighting my everyday life by throwing more drugs at me, while teaching me coping strategies, such as recognising the issues and talking them through. Or avoiding ‘trigger’ situations at all costs. My preferred strategy! But as for redressing the pain I had been caused, how could I do this when I still felt guilty at the hands of my abuser?

  For me, ‘avoidance’ is the ultimate denial. The unconscious incarceration of the past, locked away in a cold dark corner of my mind, receiving no recognition as to its existence – for fear of it destroying me. And yet, sacrificing my past was in fact destroying me.

  It is difficult to live a ‘normal’ life when you’ve had no control over the start of it, before being cast out into the wide world, which you have no understanding or experience of. Nor the world of you. Your only expectation is of being lonelier than ever. And so, left to take back control, the only way for me to do so was to lose control.

  I was exasperated by a never-ending spiral of self-harm. Alcohol abuse. Drug abuse. Self-hatred. Guilt. Shame and suicidal ideation. The love of my beautiful wife and my close family could slow all of this down, but never halt it. It was only a matter of time before the ghosts would have me for themselves and my pain would ultimately end for good.

  And then, out of the blue, a letter arrived for me from the Merseyside Police. Brief and to the point, it was about to turn my world upside down.

  Dear Mr Rhattigan,

  While looking through our records we have noted you were resident at St Vincent’s Approved School, Formby, Liverpool, between early 1965 and late 1968. We are making inquiries into various allegations we have been made aware of. As you were resident during the period of our investigation, if there is any information that you have which might assist us, you can contact us at the above address.

  Yours Sincerely

  Chief Constable of Merseyside Police

  Or words to that affect.

  I’d been given the one opportunity to exorcise my demons, and I knew there wasn’t going to be another chance! But even if I wanted to – how could I tell? How could I betray myself, my secrets and the secrets of the demons that bind us together?

  Distressing and desperate as those moments had been for me, I sat for days on end, going over the letter time and time again, wondering what I should do. With encouragement from my wife and children, whose love, understanding and belief in me was so overwhelming and empowering, I was convinced to go for it.

  It took a couple of weeks to build up the courage for me to lift the receiver and telephone the Merseyside Police, but I did it!

  I was nervous, of course. I was so scared of not knowing where this was going to lead me. For all those years, I had kept my past imprisoned, and now I was letting it free! And at the precise moment I placed the receiver back down, I felt the heavy burden fall from my shoulders and an overwhelming feeling surging inside me. I knew my new life was about to begin.

  With that in mi
nd, I would like to acknowledge and offer my profound and sincere gratitude to Graham Thomas, and all those police officers serving with the Merseyside Police Force, who persevered with their investigations under extreme circumstances, having to listen and then write up so many harrowing statements while maintaining their own forced composure, their professionalism, while wrapping a coat of dignity around me and those many other survivors, telling their stories to them for the first time. ‘Thank you’ seems such a pitiful response, when you consider the enormity of what you have achieved! Some say, ‘You went trawling.’ I say, ‘I cannot find the words to thank you enough for catching me in your net and handing me back my life!’

  I’d also like to offer my special ‘thanks’ to my former Psychiatric Nurse, Christofer Fay (my mate for life), manager of the East Kent Mental Health Service, who helped me trust him to lead me through the darkness towards the light. How could I have ever found my way without you, Chris? I don’t know. I want to acknowledge the fact that you were the initial inspiration for me to write this and my first book, 1963: A slice of Bread and Jam, ‘once the healing process had kicked in.’ It took a long time, as we both expected it to! But I can now look back on my past and see so many wonderful memories beyond the mist. Thank you.

  If you need support and more information on some of the issues covered in this book, please contact:

  http://thesurvivorstrust.org

  Free, confidential helpline: 08088 010 818

  (Mon-Thurs 10am-4pm & 6pm-8pm/Fri 10am-4pm)

  Safeline.org.uk