by Jon Walter
When he drops his gaze from the heavens, I must be the first thing he sees because he points his finger at me, a finger so straight and deadly it could have been a gun, and he shouts out to me, ‘Samuel Jenkins, you come here to me now.’
His finger turns a full circle in the air till it points straight down at his black polished shoes, and he reels me in so tight I might as well be a fish on the end of his line, cos before I know it I’m standing there toe to toe, the top of my head nearly touching the bottom of his chin, close enough that I have to put my head back to get a look at his face.
He takes a deep breath. I can see the sweat glistening in the lines across his forehead as he takes hold of my ear and twists it tight till I’m up on my toes. He walks me swiftly into the chapel and I’m taking quick little steps like a pigeon, maybe five of mine to every one of his and I’m doing my best not to squeal out loud because my ear is sharp with the pain of being turned right around and inside out, though to be honest it hurts me more to be treated like my brother.
The air is cooler indoors than out. The chapel is dark and there’s the usual smell of polished wood coming from the pews that we pass on our way to the altar. Father Mosely lets go of my ear and points his finger at the table. ‘Look!’
And I do look. I don’t have no choice.
‘There is a turd upon the table of the Lord!’ he tells me, and I can see it clearly in the light from the candles, a solid log, all big and brown. I find myself sniffing the air but there’s no smell to it, at least not that I can tell. But still, there’s no mistaking what it is, and the fear grips my heart because there’ll be hell to pay for this. I know there will. I’ve seen it before. There’ll be someone made to sit in the chair of judgement, same as there was when the golden cup of Christ was stolen and they found it in Billy Fielding’s box of things and he was taken down by the Devil himself.
There’s one of us here will pay the price.
Father Mosely squints up his eyes and his mouth goes all small and puckered. ‘Do you know anything of this?’
I shake my head.
He walks behind my back and stands the other side of me. ‘Is this some sort of joke?’
‘Who would do such a thing?’ I ask him.
‘Who indeed?’ Father Mosely speaks with some satisfaction, like at last we’re getting somewhere. His voice is hard and unafraid. He’s gonna find the boy who did this – I know he will cos he has before. ‘Is there anything you want to tell me, Samuel? I mean, before we ask the others. Now that it’s just you and me alone.’
I shake my head again. ‘I don’t know why these things keep happening, Father. Honest. I don’t know why people have to do bad things.’
Father Mosely walks behind the table and stands leaning over the turd. He’s looking down on it with his hands clasped together in front of him. ‘Another good question, Samuel. Why do people do bad things?’ He nods his head as though he has the answer. ‘It seems to me that we only have to be weak. Weak enough that when the Devil comes calling, we let him in. We let him put ideas into our heads. We let him put his poison in our hearts.’ He fixes me with one of his looks, the one he does where his eyes get bigger and he can see right through you. ‘Do you let the Devil in, Samuel? Do you? Is the Devil in your head?’
I immediately shake my head.
‘Are you sure, Samuel? Are you sure you don’t let the Devil in? Because I know you hear him – I know he calls to you to do bad things, same as he calls to all of us.’
I close my eyes, just in case Father Mosely can see the Devil in me, cos I know he’s in there somewhere. I can hear him whisper to me: You do let me in, Samuel. I come in with your dirty thoughts.
Father Mosely puts a hand on my head. ‘Pray to the Lord, Samuel. Pray that He protects you from the words of Satan.’
And I pray to Him. I pray to Him. I pray to Him.
When I next look up, the bright blue eyes of Jesus Christ are staring down at me from the crucifix above the altar. Father Mosely is holding a white handkerchief and a cardboard box, a little smaller than a shoe box. It’s got the words, Mrs Harbury’s Delicious Candy on the side and there’s a drawing of a pink rosebud. He scoops up the turd with a handkerchiefed hand and places it inside the box. He puts the lid in place and then sweeps past me, making for the open doors, the cardboard box held up in front of him as he calls for me to follow. ‘Come, Samuel. Let us find out who is weak before the Lord.’
We go out into the yard, and the classroom is quiet as we climb the steps of the school porch. I run ahead and open the door for Father Mosely so that he don’t even have to break his stride before going through into the classroom.
Miss Priestly is sitting at her desk with an open book. There’s an easy equation on the blackboard behind her and the children are sitting in silence, their chalkboards all in front of ’em. The classroom stirs to life as Father Mosely walks up the aisle and I see Joshua sit up straighter in his chair. I sit down too, cos it don’t do to stand out in a room where people are going to start pointing fingers.
‘How nice,’ Miss Priestly says as the Father places the box, very deliberately, on her desk.
But the Father shakes his head. ‘No, Miss Priestly. There is nothing nice about this box.’ He taps a finger on the lid. ‘Despite what it says on the side, there is nothing pleasant in the contents of this box.’ He scans the room, from the back row to the front where the little ones sit. ‘Who would like to tell me what is in the box?’
Little Jessie’s hand shoots up in the air. ‘Is it insects?’
Father Mosely takes two steps to Jessie’s desk and slams his hand down so hard it frightens the child. ‘This is not a game of guesses, Jessie! If you do not know then you would do well to keep your opinions to yourself.’
Even from behind I can see that Jessie looks scared – I can see it in the way he hangs his shoulders. And he ain’t the only one. All of us are scared.
Father Mosely pauses for effect. ‘One of you doesn’t need to guess. One of you knows what I have in the box because you left it in the chapel as a present for the Lord.’ He straightens a finger and stabs the air. ‘A foul and stinking gift that reeks of the Devil himself!’
I take a look at Abel Whitley. He’s always saying smutty things so he’s the face I go to first, but Abel looks as shocked as the rest of us.
Father Mosely walks slowly across the front of the classroom. ‘Perhaps whoever left this thinks it’s funny. You might be laughing because you think you’ll get away with it, or you might be quaking in your boots with the fear of what you have done.’ His eyes are all wide in his face. ‘Either way, I say to whoever has done this – own up. Confess your sin so that the Lord may be merciful upon your soul, although why he should want to be, I do not know.’
When he walks between the rows of desks, every boy in that classroom lowers his eyes and looks away for fear of being blamed. I keep my eyes on Miss Priestly. She’s sitting still as can be, looking about as scared as everyone else. The Father walks in a slow circle, going all around the room, and when he comes back to her desk he stops and takes a look at the watch which he carries in the front pocket of his waistcoat. ‘Will no one tell us what I have in the box?’
Nobody says a thing.
His manner changes. He puts his hands together, becomes all bright and brisk, trying a different kind of game to trap us. ‘Very well then. I shall show you. Miss Priestly, would you find me a sharp pair of scissors, please?’
Miss Priestly nods quickly, stands up from her chair and goes into the store cupboard next to the blackboard. She brings back a pair of scissors, then watches as he removes the lid of the box and cuts the cardboard down each end until the edge makes a flap which he folds out, turning the box into a stage. When he stands aside, we all gasp at the sight of the turd, even me, and I already know it’s there.
Father Mosely smiles with satisfaction at our shock. ‘It’s hard to believe, isn’t it? Hard to believe that a boy from this class would go into the chap
el and climb upon the table of the Lord to leave him such a gift. But I will give that boy one last chance to confess his sin and ask for mercy.’ He gestures to the open box. ‘Will the boy responsible now put up his hand?’
No one moves. We sit and wait. I don’t know for how long, but it seems like a lifetime. At one point a pigeon lands on the roof. He sits there cooing and tiptoeing about. You can hear his claws scratching on the old tin, but still not one of us moves a muscle. We hang our heads and close our eyes, each one of us praying to the Lord that it won’t be us that gets the blame, all of us doubting our own minds because although we know one way or the other whether we’re guilty, it feels like whatever we know could just as easily be wrong. That’s how I feel anyway. At any moment the finger might point in my direction and I’ll believe it must have been me. It’s all I can do not to admit it right away, and it would be easier for all of us if I did, cos it’d put an end to this awful silence that’s gonna last until Father Mosely points at one of us and asks for him to stand.
Because he will point at one of us.
Like he has before.
We all of us realize – ’cept maybe little Jessie – that Father Mosely knows who has done the deed. He always does. He knew that it was Billy Fielding stole the cup. He knew that Doddie drew the rude picture on the privy door and wrote underneath that it was Joseph and the Virgin Mary. He knew because God had told him, and I have a pretty good idea that right now God has stopped doing all the other things He has to do and is looking down at our little schoolroom, concentrating just on us and telling Father Mosely who it was that shat upon His table.
‘So be it.’ He breaks the silence with three quiet words, unfolds his hands and lifts his head. ‘Close your eyes,’ he tells us. ‘Close your eyes and let us wait for the judgement of our Lord.’
I’m already there, I’m already praying, muttering, ‘Let it not be me, let it not be me,’ as we close our eyes, but I open ’em quickly to see which desk Father Mosely goes to, and I’m only just in time as I watch him stop right in front of Joshua’s desk – he really does – and my heart drops through my ass, may the Lord forgive me for saying so, but I can’t even breathe.
I watch the Father’s hands come apart. I see his finger with the gold ring lift high into the air above Joshua’s head and it twitches into life. He’s about to point the finger at my brother.
I stand up, my chair legs scraping on the wooden floor. ‘It was me!’
All the boys open up their eyes as Father Mosely looks across at me. I can see he wasn’t expecting it and he’s in a dilemma now, because God’s told him one thing and I’m telling him another, so I have to be convincing and I have to be quick.
‘It was me who shat upon the table. I did it this morning when I should have been cleaning floors. I went into the chapel and climbed upon the table of the Lord. Then I dropped my pants and did it. I did. I did it right there on the white cloth before the holy eyes of Jesus Christ upon the cross, so help me Lord.’
Father Mosely becomes impatient and annoyed. I think he’s going to tell me to sit down and be quiet, to stop being so stupid, only he hasn’t moved from in front of Joshua’s desk and I know I’ve got to do more, I’ve got to get him to walk away from my brother.
I start shaking from the fear of what I’ve done so I exaggerate it, biting my lip till I can taste the blood and rolling my eyes back into my head, the way I do when we speak in tongues. I stagger to the desk in front of mine and lay on it, scattering the boys like a flock of birds. I screw up my face and stick my tongue out at ’em, all red with blood, as I roll my head from side to side saying, ‘I got the Devil in me. I got the Devil in me and he made me empty my bowels upon the table of the Lord. It was the Devil made me do it.’
I can feel Father Mosely step away from Joshua. I see him pass back through the middle of the class, coming towards me, half crouched and moving slow, like I’m some animal he’s afraid of.
Then he tries to trick me. ‘What does the Devil look like, Samuel?’ He stands over me as I twist upon the desk, rolling from my front to my back, making spit rise up around my lips. ‘How did the Devil appear to you, Samuel? Tell me exactly what you saw.’
‘I saw … I saw …’ Suddenly I rise up on the desk and come right up close, to his face. ‘Why, he looks just like you, Father.’
He takes a step back.
‘At first I thought it was you, come to visit me in the night, come to lean across me and whisper in my ear, but when you opened your mouth I could see the snake inside and I could smell the liquorice on your breath, and when I looked down I could see you had ninnies, just like Miss Priestly, and they were bare underneath your gown and you said to me, “Samuel, you shall defile the table of the Lord and bring all manner of wickedness upon this place,” and so I did it; I did it like you told me to. I did it just like you said.’
And suddenly it’s like the Devil’s really there inside me, like I ain’t myself any more, and I climb up on my desk, making the room of boys all gasp, and I turn my back on Joshua, cos I don’t want to see his face as I drop my breeches and squat, straining for all I’m worth.
Father Mosely must have found his strength from somewhere. Suddenly he grabs my arm and pulls me off the desk in one quick movement, throwing me to the floor with my breeches still around my knees, all bruised and with my elbow hurting.
He puts his hand between my eyes and pins me down. I could struggle, I could make more of a show of it, but I know that it’s over. Father Mosely’s got no choice.
‘Pray for the soul of the sinner here before us,’ he calls out loudly, beginning the intonation of the words we know so well. And the boys begin to chant with him, surrounding the two of us as we crouch together on the floor.
‘Let us pray that God has mercy on his soul.’
Chapter 3
Father Mosely’s got me grovelling in the dirt of the privy, my head and feet against the wooden walls with the chair of judgement hard up against my back. It ain’t much to look at – just a small wooden chair, same as the ones we sit at for supper – but I knew that already cos the day Billy got taken by the Devil we sneaked around the back and looked through a hole in the wood expecting to see a burnished throne and a hot pit of ashes.
Father Mosely brought me out here. He put me inside and locked the door. He’s taken the other boys back to the house where they will go without supper as they pray for my soul, and in the morning he’ll bring ’em back, so they can see what judgement has befallen me.
I been here a long time now, long enough for the last rays of the sun to squeeze through the gaps of the wall in thin bright golden lines. A short while ago I heard the footsteps of Father Mosely trudging through the gloom. I know the noise of his walk – the long stride and the heavy step, firm upon the ground like there ain’t no uncertainty in him at all. He must have gone over to the chapel and he must still be there cos he ain’t come back this way.
He’ll be praying. I expect he will. Probably discussing with the good Lord what to do with me.
Perhaps God’ll be angry with him. He’ll say, Look what you did! You chose the wrong boy!
Father Mosely will have to apologize: I’m sorry. He confused me. But we can’t let the Devil take him. We can’t let an innocent boy burn in the fire pits of hell for the rest of eternity.
God’ll shake his head. I don’t see how I’ve got much choice.
Well, there’s some truth in that. We ain’t never opened the door on the chair of judgement the next morning and found a boy still sitting there. He’s always been judged good and proper and there ain’t nothing left of him to see.
I know Father Mosely will stick up for me. But we can’t let the Devil take him.
He lied didn’t he? He spoke with the tongue of the serpent?
And I did lie. I did. I got the tongue of the serpent in my mouth and I got wicked thoughts in my head about Miss Priestly.
I slap my face. Slap it hard and put dirt in my mouth, cos I am undone. The
Devil’s coming for me with red-hot pincers. He’ll pick me up and drop me in a pot of boiling oil. Maybe he’ll string me up by my wrists and never let me go. Maybe he’ll whip me till I’m red raw.
Father Mosely will plead for me. I know he will: But, Lord, Samuel done a noble thing. He sacrificed himself to save another. Surely he shouldn’t be damned for that?
He’ll argue it well. Cos he likes me.
But God will look down on him with those big blue eyes. Well, someone has to pay, and I told you who it was. It was Joshua that did it. I made that very clear.
Yes. It was Joshua. Same as it always is. He’s been getting into trouble since he learned to crawl. Never stays in one place. Doesn’t matter whether I hit him or speak to him nicely, he won’t take any notice of me. Never has. As a baby I had to stop him crawling through the legs of horses. I had to stop him pulling the plates off shelves. If it weren’t one thing, it was another. One time he tried to pick up a glowing coal and throw it on the rug, nearly set the whole place on fire, and he can’t have been more than two years old. I got the blame for that too.
No. There’s no escaping it. Joshua’s got the Devil in him for sure. I reckon that’s why Mama died giving birth to him. But he’s done for us this time. He really has.
Outside the privy the light has faded. I hear footsteps in the darkness, some quick little steps that patter across the dirt in the yard, and when I put my eye to the hole in the wood he’s suddenly there – my brother Joshua – but I don’t want to see him and I shuffle away from the door, putting my spine against the far wall.
‘Samuel,’ he whispers loudly, his mouth up close to the privy wall. ‘Samuel, you in there?’
When I don’t answer, he says it again louder and I have to stop him or we’ll both be caught. ‘Quiet yourself!’ I whisper sharply. ‘You’ll have the Father or Sister Miriam out here. My Lord you will.’
