The God Squad

by Doyle, Paddy

  ‘Yes, Mother,’ I said.

  She left as I started to dress. Once I had my boots laced up I walked slowly through the dormitory stopping as I reached the door that led to the room where Mother Paul and Mother Michael slept. Gripped by curiosity, my eyes fixed on the large oak door with a big iron key protruding from its lock. On the tips of my boots I approached, gripped the key and turned it, trying to ensure it would make no sound. It clicked, the noise sounding much louder than it really was in the emptiness of the large room. I cupped the knob in my hands and turned it slowly before gently pushing the door open. I walked into the carpeted room, its whiteness glaring when compared to the drabness of the dormitory. Walls and ceiling were painted in a gloss white and the only thing hanging on the wall was a large wooden crucifix. On a press beside the white quilted beds was a statue of the Virgin Mary, a golden rosary beads entwined in her hands. I looked at the statue. Its pale blue eyes appeared to be watching my every move. I moved uneasily back out of the room, closing the door gently before locking it and walking down the wooden stairs to the assembly hall.

  The hall was a big room with bare floorboards and large sashed windows that rattled whenever there was even the slightest breeze. The walls were wood-panelled and painted black to about three feet above floor level. The remainder was painted dark grey. The only furniture was two chairs which were used by the nun who was in charge of the children or by another nun who played the piano, thumping out chords and shouting at us to sing. In a sudden movement she would stop playing and jump to her feet, usually knocking her chair over as she did. Her finger wagged and in a voice that rose in pitch with each word she would say, ‘There is a crow in amongst you and when I find out who it is he is going to have sore ears.’

  ‘What kept you?’ Mother Paul snapped. I hesitated before answering, ‘I couldn’t get my boots tied, there was a knot in the laces, Mother.’

  ‘I sincerely hope that is the truth,’ she leered.

  ‘Yes, Mother.’

  ‘Get over here and learn this song before Miss Sharpe comes back from her holidays, she will expect you all to know it.’

  As I approached the piano she suddenly slapped me in the face.

  ‘Where were you?’

  I looked at her, surprised by the question and the sharpness in her voice.

  ‘I asked you a question and when I ask someone a question I expect to get an answer. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, Mother.’

  ‘Now tell everyone where you were and why you were late.’

  ‘I was in the dormitory.’

  She slapped me viciously across the face again. Then at the top of her voice Mother Paul shouted, ‘I was in the dormitory . . . What?’

  ‘Mother,’ I responded, my voice trembling. ‘I was in the dormitory, Mother.’

  ‘Louder,’ she demanded.

  ‘I was in the dormitory, Mother, then.’

  ‘Why? Tell everyone why you were sent to the dormitory,’ she demanded.

  ‘For making up stories, Mother,’ I said.

  She hit me again.

  ‘For telling lies, that’s why. Is that the reason?’

  ‘Yes, Mother.’

  ‘What were the lies you were telling? I want everyone to hear.’

  I could barely speak, my voice shook and tears welled in my eyes. My bottom lip quivered and I began to cry.

  ‘Speak up, child,’ she demanded.

  ‘I said I saw a man hanging from a tree.’

  I stood there shaking.

  ‘This little pup is a liar,’ Mother Paul said to the other frightened children as she held me by my ear. ‘And everyone here knows what happens to people who tell lies.’ There was silence.

  ‘What happens to children who tell lies?’ she asked.

  ‘They go to hell,’ they all answered. The nun smiled.

  ‘Not only that,’ she continued, ‘but they burn in its flames for ever and ever. That is what is going to happen to this little liar. He is going to burn for ever in hell if he doesn’t stop. Always remember to tell the truth.’

  She pulled me over to the piano and struck the chords of a song I knew well, one which the nuns began to teach me shortly after I entered the school.

  ‘Stop whinging immediately and sing,’ Mother Paul ordered.

  As I did my voice trembled. I stood straight, with my hands crossed in front of me as I had been taught to do whenever I was asked to sing for visitors. My voice was a pleasant boy-soprano type which the nuns appeared to take great pleasure demonstrating for visitors to the school.

  ‘A Mother’s Love is a blessing,

  No matter where you roam,

  Keep her while she’s living,

  You’ll miss her when she’s gone,

  Love her as in childhood,

  Though feeble, old and grey,

  For you’ll never miss a Mother’s Love

  till she’s buried beneath the clay.’

  Mother Paul waved her hand and the rest of the children joined in the remaining verses.

  When we had finished singing Mother Paul reminded us that as we had no parents it fell to the nuns to give us the guidance and grace that would make us into fine young men. Nuns were married to God she said as she raised her right hand to show a thin silver ring. Nuns did not have children in the way mothers had. ‘Each of you was sent to St Michael’s by God and you will be trained in the manner He would like. Mark my words, you will all one day be proud to have been a part of this school.’

  Two years after being admitted to St Michael’s I had become familiar with its routine. The official report on me for that year says: ‘A bright little lad. Made his first Holy Communion when barely over 6 years.’ For the year 1958 the same report remarks: ‘A very bright little boy, quiet and intelligent. Able to serve Mass in the Parish Church. Promoted in school.’ I found it easier to mix with the other children as each day passed and I joined in whatever games I could.

  One day, as I heard the beet train pulling into the station I climbed the wall to get a better look at it and to see if I could get either the driver or the fireman to throw some sugar beet over. I shouted, and a lump of beet sailed over the wall, landing in the school yard. There was a rush to get it but I decided that as I was the one who had asked for it I should have it, and furthermore I would decide who I was going to share it with. Because the mud was so dry it was easy to remove from the beet. My efforts at breaking it up for distribution among my friends proved more difficult than I had expected. I put it on the ground and banged the heel of my boot down hard on it hoping it would break but it didn’t. A jagged edge of the wall proved more useful. Soon lumps of beet were being scattered around the ground. Hungry grasping hands picked up the pieces and if they were small enough they were stuffed into waiting mouths. Those who did get some of it moved to a secluded part of the yard to suck and chew large bits of the creamy-coloured beet.

  The group of which I was a part broke up. Mother Paul was coming towards me. The sun cast her long shadow on the ground as I dropped the beet I was eating. In one hand she had her cane and under the other arm she was carrying the school dog, a Jack Russell, called Toby. The dog barked and I froze, pressing my back hard against the wall. The dog barked again. I was terrified. I hated dogs. I wanted to run but I couldn’t move. The long cane of Mother Paul pressed into my shoulder pinning me where I stood.

  ‘Will you look at him,’ she leered as the other children gathered around.

  ‘This pup who is so brave when it comes to stealing from the train is afraid of his life of a tiny dog.’

  She pointed to the dog, and as I attempted to run he growled. Mother Paul jeered. She told me that just as I had been created by God so had the dog, then she stroked his head gently and moved closer to me. I screamed with fright, causing the dog to growl and almost leap from her arms.

  ‘Nice Toby,’ Mother Paul said. ‘Do you like this dog?’ she asked.

  ‘No, Mother.’

  She hit me across the legs
with her cane and I shrieked with pain. She hit me again. And seeing my fear she grinned. There was an evil look on her face.

  ‘Say you like little Toby,’ she ordered.

  I paused for a minute, my fear gradually turning to rage. Mother Paul looked at me through slit eyes and purple thin lips. She hit out again. I ran towards her and kicked her as hard as I could across the shin. The crack of my boot echoed around the now silent yard. She grimaced and dropped the dog. It ran for cover as I ran across the yard. Before I could make my way into the assembly hall I was grabbed and held by another nun until Mother Paul arrived limping and red-faced. She held me by the ear and, as I tried to kick her again and again, she twisted it until I was almost motionless. She lashed out at me with her cane, hitting me across the back of the knees. I fell to the ground, screaming and writhing in agony.

  ‘Get up off that ground, you filthy, dirty little pup,’ she yelled. ‘You will get what any little brat would get for kicking a holy nun. Mark my words, you will be sorry.’ She ordered the rest of the children inside, shouting at them that the punishment I was going to get would ensure that none of them would do what I had done; kick a woman chosen by God to do His work.

  In the assembly hall she looked around for somewhere to vent her anger. She ordered a group of children to bring her a table which was in one corner of the room. When it was placed to her satisfaction she addressed the rest of the boys while holding me firmly by my ear.

  ‘This child,’ she poked her cane into my ribs before continuing, ‘is possessed by an evil demon.’ She paused to allow the magnitude of what she had said to sink deep into the minds of the other children.

  ‘He has the devil inside him and it is my duty to him and to God in Heaven to get it out. He must be punished and severely so. He must ask God for forgiveness for the terrible sin he has committed.’ She ordered me to strip. I stood motionless. Mother Paul slammed her cane onto the table in front of her.

  ‘Strip, child,’ she shouted.

  I began to take off my clothes. First my heavy grey jumper, then the grey shirt.

  ‘Come on, come on, I haven’t all day. Get those trousers, boots and socks off immediately.’

  I stood there shivering, a combination of cold and fear. My ribs protruded through my skin as though I was undernourished. My skin was white except for red patches where I had been hit or jabbed by the cane.

  ‘Get onto that table,’ she demanded.

  I lay on it naked, allowing my arms to hang over its side until I was told to bring them onto the table and down either side of my body. She gazed at me, a perverse grin on her face.

  ‘Roll over onto your face and let this be a lesson to you.’

  Her long cane whistled through the air and in the moment before it made contact every muscle in my body tensed and I became rigid. I squirmed and the first vicious blow stung, but I did not cry out.

  ‘Never, never, as long as you live must you assault a holy nun in that manner.’

  A second, third and fourth painful lash of the bamboo, and I could feel my skin burning. For some reason I cannot understand I refused to cry out. The number of times I was struck increased until it was impossible to count, just as it was difficult to separate one blow from the next. I remained silent, until the pain became unbearable and I finally screamed. I was being struck everywhere from the back of my neck down to my heels.

  ‘Now,’ she said, ‘the devil is coming out of him.’ The ferocity and frequency of the blows lessened until eventually I rolled off the table and onto the floor. Mother Paul looked pleased.

  ‘That is how to get the devil out of someone like him. Only Satan himself would make a child behave the way he did. It will be a long time before he’ll kick a nun again. Stand up and get your clothes on immediately,’ she yelled before warning the other boys that they would receive the same treatment if they didn’t keep quiet. I dressed in the silence, the coarse bulls wool trousers hurting my legs as I pulled them on. When I was clothed she pulled me to her by my ear and told the other children that I was being put into the coal shed for the remainder of the day. She led me away, holding my ear tightly between her thumb and forefinger.

  She fumbled through the pockets of her black habit for a key to fit the padlocked door. Impatiently, she undid the lock and threw the door open.

  ‘Get in and stay there. Pray. Say an Act of Contrition so that God may forgive you.’

  She slammed the door. In the darkness I could hear the bolt being slid across and the lock applied. I stood and listened to her footsteps fading.

  In any other circumstances I would have been terrified of the darkness. Now it came as a blessing, a place of refuge from the terror of my persecutor. I sat on the dusty blackened floor and wept. The pain of the punishment was unbearable. My flesh stung, and though I could not see, I was certain my skin had blistered. I hated that nun, and I said it. I wished her damned in hell to burn for ever.

  The only light that entered the coal shed was from under the door and through a cracked slate in the roof. I moved under this slit of light and stared at it, straining my eyes, until they became tired. Within minutes I was in a deep sleep. The darkness, the cold or the dampness didn’t matter to me. Peace mattered.

  A noise woke me. The rattle of keys mingled with the distinct sound of the long Rosary beads worn by the nuns. The light through the roof had gone grey and I guessed that it was evening. The chill evening air crept under the door making me feel cold. The bolt slapped back and the door was flung open. What little light there was hurt my eyes and I had difficulty in focusing on the black-clad figure standing with arms outstretched, framed by the rotting wood of the doorway. Her voice was sharp and icy as she ordered me to get out of the shed and go straight to the dormitory without supper. I moved as quickly as I could across the yard, through the assembly hall and up the stairs.

  It was quiet, all the other boys were in their beds and the lights had been turned off. Heavy black roller blinds covered the windows ensuring that no light penetrated the vast room containing sixty beds. Twelve in each row, head to foot. A big statue of the Sacred Heart stood imposingly in one corner, the red light at his feet casting an eerie shadow onto the ceiling. I began to undress. I removed my heavy black boots and placed them carefully beneath the bed, taking care not to bang them off the chamber pot. I folded the rest of my clothes and left them at the foot of my bed.

  Because of the soreness of my body and hunger, I had great difficulty in getting to sleep, constantly moving in an attempt to find a comfortable position. Just as I was about to fall asleep I heard Mother Paul’s voice beside my bed asking if I had said my night prayers. When I replied that I had not, she immediately ordered me out of bed to kneel on the bare floor with my hands joined. I was not allowed to lean against the bed for support. My flimsy, striped nightshirt was a poor barrier against the cold. I said the prayer I had been taught since the day I arrived in St Michael’s:

  ‘Now I lay me down to sleep,

  I pray the Lord, my soul to keep,

  If I should die before I wake,

  I pray the Lord, my soul to take.

  God bless the nuns who are so good to me.’

  I blessed myself and got back into bed.

  It was the practice each night in St Michael’s Industrial School for a nun to walk around the dormitory at eleven o’clock, ringing a large brass bell. The purpose was to awaken the boys and get them out of bed to sit on white enamelled chamber pots. We hunched on the floorboards urging our bladders or bowels to act so that we could return to bed. Many children used to fall asleep, others neglected to position their penises properly, and urinated over the rim, sending a stream of water along the floor. I liked to create a well between my legs by pressing my thighs tightly together thus allowing the urine to gather. It was a warm pleasurable feeling. Any child who wet the floor or whose nightshirt became damp received a clatter on the face from the patrolling nun as she checked those of us who had finished and held our pots for her to exam
ine the contents. Often boys cried, as they pushed and strained to ‘do’ something.

  One night the boy in the bed next to mine screamed, and each time he did he was slapped on the bare backside by one of the two nuns attending to him. I turned my head slowly. A ball of blood hung from his anus like a half-inflated scarlet balloon. He screamed as the nuns took it in turn to attempt to push it back up inside his body. Once he had been taken care of he was told he would be punished for what he had done. It was ‘only a prolapsed bowel’, Mother Paul said, as she returned to her own room. I was so terrified by the experience that the unfamiliar words stuck in my mind.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The children in St Michael’s were divided into two groups, those between six and ten and children under six years of age. I was just over six and so I was regarded as one of the ‘big boys’. As such, I was given charge of a younger child. My ‘charge’ was a small curly-headed blond boy I knew only as Eugene. The day he was put into my ‘care’ Mother Paul told me that I must take good care of him, see that he went to the toilet when he wanted to and ensure that he was kept clean, especially before and after meals. Eugene latched onto me and annoyed me by following me constantly but if I said anything to him he would start crying. I did everything I could to stop him and he was cute enough to know that I wouldn’t want any of the nuns to hear him cry. One day while we were all out in the yard I left Eugene alone to play with a group of boys of my own age. I liked to play priests and altar boys and I treated the game as though it were an actual religious ceremony. I always regarded it as good training for the day I would become a priest. Halfway through the game Eugene’s voice rang in my ears. So did Mother Paul’s. I ran to where the child stood. A circle of children had gathered around him. I broke through and saw Eugene standing in a mound of his own excrement and urine. Tears ran in torrents from his pale blue eyes. He was dirty from the tops of his legs to the heels of his boots. Mother Paul screamed at me to clean him up, but before doing that I was to clean the yard. I stood looking at the child, my hand tightly pressed across my mouth to prevent myself from vomiting. My stomach heaving, I ran off to get a bucket of sawdust and a shovel. When I returned Eugene was still standing like a statue, yelling. I dug the shovel into the galvanized bucket of sawdust and scattered it at his feet. Then holding my breath, I told him to move, and when he was out of the way I scooped up the excrement and dumped it into the bucket. Then I took the child by the hand and brought him to the toilet. I had to take off his boots and socks, his jumper and shirt and finally his trousers. As he stood naked with much of his body covered in his own excrement, I vomited onto the cement floor. He became hysterical and to stop him being overheard I slapped my hand across his mouth and begged him not to scream. I cleaned him with some old papers that had been left in the toilet for that purpose. I held my nose with the fingers of one hand and rubbed off as much excrement as I could with the dry newspaper.