Once outside in the large courtyard, the cold and rain hit Patrick, whipping into his face as he was marched across the parade ground. He saw a crowd of milling boys huddled together, trying to defend themselves from the Irish weather.
The boys varied in sizes and age but were all dressed in the same grey hessian trousers and shirts; misery was engrained in their dirty, strained faces. As he hurried to what he’d find out later was the punishment wing, the other thing he noticed were the haircuts. They were short and crudely cut, with not one of the boys having their hair longer than half a centimetre in length. Absent-mindedly, Patrick touched his own thick head of hair. A sense of foreboding rushing into him.
‘Hey, Culchie! What’s the craic with those manky clothes you’re wearing? Fallen out of the donation box, have we?’ The call was from a boy who stood at the far side of the parade ground. His expression challenged Patrick. ‘New boy. Oi! I’m talking to you!’
As Patrick turned to look at the boy, the rest of the gang he was standing with began to laugh; pointing and staring at Patrick as if he were a clown in the circus.
Patrick’s natural fighting instincts suddenly took over and without thinking, he responded. ‘For sure, the only manky thing I see is your fecking face.’ The moment Patrick had spoken, he regretted it. The two priests, who he had forgotten for a moment, swirled round. Their faces full of fury.
The punch to the side of Patrick’s head floored him. He could feel the icy ground underneath as his hands scraped in the wet gravel in an attempt to get back on his feet. He was aware of the catcalling from the boys and the seemingly distant, angry voices of the priests; admonishing him. A moment later, Patrick Doyle blacked out.
‘To be sure, he thinks he’s Sleeping Beauty.’
Patrick’s eyes slowly opened and for one glorious moment he thought he was back at his house, curled up in his own bed. But as the ice-cold cup of water hit Patrick, along with the sound of laughter, the stark reality of his surroundings came flooding back.
‘He’s awake! He’s awake, Father Marley!’ Patrick heard one of the boys shouting out in delight.
‘Quiet, boy! Unless of course you want me to beat out the excitement of the devil in you!’
As Patrick lay on the bottom of the metal bunk bed, the priest’s portly face came into view, looming and peering over, silently studying him.
A minute later, satisfied with the examination, the priest mused, ‘You look fine, boy. I hope you’re not a child who uses ill-health to justify slothliness. It is, as you know, a deadly sin … or perhaps you don’t. I was informed you come from a family of heathens. Those who have turned their back on Christ our saviour.’ Then to himself, the priest said, ‘Very sad. Very sad.’
After a moment of reflection by the priest had passed, he continued speaking to Patrick.
‘Perhaps if this hadn’t been the case and your father had been God-fearing you wouldn’t have ended up here. Now get up, boy. There’s a lot to do. For a start, your hair needs cutting. We can’t live amongst vanity. Another deadly sin – almost as treacherous as the sins of the flesh; though you will, I know, understand a lot about that one.’
Patrick stared at the priest, puzzled by what he’d just said.
‘Another thing which shan’t be tolerated is touching yourself. That, boy, will not be stood for. A punishment fit for the sin will be deployed. Do you understand, Doyle?’
Patrick’s face turned scarlet. ‘Yes, Father!’ The priest nodded, and with that he walked away, leaving Patrick surrounded by the curious stares of the other boys.
The inquisitive glances were broken by a bellowing, angry voice from the back of the dorm. The boys stepped aside, parting the way for the aggressor to appear.
‘So this is the lad who thought he was good to taunt me. Let’s see how hard you are now.’
Patrick recognised him as the boy from the parade ground. He stood facing Patrick, sinewy in frame but clearly able to handle himself.
Patrick got up from the bed, immediately feeling a shooting pain in the place he’d been punched by the priest, but he didn’t let it show. He couldn’t. He mightn’t have ever been outside his own village before, and was admittedly ignorant in many ways of the world, but one thing Patrick Doyle did know was that to show weakness was to show you were inviting trouble.
Patrick glanced at the other boys; up close for the first time. They were all dressed in the same dull clothing with the same dull look in their eyes. How long they’d been here, Patrick didn’t know, but it was clear it was every boy for himself.
There was no question of backing down from the challenger. It was obvious to Patrick the boy was looking for a fight whether he wanted one or not. Sighing with resignation and hoping it wouldn’t come to blows, Patrick squared up.
‘If I remember rightly, I was minding me own. It was you who called me first. I’m not looking for a tear, but mind, I’ll not walk away from one either. It’s down to you.’
The boy looked at Patrick, weighing him up in his disdain. He turned his sneer into a contemptuous smile and as Patrick continued to stand his ground, he noticed there was a look of uncertainty in the boy’s green eyes.
‘Well, ’tis lucky for you I’m in a good mood, new boy, otherwise you may well have felt a bunch of knuckles down your throat.’
Patrick didn’t say anything. He could tell the boy was going to leave it, and that suited him. He didn’t need trouble, not with the boys and certainly not with the priests. All he wanted to do was get out of the place and go back home. The only thing he hadn’t worked out was how the hell he was going to do that.
As the boy turned to go, he barked a warning to Patrick. ‘But let me make it clear to you, new boy. It’s me that runs this dormitory and I’ll not have any country rat coming in to try to take over. They call me Killer, and to be sure, I’m not called it for nothing. You’d do well to remember that.’
Patrick stayed silent. He stared, watching Killer – who couldn’t have been any older than he was – walk across to his area of the dorm.
Patrick was about to sit back down but, for no apparent reason, Killer struck out at another boy who’d been minding his own business lying on his bed. The kick was hard and cruel, carrying the weight of Killer’s heavy boots and hatred behind it. From across the dorm, Patrick listened as Killer taunted the younger boy.
‘You grubby bleedin’ nigger, get out of me fecking sight. I can’t stand the sight of ye and the smell of ye is making me sick to my stomach.’
The boy scurried off his bunk bed, much to the amusement of Killer and his gang. Killer grabbed the boy by his shirt.
‘Knock into me, will you? What were you trying to do, nigger boy? Looking for a fight?’
The boy’s face was full of fear and his eyes darted about the room as Killer held him tightly. Patrick could see tears of terror rolling down his cheeks.
To the delight of the other boys, who cheered and bellowed and stamped their feet in encouragement, Killer’s fist smashed into the boy’s face, splitting open his lip.
The boy, his mouth covered in blood, began to talk, desperate to stop the unprovoked attack. He blubbed an apology to Killer, who stood with amusement on his face at the boy’s obvious terror. The boy trembled as he spoke.
‘Sorry, Killer … Sorry! I never meant to.’
‘You never meant to what? Be a nigger?’
The roars of laughter sounded around the dormitory and, egged on by the boys’ jeering, Killer slapped the small black boy around his face.
‘Leave him alone!’ It was Patrick who spoke. He walked up behind Killer, his fists clenched with anger.
‘I