‘Cheers,’ said Keogh, and disappeared around a comer.
On the way back to the school, Harris thought about the rat incidents and the possible implications. He’d seen plenty of the disgusting creatures when he was a boy. He remembered the time years ago when he and his family had sat down to the Sunday lunch and their cat had appeared at the open window, carrying a dead rat in its jaws. They’d laughed at the idea of the cat bringing home its own Sunday lunch as they all jumped up and shooed it away. Another time, one of the neighbours had claimed she was chased down the street by a rat. Her husband had come out with a poker and had run after it, but it had disappeared into one of the bombed houses.
Harris thought they were a thing of the past now, which showed how out of touch you could get living in the top fiat of a house in King’s Cross. He supposed they existed just as much, but sanitation experts had driven them literally right underground. Lots of companies had sprung up and made quite a profit out of their extermination. Still, he supposed there wasn’t too much to it, it was just that both incidents had happened on the same day. This wasn’t the 14thcentury!
Chapter Five
The old warriors used to gather every night on one of the few remaining bomb-sites left in the East End of London. It was an old churchyard, just off the busy main road of Whitechapel and quite near Aldgate East underground station. It was thick with shrubbery and littered with open tombs. A single tower was the only remains of the once majestic church. That night six of them had gathered, safe in the knowledge that they couldn’t be seen from the road. All were slowly destroying their insides by their incessant drinking of methylated spirits. All had reached the depths of despair, had given up the will to exist with the rest of the world. They rarely spoke to oneanother, their tormented minds were too occupied with their own misfortunes to concern themselves with anybody else’s.
Among them was a woman, although barely discemile from the men in their shapeless rags. Mary Kelly was forty-nine, but she looked twenty years older. She cursed the others, cursed herself and most of all, she cursed God. The same God she had worshipped half her life inIreland. As a child, she’d often gone to Mass three times on a Sunday and once every day of the week. She’d even gone into a convent at fifteen, but the solemn, solitary life had not suited her vivacious, although very religious, personality.
Returning to her home town ofLongford, she soon found life too dull for her natural exuberance. Her priest had tried to dissuade her from leaving, but one day, in the confessional, she’d told him something that had made him wonder if it wouldn’t be best for her to go. Best for the boys in the town anyway.
The old priest wondered how any child so deeply religious could have developed such a sinful lust for sex. He finally decided he’d have more chance of saving her wayward soul if she remained in the town under his surveillance, so he visited her parents and persuaded them to make her stay.
They had six other younger children to support, so at first they weren’t too eager to retain this extra mouth, but of course the parish priest.had great influence over his flock.
However, the following Saturday, Mary confessed an even greater sin, this time concerning his young, newly-appointed priest.
She left the following Monday to the relief of the old Father,whose ageing mind could no longer cope with the complexities of this promiscuous saint. Young father Aloysius had denied the whole affair on being directly, and rather gruffly questioned, and the old priest had been left in an even more confused state of mind. Surely, a girl so young and obviously devout could never make up such lies? But then again, if she wereso devout to God as her record had shown, how could she be so incited by the evils of the flesh? His only answer was to pray for her soul and offer up a Mass to save her from eternal damnation.
Mary went toDublinand got a job as a barmaid in a bar just offO’Connellstreet. She met many men of course in her working hours and resisted none that made advances towards her.
After a while, not because of her growing reputation, but because the landlord’s wife had discovered ‘her and the landlord himself behind the barrels in the cellar, she had been dismissed. She next found employment in the canteen of a local brewery where the men soon found she was easy game.
The only thing that puzzled them and mused much joking amongst them was the fact that she insisted on saying three Hail Mary’s before climbing into bed with them. On her knees beside the bed, eyes closed, hands clasped tightly together like a child. They would have laughed even more if they’d known the reason for the prayers.
The first Hail Mary was to ask that she wouldn’t fall pregnant, the second that she wouldn’t get ‘poxed’, and the third that she would have an orgasm. She’d only learned about orgasms from her friends at the canteen and realized something had been missing all these years. Her craving for sex had never been satisfied and without knowing why, she had always sought more and more. It had always been enjoyable, but now she knew it could be glorious she was determined to experience it. She still attended Mass every Sunday and received Holy Communion every first Friday of the month.
Soon, she began to go to church two or three evenings a week, to say the Rosary for the attainment of her sexual goal. It never once occurred to her that there was anything wrong in this. God had meant people to enjoysex, otherwise he wouldn’t have given them this wonderful gift. Hadn’t she, as a child, watched her parents making love so many times without their knowing she was wide awake in the dark of their only bedroom, listening to their happy sighs and her mother crying out for Jesus Christ before the final lapse into silence followed by heavy contented snores.
The regular visits to the church soon came to the attention of the priest, Father Mahar, who enlisted her aid in the various jobs done by women around God’s house. She enjoyed changing the flowers and dusting the altar pieces and holy statues, hoping the small sacrifice of her tune would not go unnoticed by God.
She began to help in jumble sales, she visited the old and the sick,she even joined the choir. Father Mahar was more than impressed by his new parishioner and began to make enquiries about her. He learnt that she worked at the brewery where several of his young male churchgoers were also employed.
When he asked them about Mary he was surprised by their smirks and guarded answers. Then, one day, a Mrs
Malone came to see him. He knew her and her husband by sight, they were regular church-goers, but he hadn’t actually spoken to them. They were both young, about thirty-fivish, and seemed good, hard-working people. But on this wet
Tuesday morning, Mrs Malone wore a worried expression, giving her otherwise attractive face hard lines that all too soon would be permanent anyway.
‘Ah, it’s Mrs... ?’
‘Malone, Father.’
‘Yes, Mrs Malone. Is there something I can do for you?’
The priest’s voice was soft, gentle because he could always sense the approaching hysteria in the women who came to see him outside church-going hours.
Margaret .Malone’s voice trembled slightly as she answered. ‘It’s me Tom, Father. He’s...‘ Suddenly , the floodgates were open. She searched in her handbag for a handkerchief.
So soon, thought the priest. How long had this been building up for her to break down so soon in front of me?
They could usually get half the story out before the deluge of tears interrupted. He sighed in resignation.
He’d heard it so many times before. Tom was being unfaithful or had lost interest in her body, or had taken to beating her every Friday night after a few jars in the pub. How could he comfort these poor creatures, make them realise all things pass, that praying to God at least helped them to withstand the trials of this life.