LITMIR.BIZ

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four points. If you decide to fight it will cost you 10 points and you will have to come and see me. At the end of the week I will inspect all of the masters’ notebooks and deduct points from any boys who have been booked. Do you understand that?’

      Once again we nodded.

      ‘If a boy has a total of 18 points left at the end of the week this will be referred to as a very good week. If he has between 12 and 15 points left it will be referred to as a good week. If he has between seven and eleven points left it will be referred to as a satisfactory week. If he has between nought and six points this will be referred to as a blue-poor week. Anything below nought is a red-poor week. Do you understand that?’ De Montfort was looking at us and nodding his head. ‘Is it perfectly clear?’

      ‘Yes, sir,’ we both answered in unison.

      ‘I’ll continue then. All the boys that achieve either good or very good in a week will be allowed to go to the cinema on Saturday afternoon. Nobody else goes. If you get a blue-poor week, this will mean the loss of a quarter of a day’s holiday off your annual leave. You only get 21 days, 14 days in the summer and seven days at Christmas, so every quarter of a day means a lot. We understand that a boy may slip up occasionally, so we allow a very good week to cancel out a blue-poor week. Nothing can redeem a red-poor week. That quarter of a day’s holiday is lost for good.’ He slowly adjusted his cassock and looked down at his shoes. ‘Is everything I have just told you perfectly clear?’ He looked up as Brother Francis returned quietly to the room.

      ‘Yes, sir.’

      ‘Good, so let’s go on. After you have been here three months, and providing your points are good enough, you will be allowed to go home on the first Sunday of the following month. You leave the school at nine o’clock in the morning and return by seven o’clock in the evening. If you are late back, you will never have this privilege again.’ He reached into a drawer in his desk and took out a book. He flicked through the pages until he found the one he wanted. ‘Fenton – you will be in the bricklaying department. Connors – you’ll be in carpentry.’ He closed the book. ‘Have you any questions?’

      ‘What class am I in, sir? You never told us.’ I felt my legs quaking under me but managed to sound calm as I asked the question.

      De Montfort looked at Brother Francis and smiled. ‘I think Fenton believes he’s a scholar, Brother. What do you think?’

      Brother Francis reached up and pushed back the hood that had masked his face so that it now rested neatly on his shoulders. He had the squashed nose of a boxer and I guessed he was around fifty years old. ‘Maybe he thinks he’s too good for bricklaying, Brother. Maybe we should change the curriculum so that he can sit in a classroom all day and pretend he can read.’ The sarcasm in his Irish brogue was evident to all in the room. ‘Maybe he should run the school.’

      Both brothers laughed. De Montfort regarded me disapprovingly. ‘All of the boys attend class on a Tuesday morning. The rest of the week you will be taught a trade.’ He walked around the desk and stood staring down at me imperiously.

      ‘The average IQ of the boys in this school is 95. None of them, including you, has any academic capabilities. The Government has decreed that boys with such low levels of intelligence should be taught a trade. Is that all right with you? Are you going to question the Government as well?’

      ‘No, sir.’

      De Montfort was silent for a moment, evidently deciding what to say next. He nodded his head slowly. ‘I think that covers everything,’ he said, still peering down at me. ‘You may take them away now, Brother Francis. I will tell Matron that you’ll bring them to her shortly.’ He was about to turn away when he decided to have a last few words. ‘Don’t forget, Fenton. I will not tolerate any insubordination.’

      As we were led from the room, I thought to myself: I hope he’s dead before Christmas.

      As he led us through the corridors to the uniform room, Brother Francis told us a little about the history of St Vincent’s. The school had been founded by Brother Augustine in 1878. Because of its success the government had awarded the Brothers the running of another five schools. The school was proud of its achievements in rehabilitating wayward boys back into society and teaching them a worthwhile trade that would help them make a living. The school’s sporting achievements were second to none. They expected their boys to win any tournaments they were entered into and they especially prided themselves on their boxing and football teams. Failure was not an option. Brother Francis told us that he was the boxing coach and boasted that he had three boys competing in the junior ABA semi-finals in two weeks’ time.

      ‘Once you’re settled in, I will give you the chance to join the team,’ he said. ‘You’re never too young to learn.’

      ‘How many boys are here?’ Bernie asked.

      Like the strike of a cobra, Brother Francis slapped him hard on his left cheek. ‘How many boys are here, Brother Francis?’ He stood menacingly in front of Bernie. ‘Don’t forget the “Brother”.’

      ‘Sorry, Brother Francis.’ Bernie was close to tears and his left cheek showed the imprint of the slap.

      I reached out and touched him lightly on the shoulder in a token gesture of comfort. He was my friend and he was hurting. Brother Francis was staring at me. His satisfied expression was similar to the one my father had after he hit my mother. Something in my look must have upset him because he suddenly attacked me with the ferocity of a rabid dog. The blows were fast and numerous and I cowered against a wall trying to protect myself, utterly stunned at what was happening to me. He was a monk, a religious man. Was he allowed to beat me like this? He was punching me as if in a boxing match, but without the gloves. When at last the beating stopped, Brother Francis was out of breath and noisily gasped in lungful after lungful of precious air.

      I leaned against the wall and gingerly felt the growing lump on my forehead caused by his bony knuckle. I kept my eyes focused on the floor.

      I hope you’re dead by Christmas. You ugly fucker. I hope your entire family die screaming. These thoughts comforted me and when I lifted my head I made sure there wasn’t a glimmer of emotion in my eyes.

      ‘You’ll get more of the same if you ever dare look at me like that again. Do you understand?’ Brother Francis was staring at me, waiting for a reply. He shouted loudly, ‘Do you understand?’

      I nodded reluctantly. His hand lashed out and slapped me hard on my right cheek. ‘Answer me when I speak to you. Do you understand that?’

      ‘Yes, Brother Francis.’ My voice was barely audible.

      Another slap landed on my cheek. ‘Speak up. I want to hear what you say.’

      ‘Yes, Brother Francis,’ I said more loudly.

      Brother Francis stood staring at me for several seconds. I think he was trying to interpret the tone in my voice. Was it said with defiance? It certainly wasn’t submissive. He couldn’t be certain, but I knew he didn’t like it. I’m sure he would have liked to slap me again but the sight of the bruising he had already inflicted on my cheek probably stopped him.

      ‘No more speaking. No more questions. Just follow me.’ He spun on his heel and walked swiftly onwards.

      We followed Brother Francis to the uniform room in complete silence. Bernie kept glancing in my direction. It was obvious that he had been surprised at the onslaught on me and amazed at my reaction. I had shown no fear, keeping my expression blank. This was a new side to my character that Bernie had never imagined. I was hardened to beatings, of course, from Dad’s violence at home and I’d learned not to fight back and not to show fear – just to take it. Bernie smiled at me quickly. Any worries he’d had about me surviving Vincent’s had gone. I knew I had impressed him with what he regarded as toughness. I occasionally touched the lump on my forehead, which seemed to be getting larger every time I touched it.

      ‘Take all your clothes off,’ Brother Francis ordered, glaring at us from within a walk-in cupboard. He watched impatiently

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