alongside the village bakery.
The back room of the hall doubled as everything. For plays, for cake sales, for council and church meetings, even a few times for evening mass when a large sycamore tree had fallen on the church and destroyed part of the roof. And now it seemed the room doubled as a Garda station.
Mary glanced across to her mother who was looking stern, her expression full of shame and blame. It’d been at her insistence that Mary had come here. The Gardaí had already spoken to her, but now they wanted to ask her what seemed to be the same questions all over again.
Her father, Fergus, hadn’t insisted, though only because he wasn’t speaking to her. He hadn’t spoken to her since that night, so he hadn’t been able to insist on anything at all. The only thing he had done was cry. Cry and turn his head away when she walked into the same room as him.
She knew it was a sin to have sex before marriage.
She’d known about the sins of the flesh since she was little, but she also knew her parents blamed her for what had happened and now, she was to blame Patrick, because that’s what Father Ryan had told her.
She’d asked to see him, but they hadn’t let her. Perhaps if she‘d been allowed to speak to him, he’d have been able to tell her this was all a terrible mistake and explain what had really happened.
But now she was so confused about everything, she couldn’t think straight. They kept on telling her over and over again how it was Patrick who’d done this to her, and now they were saying he had also killed the Brogans. None of it seemed to make sense.
She’d tried to tell her mother – who overnight had changed from the happy chatty person she loved into someone cold and harsh – that she really wasn’t sure it was Patrick. But her mother had gone to get Father Ryan who’d once more explained she was being foolish to think otherwise, and that there was no doubt that it had been Patrick who had done this to her. And even though she didn’t want to believe it, everyone had insisted there was no other explanation. So what other choice did she have than to believe it herself?
Ever since that night her love for the boy she was going to marry had turned into shame, hurt and pain. And as she sat in the back room, covering her ears, with judging and accusatory eyes turned on her, Mary O’Flanagan knew that, from this day onwards, she never wanted to hear the name of Patrick Doyle again.
Patrick wiped his eyes carefully. They were sore from crying.
No-one had really told him what was going on and since that night, his whole life had been turned upside down. He’d been taken to the back room of the hall by the Gardaí, who had asked him about Mary and the Brogans. Later, they’d interrogated him about Mary again and when he’d asked to go home, they’d refused him, instead taking him in a car to some place he didn’t know, to ask yet more questions about her.
No-one would tell him anything. And now he was locked up in a room, in a building, in a place he wasn’t familiar with, listening to the sounds and screams of people he couldn’t see. And although he was the grand age of sixteen, he was frightened.
Patrick heard a jangling of keys. The door opened and he was greeted by the sight of two priests robed in black from head to toe, with large wooden crosses and rosary beads hanging down to their beltlines.
The taller priest, whose head was shaved, displaying a large prominent scar, addressed Patrick. ‘Doyle, you’re going to be moved to the west dormitory along with the other boys whose case is still being investigated by the Gardaí. You’ll obey all the rules or face punishment. Do I make myself clear?’
Patrick’s eyes widened with panic and for a moment he couldn’t say a thing. When he was able to speak, his words came tumbling out.
‘I never touched the Brogans! I didn’t! I didn’t! I swear, Father, it was nothing to do with me. You’ve got to believe me! You’ve got to.’
The sudden pain on the back of Patrick’s head was almost unbearable as the smaller priest brought down the wooden paddle he kept on a long piece of string around his waist.
Patrick screamed out, cupping his arms around his head as his tears and blood fell to the floor.
‘Enough of your impudence, boy. Here at Our Lady’s you only speak when asked a direct question. Do you understand?’
Patrick nodded and as he did so he felt the pain of the paddle strike him again, though this time his arms – already holding his head – shielded him slightly.
‘You were asked a question, Doyle. Nodding is for donkeys.’
Patrick wiped the tears away from his face. ‘Sorry, Father … Yes, Father.’
Satisfied that Patrick was beginning to understand the rules of Our Lady’s Industrial Reform School, both priests turned, walking out of the sparse room.
Quickly and empty-handed, Patrick followed. He touched the silver chain and cross round his neck which Mary had given him. He’d never taken it off since the time she had presented it to him on his birthday. That had been his happiest day and all he could do now was to hold onto the memories of it.
Patrick had brought nothing with him and was still dressed in the same clothes he’d been wearing when the Gardaí had come to his house. He was confused and scared. He needed to talk to someone; ask them to take him home, ask them to believe him. But who? There was no-one.
As he continued to think about the nightmare he found himself in, the fear rose up again and Patrick found himself having to breathe heavily in an attempt to stop himself from screaming.
‘Doyle! Hurry up!’ The priest’s shouting startled him.
Jogging to keep up with the priests who strode along the long dark corridors with purpose and pace, for the first time Patrick was able to take in his surroundings. And what he saw, he didn’t like.
The industrial school he’d been brought to was for the neglected, abandoned and unwanted, as well as for juvenile offending boys, and it was larger than any other building Patrick had ever seen. In fact, the largest building he’d seen was the community hall back in the village.
It was overwhelming. The maze of corridors weaved along, forking off into other identical corridors, which were lined with black bolted doors and steel-barred windows. There were locks and chains almost everywhere he looked. Paintings of priests looking fearsome and merciless hung from the dull mint green walls and oversized crosses were strewn everywhere.
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.
