Identity Check Chapter 26

Identity Check

Chapter 26

Patrick dozed off in Powell's car. Between the warm day and how little sleep he'd had the night before, waiting for the dawn, thinking about the choice he'd made, he was wiped out. Only when they got off the motorway and onto twisting country roads did he wake up again.

"Where are we?" he asked, looking at the woods on either side of the road, a house here and there the only other sign of civilisation aside from the road itself.

"Lincolnshire," Powell said. "I'll show you exactly where when we get there. There's a map in my office. It's not far now. Are you hungry?"

Patrick shrugged. "I could eat. And I'd kill for a cup of tea."

"Me too. We pretty much live on tea there. I let you boys have a couple of beers sometimes though, don't worry about that."

"I'm not much of a drinker." Which he supposed was another sign of not being a real man.

"Okay. Ah, here we are."

He parked at the start of a single track road with a country gate across it. A sign reading 'Keep Out Private Property' was fixed to the gate, but with no indicator of whose private property it was. A mailbox attached to one of the gateposts gave the only clue. The words 'Loyola House' were painted on the side of it.

Powell opened the gate, came back to the car and drove through. He stopped on the other side and Patrick said, "I'll get it" and jumped out to close the gate. It had no lock, just a rusting latch. They drove on, up the narrow track, for nearly a quarter of a mile until the car emerged into a gravelled area in front of a large, nineteenth-century house.

A country manor, Patrick thought. Maybe built by some rich industrialist as his country retreat to try to look like he was one of the gentry. It was two storeys, made of light grey stone, with tall windows in dark frames and a slate roof.

"We get poppies later in the summer," Powell said, seeing Patrick looking at the surrounding gardens, as they got out of the car. "Very beautiful. Wait until you see the view from the back of the house. Spectacular."

The grounds at the front and sides were hemmed in with trees and had once been formal lawns, the stamping grounds of peacocks perhaps. But now the grass grew long and lush, daisies and other flowers dotting it.

Patrick grabbed his bags when Powell unloaded them from the car. No turning back now. Of course, he could leave at any time. He could walk away now, back down that track. Hitch a lift on the road. Go anywhere he liked. But that would be giving up and he had no intention of giving up before he'd even tried.

Powell opened the front door and led Patrick into an entrance hall with a grand staircase straight ahead. Doors lay to the left and right of the hall.

"Bathroom in there," Powell said, pointing out a door. "And over there is my office. Give me your bags, go and freshen up and join me when you're ready."

"Okay." Patrick handed over the case and more slowly, the backpack.

"I won't open these until you join me. See you in a few minutes."

The bathroom was a windowless and rather oppressive wood-panelled room. But it had modern fittings and was sparkling clean. Patrick hung his jacket on the back of the bathroom door, used the toilet then washed his hands and - feeling grimy - his face. The paper towel he dried it with felt rough on his skin, but helped clear away the last of the drowsiness the drive had induced.

He had a comb in his pocket, so shook his hair out, combed it and left it loose. Checking himself in the mirror, he straightened his clothes, making sure his T-shirt was tucked in all around.

Right... let's go.

The door to Powell's office stood slightly ajar and Patrick knocked and poked his head around.

"Hello?"

"Come in," Powell called from another room, beyond an open door and, as Patrick came in, he emerged from that room, leaving the door open. A simple, but comfortable looking room lay beyond. A private sitting room for him, Patrick wondered, or a consulting room?

"You asked about my credentials," Powell said and waved a hand at the office wall. "Feel free to study them. I promise I didn't get any of them from the Internet."

Patrick smiled at that, but did check out the various framed certificates on the wall. A medical degree took pride of place among them, alongside a master's degree in Theology.

"Okay, I'm convinced. You're a legit head-shrinker." He turned back to Powell, and sat in a chair beside the desk, leaned back in it, lounging casually. "So, okay, rummage through my case. But if you start putting on a rubber glove, I'm leaving."

"You're putting on quite a show, Patrick," Powell said. "How long does it run? Because I'm not sure we can really start our work until it closes."

Patrick sat up straight, wanting to snap back at him and couldn't because he was right. Despair, that had driven Patrick first back to his home and then to agree to come here, lay just under a brittle surface. A mask. One he wore out of pride and machismo, still defensive.

"I think it's just a short run," he said quietly. "I'm just wary still."

"Well, when you're ready, tell me. The first thing we do is Confession."

"I haven't been to Confession for a long time." Patrick hung his head, ashamed. "Or to Mass."

"Then we'll have a lot to talk about. But only when you're ready. Now, let's take a look at your belongings. I'm afraid I have to confiscate your mobile phone now." He put out his hand.

"I don't have one."

"You don't have a mobile?" He sounded as incredulous as if Patrick had just announced he was half-Martian.

"I mean, I have one. Had one anyway, but not with me. I left it behind."

"I see." He sounded dubious.

"You going to frisk me?" Patrick asked, bristling at not being believed. He stood up and turned out the pockets of his jacket and trousers. The only thing in any of them was his comb.

"I'm not going to frisk you, no," Powell said. "That would get me in trouble, not you. Okay. Can you take everything out of the backpack and put it on the desk, please?"

Patrick did. Most of the things in the backpack were grooming items, or jewellery, or other personal items. He opened the wash bag with his shaving kit in it, emptied everything out and showed the empty bag to Powell, who nodded.

"Thanks. You can put all of those back." He picked up one of the books from the pack and riffled through the pages, then shook it out upside down.

"What, you think I have something hidden in the pages?" Patrick said, as he put his razor and the rest of his shaving kit back in its bag.

"You wouldn't be the first." He checked the titles and covers too, Patrick noticed. No doubt looking for anything unsuitable. Once done with the books, Powell pointed to the small photo album.

"Show me that, please."

"There's no nude guys in there, if that's what you're worried about." He flicked through the album, nearly all family photographs, identifying people as he went. In the more recent picture he assured Powell that the young man with his arm around Patrick was Nick, his cousin, not a boyfriend. There were no photographs of Simon, or David, or Russ or any other boyfriend.

Once he'd checked all of the contents, Powell examined the backpack itself to make sure it was empty, before he let Patrick put everything back in, and they moved on to the case. That took longer, even though it was nearly all clothes and shoes. Powell checked pockets, unrolled pairs of socks, felt into the toes of shoes. Very thorough.

"Nice coat," he said, shaking out the winter coat when he came to that. He checked the pockets and handed it to Patrick who put it on with a dramatic twirl. Yes, putting on that show again, he thought, seeing the look on Powell's face.

"Just getting it back into shape," Patrick said, taking it off and laying it carefully over the back of a chair.

Powell touched the one item left in the case now, and said, "May I?" waiting for Patrick's assent to pick up the framed photograph. Patrick nodded his permission.

"Your father," Powell said. Not a question, already knowing that from the photograph album. "A handsome man. You favour him quite strongly."

Patrick didn't answer. Didn't know if it was only the tiredness and stress, but he felt too choked.

"If you want to talk about him, we can do that." Powell replaced the picture in the case, laying it down gently. "You can repack now." He smiled. "You know, it's very rare I don't have to confiscate something. Mobile phones, laptops, Blackberries. He nodded at a padlocked cupboard. "There are times that thing has more electronic gubbins in it than a branch of PC World."

"What else do you take?"

"Unsuitable books, magazines, or pictures."

"You mean porn?"

"Yes, quite, that too. Pictures of past lovers. I'm sorry, they are a distraction. Any medication that's not prescribed or in bubble packs." He grimaced. "You'd be amazed what boys have tried to smuggle in."

"I've never been one for popping pills."

"That's good. This isn't rehab, but I am a doctor, so I'm not going to be easily fooled by any of those kinds of tricks."

"Do you... um... do you prescribe medication?" Patrick started putting his things back into his case. "I mean to the boys here, psychiatric medication?"

"No. If I think someone is mentally ill, I'll bring in another doctor for a second opinion and to do any prescribing. It helps me to avoid any conflict of interest. And I don't believe medication will change your sexual behaviour, if that's what you think."

"Okay." Patrick crammed the last of his clothes, apart from his coat, back into the case and zipped it closed.

"All right, sit down, please and I'll explain our rules to you."

Patrick heaved his case off the desk and sat. Powell sat behind the desk, looking sterner now, wearing a serious expression.

"First let me make this clear. Don't for one minute think of yourself as a prisoner. You are here voluntarily. If you want to leave just say the word. I'll ask you to stay, of course, but if you're determined to I can't stop you."

"Okay, I understand."

"So when I say we have rules that you have to follow, then what I'm saying is, you choose to follow them if you want to stay here. This isn't school, or the Army. I can't give you detention, or make you peel a mountain of spuds. You choose to follow our rules, or you choose to leave."

"Right." God, he got the point.

"I've already told you about contact outside. Phone calls are restricted, and I'm sure you understand why." He had no phone on his desk, Patrick noticed. Probably used a mobile for all his business. "There is a phone for the calls from your family."

"And do you stand over my shoulder listening in?"

"No. It's in a glass booth, I wait outside."

"And I suppose I can't dial out on it."

"You can dial out, though all but one button is deactivated, so there's only one number you can call."

"The nine?"

"Exactly. You can call 999."

Patrick shook his head. "You've got all the bases covered. Don't ever start a cult, will you?"

"As I said, you can leave any time you want."

"Okay, go on, what are the other rules?"

"No sexual contact with anyone here, of course. No taking illegal drugs. No violence or threats of violence. No leaving the grounds alone. Don't refer to any of the other men as 'she', or 'her' or use women's names for them."

"Why would I do that?"

"Just don't. Contact with anyone from outside should be kept to a limit and go only as far as social obligations requires, with delivery driver or postmen for example. Be polite, but don't engage in any more than small talk."

"Anything else?" Patrick asked.

"I said I allow you boys a beer, but no drinking to excess. Smoking is allowed outside only."

"I don't smoke anyway."

"Good. We have a rota for the various domestic chores. Cooking, cleaning, some garden work. Now feel free to complain about the chores all you want, but do them as the rota tells you. Everybody gets to do all the less pleasant jobs at some point, so don't think you get to be any different."

"Okay, no problem."

"There are a few more... well, unwritten rules you might call them."

"Like what?"

"Try to be..." He looked thoughtful for a moment, and then said, "Well, I'll be specific in your case. Tie your hair back. Don't tuck in your shirt. Wear shirts with good long tails to them. You don't wear glasses do you?"

"Glasses? No."

"Pity."

"Are you saying... try not to look too sexy?" Patrick didn't know whether to laugh or stare. He went for the staring.

"I'm saying; please don't make the work of anyone here more difficult than it needs to be. You're good looking, Patrick. If you walk around looking the way you do right now, you will put temptation in the way of other men."

"The way I look..."

He jumped up and checked his reflection in a large mirror screwed to the wall. Shit, how gay did he look? It wasn't just the long hair, though the glossy black hair, well past his shoulders now, certainly looked sexy. No, it was the well fitted plain black t-shirt and the black jeans, that showed off his narrow hips and presumably - he didn't dare turn around - his arse. The belt with silver detailing just emphasised his slim waist and flat stomach. That leather strap he wore on his wrist beside his watch, the rings and, shit! The silver stud in his ear...

"Oh my God! I'm such a twink!"

A small choking sound made him turn to see Powell only just putting a straight face back on.

"I... ah, think we're making progress," the priest said, his voice shaking only a little.

Patrick grabbed his coat from the back of the chair, and put it on, feeling like a sleepwalker who'd woken up in the street to find himself naked and grabbing eagerly at whatever came to hand to cover up.

"Well, that's probably overkill," Powell said. "But, I think you get the point." He stood up. "Come on, let's find you a bed."

Powell found Patrick a bed in one of the two dorm rooms the boys slept in. Narrow single beds stood well apart from each other in the large room. Patrick unpacked his gear into the small wardrobe that stood beside the bed, though he left a few items of clothing in the case - they would not fit those unwritten rules. He dropped the wrist strap, rings and earring into the case and shoved it under the bed. Taking a shirt from the wardrobe, he put that on over his T-shirt, the tails of it hanging down to hide his backside. Lastly, he tied back his hair and wished he did wear glasses. Maybe he could get some plain ones.

"All done?" Powell said, with an approving nod at Patrick's toned-down look. "Then let me show you the rest of the place."

He met the other young men in ones and twos as they did the tour, getting first names and handshakes from them all. No last names, Patrick noticed and kept his own to himself too. After meeting the two Sisters that worked here, Sister Catherine-Peter and Sister Ignatius, it occurred to Patrick that Powell was the only one known by his surname, or by Father. That by itself put him firmly in charge as the patriarch.

Powell completed the introductions, to the whole group this time, around the communal dining table that evening. After everyone sat, Powell stood up and put a hand on Patrick's shoulder.

"Some of you have already met Patrick. Those who haven't, please come and introduce yourselves after dinner. I know you'll all welcome him and include him in your prayers."

Their eyes on him made Patrick stir his feet uncomfortably. Who the hell was Powell kidding about these guys? Some of them looked ready to pounce on Patrick right now. He hoped Powell taught classes in advanced self-control.

"He'll start joining us for group therapy sessions in a few days when he's ready," Powell went on. "Everyone please, help him out with any questions about the house and the program."

He stepped away from Patrick and bowed his head to say Grace. Though he bowed his head for the prayer, Patrick couldn't help watching the rest of the table and caught the eyes of several of the others looking back at him before they turned their eyes down. But of course, he was a new face; they were probably just curious, no more. He grimaced, disgusted at himself that he was so vain he assumed they all wanted him.

Get over yourself, Kavanagh.

Index