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Identity Check

Chapter 29

The longer he stayed at the retreat the earlier Patrick started to wake in the mornings. When Terry had come along, however quiet he tried to be when getting up for his morning run, he always woke Patrick. But even after Terry left, Patrick went on waking early.

The dreams didn't help. Born of sexual frustration they made him wake up almost painfully hard and needing a cold shower. Or a warm shower and some privacy.

This morning, nearly three weeks after Terry's departure, Patrick crept out of the dorm, bare feet silent on the floor, heading for the shower room. Warm water and soap, and he quickly dealt with the inconvenient results of his dream before anyone else came in, then just enjoyed the shower for a while, soaping up and rinsing a couple of times. He washed his hair and let the water rinse it for a long time.

"Don't use all of the hot water." Powell's voice came from the door, that Patrick hadn't heard him open, the shower muffling the noise. If he'd made any. Patrick had seen him prowl around at night, checking on the dorms, making sure everyone where he should be. And you had to see him, because you didn't hear him. Man moved as silent as a cat.

"Sorry," Patrick said. He turned off the shower while Powell used one of the basins to wash his hands. "You're up early, Father."

"I'm leaving shortly to pick up a new resident. I won't be back until late."

"He must be a long way off."

"Ireland. I have to catch the ferry."

"Roping them in from foreign countries now, Father?" Patrick grabbed his towel from over the door and secured it around his waist, then stepped out of the shower and started to dry his hair with a second towel.

"Just a referral I suppose you'd call it, from an old seminary brother of mine. He knows..." Powell caught Patrick's eye in the mirror. "Ah... he knows about... um... my work. The program."

Powell reached for a paper towel to find the dispenser empty. An alarmed look crossed his face as he turned away from the basin. Something... mischief, evil, the devil himself perhaps, made Patrick smile at Powell and take a step forward.

"Do you need to borrow a towel, Father?"

"Yes," Powell's voice cracked and he cleared his throat. "Yes, please," he went on in a huskier tone.

Patrick looked at the towel in his hands that he'd been using on his hair, and then glanced down and brushed the edge of the one around his waist. He looked back at Powell and smiled.

"Which one would you prefer me to hand you?"

He expected a reprimand of some kind, but Powell just pressed back against the basin and, unable to get any further away that way, said "never mind" and scurried - no other word for it - he scurried from the room. Patrick stared after him. That was... What just happened? Did he just frighten Powell?

Or did he tempt him?

*

Powell arrived back after dinner with the new resident, gave him supper in the kitchen, then took him straight up to the dorm. The other boys stayed out of there until Powell was done settling the new boy in. But eventually, tired after his early start, Patrick came to check if they were still busy, wanting to get to bed. He found Powell emerging from the dorm room, carrying a mobile phone.

"Sean's gone to bed now," Powell said. "He's in the bed next to yours, so could you watch out for him tonight? He's still adjusting to being here."

"Yes of course," Patrick said. "Goodnight, Father." He went into the dorm just as Sean was slipping into bed. Seeing Patrick, he pulled the covers up to his chest and gave him a nervous look. Patrick returned that with a friendly smile.

"Hi, Sean, I'm Patrick Kavanagh." He offered his hand and Sean, a slightly built boy, who looked barely eighteen, returned the shake cautiously.

"Um... I thought we weren't supposed to tell out surnames." His voice was quiet and rather hoarse, his eyes red.

"It's not a rule." Patrick shrugged. "But you don't have to if you don't want to."

"With a name with that, I thought you were a fellow Irishman."

Patrick laughed, and sat on his bed, started taking his shoes off. "Everyone assumes that. My dad was half Irish. I got the name, but I never got the accent. You sound like you're from County Clare."

"That's right," Sean said, staring. "You can tell?"

"Some of my dad's family were from there. Not that I met many of them, but I remember the accent." He pushed his shoes under the bed and took pyjama trousers and a t-shirt from under his pillow and found his wash bag in the night stand. "Well, I'm going to get ready for bed. I'll be back in a minute and we can talk if you like."

"I'm pretty tired," Sean said. "I haven't had much sleep the last few days." He had dark circles under his eyes in a gaunt and pale face. Patrick could guess how fraught the last few days had been.

When Patrick came back in, Sean was completely buried under the duvet. Maybe asleep, maybe not, but clearly done with talking for now. Patrick left him to it and got into bed.

*

Quiet sobbing woke Patrick. The sound was coming from Sean's bed. No big surprise there. The duvet still covered him completely. Patrick sighed and wished he could ignore it. But he couldn't do that any more than he could fly. Maybe he should go fetch Powell? Or maybe just a word of reassurance would do.

He slid out of his own bed and sat beside Sean's. The sobbing stopped instantly. He's holding his breath now, Patrick thought. He's terrified. This poor kid thinks he's in jail. Making his voice as soft and gentle as he could, he spoke.

"Sean, it's Patrick. Don't be scared, I'm not going to hurt you. I'm just checking you're okay."

After a moment the muffled voice came. "I'm okay."

"That's good."

"I'm sorry I woke you up."

"Don't worry about it. You want to talk?"

"No," Sean said, which Patrick didn't believe.

"Can I talk then?"

"I... suppose so."

It's a good thing this wasn't jail. They'd eat Sean alive. Maybe they'd do that even here. Weakness in others could bring out the worst in men. Not that Powell would allow it.

"It's not so bad here. Nothing to be scared of. If anybody bothers you, you go right to Father Powell about it."

A shuffling around under the duvet and then Sean's head emerged, pale face streaked, eyes red and sore again, just barely in the dimness.

"I... I think he scares me most."

"Powell's okay. He never lets you get away with anything in the counselling sessions, but he's not going to start brainwashing you or anything."

"This is all just happening so fast. I only agreed to come here because I couldn't stand my Dad yelling at me any longer. Or my Ma crying."

"I know what you mean." Was any man here for any other reason than to stop his mother crying?

"Now I'm stuck here and he took my phone and I can't..." He broke off with a choked noise.

"You're not stuck here. You can leave any time you like. Powell can't make you stay. If you want to leave, walk into his office and tell him. Ask him for your phone and go. Not that you get much signal around here," he added with a smile.

"Oh, it's not that I can call anyone... but the phone... That's the only place I have any pictures of... of him..." His voice became a whisper. "My boyfriend. I don't even know where he is now. His parents sent him off to some relatives and wouldn't tell me where."

"Do you love him?" Patrick asked. Sean looked terrified at once, looking around as if he expected to see Powell standing there listening.

"They told us it can't be love when we're both boys. Said it's just the devil's work, making us think that. That it's just perversion."

Patrick didn't have an answer to that. Even now he didn't have an answer. He only had the question again.

"Do you love him?"

"Yes." The word caught in Sean's throat in a sob.

"Then hang on to that. Whatever anyone tells you. Hang on to that and then when you're strong enough, you go and find him. Do you want your phone?"

"What?" Sean said, amazed. "You can get it?"

"I can try. "

*

Patrick decided to get dressed. Sneaking around in pyjamas wasn't very Ninja-like. So he pulled a pair of black trousers and a long sleeved black shirt from his drawers and slipped out of the room to the bathroom. Quick change in there and he sneaked down the stairs on bare feet - he always forgot shoes.

Powell's office was unlocked, but the 'confiscated' cupboard wasn't, still secured by a padlock. A quick trip to the cupboard where the toolbox for minor repairs was kept and Patrick found a couple of tiny screwdrivers to use as lock picks.

He'd read an article once about picking locks and thought he could remember enough of it. Closing his eyes as he worked, picturing the diagrams in the article and concentrating on touch, he took it slow.

The hasp suddenly popped out of the block and he gasped, amazed and delighted. Not bad for a first attempt. A career on the wrong side of the law awaited. Calming himself down, he opened the cupboard slowly, wary of its hinges creaking, but they made no sound.

Various plastic storage boxes sat on shelves in the cupboard. Some were full of books and Patrick checked thought them. The books ranged from literary to trash, but were all clearly gay themed. Why would Powell keep these rather than disposing of them? Perhaps a little light reading at night. Patrick snorted and checked other boxes. One held photographs and he flicked through those. They went back years, judging by the clothes and hairstyles of the men in them. Boyfriends and lovers. A few laptop bags stood up on the bottom shelf, but he didn't pull those out, because he spotted the box he'd come looking for.

Mobile phones. Various makes and models, each with a piece of paper bearing a name wrapped around it, a rubber band holding that in place. One had Terry's name on it. Of course, he'd been in too big a hurry to collect it. Patrick picked up Sean's and tucked it in his pocket, then realised that he had to take all of them or else Powell would know which boy had his phone. He'd just go and ask for it and Sean was too weak to resist him right now.

Okay, so he took them all. He started to slide the box of phones out of the cupboard.

"Oh there you are. I thought you left without saying goodbye."

Patrick almost dropped the box, but caught it in time and tightened his grip on it before he turned to face Powell, who was standing in the doorway.

"This isn't what it looks like."

"Relax, Patrick, I'm not assuming you're going in to the second hand mobiles business. And since you don't have one in there, I can only assume you're getting one for someone else. The question is for who?"

Patrick said nothing.

"And the answer, of course, is silence. Damn, why did we disband the Inquisition?" He sounded amused. Perhaps he didn't care. Or rather, he didn't care which phone, only about the fact Patrick was down here taking them. Patrick's arms started to ache and he dumped the box on the desk. Now what?

Powell came into the room and checked the padlock. "You picked it? You're a man of hidden talents."

Patrick shrugged. "I have a pretty good memory for things I read."

"Which makes me worry about what you read," Powell said, closing the door, but not locking the padlock yet. Patrick glanced past him, at the books in the cupboard.

"I could say the same thing about you, Father."

Powell looked puzzled for a moment, then saw where Patrick was looking. "Ah. You think you've uncovered my hypocrisy, don't you?"

"It's crossed my mind. Why keep them, if they're not something you'd read yourself, why not, I don't know, burn them or something?"

"Patrick!" Powell sounded genuinely shocked. "I'm a Jesuit, not a Nazi!"

"The church has burnt books in the past."

Powell sighed and shook his head. Not in denial, more regret. "Indeed. Indeed. One of the things of which we should be most ashamed." He rubbed a hand over his eyes. "Sit down, Patrick, sit down. We have to talk."

Patrick sat and Powell started making some tea at his little tea tray with its small kettle.

"My question still stands though, Father. Why keep them? Do you read them?"

"How could I read them, when Sister Ignatius keeps the key?"

Patrick frowned. "Iggy has the key for the cupboard? You mean, you don't have one?"

"No."

"Why? Why are you... afraid to have the key? That's it, isn't it? You're afraid of... temptation? But why would you be tempted, unless..." He couldn't go on. What he wanted to say sounded like an accusation.

"Go on, Patrick. You know what the answer is, don't you?"

"You're gay too."

Powell shook his head. "Not gay. Homosexual."

"Whatever."

"No, seriously, not semantics this time. Gay is not a sexual orientation, it's a lifestyle, peculiar to certain parts of the world, at a certain historical period. I'm not gay and never have been. But I am homosexual. And that's why I can understand the temptation all of you boys here are going through every day, and how much strength you need to overcome that."

He brought over two mugs of tea and handed one to Patrick, then sat at his desk, watching Patrick staring at him from the other side of it.

"You know, only a few of the boys who stay here actually work it out." He chuckled. "I'm quite surprised you turned out to be one of them."

Patrick winced. His reputation for block-headed insensitivity was clearly intact. "That's why you're not trying to 'cure' us isn't it? Because you know it can't be done."

"I believe that you can change your behaviour. You can learn the strength to stay on the narrow path. But I can't make you straight. Your cousin was right there." He sipped his tea. "So, what now, Patrick? You can put all of the phones back into the cupboard or you can leave."

Patrick froze. "You're throwing me out?"

"You remember what I told you the day you arrived here. You choose to follow the rules or you choose to leave. One of the rules is that what goes into that cupboard stays in there until you leave."

Patrick sat back with a smile. "Ah, but none of these phones are actually mine."

"Now who's using semantics?"

Patrick winced at that. What the hell was he doing anyway? He couldn't argue his way out of this on a technicality and he didn't want to. He'd been putting off the decision for the last few days, but now it was time to make the choice.

"Don't waste our time here, Patrick," Powell said. "If you're ready to leave, say so. I know I haven't fully succeeded with you. I hope I've given you a foundation to build on."

"You've taught me a lot, Father, honestly. But, yes, you're right. I'm ready to leave."

Powell sighed. "Yes, I thought so. In some ways it's a relief. You're trouble, Patrick. Oh, you don't intend to be, and you're usually entirely oblivious to it. But you're good looking and you flirt without even knowing you're doing it. During your time here I've had several boys confess either their love for you, or... more straightforward desires." When Patrick smiled, he continued. "And before your head swells too much, I've also had several confess to hating your guts. Though it's hard to say if they're channelling their own desire for you into resentment. Though in some cases... no, they just hate you."

"There's no law that says anyone's got to like me." He'd lost the need for approval. Including Powell's approval. "I'm going to pack." He stood up, picking up the box of phones as he rose. "And to give these out. I expect you'll have them all back in a couple of days, but it should be an interesting couple of days."

Before Powell could object, he left the office and climbed the stairs. In the dorms he moved around quickly and left the phones on the night stands of each person. A couple of guys woke as he passed and took the phones. The spooky glow of the small screens showed up in the dim room, like fireflies in the night. He came to Sean last and pressed the phone into his hand.

"Thank you," Sean whispered. "I can't believe you did it. You're amazing."

"Not really. Remember what I said. When you're strong enough, go and find him."

Patrick started to pack.

*

"I called you a taxi to the nearest train station," Powell said, when Patrick came back downstairs, his long coat on, carrying his case. They went to wait outside, under the slowly lightening sky. "Here," Powell gave him an envelope, which Patrick opened to find cash. "That should cover the taxi fare, a train ticket and a couple of days worth of food and accommodation, until you get yourself sorted out."

"I'll send it back to you later," Patrick said, stuffing it into his pocket.

"No need. Also, here, since you have no mobile." He handed Patrick some coins. "Call your parents to let them know you're okay and where you are. I'll call them to let them know you've left, but it's up to you to tell them where you're going." He smiled. "Are you going to tell me where you are going?"

"Come on, Father. I think you already know that." A car drove up to the house and Patrick held out his hand for a shake. "Well, thanks for everything. You've taught me a lot, even if you think you've failed."

"You're welcome, Patrick. And you're welcome back here, should you choose to return." He shook Patrick's offered hand. "God be with you, son." Patrick bowed his head in acknowledgement of the blessing.

"And with you, Father. Goodbye." He moved down the steps, looking back when Powell spoke softly.

"Patrick, don't give yourself away cheap. Get something worthwhile in return."

"Oh, I fully intend to."

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© E Charles 2009