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  At home elaborate language had been developed so that bodily parts or functions, if they had to be referred to at all, were referred to so that no suggestion of the rude or vulgar crept in. Jimmy knew the words others used, how could he not, but he never used them himself. Now, to have it suggested to him that he might go to the toilet on the floor, that was awful. But to touch it, to put it on the walls – he was physically revolted. He walked away from Kevin. Even standing next to him made him feel dirty.

  About a quarter of an hour after the end of the lunch playtime, when everyone was back in their classes, the headmistress, Sister Augustine, sent for him. He went to her office, a forbidding doorway at the end of a dark corridor reached by a staircase of grey stone steps. He knocked and entered on her command. She sat behind a large desk. Her office was light, tidy and well-decorated, so different from the rest of the shabby, decaying school. Her expression told him something had happened, clearly not something good. He was glad he knew nothing about it and would not be called on to tell tales on anyone.

  ‘You are a filthy little boy, Jimmy Costello, a disgrace to the school and a disgrace to your family, and if you were not so close to leaving I should certainly have expelled you.’

  He was stunned. He had no idea how he had arrived in such a situation or even what the situation was. Sister Augustine got up, walked around her desk, and stood in front of him.

  ‘Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.’ He didn’t pretend.

  Suddenly Sister Augustine slapped his face.

  Jimmy had not expected that. He knew he would be punished for whatever he was supposed to have done but he had not expected anything so personal. In a way he was glad. That put her in the wrong.

  ‘That awful mess in the toilets. I will cane you then you will clean it up yourself. No one else should have to clean it up.’

  Then she became calm. She took her cane from where it lay on the desk. Jimmy held out his hand. He had never been caned before. His life in school had not been good or bad, it had been anonymous. The cane rose and fell three times. Jimmy winced. It hurt, but the pain somehow didn’t seem to go past his wrist. It was a fierce pain, but it all stayed on the palm of his hand. He found that odd and interesting.

  ‘The other hand,’ demanded Sister Augustine. He held out his other hand. It was the same, fiercely painful, but localised. Jimmy lowered his arm and Sister Augustine returned to her chair.

  ‘I have told the caretaker to put a bucket, mop, scrubbing brush, and disinfectant in the toilets. Go and clean up your mess.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  He knew all about it now. Kevin had carried out his foul joke and blamed him. He didn’t mind being caned but he would not go among shit, especially not among Kevin’s shit.

  ‘No.’

  ‘No one else will clear up your mess, Costello.’

  ‘It’s not my mess.’

  ‘Don’t try to blame anyone else. I know it’s your mess.’

  ‘It’s not.’

  If asked, he would name Kevin, but he had to be asked. ‘Then why did Terry Prosser tell me it was?’ Sister Augustine was playing her trump card. Terry Prosser’s word could not be doubted. He was known by all to be as honest as he was clever. Jimmy couldn’t understand it.

  ‘You will clean that toilet and wash it down so the vile mess and smell are removed completely. If you do not do as you are told, I shall write to your parents and not only ask them to remove you, but to remove your sister also.’

  To have to leave the school was of no consequence to him. In just over six weeks he would be gone anyway. But his little sister loved the school and all her friends were there. Sister Augustine was using his little sister against him. He also knew that the shame would be massive for his parents, especially for his mother.

  If he gave in now, the whole thing would be forgotten by tomorrow. He turned without speaking and left the office. ‘Come back, you rude boy, and apologise.’

  Her voice followed him down the corridor but she herself did not.

  Jimmy went to the stinking toilet where he saw the ordure wiped across the floor and walls. How had Kevin managed it without taking the awful smell with him into his classroom? It wasn’t a skill he wanted for himself but he was impressed that it could be done. There was a bucket of water with a can of disinfectant and a large scrubbing brush on the floor. He took off the disinfectant lid and recoiled, holding the can at arm’s length, but at once realised that only such a powerful smell could eradicate Kevin’s handiwork. He looked at the label – Jeyes Fluid. It would be a name and smell he would remember. He poured the disinfectant into the water, took up the scrubbing brush, pushed it into the whitish liquid and began to clean.

  After he had finished he left the bucket, the brush, and the can and went back to class. He carried about him conflicting smells but the overriding one was Jeyes Fluid. His teacher, a kindly, gentle man, quietened the class on his entrance and continued with the lesson.

  ‘Richard, called Coeur de Lion or Lionheart, was as brave as he was good …’ his reading from the history book resumed. The girl who shared a desk with Jimmy fussily shifted herself and her books to the very far edge of the desk, held her nose, and made a face. Jimmy sat very still. He didn’t join in when the writing began and wasn’t asked to. He was left alone until the end of the day, when the bell rang and the class stood, said prayers, put their chairs up onto their desks to make life easier for the cleaner, and were dismissed. Jimmy went to the Infants’ exit and met his sister, Mary.

  ‘You smell funny, not nice.’

  ‘Wait here, I’ll be back in a bit. Wait and don’t go anywhere.’

  Mary was puzzled, but she nodded. Jimmy went to the main gate. As soon as he saw Terry Prosser he began to shout.

  ‘Proddy Prosser, Proddy Prosser, Proddy Prosser is a dosser.’

  It wasn’t much but it was the best he could manage. Terry Prosser was an outsider, his family had moved to London from South Wales only a year before. The whole family spoke with a strong Welsh accent. His father was Chapel and it had been Terry’s Catholic mum who had insisted on Terry going to the local Catholic school. Terry felt his strangeness very much among the London Irish of Kilburn and the taunt of ‘Proddy Prosser’ was enough. He ran through the crowd of children to confront Jimmy.

  ‘A fight, a fight.’

  The chant began as the two boys faced each other. Terry spoke in his gentle Welsh tones.

  ‘What d’you want, shit cleaner?’

  Jimmy hit him once, hard, on the chin. The blow jerked Terry’s head back and tears came to his eyes but he didn’t fall down like they did on the films. He touched his chin, then, suddenly and furiously, set on Jimmy. Jimmy didn’t try to fight, he just wriggled and held on and, finally, fell down with Terry on top of him. Terry’s fists were furious but only occasionally effective. Some blows landed hard but no real harm was done.

  Jimmy had always, in a vague sort of way, felt afraid of pain and violence. He had avoided rough games and never been involved in the frequent playground fights. Now he found it didn’t matter. Some punches hurt but it was just something that was happening to his body. He found he had gone somewhere else, somewhere deep inside himself where the pain didn’t matter. The pain was there and it was real but it didn’t touch the deep, inner Jimmy.

  Terry Prosser stood up and looked at Jimmy on the floor, then he turned and walked away through the crowd. The fight was over and Jimmy was beaten.

  The children dispersed, happy to have had a little extra thrill at the end of another day. Those few mums or big sisters who had been waiting at the school gates ignored the whole business. Most of them had been to this school or a school just like it and had seen it all before, it was just children coming out of school.

  Jimmy got up and looked at the school building. On the first floor Sister Augustine was standing in her office window, watching. Then she disappeared.

  He now knew wha
t had happened. Kevin had told Terry that he was responsible, then told a teacher that Terry knew something about it. Kevin would have known that Terry, unschooled in the ways of Kilburn, would pass on his information. He had gambled, correctly, that once Sister Augustine had the information she would not enquire too closely as to its original source nor its truth. She would be satisfied to have a suitable culprit on whom to inflict punishment. Jimmy acknowledged that while Kevin wasn’t good at much, some things he could do quite well. His were small talents but he knew how to make the most of them.

  It was all over now. His parents need never know, or at least his mum could pretend she didn’t know. He walked back to where his sister was waiting.

  ‘I got a star for my writing today,’ she chirruped happily as they walked hand-in-hand away from the school. Jimmy looked back at Sister Augustine’s window. There was no one there.

  It was then that he made a decision. He would join the parish boxing club, where he would learn how to make a fist and how to hit people. He would find out what to do to avoid being hit and what to do when you were hit. He would learn how to fight, and he would do it properly. The Church would teach him.

  THREE

  Paddington, February 1995

  Everyone was very upset when Lucy Amhurst was murdered, robbed of her handbag, and stabbed whilst getting into her car at around eleven at night after the last clients had gone. Her body had lain on the far side of the car, which was parked by the kitchen window near the street. Janine had noticed the car from the kitchen window and asked Jimmy to see if anything was wrong. Jimmy had gone out, established she was dead, returned and told Philomena and Janine. Sister Philomena had phoned the police whilst he went back to stay with the body. The police had arrived and sealed off the alley. The Scenes of Crime team came and went. Evidence was collected and bagged, photos taken, witnesses questioned, and notes made.

  Shortly after the police, the reporters had arrived. They collected the details they needed about the victim and the crime, got the background of Bart’s, and decided what sort of story they would file.

  It was not going to be a big story, a mention on the TV news perhaps, nothing more. It was probably drugs-related, an addict who needed to feed a habit, just one more knife-crime.

  The reporters stood and chatted with the police for a while, sniffing around for other news. Then they left. Mrs Amhurst’s body was taken away. Finally the last of the police left, having said that someone would return the next morning to continue the investigation.

  In the dining room a terrible ordinariness had descended, that strange calm which surrounds those close to someone suddenly dead when they are finally left alone. Somewhere, Mr Amhurst would also have entered that awful, empty calm, where nothing looked different but everything had changed for ever. The world must move on and take up its daily business, the bereaved are left with their thoughts.

  Janine stood beside Philomena at the serving counter. Slim and good-looking with thick, short brown hair, she wore jeans and a plain shirt with a nondescript cardigan. She wore no make-up, she couldn’t hide her attractiveness but made no show of it.

  ‘Those reporters were horrible,’ she said, almost to herself.

  ‘They were only doing their job,’ Philomena said quietly. ‘It’s news even if we can’t see it that way. I thought they asked their questions kindly enough.’

  ‘But talking and laughing. It was …’

  Janine began to cry. Philomena led her to a table. They sat down.

  ‘We were Lucy’s friends, we will grieve for her and miss her. And we will remember her and her poor husband in our prayers.’

  Jimmy came into the dining room.

  ‘Everything’s locked up,’ he said and looked at his watch. ‘It’s five o’clock.’

  Neither woman moved, so he sat down. ‘Tea, anyone?’ asked Philomena.

  ‘I think we all might benefit from something stronger, Sister.’

  ‘Sorry, Jimmy, I don’t keep anything like that here, the clients would nose it out no matter how well I hid it or someone would break in to get at it. We had twelve break-ins before word got on to the street there was nothing here worth stealing.’

  Janine wiped her eyes with the backs of her hands. ‘Tea will be fine.’

  ‘Jimmy?’

  ‘No thanks.’

  Philomena went to the urn on the counter and felt it. It wasn’t hot but it would do. She brought two cups back to the table.

  ‘It doesn’t seem real,’ said Janine. ‘I seem to be in a nightmare.’

  Philomena took a sip of tea.

  ‘You’re in shock. Go off to bed and try and get some rest, I’ll stay up.’

  Janine stood up slowly.

  ‘I’m not as strong as I thought, I don’t seem to be able to cope like you two.’

  ‘Nor should you, Janine. Please God it’s not something you’ll ever have to learn or get used to. I won’t call you, get all the sleep you can.’

  ‘Oh call me, please, Sister. I want to be useful and it will help to have something to do.’

  ‘I’m afraid this sort of thing is something I’ve seen before,’ Philomena said after Janine had gone. ‘You don’t get used to it but you deal with it. You bury the dead and care for the living and leave the rest in God’s hands. And you, Jimmy, where did you learn to cope with this sort of thing?’

  ‘It happens, and when it happens I can deal with it.’

  ‘What am I to make of that? Were you in the Army or what?’

  ‘Or what.’

  ‘Well, your own business is your own.’ Philomena looked into her tea, and then looked back up at Jimmy. ‘It’s been great having you here these last weeks.’

  ‘I wasn’t much use to you tonight.’

  ‘If this was anybody’s fault, Jimmy, it was mine. I should have made a point of seeing her to her car.’

  ‘Sister, people get knifed for a packet of chips or the change in their pocket or for no good reason at all. It could have happened anywhere at any time.’

  ‘But it happened here.’ Philomena paused. ‘Thank God I didn’t have to tell her husband. Poor man, what he must feel like this night.’

  It wasn’t something either wanted to dwell on.

  ‘The police were very good, considering, I’ve seen the woman constable before and the other uniformed one but I’ve not seen either of the plain-clothes ones. They’ve never been here in all the times we’ve called out the police.’

  ‘They’ll be CID. It’s not their work to sort out trouble among the clients.’

  ‘Did the older one know you, Jimmy?’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘He just seemed to.’

  ‘We’ve met before.’

  ‘Is it anything you want to talk about?’

  Jimmy sat looking at his hands on the table. It wasn’t anything he wanted to talk about.

  ‘When Father Lynch told me there was someone who wanted to come and help out for a while I wasn’t expecting anyone like you. I asked him what he could tell me about you. Do you know what he said?’

  Jimmy shook his head without looking up.

  ‘“If you want someone to keep the place quiet, sort the trouble and help around the place then that’s a job he’ll do fine.” That’s not exactly an unqualified reference, but then, the skills we needed here aren’t taught in the better sort of schools or seminaries.’

  ‘Sister, you’re tired. I’ll stay up in case anything’s needed. Try to get some sleep.’

  ‘You’re right. I’m just talking to stop myself thinking. Before I go, Jimmy, will you say a prayer with me?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Philomena blessed herself for both of them. ‘Our Father …’

  Jimmy joined in the words of the Lord’s Prayer. At the end she added, ‘May her soul and the souls of all the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace.’

  ‘Amen.’ The word left Jimmy’s mouth automatically and they both blessed themselves.
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  ‘She’s in God’s hands now.’ Philomena got up. ‘As we all are. Goodnight, Jimmy.’

  ‘Goodnight, Sister.’

  When she had gone Jimmy again looked at his hands on the table, small hands with thick fingers, hands that could make strong fists. Hands that he knew could hurt people. Then he spoke quietly.

  ‘Now that someone knows where I am I have a nasty feeling I won’t be left to stay in God’s hands very much longer.’

  But there was no one to hear him say it, except God and the empty room.

  Kilburn, October 1962

  ‘You’re a strange one, Jimmy, and no mistake. You’re far and away the best boxer we have ever produced in my time at the club but you won’t fight. You could turn professional. You’re better than Stephen Gaines was at your age and look how well he’s doing. He must be worth a pot of money now. I know you’ve had offers, I know there’s been interest.’

  Jimmy shrugged.

  ‘Is it your looks you’re worried about? Are you afraid a broken nose might not go with the Buddy Holly haircut?’

  ‘It’s a Tony Curtis, Father.’

  ‘Is there a difference?’ Father Liam grinned. ‘These things change too fast for me. Why did you take it up at all if you won’t go in for the contests?’

  ‘Boxing was just a hobby, Father, I didn’t like football or table tennis and there was nothing else. It kept me fit, I liked it, and I made some good friends in the club but it’s time to pack it in now. Eighteen’s too old for hobbies.’

  The priest, himself quite young, nodded with mock seriousness.

  ‘Yes, you’re quite an old man now.’

  ‘You know what I mean. It would have to stop sometime. Now is as good a time as any.’

  Father Liam put his hand on Jimmy’s shoulder. Jimmy stiffened, he didn’t like anyone except Bernadette touching him.

  ‘We’ll all miss you. Watching you box or boxing with you was like a university education for the lads, there’ll be no substitute for you, Jimmy. You may never have boxed a match for the club but there’s a lot of you in the cups and medals that have come to us through others.’ He patted Jimmy’s shoulder, then took his hand away. ‘I’ve a lot to thank you for, not just the boxing but the serving at Mass as well.’