Boys in the Valley(45)

After a moment of furtive movements, he looks at me squarely, lowers his voice. “They killed him, Peter.”

My mind goes blank at the words. I don’t understand what he’s saying, can’t conceive of a reply. I shake my head, scoffing. “You’re not making sense,” I say.

He nods, as if expecting my response. “I know, it’s crazy. But it’s true. Basil’s dead, Pete. Murdered.”

His words linger in the air between us like butterflies my rational mind tries to catch with slow fingers. He exhales and slumps over, head bowed, hands knotted between his knees. We both sit silent for a moment. Finally, I’m unable to help myself, and I look around the room, searching for Basil’s face.

He must have it wrong. There must be a mistake.

“I’m sorry, I know how much you liked him,” he’s saying. “It was Ben who saw the body. Whoever did it, they hung him with a rope, cut open his arms. Insanity.”

I can only nod, allow myself to take it all in, ignore the growing void in my stomach. When I’ve gathered myself enough to speak, I manage to whisper: “Who?”

But David only shrugs. “The others,” he says.

As if this explains everything.

Or anything at all.

Before I can question him further, the dormitory doors burst open. Most of the boys lying down sit up. Some stand. The boys huddled at the end of the room also stand—albeit casually, carelessly—before facing, as a group, our visitors.

David and I turn our heads toward the doors.

Father Poole, his face ashen and worn, stands at the entrance. Directly behind him are Brother Johnson, Father White, and Andrew.

Poole does not wait for questions.

“Basil is dead,” he says loudly.

A few children start crying, but most stay silent.

The brutality of the words is a shock, but it also erases any doubt. I close my eyes in disbelief, mumble a prayer for his soul.

“There will be a service tomorrow morning,” he continues, his bellowing voice stampeding my sorrow. “Nine A.M. sharp, in the chapel. I will ring the bell ten minutes prior. You will all attend . . .”

Some of the kids begin whispering to each other now, and the dorm takes on the din of unruliness.

“Quiet!”

Poole’s voice is like the crack of a whip, and just like that, the room is his once more. For a moment, he looks almost smug. The thought sickens me.

“I understand many of you have questions. I understand this is a shock to us all. I feel the best thing is to simply be forthright and honest now, right now, and get it all out. I think you boys can handle it, don’t you?”

There’s a general murmuring, a few shaking heads. The whimpers of little ones.

Andrew steps forward, whispers something into Poole’s ear. I can’t hear him, but I know he’s asking Poole to take some of the younger children out of the room. It’s what Andrew would do. What I would do.

Poole shakes his head, irritated, and waves Andrew away. As if swatting a fly.

“So, let’s do this once, and then we don’t need to have a house filled with whispers and gossip and half-truths.” Poole clears his throat. To his credit, he looks somewhat stricken, but quickly buries whatever emotion he may be feeling beneath his well-practiced veneer of impassiveness. “Basil hanged himself in the chapel. He stood on the altar, tied a rope around his neck and looped the other end over our sacred cross. He stepped off the altar and hanged by the neck until he suffocated and died.”

Andrew steps forward, grabs Poole’s sleeve. This time, I hear him clearly. “Father Poole, please.”

More children are crying.

Poole turns and physically shoves Andrew away from him. The scene is surreal.

“Quiet, damn you!” Poole shouts, spinning back toward the children. “Or you will have no dinner tonight!”

Sobs turn to sniffles, then silence. Some boys, I notice, hold their breath.

“Better. Between now and dinner, you will remain confined to the dormitory, where will you spend the next hour in prayer and reflection. That’s all. Are there any questions?”

For a moment, no one speaks. The room is stifled by shock and hostility.

Then a voice comes from behind me.

“I have a question, Father Poole.”

David curses under his breath. “Bloody hell.”

I turn to see Bartholomew approaching from the far end of the room, walking down the wide row between the cots like a duelist approaching a saber-wielding combatant. Poole draws himself up, sniffing loudly. He likely didn’t think anyone would have the nerve to ask anything, but now he is stuck with it.

Good. Let him answer.

“What is it, Bartholomew?”

Bartholomew stops a few paces from Poole. He speaks loudly, clearly.

Because he wants everyone to hear.

“I would like to know if Basil will be buried in the St. Vincent’s cemetery. In consecrated ground, I mean.”

From beside Poole, Andrew’s eyes find mine, his face a question: What is this?

I shrug.

“Yes, after the memorial, we will bury him in the cemetery,” Poole replies. “No one needs attend. Now, if that’s . . .”

“But he killed himself,” Bartholomew says sharply, interrupting Poole’s dismissal. “Thou shalt not kill. It’s a mortal sin, Father Poole. He can’t be buried in consecrated ground. He simply can’t.”