A new feeling creeps into David’s mind. One that feels almost familiar. It is similar to what he once felt, when he was very young, and being hit with the strap by Poole. He remembers thinking that it was different this time, because this time Poole wasn’t stopping. He was hitting him again and again, more than he ever had, cursing and praying and swinging the strap down . . . and David thought he was going to die. Thought this would be the time when the old man would finally do it. Finally murder him. He’d been so small. Too small to defend himself. Too small to fight back.
Swallowing hard, he pushes the memory away, forces himself to meet Ben’s frightened, tired eyes. “Go on, Ben. But no lies now, only the truth.”
Ben says nothing, offers only an almost imperceptible nod.
“You’re saying someone did that to him? Ben, are you saying someone killed Basil?”
Ben doesn’t answer. His eyes lose focus, go distant, as if his mind has made the decision to shut him down for protection. A defense mechanism to keep the boy’s sanity intact . . .
There’s a cough.
David raises his head, looks over Ben’s burrowed shoulder to the far end of the room, where Bartholomew’s group of seven or eight boys sit together in their mismatched clothes, their wild hair.
They’re all looking right at him.
David stands, and now he feels the icy tendrils slip away, fall to the floor and shatter like shards of glass. His distant, painful memories catch fire like dry paper put to flame; they turn to ash and blow away, out of his mind.
New feelings flood his body now. New emotions take root in his mind and grow.
Anger. Violence. Hate.
He thinks of little Basil, laughing, joking. The most helpless kid there was.
And then another emotion sparks deep behind his eyes, tightens his throat, causes his fingers to curl into fists. Retribution.
He leaves Ben where he wallows, begins walking between bunks toward the far end of the dorm. Toward the circle of boys. Toward those faces that are watching him. Some faces wear cocky smirks. Some frown. Bartholomew, in the middle of them all, looks placid. Almost bored.
As he nears, it’s Simon who stands first. Gentle Simon . . .
“Hello, David,” he says calmly, but the eyes say different. The eyes say GO AWAY.
David ignores him, keeps his focus on Bartholomew. “You fellas know something about all this? About Basil?”
Simon takes a step toward him. David is breathing fast, his heart races. He turns to face Simon, takes a step forward of his own, looks down at the younger boy. “What are you gonna do, ya fucking bootlicker?” Simon flinches, but doesn’t move.
David shifts his eyes back to Bartholomew. “I asked you a question, goddammit. Answer me.”
Simon turns to look at Bartholomew, then back at David. “You should watch yourself, David. There are things happening here you don’t understand.” Then Simon smiles. “But you will.”
“Is that right?” David says, and he can feel the tightness of his fists, the vibrating energy of his muscles. Without turning to look behind him, he can tell by the sudden silence that the whole room is now watching.
Simon takes a half-step to his left, forcing David to look at him instead of Bartholomew.
David glares at him hotly. “Tell me what you know. Tell me now.”
Simon’s face turns quizzical, his eyes trail away from David, toward something else in the room. Toward Ben. “What did he tell you, exactly?”
Now it’s David who steps to the side, blocking Simon’s view of anything but his own rage. “Look at me, you ginger prick. I asked you a question.” Simon’s eyes flick up, but there is no fear there. No concern. In fact, it’s David’s will that begins to falter.
Simon looks somehow . . . older. And there’s something else.
The eyes are wrong, he thinks.
“Simon, please.” Bartholomew says, standing. He steps forward, puts a hand on Simon’s shoulder. Simon smiles at David, all innocence again, shrugs, and sits down.
“I’m sorry, David. Look, why don’t you sit with us? We can all talk about it.”
But David feels his fire flickering out. The heat of his resolve turns cool and slippery. He can’t cling to it, can’t find the pulse of his righteous anger. Something about all this is wrong. Something about these boys is wrong.
“I’m okay, thanks,” he says curtly.
When Bartholomew takes a step forward, David surprises himself by stepping back.
“You sure?” he says, the dark eyes widening, thin red lips curling at the corners. David thinks he looks like a fox who just burrowed his way into a henhouse.
A sly, hungry, sharp-toothed fox.
Bartholomew leans closer. He whispers, “I have something I’d like to tell you.”
David looks around, sees other kids watching. Frightened, confused. “Maybe later,” he says, hoping to sound indifferent, but fighting off a deep tendril of growing fear. To his shame, he finds himself taking another step away from the smaller boy.
Bartholomew’s smile shows teeth. “Later it is.”
He turns away from David, walks back to the others, who are all talking between each other, laughing and casual, as if David never existed.
As if murder is the last thing on their minds.
Trembling, David goes back to his own bed.
In the cot next to his, he hears fervent, continuous mumbles of prayer coming from Michael. “Hey Michael,” he says loudly, a ragged attempt to settle his own nerves. “Say one for me, will ya, pal?”
Michael doesn’t reply, and David can’t see his face because the boy’s pulled his bedding up and over his head. Everyone’s hiding, he thinks. Maybe I should hide, too.
“Ah, never mind, I guess.” He lets out an exasperated sigh, tries to get his head around what, exactly, is happening at St. Vincent’s. “Carry on as you were,” he says.
Lost in his own thoughts, David doesn’t notice the growing spots of blood soaking through Michael’s white blanket. He can’t see the younger boy’s strained face, or his wide, crazed eyes, and he’s spared the horror of seeing Michael’s bloodied fingers, the result of him having chewed away the tops, nearly to the bone.
27
THE WAGON COMES TO A HALT IN FRONT OF ST. VINCENT’S.
Andrew and I watch Johnson, who does not turn to watch our approach, disappear inside the building, the coffin cradled in his arms.
“Andrew . . .”
But Andrew sharply raises a hand toward me, halting my thought. His eyes are focused on the area Johnson walked from the shed to the entrance, the large man’s footsteps a blackened path in the new-fallen snow. “Hold on, Peter. I . . . I have to think.”
I sit quiet for a moment, wanting out of the wagon, needing information on what’s happened. But I wait patiently, willing to let Andrew figure out what’s best.
Finally, he turns to me, his face a mask of worry. He speaks in a quiet rush. Something in his demeanor sends a flutter of panic through my gut. “Go find the other boys. See what . . . no, sorry, go see if anyone is missing. I’m going to speak with Brother Johnson.”
“The supplies . . .”
“Don’t worry about the supplies. I’ll handle it. I’ll get Brother Johnson to help, and the kitchen staff. Just . . . it’s better if you go. I’ll find you later, all right? Let me know what you find out.”