The Rats (3 page)

Chapter Five

The old warriors used to gather every night on one of the few remaining bomb-sites left in the East End of London. It was an old churchyard, just off the busy main road of Whitechapel and quite near Aldgate East underground station. It was thick with shrubbery and littered with open tombs. A single tower was the only remains of the once majestic church. That night six of them had gathered, safe in the knowledge that they couldn’t be seen from the road. All were slowly destroying their insides by their incessant drinking of methylated spirits. All had reached the depths of despair, had given up the will to exist with the rest of the world. They rarely spoke to one another, their tormented minds were too occupied with their own misfortunes to concern themselves with anybody else’s.

Among them was a woman, although barely discernible from the men in their shapeless rags. Mary Kelly was forty-nine, but she looked twenty years older. She cursed the others, cursed herself and most of all, she cursed God. The same God she had worshipped half her life in Ireland. As a child, she’d often gone to Mass three times on a Sunday and once every day of the week. She’d even gone into a convent at fifteen, but the solemn, solitary life had not suited her vivacious, although very religious, personality.

Returning to her home town of Longford, she soon found life too dull for her natural exuberance. Her priest had tried to dissuade her from leaving, but one day, in the confessional, she’d told him something that had made him wonder if it wouldn’t be best for her to go. Best for the boys in the town anyway.

The old priest wondered how any child so deeply religious could have developed such a sinful lust for sex. He finally decided he’d have more chance of saving her wayward soul if she remained in the town under his surveillance, so he visited her parents and persuaded them to make her stay.

They had six other younger children to support, so at first they weren’t too eager to retain this extra mouth, but of course the parish priest. Had great influence over his flock.

However, the following Saturday, Mary confessed an even greater sin, this time concerning his young, newly-appointed priest.

She left the following Monday to the relief of the old Father, whose ageing mind could no longer cope with the complexities of this promiscuous saint. Young father Aloysius had denied the whole affair on being directly, and rather gruffly questioned, and the old priest had been left in an even more confused state of mind. Surely, a girl so young and obviously devout could never make up such lies? But then again, if she were so devout to God as her record had shown, how could she be so incited by the evils of the flesh? His only answer was to pray for her soul and offer up a Mass to save her from eternal damnation.

Mary went to Dublin and got a job as a barmaid in a bar just off O’Connell street. She met many men of course in her working hours and resisted none that made advances towards her.

After a while, not because of her growing reputation, but because the landlord’s wife had discovered ‘her and the landlord himself behind the barrels in the cellar, she had been dismissed. She next found employment in the canteen of a local brewery where the men soon found she was easy game.

The only thing that puzzled them and mused much joking amongst them was the fact that she insisted on saying three Hail Mary’s before climbing into bed with them. On her knees beside the bed, eyes closed, hands clasped tightly together like a child. They would have laughed even more if they’d known the reason for the prayers.

The first Hail Mary was to ask that she wouldn’t fall pregnant, the second that she wouldn’t get ‘poxed’, and the third that she would have an orgasm. She’d only learned about orgasms from her friends at the canteen and realized something had been missing all these years. Her craving for sex had never been satisfied and without knowing why, she had always sought more and more. It had always been enjoyable, but now she knew it could be glorious she was determined to experience it. She still attended Mass every Sunday and received Holy Communion every first Friday of the month.

Soon, she began to go to church two or three evenings a week, to say the Rosary for the attainment of her sexual goal. It never once occurred to her that there was anything wrong in this. God had meant people to enjoy sex, otherwise he wouldn’t have given them this wonderful gift. Hadn’t she, as a child, watched her parents making love so many times without their knowing she was wide awake in the dark of their only bedroom, listening to their happy sighs and her mother crying out for Jesus Christ before the final lapse into silence followed by heavy contented snores.

The regular visits to the church soon came to the attention of the priest, Father Mahar, who enlisted her aid in the various jobs done by women around God’s house. She enjoyed changing the flowers and dusting the altar pieces and holy statues, hoping the small sacrifice of her tune would not go unnoticed by God.

She began to help in jumble sales, she visited the old and the sick, she even joined the choir. Father Mahar was more than impressed by his new parishioner and began to make enquiries about her. He learnt that she worked at the brewery where several of his young male churchgoers were also employed.

When he asked them about Mary he was surprised by their smirks and guarded answers. Then, one day, a Mrs Malone came to see him. He knew her and her husband by sight, they were regular church-goers, but he hadn’t actually spoken to them. They were both young, about thirty-fivish, and seemed good, hard-working people. But on this wet

Tuesday morning, Mrs Malone wore a worried expression, giving her otherwise attractive face hard lines that all too soon would be permanent anyway.

‘Ah, it’s Mrs... ?’

‘Malone, Father.’

‘Yes, Mrs Malone. Is there something I can do for you?’

The priest’s voice was soft, gentle because he could always sense the approaching hysteria in the women who came to see him outside church-going hours.

Margaret .Malone’s voice trembled slightly as she answered. ‘It’s me Tom, Father. He’s...‘ Suddenly , the floodgates were open. She searched in her handbag for a handkerchief.

So soon, thought the priest. How long had this been building up for her to break down so soon in front of me?

They could usually get half the story out before the deluge of tears interrupted. He sighed in resignation.

He’d heard it so many times before. Tom was being unfaithful or had lost interest in her body, or had taken to beating her every Friday night after a few jars in the pub. How could he comfort these poor creatures, make them realise all things pass, that praying to God at least helped them to withstand the trials of this life.

‘Come, now, Mrs Malone. Let’s sit and you can tell me in your own time.’ He took her arm and led her to a pew at the back of the church. An old woman, wearing a black shawl over her thin, hunched shoulders, lighting yet another candle for the soul of her wayward husband, dead these last six years, paid them no heed. Hadn’t she seen it so often before? Hadn’t she sat in the same pew, with a different priest so many years ago, pouring out her troubles to her understanding, yet wholly impotent priest?

Margaret Malone at last managed to control her shaking body. ‘Oh, Father, it’s me Tom, he’s found another woman.’

Father Mahar patted her shoulder and sighed as he waited for the tears to stop again.

‘It’s a woman at the brewery, Father,’ she finally went on, her long red hair now damp with her own tears. ‘It’s been going on for weeks’. Every Tuesdays and Thursdays he sees her. He said he went to the pub at first, but Deirdre Finnegan told me she’d seen them together, lots of times. And when I asked him about it, he just laughed and said at least she was a better...’ She stopped, remembering she was talking to a priest.

‘But he doesn’t care, Father. That’s what hurts. He doesn’t care that I know. He doesn’t care about the children.

He’s obsessed with her. I don’t know what to do, Father.

What can I do?’

‘Now first you mustn’t upset yourself, Mrs Malone,’ the priest tried to console. ‘Most men go through this sort of phase at some time or other. It doesn’t really mean anything. You’ll see, he’ll come back to you, and it will be as strong as before. Have courage.’

He paused. Now he must be practical. ‘Do you know the other woman’s name? Maybe I can speak to her.’

He wasn’t quite sure he heard the name correctly through the sobs. It sounded like Mary Kelly.

Father Mahar was stunned. It was Saturday evening, the hour for confession was over, and now he sat alone in his sacristy. Mary Kelly had come to her weekly confession and when she’d finished relating her usual short list of venial sins, he’d asked her about Tom Malone. She hadn’t even tried to deny it but spoke quite openly about their affair and when he asked the reason she hadn’t confessed it before she asked why she should have to. There was nothing wrong in it, was there?

The priest couldn’t believe his ears. The poor child really didn’t know there was any sin involved, that what she had done was quite innocent. It was when he questioned her further that he began to doubt her sanity.

She told him of all her other affairs, why she attended church so regularly, and why she prayed so fervently.

All as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

And when she asked if it would be possible for him to say a special Mass that she might achieve this wonderful orgasm she’d heard about, he was too shocked to make any reply at all.

He needed time to think, so he asked her to leave but to return in the morning before services. What could he do? She obviously needed medical help as well as spiritual, but how could a doctor cure a girl who was so completely amoral , and how could a priest cure a girl who could not comprehend the difference between right and wrong?

He prayed most of that night, prayed for guidance that he might save this young innocent from her literally soul-destroying fate. The next morning he patiently tried to explain to her why the things she did, and the things she prayed for, were wrong. Not wrong if she found one man whom she could love and eventually marry, make love to achieve a sanctifying union and have children, but wrong if she were to give her precious body to any man who wanted it, just to satisfy this greedy lust within her, and so destroying the spirit of the Holy Ghost who dwelt inside her. God loved her and wanted her to be happy, but she must respect this wonderful gift he had given her, and keep it only for marriage.

She laughed, not out of defiance, but because she genuinely thought the priest was being silly. Her brain had put up a mental block that refused to accept sex as wrong in any way. Where once ‘she had listened to his every word with reverence, she now treated him as though he were the child, and he couldn’t be serious in what he was saying.

He went on, explaining about the eases she could contract, the homes she would break up, how it could only lead to unhappiness for herself–but it was hopeless. It wasn’t like talking to another person for she was still the sweet, pure young girl he’d come to know–it was as though one section of her brain had closed a door and refused to let any argument enter.

Eventually, he had to suggest that she should see a doctor with him, a good friend of his, who would just talk to her, and between them they would help her back on to the right path. She agreed, although she thought it a silly idea, but if it would please him, then she’d go along. An appointment was made for the following Wednesday, but Father Mahar never saw Mary Kelly again,

Mary moved to another part of Dublin and went back to being a barmaid, her life going on in the same pattern as before. She found a new church to attend but this time she was more wary about becoming too familiar to the priest.

And then, she finally met the man who could fulfill her needs, and, surprisingly enough, she met him in church.

Timothy Patrick was an immense man in every way. He had the usual Irishman’s ruddy glow, wiry, fair hair, huge hands and ears that stood at right angles from his head. His appetite, not just for food, but for life, was as enormous as his bulk. He was also a good man, not piously religious, but honest and reliable.

As soon as they laid eyes on one another, when he was taking the collection plate round during Mass, instinct told them that here at last was someone who could match their own vitality. He waited for her outside the church, as she knew he would, and walked her to her lodging house. They saw each other every evening after that and on the seventh he took her to a hotel and they made love.

For him, it was the most deeply satisfying act of love he’d ever experienced; for her, it was all her prayers answered. He had laughed when she prayed beside the bed before they made love, but was moved when afterwards she said a complete Rosary in gratitude, understanding this was in some way a compliment to him.

When Mary first saw his size, she was frightened, but she also felt a tingle of excitement run through her.

It was in exact proportion to his personality. Enormous. At first he was gentle, more gentle than any other man she had been with, but at her urging, he had become wild, thrusting himself into her with tremendous force, his great hands never still, crushing her breasts, shoulders and thighs. And she fought back with all her might, never allowing him to be dominant, biting, clawing, until she cried for relief from her frenzy.

And then relief came, flooding her whole body, making her taut limbs liquid. She wept as he soothed her brow with tender fingers, smiling, talking, staying inside her,

It was then she’d said her Rosary while he waited quietly, his eyes never leaving her bowed head. As soon as she had finished she had laughed and leapt straight back on to the bed, where they made love many more times that night.

They saw each other every day, making love whenever they were alone, their mutual desire never diminishing, always demanding. Finally, Timothy announced his intention to go to England to find better-paid employment and he asked Mary to go with him.

Marriage wasn’t mentioned but she eagerly agreed to go and within three weeks they were living together in North London. He found work on a building site and she went back to work as a barmaid. Her faith in God was stronger than it had ever been and she thanked him constantly, in church, at home or even on the bus on her way to work. She cherished her new found love and knew no other man would ever be able to fulfill her the way Timothy did, but she never once tried to push him into marriage.