Bad Catholics by James Green Page B

brutishness.
    She had decided on her vocation at the age of sixteen in the kitchen of her home, when she had stabbed her father with the big carving knife.
    It wasn’t a serious wound but it was bad enough.
    Her father had stood sullenly holding his arm while the blood seeped through his fingers and his daughter shouted at him, ‘I swear by the Holy Mother of God if you ever touch me again I’ll kill you. You’ll never lay your filthy hands on me again.’
    Her father had left the kitchen muttering.
    He would go and get drunk and he would come home and knock her mother about and maybe some of her brothers and sisters. But he wouldn’t touch her again. He was big and violent but he wasn’t stupid. He knew she was as good as her word. Nothing was worth getting a knife stuck in your belly for.
    As she sat in the kitchen with the blood-stained knife on the table she had made up her mind. She couldn’t protect her two younger sisters but she could save herself. They might be black savages in Africa but they could be no more savage than what she had already seen and experienced.
    Next day she announced to the parish priest she had a vocation to become a missionary Sister. The priest knew the family and understood. It wasn’t the best reason to become a Sister but it was better than anything he had to offer or suggest. The arrangements were set in motion and the girl who was to become Sister Philomena left her home and cast everything about it from her mind.
    It was early Saturday lunch-time in The Hind, and things were still quiet.
    â€˜Show me,’ said Jimmy.
    â€˜What do you mean?’ asked George.
    â€˜Let’s go round the back, look at the windows, hang around and see what it’s like.’
    â€˜What for? Why queer it by messing about? In and out is what we want.’
    â€˜If it’s safe, a visit won’t do any harm, will it? Or is it not so safe?’
    â€˜It’s as safe as sitting in church.’
    Jimmy waited. He was careful. He wasn’t going to take any chance he didn’t have to. So he waited. Then George said, ‘OK, we’ll visit, you can have a look.’
    â€˜We’ll both have a good look,’ said Jimmy, ‘and if anyone wants to know what we’re doing round the back, we’re hiding from some lads who are out to give you a smacking for nicking one of their girls.’
    George shrugged. ‘If anyone asks, we just tell them to fuck off.’
    â€˜And if it’s a copper? Do we just tell him to fuck off?’
    George thought about it. Jimmy was careful, maybe he was right to be careful. ‘You’ve got a brain as well as talent. Jimmy, you’re wasted on the buses.’
    â€˜Don’t get ideas, George, I like the buses. I want to be a bus driver and marry Bernie. This is just so that me and Bernie can get married a bit sooner.’
    â€˜Want it nightly instead of weekly?’ George gave a leer, then stopped smiling. He didn’t like the way Jimmy was looking at him.
    â€˜Want to repeat that, George?’ asked Jimmy slowly.
    â€˜No, it was a stupid crack, it just came out. I know you and Bernie are …’ he looked for the right words, ‘sort of special.’
    He relaxed as Jimmy relaxed.
    â€˜You’re all right, George, but you’ve picked up some nasty ways. I like you but it’s you I like, not your language or your friends or what they do.’
    â€˜Do you know what they do?’
    â€˜No, and I don’t want to.’
    â€˜So, when shall we go?’
    Everything went just as George had said. A few nights later, they broke into the laundrette under the jazz club in the early morning, forced open the drawer, and took away the cash box. It was easy.
    â€˜He’s loopy, the old bloke who runs the place.’
    George was excited and cheerful as they walked down the street with the cash box in a carrier bag under some overalls and a full sandwich box.