Inner Circle by Jerzy Peterkiewicz

dirt flows under these lovely streets, all those sewers and pipes, every time you pull a plug, swish, down it goes, lower and lower, until the whole nasty stink disappears, I honestly can’t think where.

    And now Patrick knew where, or at least he could tell his second mummy which way the pipes went. Not that he wanted to upset her about staying in the Underground after the last train and long past his bedtime. But he thought he was being brave, and the torch made the dark not quite so dark. Funny to be meeting Boris like this. Should they say ‘how do you do’, or ‘hello chum’, or grimace, grin, pull each other’s tie, whistle maybe? If Boris was a joker, Patrick of course wouldn’t speak like a puky no-father; if not, Patrick would talk ever so politely. He knew Boris didn’t mean Boris, they both played a game, Boris waiting in the tunnel, Patrick coming to meet him; all in good fun, just like that fuzzy-mop next door pretending there was another poodle on his tail.

    The ledge ended. Patrick had to step down and follow the track. Suddenly, the rails glistened at the turning, a stronger light fell across the beam of his torch, and something was hitting something very hard in the distance. From now on, Patrick could have been only half-brave and retreated as slowly as half-bravery demanded, but he compromised with his shaking knees and stopped instead of taking to his heels. Then he ventured two small steps, halted and switched off his Woolworth’s torch. From afar, a few shadows answered him at once with a mime. They did this and that, their hands almost beckoning Patrick to approach.

    Ho-ho-ho! Patrick resorted to his dad’s hollow laugh to silence the pounding of his heart, but the mimers were in no way appeased. Well, so much for poor Boris, Patrick said to himself, the devils have already got him, and they’re boiling him in a cauldron to put the dirt back into him. And when that’s finished, the dirtiest yes-devil will unbaptize Boris, so that he might again be as Greek and Orthodox as Patrick’s first mummy.

    The cauldron did look like a cauldron even when the devils hid their horns from Patrick, and it smelt like hell all the time. The banging, too, was terrible, and it stuck to the roof. How it must have hurt those tree toes up there.

    ‘Holy smoke!’ one of the devils shouted, ‘there’s a boy walking on the track.’
    Two shadows moved away from the cauldron. Patrick held his breath, then one of them showed a face, and the face spoke.

    ‘You know, young fellow, you could have electrocuted yourself.’

    This seemed to be the appointed moment for the scholarly reputation of St.
    Patrick’s School, shining even through its inglorious rejects. Electricity, well—Patrick Saint Ginger was bottom of the class, but not Patrick Boris.

    ‘If that had happened, sir,’ Patrick paused to clear his throat, ‘you and all the other gentlemen would have been electrocuted with me.’ He said it in his most charming voice which Dolly-mum liked and praised so often. On that voice alone you’ll go very far, Patrick; remember to use it whenever you can, she would repeat. The combined effect of learning and charm produced great laughter around, and the devils not only loved Patrick for being Patrick, but obligingly changed into workers with a kettle on the boil and an extra cup ready for a nocturnal visitor.

    ‘You know a lot, don’t you? Have a cup of cha and rest. Here.’ A folded mackintosh fell on a dirty bag. ‘What’s your name, chum?’

    Patrick liked being called chum. Daddy was his chum, Dolly-mum was dad’s favourite lady chum. So he told them his name, Dolly-mum’s address, his father’s telephone number, and explained between sips of tea why daddy didn’t take kindly to calls before half past one. Did he work night shifts, someone asked, and Patrick was at a loss because he only remembered Father Pio being called shifty something. Dolly’s advice came to his rescue. He used his