hands up to the dealing charges. But I feel we can get you off with manslaughter if—’
‘What?’ I went. ‘What what
what?’
‘Was the chap you pushed to his death another drug-dealer? Is this a Mafia thing? I wouldn’t want to get directly involved without the permission of the mob. I mean I
am
a Roman Catholic monk, so obviously I
am
in the Mafia, but I know which side my communion wafer is buttered. If you know what I mean and I’m sure that you do.’
‘What?’
I went.
‘WHAT?’
‘The other charges are no big deal. Soliciting minors, running an unruly house. Don’t you just love that phrase?’
‘WHAT?’
I went once again.
‘You’re looking at ten years,’ said Brother Michael, squeezing a bit more at my knee. ‘But you’ll only end up serving eight with good behaviour. You’ll still be a young man when you come out, with your whole life ahead of you. Of course, with the stigma of a prison sentence attached to you, you’ll probably end up swabbing toilets for a living. But that’s not so bad. You meet all kinds of interesting people in toilets.’
‘Wah,’ I wept. ‘Wah and boo hoo hoo.’
‘It’s such a pity that you’re not a monk.’
‘Wah,’ I went and, ‘What?’
‘Well, if you were a monk, you wouldn’t have to worry. We monks have theological immunity, we do not have to answer to Common Law.’
‘You don’t?’
‘Of course we don’t. We answer only to a higher power.
‘God?’
‘God. And the Pope. And the Mafia, of course. If you were a monk, you could walk right out of here.’
‘How could I do that?’
‘Because if you were a monk, you could hardly be guilty of a crime, could you? Whoever heard of a bad monk?’
‘There was Rasputin,’ I said.
‘Precisely.’
‘Eh?’
‘Well, anyway. If you were a monk, you’d get off scot-free.’
‘Is that Sir George Gilbert Scott (1811 to 1878), the English architect so prominent in the Gothic revival, who restored many churches and cathedrals and designed the Albert Memorial?’
‘No,’ said Brother Michael. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Oh, no reason.’ I sighed deeply. ‘I wish I was a monk,’ I said.
Brother Michael made a thoughtfull face. ‘There is a way,’ he said. ‘But, no.’
‘No what? What do you mean?’
‘Well, I could make you a monk and then you would walk free of all the charges and not have to go to prison.’
‘Then do it,’ I said. ‘Do it.’
‘It’s not strictly orthodox. It should really be done in a vestry.’
‘Do it,’ I begged. ‘Do it now. Do it here.’
‘Oh all right. You’ve talked me into it. The actual initiation won’t take too long, but you might find it a bit uncomfortable. You’d better drink this.’ He produced a bottle of colourless liquid. ‘Drink it down and find yourself something to bite on.
And it was
that
close.
If the cell door hadn’t opened at that very minute and a policeman come in to tell me that I could go straight home, because no-one was pressing any charges, what with me still being a minor and everything and nobody being badly hurt.
It was
that
close.
I almost became a monk.
My parents were waiting outside with a change of clothes for me. I went meekly, accepting that I was in big big trouble.
But the trouble never came. Instead my mother hugged and kissed me and my father told me that I was very brave.
It turned out that the Doveston had spoken with them and explained everything.
He had told them how he and I had been at my house giving the place a good spring clean to surprise my parents when they got back from the show. And how the evil big boys had broken into the house and wreaked terrible havoc.
And how they had blown up my Biscuit.
When pressed for descriptions, the Doveston could only say that they all wore disguise, but ‘had much of the gypsy about them’.
10
Don’t Bogart that joint, my friend.
Trad.
Personally, I had a great deal of time for the 1960s. I know that a lot of old bunkum has
‘What?’ I went. ‘What what
what?’
‘Was the chap you pushed to his death another drug-dealer? Is this a Mafia thing? I wouldn’t want to get directly involved without the permission of the mob. I mean I
am
a Roman Catholic monk, so obviously I
am
in the Mafia, but I know which side my communion wafer is buttered. If you know what I mean and I’m sure that you do.’
‘What?’
I went.
‘WHAT?’
‘The other charges are no big deal. Soliciting minors, running an unruly house. Don’t you just love that phrase?’
‘WHAT?’
I went once again.
‘You’re looking at ten years,’ said Brother Michael, squeezing a bit more at my knee. ‘But you’ll only end up serving eight with good behaviour. You’ll still be a young man when you come out, with your whole life ahead of you. Of course, with the stigma of a prison sentence attached to you, you’ll probably end up swabbing toilets for a living. But that’s not so bad. You meet all kinds of interesting people in toilets.’
‘Wah,’ I wept. ‘Wah and boo hoo hoo.’
‘It’s such a pity that you’re not a monk.’
‘Wah,’ I went and, ‘What?’
‘Well, if you were a monk, you wouldn’t have to worry. We monks have theological immunity, we do not have to answer to Common Law.’
‘You don’t?’
‘Of course we don’t. We answer only to a higher power.
‘God?’
‘God. And the Pope. And the Mafia, of course. If you were a monk, you could walk right out of here.’
‘How could I do that?’
‘Because if you were a monk, you could hardly be guilty of a crime, could you? Whoever heard of a bad monk?’
‘There was Rasputin,’ I said.
‘Precisely.’
‘Eh?’
‘Well, anyway. If you were a monk, you’d get off scot-free.’
‘Is that Sir George Gilbert Scott (1811 to 1878), the English architect so prominent in the Gothic revival, who restored many churches and cathedrals and designed the Albert Memorial?’
‘No,’ said Brother Michael. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Oh, no reason.’ I sighed deeply. ‘I wish I was a monk,’ I said.
Brother Michael made a thoughtfull face. ‘There is a way,’ he said. ‘But, no.’
‘No what? What do you mean?’
‘Well, I could make you a monk and then you would walk free of all the charges and not have to go to prison.’
‘Then do it,’ I said. ‘Do it.’
‘It’s not strictly orthodox. It should really be done in a vestry.’
‘Do it,’ I begged. ‘Do it now. Do it here.’
‘Oh all right. You’ve talked me into it. The actual initiation won’t take too long, but you might find it a bit uncomfortable. You’d better drink this.’ He produced a bottle of colourless liquid. ‘Drink it down and find yourself something to bite on.
And it was
that
close.
If the cell door hadn’t opened at that very minute and a policeman come in to tell me that I could go straight home, because no-one was pressing any charges, what with me still being a minor and everything and nobody being badly hurt.
It was
that
close.
I almost became a monk.
My parents were waiting outside with a change of clothes for me. I went meekly, accepting that I was in big big trouble.
But the trouble never came. Instead my mother hugged and kissed me and my father told me that I was very brave.
It turned out that the Doveston had spoken with them and explained everything.
He had told them how he and I had been at my house giving the place a good spring clean to surprise my parents when they got back from the show. And how the evil big boys had broken into the house and wreaked terrible havoc.
And how they had blown up my Biscuit.
When pressed for descriptions, the Doveston could only say that they all wore disguise, but ‘had much of the gypsy about them’.
10
Don’t Bogart that joint, my friend.
Trad.
Personally, I had a great deal of time for the 1960s. I know that a lot of old bunkum has
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