Inner Circle by Jerzy Peterkiewicz Read Free Book Online Page A

chalk moved across the brown door, and words dropped into three neat rows. He smiled a foul farewell to each one as he passed it to write the next.

    Piss, puke, he wrote and smiled twice, then ffuk Venezia poachd balls oil yore arse, and pisss again, with as many s’s as he could twirl into the space left near the edge.
    Another quick look round. Patrick blew the chalk dust off his right sleeve and departed with an air of serenity about him, just as the yes-father Pio would have done, had he selected the same door to show off his spelling.

    Patrick was, of course, late for his Scripture class, but on Tuesdays they were doing revision, from the very beginning all over again, so he entered the Garden of Eden just in time. And the yes-father with glasses didn’t scold him; he merely pressed the book he was holding against his white robe and asked Patrick to read that bit where Adam is giving names to the animals in his private zoo. The class didn’t expect a great performance, and nobody took much notice of his eh-eh-ehs, though in fairness to the print of the book Patrick found the words winking at him, as if he and they had met before.

    Suddenly, there were more words, over the lines and below, trying to get in, and Patrick seemed to recognize them without any difficulty whatsoever. Now his voice rose up confidently, and he proceeded to read about Adam teaching the cocks how to jump on the hens, telling the poodle which arse-hole he should sniff at, and soon everybody copulated and pissed with everybody under the sun.

    The class was spellbound and very quiet, then a neighing sort of noise broke out.
    Patrick was being laughed at: the entire class loved him in unison. He sat down, exhausted. Silence returned and like dust was settling on his desk and the open textbook.
    It was only then that the yes-father found his lost voice and piped towards the ceiling:
    ‘No, no, no!’

    The principal yes-father didn’t kiss Patrick on the head. He mumbled something about not being able to reach Patrick’s father by telephone, and also about a letter in the post. During the twenty years under his guidance, St. Patrick’s School had fumigated many filthy minds, but Patrick’s filth was beyond any demucking measure. However, he wanted to know one thing.

    ‘Who taught you those horrible words!’ But Patrick wasn’t going to be a puky squealer, especially now that the principal had told him they couldn’t possibly keep him at St Patrick’s. ‘Give me his name.’

    ‘Yes, father,’ Patrick said, ‘it’s Boris.’

    ‘Boris who?

    ‘My brother. He teaches me things, yes-father.’

    At home, Dolly-mum was kindness itself. She took him for a brisk walk round Prince Albert’s Memorial, and this time Patrick didn’t call him the Blessed Albert.

    ‘It’s just as well you’re out of their clutches. They put too much sin into your innocent head. And it’s the fault of your dad, who is a snob. Do you know what he said?
    He said it’s quite all right socially to be a backward Catholic. Mind you, I don’t want you ever to resent your dad. Father and son should be like chums to each other, but really what’s so smart about having a religious background?’

    That night Patrick didn’t sleep at Dolly-mum’s house. He waited hours for the last train to pass the Underground station, from which he was to begin his nocturnal exploration. A torch-lamp weighed his pocket down. He saw a man in uniform approach.
    ‘That’s the piss boy,’ one of them had said when he once peeped into the side entrance at Sloane Square. And they had chased him out like a dog. Now he heard a quiet voice which didn’t frighten him at all.

    ‘Waiting for your mum, sonny? Shall I help you to find her?’

    ‘Oh, no, sir, it’s Boris. He’s just coming. And thank you, sir.’

    ‘You’re a polite boy,’ said the man and walked away.

    Patrick saw the lights in the tunnel change from red to green.

    Sky

    1

    And the Sky Man put the