For the Love of Mike

By Brian Dillon

Brian Dillon has fashioned a most lovable abuse victim into a ten-year-old Indy Jones. But in 1950’s Irish Catholic Boston the enemies aren’t Nazis but constant temptation, penalties for succumbing, and those waging war on sin to conceal their own. “For the Love of Mike” is a vivid account of Catholic school in the 1950’s. The gang’s all here; Attila the nun, class clowns, bullies, baseball, barrels and barrels of sin, fantastic pranks, unbelievably bamboozled parents and ‘he who hides in plain sight’ the evil parish priest.
Despite having his hands full avoiding further priestly advances life goes on and young Mike Kilgallen will not be deprived of adventure. From a child’s eyes we magic carpet back to innocence, its keen perceptions of new mornings, best friends, the infinity of the moment and its unbounded happiness for no reason at all. The flip side is acute fear. Dillon masterfully seduces us into the devil’s own shoes, plotting a young boy’s demise with cold calculated betrayals of one who dwells in those hideous states below death, whose sole mission among us is turning beauty into ugliness.
Compelling are Dillon’s depictions of this priest’s paradox personality, so capable of confusion while manipulating our power of choice with a maddening grip. Dillon has no mercy, pulls no punches with this vampire like character, “His very stock in trade was the mysterious fear preached weekly. Never was it love or forgiveness. He had half the town convinced that in the blink of an eye they could turn murderous or immoral, that he alone was the last guardian of that forbidden gate. The façade was brilliant, to his flock he walked on water. His shell was shiny yet beneath lurked a decayed being with the most wicked of intentions.”
He is wise not to generalize that these are the actions of all. Throughout we are reminded. But it’s down to thee and me for believing too much too often. For this we are not spared the dark shadowy forces that snatch young souls. Yanked abruptly upright we are forced to face the here and now, forced to observe. Then with gentle wisdom advised, ‘I love you very much, but sometimes I don’t.’ Alas, a boy is hunted by the very worst of predators. Yet still we drink deeply of a profoundly innocent mix of childish bad behavior, friendship, humor, and hope.
We are redeemed, for around every corner is rediscovery of joyous youth, its freedoms, barriers, purposes and for a short while we are restored those miraculous perceptions of the very young, the most basic gifts of God given life which ebb and dull as the years pass us by. It’s a story close to home anywhere on earth. A story where our hero becomes each of us, armed only with hopes and dreams, to stand at last victorious; a story whose messages of courage, honor and goodwill plead to be dusted off and handed out to all the world’s citizens.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brian Dillon
• Release date: Mar 18, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301542079

Brian Dillon

 Brian Dillon was born in Dublin in 1969. His books include  Essayism ,   The Great Explosion  (shortlisted for the Ondaatje Prize),  Objects in This Mirror: Essays ,  I Am Sitting in a Room ,  Sanctuary ,  Tormented Hope: Nine Hypochondriac Lives  (shortlisted for the Wellcome Book Prize) and  In the Dark Room , which won the Irish Book Award for non-fiction. His writing has appeared in the  Guardian ,  New York Times ,  London Review of Books ,  Times Literary Supplement ,  Bookforum ,  frieze  and  Artforum . He is UK editor of  Cabinet  magazine, and teaches Creative Writing at Queen Mary, University of London. 

Book preview

For the Love of Mike

A novel by Brian Dillon

For the Love of Mike

Published by Brian Dillon at Smashwords

Copyright 2013 Brian Dillon

A man may lose his sight yet again regain joy in

living. He may lose all that he owns yet

battle back to happiness. Indeed, lose

his very life in a just cause yet one

day rejoice in new life. But pity a

man whose integrity is lost for

the happiness he seeks

becomes death itself.

The Ancients

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 1

The early morning mist only heightened the boy’s foreboding for a darkened corner of his mind had evoked the somber image of a sad gray horse on a foggy cobblestone street drawing a man in tumbrel to his final moment. A crime was fashioned to fit the penalty so of the passenger’s guilt there was no doubt. His strength had been sapped by the ordeal and he rode now to his fate in deepest apathy. His hour had arrived, the crowd had gathered. Upon the platform high above between rosewood runners rested ‘the blade’. Today the bloodthirsty gathering demanded satisfaction and today Authority would not disappoint.

The ancient wooden room was a sea of sounds and echoes as sixty three children readied themselves for another day. Coats and hats were doffed as soft little hands emptied books from bags into little wooden desks. This task accomplished a nod was delivered to the first student in the first row. With military efficiency each row marched into the narrow cloakroom to stow belongings. This day was a tad more trying as raincoats and boots were added to the chore. The return trip was through the rear exit of the cloakroom out into the lobby then back into the room through its main entrance to stand again beside their seats. Nine rows of seven seats got the drill done quickly and precisely. A nice piece of work.

On her platform fingering rosary beads eyeing the big clock was the original weapon of mass destruction herself, Sister Beatrice Serene. At precisely eight-forty five Sister BS made the sign of the cross. The joining of her hands was the signal for the class to begin reciting the Our Father, Hail Mary, the Pledge of Allegiance. The day began anew. As always the day’s lessons began with religion. First a lecture then as it had for centuries past questions from curious young minds.

And so it is that our Holy Father in Rome is Infallible, he can never be wrong. He is the one and the only person on earth who speaks directly with God Himself. And that is why the Catholic Church is the one true religion. Young minds strained to comprehend. Like a bed of sea anemone waving hands shot skyward begging to ask the first question hoping for some wisdom from a woman dressed head to heel in layers of black wool on a warm June day. Chosen was an immaculately dressed little girl with a matter of fact delivery. My mother wanted me to ask you, Sister. Does our Holy Father in Rome ever get to go to Heaven? Does God fly him up in a special space ship for meetings and if so...

Virginia O’Day stood and delivered in a manner demanding attention. At the tender age of ten she was controlling and obnoxious. She lived in a mansion surrounded by high brick wall, its gate always closed. Her father, a big source of money to the church delivered Virginia to school each day in a shiny black Cadillac. She would emerge crisply dressed acknowledging only a lucky few on her way inside. A nun or two would usher her arrival with smiles of approval as she ascended the front steps to make her grand little entrance. Only then would the big car roll away.

Sharp contrast it was to the grandchildren of the great unwashed. Not everyone owned a car in those days never mind a shiny Cadillac. Her test scores were always top of the heap, homework always perfectly completed. Along with wealth and a full pass from the nuns’ wrath Virginia excited intimidation in anyone who approached her airspace without an invite, much like the glare of a feeding lion. She was a self-anointed, arrogant little snot who knew well her station in life.

Daydreaming, as it was called in those days was bad business, right up there with idolatry, heresy and stiffing the collection box. Penalties ranged from hard glances to severe beatings. Few had the nerve to do other than pay strict attention or at least pretend.

Seated across the room from Virginia was the boldest, most impudent little bastard ever to shine a seat at St. Catherine’s. He was Michael John Kilgallen and his irreverence for the One True Church, the only valid entrance into the Kingdom of Heaven, knew no bounds. Like a master mimic, a timely facial expression poked holes in two thousand years of scripture to the delight of anyone who dared watch.

The answer to your mother’s question, Virginia, is that our Holy Father sees God in ways which we can never begin to understand.

Mike turned to his neighbor, jacked open his eyes and mouth, folded his hands, shot an expression of exquisite relief skyward as if the reply to Virginia’s question had solved the riddle of man’s existence in the universe, ending his search for meaning thus unlocking his spiritual shackles to bathe finally in eternal bliss. His theatrics were hidden by the only fat kid in class.

Four nearby kids suppressed laughter to the point of near suffocation. Mike continued his blasphemy, mouthing thanks and praise Heavenward as the class awaited the answer to Eddie McLaughlin’s question of whether or not the Apostles could fly.

Little Maggie Bennett then stood and delivered, If Jesus is the Son of God, who is God’s wife?

Margaret, God is a bachelor. He is not married. Family life in Heaven is something we will understand when our time comes. This didn’t sit well with Maggie. It seemed like a brush off, and did not satisfy her curiosity about God’s family life at all. He seemed too much the wise grandfatherly type. And she was desperate to know if his grandchildren could add large columns of numbers instantly in their heads or memorize pages at a glance. She sat heavy and unsatisfied.

Little Freddie Duffy got the nod. If Charles Atlas can hold up the world could he be related to God?

No, Frederick, she said with some resentment, if you’d paid more attention you’d have known that was answered a moment ago. Charles Atlas is not and never has been related to God. No one on earth is related to God. His family is heavenly. Freddie appeared satisfied but Maggie, at the mention of ‘His Family’, appeared twice as puzzled. With brow furrowed and lips pursed she stared boldly at her inkwell.

With each Divine Revelation Mike’s rapture intensified as did the suppressed laughter of fellow students. Mike had a captured audience. From the mind of Pamela Deegan, Did Jesus and the Apostles have a truck or tractor to get around in back then?

Indeed not. Donkeys were it in those days but I’m glad to see you wore your thinking cap today, Pamela. Because it does seem to many of us that He travelled far and wide and fairly quickly.

Paul Sullivan wanted answers to the classic good-guy bad-guy riddle. If a guy robs a bank and shoots some people and then the cops shoot him but he gets out the back door and runs to the church to confess because he knows he’s gonna die but when he gets there he dies on the front steps but he was gonna confess...

Virginia O’Day looked to her right and held a steely gaze. Among her unique abilities were displaying offence by the presence of nearly everyone, and bird- dogging for Sister BS. The nun followed Virginia’s beam to a student whose pink head looked about to pop off its shoulders. Her face hardened as she drew a bead on the cause of that pink head.

Busily blaspheming Almighty God, saints, apostles and popes, and making Swiss cheese out of the morning’s religious exercise was the ten-year-old anti-Christ himself. A nearby student wore a look of terror as if an association with the goings on of this pagan might warrant his own crucifixion.

Over the decades she’d been assigned a number of handles, Sister Mary Trigger-Happy, Sister Mary forty-five, Sister Samurai, Sister Mary Machete. Machete stuck because it had some rhythm. Mary Machete, it communicated. That was shortened to ‘The Sword’ due to handiwork with young scalps. But the handle that shook out and stuck was ‘The Blade’. The story goes that during the South Pacific campaign in ‘43 a young Marine, having survived suicide charges by sword wielding Jap maniacs night after night, was heard to say one morning, You think these assholes are crazy? You ought to meet ‘The Blade’. The Blade was now well into her second generation of butchering the young.

The eyes locked, the class silenced, the executioner readied. Panther-like The Blade moved from the platform, a conjuring from a nightmare, a horribly alien apparatus of wheels and pulleys. With compelling intention she rolled up Mike’s aisle and was upon him before he could beseech the object of his blasphemy. Tighter than a Tennessee tick was the grip as she yanked hair, screamed of irreverence while beads rattled and jowls shook. Mike held to his desk for dear life as his head was turned into grapefruit.

Having endured these rages for years he was little more than a poster boy for ‘how not to do it’. For too long the foul smelling blackness railed and wrenched. A girl seated nearby began to cry. The class watched as an ignorant mob from a past culture would witness an execution, strangely silent, unblinking, staring morbidly as a head rolled or a body dangled.

Mike was then lifted by an ear from his seat, dragged to the platform in front of the class. Perhaps, The Blade howled into that ear, you could recite for us your multiplication tables or name for us the Holy Days of Obligation or perhaps the name of our Holy Father in Rome. No! You cannot because as we all know you are stupid, sinful and will spend eternity with the devil and the damned in the raging fires of hell. Isn’t that true? Mike didn’t answer right away so The Blade yanked. Well, isn’t that true? she screamed.

Yes, Sister.

The note you’ll receive is to be brought home to be signed by both of your parents then delivered to me on Monday morning. Is that clear?

This was big league trouble. How on God’s green earth would he sidestep this mess? Tomorrow was baseball. School was nearly over. Kids were loosening up at the field for a summer of fun and games. The thought of spending Saturday confined to his room was out of the question. It just couldn’t happen.

Yes, Sister

We’ll see if your father can’t beat the fear of God into you over the weekend.

In light of years of bad report cards and complaints from nuns dear old dad wasn’t likely to listen patiently to his son’s viewpoint. Authority was king and that was that. Never would he understand the joy in trapping fellow students into explosive laughter during religious instruction particularly when the opposing view was a Roman Catholic nun of the Order of the Sisters of Charity of Nazareth.

Now remove yourself from the rest of us, into the cloakroom, out of our sight. You will not make a sound or utter a single word for the remainder of the day. Is that clear?

Yes, Sister.

A badly beaten, thoroughly humiliated little boy walked from the platform and disappeared from view. The Blade nodded victoriously to a sea of faces washed in fear, and one smirking little Virginia O’Day.

Chapter 2

Seated on the floor by his raincoat and rubber boots Mike checked his hair for blood, the image of his father’s belt frozen in his mind while in the classroom the Blade raged of the never-ending fires of hell to the unblinking innocents. Inattentiveness leads to disbelief and disbelief to mortal sin. To die in the state of mortal sin is to suffer the agonies of eternal flame. Hell! Imagine your hands thrust into burning white-hot coals, the unbearable pain of flesh seared from bone, turning to ash before your eyes. Hell is to suffer this torment on every inch of your body eternally, for all time. Sweeping an arm through the air she added, In that cloakroom is the devil’s work, a walking, talking, one-way ticket to hell. No other in this school is as inattentive, unprepared, irreverent or sacrilegious. Am I getting through to you people?

It seemed she was for every pair of eyes wore the look of holy terror as if the vehicle to hell was waiting nearby to transport any nonbeliever. Nor has anyone ever to attend this school to my knowledge had worse report cards. I want you all to know.

Mike heard her bitter denunciation, checked his hair for blood again and closed his eyes. The secret hiding place in his mind, where birds delivered candy bars, where he rode upon the shoulders of the wild bears, where a kind old man with a long white beard cheered as Mike hit magically appearing baseballs into the hills was becoming more difficult to reach. Today the old man stood perfectly content as the bears romped and the birds chirped. None seemed to miss his presence as if they too were alerted to his sins, casting him out without concern.

He awoke to perfect silence fearing he’d been abandoned but boots and coats were unmoved. The Blade spoke, Your attention, students. Body motions echoed as children adjusted to give their undivided attention. Father Devlin will be visiting us shortly to congratulate Virginia O’Day and Raymond Fleming for their most excellent achievements during the school year. I will ask you both to present yourselves at the front of the class to accept your awards when the time comes. Is that clear?

Yes, Sister, the two students said in one voice.

Mike ate his lunch where he sat. The hours passed slowly as the class endured the afternoon session. He was counting boots and multiplying by three when he heard the heavy front door close loudly a floor below followed by slow labored footfalls ascending the wooden staircase. The priest had arrived. Instinctively Mike inched closer to the wall seeking safety among the hanging garments.

The priest had reached the second floor but rather than continuing to the class-room entrance he stopped outside its rear exit, the cloakroom. Mike’s breathing stopped, his perceptions at their peak. There was momentary silence, the striking of a match followed by a loud intake of breath. Then, a voice.

Some trouble in school, Mike? Holy shit! It was the priest with his bushy eyebrows, weird lips and bald head. At the sinister tone Mike’s little heart stopped. How was this possible? Perhaps a message was sent as he dozed. Or did the Holy Ghost Himself flying around unseen simply happen upon this particular disturbance call the Pope who’d then alerted the local network? Of course, thick as thieves, all of them connected.

Mike was as guilty as Barabbas and word had gone out. The Holy Ghost’s involvement sent a chill. The heat a dozen goofy grownups might generate over a mess like this was anybody’s guess. The trouble-o-meter could rise from semi serious to ultra scandalous. This very minute his mother, father, aunts, uncles and cousins might be gathered, heads hung solemnly, begging the saints to spare the soul of the kid who just wouldn’t pay attention or keep his bloody mouth shut. Holy shit!

Mike?

Yes, Father.

Some trouble today?

Yes, Father.

When?

Ahm, during religion, Father.

The priest dragged on the cigarette and blew out a volume of smoke. He poked his ugly head into the long narrow room, Come to the sacristy after school. We’ll have a talk, you and I. This was matter of fact with something else not quite right attached.

Yes, Father, said Mike nervously.

There would be no dodging the priest, no excuses, no forgetting this conversation had occurred. Mike’s ever present concern of returning home to a madhouse seemed now as desirable as ice cream by comparison. That at least was predictable. But this out of the blue invite, to the sacristy of all places, spoken in a low menacing whisper had Mike’s imagination running. Was the priest aware of Mike’s blasphemy? This question only raised more. Perhaps he was witnessing the mercy of Christ for the first time. Was he to be imbued with abilities far beyond those of mere mortals, where wandering attention and shitty report cards mattered not?

But why the sacristy, he wasn’t an altar boy. He was dumb and damned yet the questions persisted. Why not a smart kid? Why the sacristy? Had he become the chosen one? Had the world come to its senses recognizing in him saint like qualities? Was the priest to announce this by way of a private ritual? Would the nuns gather to kneel before him on Monday? Why was his stomach in knots?

These hopeful imaginings he realized were as half baked as the idea of his most favorite human being, Willie Mays, appearing at his back door wide eyed and smiling on a Saturday morning beckoning him to the field to play ball. Hope of anything positive faded at the recollection of the priest’s voice, not unlike Boris Karloff’s in ‘The Mummy’.

From the cloakroom he endured the ceremony as the Blade announced the winners. Father Steven Devlin, Pastor of St. Catherine’s Parish, protector of the flock, direct link to God, handed out award plaques. The class applauded the winners. He spoke of the virtues