On hearing the news from Australia of the decades of abuse carried

                       out by members of the Catholic Church, and reading of the two sisters 

                       one now dead, the other in need of permanent care.

      

     

      If I may be so bold

      to comment on your hats of gold

      to share a thought for what its worth

      on your oh so mighty reign on earth

      

      how come your priests

      in secret times

     

      were moved and moved

      despite their crimes?

      a new unknowing flock

      would have to suffer grief and shock

      a new unknowing child

      would feel a touch that was not mild.

      Is it because in your eyes

      only God can censure crimes?

      Is it because in your teaching

      God's judgement is so far reaching?

      Among the thousands from that land

      of red, red rock and golden sand,

      two girls suffered at your priests hands

      now one is damaged and in distant lands

      the other life could no more abide

      and chose the course of suicide,

      how that one mother must consider

      your pious empty mocking chatter,

      how she must forever care for one

      and remember the sad and tragic other.

      Thousands of children suffered there

      because God's servants did not care

      because the priests and bishops of the time

      were silent on this monstrous crime.

      Come Judgement Day I do desire

      that your God will send you

      to that land of fire

      where you shall have eternity

      to think upon youths misery,

      to ponder evil, wrongs and rights

      to suffer in the darkest nights.

      

      

      

      

                      

                    Pleased to meet you … hope you guess my name.

  
    It was the summer school holidays, I had no real plans. I heard from Graham a friend of mine that his folks were going to be out of town for a week or so. I had a stash of acid, it was just about all I considered worthwhile in those days, so putting two and two together I grabbed my jacket and the drugs and hitch-hiked to his house. I could get high in the daytime while he worked, we could hang loose at night, wonderful idea I thought.

   So Monday morning he's off to work, I take the acid and turn on the music. I believe I started with Abraxas by Santana, such a great album it was too, and the cover, oh my the cover, and the drifting beginning, the smooth smooth guitar, the drums, the rhythm and then into Black Magic Woman of course. Next stop was a few things from the Woodstock triple album, no memory of what I started with but after awhile went back to Santana and that potent, potent tune Soul Sacrifice.

  Now those of you familiar with the properties of that popular drug LSD back then will be figuring that its about time that I started to take off, and you'd be right. Santana played, I raised up the volume on the player, the drums beat, the rhythm pulsed, and I couldn't keep still. I began to loosely dance on the living room carpet, swaying, moving, turning to a slight circular motion as the drums led me on, almost as Native American dancers would, knees bending, turning and turning.

 Then things changed, it could have been a lyric from the song, could have been just the way my mind was turning too, but I suddenly sort of said to myself, oh man, this is not good. It dawned on me that I had actually been performing some invocation as I danced, I began innocently but was now being led, I was actually offering up my soul to sacrifice.

 Now again you'd have to be familiar with the character of LSD to follow me here. This was not felt as a hallucination, as some sort of psychedelic illusion, this was experienced as being absolutely and totally real, an actual solid event, happening now. I had with my music and dancing tuned into something very, very dangerous and now I was reaping the consequences. There was no one else there to tell me otherwise, Leary always suggested a friend or guide beside you, and here he was right for without that outside reference I was lost, just lost.

  Seconds after realizing the ritual nature of what I'd got myself into and beginning to get worried I looked up at the wall opposite. There was my shadow, a dark massively winged and horned shadow. I had invoked the Devil and he was now inside me. I could see him there before me, reflected back in that awful black shape of wings and horns. Again, please understand me here, this was not experienced as a scary but illusory vision, this was felt as absolutely real, absolutely real. I had with the drug, the music and the dance tuned into a dark, dark place, I had in actual fact invoked Lucifer and given up my soul.

 I trembled unsteadily as I stopped the music, the great black shadow both seen before me and felt rising forth from my shoulders. I was terrified, frantic. I knew that I needed to communicate with a sympathetic soul here, I needed human reassurance, I needed help. There was in those days a London based organization called Release, mainly concerned with drug issues and the counter-culture, and somehow they came to mind and somehow I got their number. The woman at the other end of the line listened briefly to my panicked mumblings and then slowly, slowly took charge. There was no such thing as the Devil, he did not exist, all good and all evil was within, there was nothing without to be afraid of, everything came from myself, it was all me. She suggested I go in the garden, fly a kite, sit on a swing, just be … I was turned around during this brief conversation. "Oh Yes!" it hit me, how could I be afraid of myself, Lucifer .. Hah! … an illusion of my own creation. I recovered, I was whole again.

  I don't recall what I did for the rest of the day, but when Graham came home we shared a joint and I told him of my day. I had to go home I said, my foundations were rocked here, I needed to be back in my own room, safe. So the next day I hitchhiked back and the holiday was over. Always have remembered that day though, as you can imagine.      

Remembering Mr. Taylor


    If you saw him walking the school grounds there at Kimbolton Castle in Cambridgeshire, or up in front of his class you probably wouldn't give him too much of your time for Mr Taylor was really just an average looking man. He was quite well-built, with light brown hair, glasses, a slight and careful smile, except of course when he was real, real angry. I doubt he was ever angry in public though, it would have been safer that way, it was with us youngsters at night that he revealed his rages. 

  There was a three years age range of boys at the school, which by the way was only about a 20 minute drive from my house, but I got a scholarship and my folks wanted to give me what they thought was the best education, and so I slept at school rather than going home, a boarder is how it was known. So, the boys entered the school at  age of 9 or so, I forget exactly but young we were, dropped off by our tearful Mothers at the front door, everything packed up in a large trunk case, with our clothes, sports stuff, jams, peanut butter and biscuits for special treats.

  There were about 30 beds or so, we were laid out alphabetically by last name, starting from myself by the door, which made sense I guess because by last name is how we were known to all and amongst ourselves. 'Lights Out' was about 8:00, we were supposed to stay quiet and silent, and gradually fall asleep. It was easier of course in Wintertime but in Early Summer as the light continued to stream in the windows, it was almost impossible. We would chat and joke amongst ourselves, some boys up and down over and in others beds, playfully I mean. It was of course almost always the same crew of naughty kids, all were aware of the dangers involved here and the meeker boys just clammed up tight and pretended sleep.

  So at times we'd be jabbering away amongst ourselves, boy talk, teasing, daring, that sort of stuff and then Mr. Taylor would suddenly fling the door open and burst in. I imagine he must have been listening awhile to time his entry just right, but who knows maybe it was just bad luck on our part.

 "Who's talking!" would come the furious shout "I said, who's talking in here!"
He was visibly shaking and a silence and fear spread amongst us immediately. Sometimes if no-one 'owned-up' so to speak he would threaten to punish the whole roomful of us, at which point one of the braver boys, usually Douglas would climb out of bed, others would follow, as would I. He'd glare and shout and we'd all be gathering by the door in our pajamas. "Anyone else!" Then we'd be sent to the showers and changing room just down the corridor.

   He'd form us up in a line, call us out one by one, have us lower our pajama trousers, bend over, and then strike a vicious, vicious blow on our bare behind with a springy tennis shoe, at times there would be several, usually up to six. The pain was intense for awhile and there was nothing to do about it but rub your cheeks try not to cry in front of the other boys and then scatter back to bed. He'd stop by for a brief lecture, the anger still vivid in his eyes, and then in complete silence we'd all then try to sleep. Now just so as you know, this was not some clunky kind of Nike sneaker, this was a rubber shoe, easy to hold and swing, and shocking to receive, a weapon basically.

   Other times he'd almost quietly enter the room, I'm not even sure he would announce himself, he'd just be there, with no shouting this time, he'd just quietly stroll between the row of beds. We'd be totally silent, he'd be feeling his power I would think. He would stop at the end of the room to visit with the boys whose names just happened to end with M, lie with them and, well it was never really talked about what exactly happened, our fear of him was too great to talk of him amongst ourselves, but we knew he had favorites and we knew that he was smiling as he lay there. I guess the beds at the end of the room were that little bit safer for him, just in case some other teacher may come in, but they never ever did.

  Mr Taylor had one other habit that I remember, this was a day-time thing of his, he'd call you up to go over some homework or such, and as you stood by his side he would work his hand down the back of your shirt and into your underwear. You'd feel a cold strange hand gliding, caressing, resting gently. You would never say or do anything of course, for one thing he was the master of the situation, he was terrifying, you felt frozen, trapped, you just put up with it and waited for it to be over. Never ever told my folks about any of the school practices, curious you might think, as have I. Remember though that all outgoing mail was read by a teacher before it went out, we had a regular Sunday morning session for that, and you just kind of accept that is was them who sent you there, so they know what's up, that is the way the world is and there is not a darn thing you can do about it. I have seen Douglas with a behind that was quite literally black from the bruises. No-one was ever accountable, no-one. The hatred I felt for that place was actually given over to my father, I held him responsible, it took many many years to change that, which is truly a great, great shame.

  Mr Taylor would be in his seventies now I suppose, if of course he is still with us. I wonder sometimes what I'd do or say if I ever met him again. Slap him around a bit perhaps, just to let him know how it feels, let him feel the pain, the terror, the helplessness of it all. I guess once I'd done that a few times that that would be the end of it, maybe I'd just spit on the floor, curse him, turn and leave. Afterwards perhaps I'd feel a little better.           

                     The Hundred Dollar Bill

    Cochin was in darkness, it's streets quiet, the air warm and heavy. Insects buzzed and fluttered at the lamps of the few remaining wayside vendors. The rickshaw driver turned his head and chatted briefly as he took me down a side street to a nearby hotel. 

     Crossing the courtyard to wash I followed a path through the draped forms of resting men. Some watched my passing, as they talked amongst themselves, their cigarettes aglow, white vests bright in the deep shadow of a sheltering tree.

  I was resting on the bed when someone appeared in the doorway. I could see he was a man of business. He told me his name was Rajamund, and as I looked up and spoke of my tiredness, he nodded with understanding and a faint smile, sat down, relaxed and lit a cigarette. He then began to talk of a scheme of which he seemed both confident and proud, and with the open mind that weariness can bring I listened, as politely and with a quiet enthusiasm, he told his story.  

   

     "In town there is a girl a very pretty girl … Yes ... Very Pretty … A German girl …"

I glanced his way.

     "Please, no girls,"

     "Ah … but wait. It is I who have the money. I will give you one hundred dollars, a good bill … Fresh … Just minted … Arrived this week from Singapore."

     I looked his way again as he went on to explain his plan. 

     "We will share the change, you, myself and my brother."

     "You see?. You understand?"

     "A good bill?" I asked.

     "Excellent quality. The very best," came his reply in words that echoed perfectly the whispered temptation of so many a street encounter.

      "All will go well," he said as he leant back in his chair.    

      "You have your pleasure. We share the change. All will go well."

He regarded me silently for a few seconds. 

       "Good! Yes?"

I found myself unable to contain a smile in reply.

   I awoke the next day to the sound of crows, the rumble of an ox-cart and the steady chatter of small children on their way to school. Normally this would ease me into the day but the events of the evening troubled me. Did I want the girl anyway? Would she have a protector? Would they see the game we played? Yet the money to be made could not be denied. I packed my bag and left for another part of town, unable to handle this anxious questioning, this tempting yet fraught proposal. That morning I began wander by the docks, Rajamund had told me that was where he could be found. Though I told myself that this really was a bad deal, I still felt drawn to it. I would tempt fate.

     Catching sight of me Rajamund leapt from his resting place in the shady roots of a banyan tree, his face alive with the possibilities of the day and we greeted each other with the strength and vigor of those about to embark on a vital journey. His brother was by his side and took from the hundred-dollar bill from the top pocket of his faded cotton shirt. I looked at it and then gazed up into their faces, as if to say "Is this it? You expect that I use this?" For it was the sort of money children would use when pretending the ways of grownups. It was then that I realized that it was with an innocent and primitive trust that we were to undertake this venture. The note was good because we believed it to be so. That was enough, that would see us through. A taxi sat nearby, its engine warm, turning over slowly. It had been waiting for us all this time, and I became a passive yet willing accomplice as the three of us opened the doors and climbed inside. 

  We arrived at a small brick house on the outskirts of town. Words were exchanged with the driver, and he sat and waited. Rajamund had wanted to smarten me up a little, with new shirt and trousers, perhaps shoes instead of sandals, but I said no to spending any money on this quest. I was apprehensive and afraid as the three of us walked to the quiet building. Rajamund knocked and the door was opened by a plump, middle-aged Anglo-Indian woman. So this was the beauty! This plain woman in a worn brown house-dress.

   'It's nine in the morning. What will the neighbors think." she said forcefully.

Rajamund apologized whilst nodding my way, as if laying the blame on my desires. Anxiously I took a seat on the couch and glanced around, behind a cloth curtain I could see the figure of a man as he moved around the kitchen. The woman asked forgiveness for the untidiness of the house and then suggested that I relax in the bedroom. 

   "Just this way," she said with a smile and a wave of her hand.

It was at this moment that Rajamund produced the note. The moment dragged on as I hoped for release. She regarded his extended hand for a moment.

   "But I cannot take this. It is too early in the day and I have no money." 

  

 These words lifted the weight, my whole being relaxed. I made for the for the door, eyes smiling, feeling so very, very good. The brothers followed silently behind. Outside I joked ecstatically with them about the note. "This useless thing," I called it, the brothers did not smile back. Then the three of us entered the still waiting taxi. I looked out with a quiet happiness, the two of them in silent despondency. After a while a suggestion was made that we visit a store in town, owned by two Sikh brothers, with wonderful ivory carvings. Perhaps I would like to visit, maybe buy a few items? I shook my head to say no. The taxi continued on its way and then a voice asked hopefully.                

    "Hashish?"

    Our destination was the house of a Muslim in the old quarter of town, on the island known as Fort Cochin. As the ferry pulled in at the jetty I noticed at the top of the steps above us a small hunch-backed figure. He is wearing a beautiful, almost luminous red and yellow cloth wrapped around his waist and thighs. His brown body oiled in the sun. His bent back offered to view. Before him lay a selection of colorful lottery tickets laid out neatly upon a square cloth. He had an air of infinite patience.

   A rickshaw is called and we move slowly through lanes of aged wood and stone before coming to a halt before a street-side house, its door and shutters ajar. I notice two old men seated inside. They gaze out at the world in steady and open regard. Rajamund, taking my money, advances to the window. Greetings are given and received. Hands touch lightly in gentle exchange. He returns bearing a package of dark, sweet smelling resin. The old men follow him with their eyes, their look then coming to rest upon my face.

  The brothers suggest a cool drink before taking the ferry home. 'Toddy Shop' announced the hand-painted sign nailed to the front of a rough wooden shack. Entering the darkness inside we are greeted by the proprietor. A large and happy man dressed in a magnificent blue shirt. We sit at a long trestled table, a lizard shimmies across its stained and wounded surface, and a rat clambers up the palm leaf wall.

  The toddy is brought in old, large, mis-matched bottles. It is milky-white, fermented from the coconut tree, strong, sweet and refreshing. Side dishes of fried shell-fish, pickles and chopped onions are put before us. More bottles appear. A cigarette is emptied of its tobacco and with practiced and casual care marijuana is mixed with the shreds. It is all returned, and then a smoothing, a tapping. The proprietor brings matches and soon a pungent smoke drifts lazily around our heads. Everyone is relaxed and happy, and then touching my hand Rajamund says he has a proposal.

     "You could make a lot of money my friend"

       I sigh and turn my head away to watch the patterned light trickling over the floor.

      "One million rupees"

      I lift my head."And?"

      "Just for friendship. Nice, very nice, Indian woman, maybe later perhaps marriage" He smiled and titled his head. 

      "But first you must get some new clothes. These you have will not work."

      He took my loose cotton shirt between his fingers.

      "I have a good friend, a tailor, we must go this afternoon, take measurements, choose the cloth … You will look fine." He says proudly.

      The brothers regard me silently.

      "I need to rest, I am very tired." comes my reply. 

      The next day I decide leave town, it has been enough. I make my way to the bus station and crossing a field I come across Rajamund, it is as if he had been waiting for me. His eyes are hard this time, his shoulders taut, he demands some money to help pay for the toddy of yesterday. I offer no resistance and give him much more than he is really due, after all, I tell myself, we all have to make a living. As we part he does not return my goodbyes.