Free The God Squad by Paddy Doyle Page B

surplice.
    There were sixteen altar boys, all dressed in red and white. Just before Mass began the sacristan asked me to bring the red missal and brass stand to the altar. Positioning it carefully to the right of the tabernacle, I tidied the coloured marking-ribbons so they hung neatly down onto the white altar cloth. I returned to the sacristy and took my place at the head of one of the rows of eight boys.
    The congregation stood as we walked slowly onto the altar followed by the priests and finally the Bishop. Each of the servers took his position at the bottom step as the Bishop went to the centre of the altar to begin the sacred ritual. Two priests helped as the Bishop put three measures of incense into the thurible which I held open. Once he was finished I allowed the silver lid to slip slowly into the closed position before handing it to a priest, who passed it to the Bishop. With great solemnity, the celebrant swung it gently towards each part of the altar. A blessing, or perhaps an exorcism. The con-celebrants blessed each other before returning the thurible to me. The Bishop stood before me on the highest step of the altar, as I knelt on the lowest and gently swung the thurible at him.
    The organist struck a single chord and, after a momentary silence, the Bishop chanted the opening lines of a prayer before the voices of the choir filled the church with the appropriate response. He sat while one of the priests read the epistle. I watched closely waiting for the moment he would lay his hand on the altar cloth, an indication that he was nearing the end of the reading and a signal to me to ascend the steps from the side and move the missal to the Gospel side of the altar.
    I lifted the missal and stand, bowed and prepared to descend the centre steps. On the second step I tripped and fell face down. I watched helplessly as the missal slid across the polished mosaic floor, its ribbons trailing like the tail of some exotic bird. The noise of the stand reverberated through the silent church. I could feel every pair of eyes on me as I got to my feet to collect the missal. Several of the priests who were con-celebrating pushed me away, discreetly whispering to me to go back and kneel in my place. There were many minutes of silence as the ribbons were replaced at the appropriate pages. I watched, disgustedthat something like this should have happened. I knew the nuns from the school would be at Mass and was certain I would be in the worst possible trouble. I prayed. Eventually I was overcome by fear and fainted.
    When I came to, Mother Paul and Mother Michael were standing over me. Just as one was about to say something to me, a priest came into the sacristy. I was petrified. He stretched out his hand, placed it gently on my shoulder and asked if I was all right.
    ‘Yes, Father,’ I answered.
    ‘What happened was an accident,’ he said, ‘there’s nothing to worry about.’
    As soon as he was gone, Mother Michael said, ‘You have disgraced Saint Michael’s.’
    ‘I didn’t mean it,’ I replied.
    ‘Let me tell you this,’ Mother Paul said sternly, ‘and remember it. You will never ever again set foot inside an altar rails.’
    She could not have known it at the time but her words were prophetic.
    As the rest of the boys took off their vestments in the sacristy, Mother Paul left saying she would deal with me later. Some of the boys played handball after Mass and I decided to join in, but was told to ‘get lost’. They jeered me for falling and then fainting. When they saw that I was almost crying they became even more vocal in their taunting. ‘Orphan, orphan,’ they jeered as I walked from the churchyard. As they continued to jeer I became enraged and ran back towards them, kicking and punching as many as I could. The sacristan rushed from the sacristy and pulled me off one boy I was threatening to kill. I was shaking with anger, shocked by my sudden outburst of temper. I wondered briefly if the sacristan would