–Corpus Christi.

–Amen, said Sinbad.

–Close your eyes, I said.

He did.

–Corpus Christi.

–Amen.

He lifted his head and stuck out his tongue. I gave him the mouldy one.

–How do the priests make hosts? I asked my ma.

–Flour, said my ma.—It’s just bread until it’s blessed.

–Not real bread.

–A different kind of bread, she said.—It’s unleavened bread.

–What’s that?

–I don’t know.

I didn’t believe her.

The real good part of the story started when Father Damien went to the leper colony. Molokai was the name of it. It was where all the lepers were put so they couldn’t give it to anyone else. Father Damien knew what he was doing; he knew that he was going there forever. A strange expression burned on Father Damien’s face when he told the bishop he wanted to go there. The bishop was pleased and edified by the bravery of his young missionary. The little church on Molokai was rundown and neglected but Father Damien fixed it up. He broke a branch from a tree and used it as a broom and began to sweep the floor of the tiny chapel. He put flowers in it. The lepers that were hanging around watching him just kept watching him for ages. He was a big healthy man and they were only lepers. After the first day the lepers still hadn’t started to help him. When he went to bed he could hear the lepers moaning in the dark and the surf booming on the barren shore. Belgium had never seemed so far away. After a while the lepers started helping him. He became friends with them. They called him Kamiano.

–Are there any lepers in Ireland?

–No.

–Any?

–No.

Father Damien built a better church and houses and did loads of other things—he showed them all how to grow vegetables—and he knew all the time that he was going to catch the leprosy as well, but he didn’t mind. His greatest happiness was to see his children, the boys and girls whom he had taken under his care. Each day he spent several hours with them.

Bits of the lepers fell off. That was what happened them. Did you hear about the leper cowboy? He threw his leg over his horse. Did you hear about the leper gambler? He threw in his hand.

One evening in December 1884 Father Damien put his aching feet into some water to ease the pain. He got red blisters all over his feet; the water was boiling but his feet were numb. He knew he had leprosy.—I can’t bear to tell you but it’s true, said the doctor sadly. But Father Damien didn’t mind.—I have leprosy, he said.—Blessed be the Good God!

–Blessed be the Good God, I said.

My da started laughing.

–Where did you get that from? he said.

–I read it, I told him.—Father Damien said it.

–Which one’s he?

–Father Damien and the lepers.

–Oh, that’s right. He was a good man.

–Were there ever any lepers in Ireland?

–I don’t think so.

–Why not?

–It only happens in hot places. I think.

–It’s hot here sometimes, I said.

–Not that hot.

–Yes it is.

–Not hot enough, said my da.—It has to be very very hot.

–How much hotter than here?

–Fifteen degrees, said my da.

There was no cure for leprosy. He didn’t tell his mother when he was writing to her. But the news got out. People sent money to Father Damien and he built another church with it. It was made of stone. The church is still standing and may be seen by travellers to Molokai today. Father Damien told his children that he was dying and that the nuns would take care of them from then on. They clung to his feet and said,—No, no, Kamiano! We want to stay as long as you are here. The nuns had to go back emptyhanded.

–Do it again.

Sinbad grabbed my legs.

–No, no, Kam—Kam—

–Kamiano!

–I can’t remember it.

–Kamiano.

–Can I not just say Patrick?

–No, I said. Do it again and you’d better get it right.

–I don’t want to.

I gave him half a Chinese torture. He grabbed my legs.

–Lower down.

–How?

–Lower.

–You’ll kick me.

–I won’t. I will if you don’t.

Sinbad grabbed me around the ankles. He held me tight so my feet were stuck.

–No, no, Kamiano! We want to stay as long you are here.

–Okay, my children, I said.—You can stay.

–Thanks very much, Kamiano, said Sinbad.

He wouldn’t let go of my feet.

Father Damien died on Palm Sunday. The people sat on the ground beating their breasts in old Hawaiian fashion, swaying back and forth and wailing sadly. The leprosy had gone off him; there were no scabs or anything. He was a saint. I read it twice.

I needed lepers. Sinbad wasn’t enough. He kept running away. He told our ma that I was making him be a leper and he didn’t want to be one. So I needed lepers. I couldn’t tell Kevin because he’d have ended up being Father Damien and I’d have been a leper. It was my story. I got the McCarthy twins and Willy Hancock. They were four, the three of them. They thought it was great being with a big boy, me. I made them come into our back garden. I told them what lepers were. They wanted to be lepers.

–Can lepers swim? said Willy Hancock.

–Yeah, I said.

–We can’t swim, said one of the McCarthys.

–Lepers can swim, said Willy Hancock.

–They don’t have to swim, I said.—You don’t have to swim. You only have to pretend you’re lepers. It’s easy. You just have to be a bit sick and wobble a bit.

They wobbled.

–Can they laugh?

–Yeah, I said.—They only have to lie down sometimes so I can mop their brows and say prayers on them.

–I’m a leper!

–I’m a leper! Wobble wobble wobble!

–Wobble wobble leper!

–Wobble wobble leper!

–Our Father who art in heaven hallowed by thy name—

–Wobble wobble wobble!

–Shut up a sec—

–Wobble wobble wobble.

They had to go home for their dinners. I heard them through the hedge on the path to their houses.

–I’m a leper! Wobble wobble wobble!

–I have a vocation, I told my ma, just in case Missis McCarthy came to the door about the twins, or Missis Hancock.

She was still cooking the dinner and stopping Catherine from climbing into the press under the sink with the polish and brushes in it.

–What’s that, Patrick?

–I have a vocation, I said.

She picked up Catherine.

–Has someone been talking to you? she said.

It wasn’t what I’d expected.

–No, I said.—I want to be a missionary.

–Good boy, she said, but not the way I’d wanted. I wanted her to cry. I wanted my da to shake my hand. I told him when he got home from his work.

–I have a vocation, I said.

–No you don’t, he said.—You’re too young.

–I do, I said.—God has spoken to me.

It was all wrong.

He spoke to my ma.

–I told you, he said.

He sounded angry.

–Encouraging this rubbish, he said.

–I didn’t encourage it, she said.

–Yes, you bloody did, he said.

She looked like she was making her mind up.

–You did!

He roared it.

She went out of the kitchen, beginning to run. She tried to undo the knot of her apron. He went after her. He looked different, like he’d been caught doing something. They left me alone. I didn’t know what had happened. I didn’t know what I’d done.

They came back. They didn’t say anything.

Snails and slugs were gastropods; they had stomach feet. I poured salt on a slug. I could see the torture and agony. I picked him up with the trowel and gave him a decent burial. The real name for soccer was association football. Association football was played with a round ball on a rectangular pitch by two sides of eleven people. The object is to score goals, i.e. force the ball into the opponents’ goal, which is formed by two upright posts upon which is mounted a crossbar. I learned this off by heart. I liked it. It didn’t sound like rules; it sounded cheeky. The biggest score ever was Arbroath 36, Bon Accord 0. Joe Payne scored the most goals, ten of them, for Luton in 1936. Geronimo was the last of the renegade Apaches.