Daniel Clarke’s hands were sweating and he felt so tired he could just lay down his head and sleep for the rest of the day.
He wished he could run next door to Mrs Peat the way Anna did the moment she got home from school. But Mother didn’t like Daniel out of her sight; she didn’t trust him not to do something evil.
He had been sitting waiting quietly in his bedroom for just over half an hour when his mother shouted up to him.
Father MacCarrick had arrived at last, and John Peters, the seminarian he knew from church, was here too. Daniel listened to their muffled voices as he walked slowly downstairs.
There were some marks on the top of his arms, hidden by his school shirt, and his throat was really sore but he wasn’t allowed to tell anyone.
Mother had set the table with china teacups and matching plates. She had bought six French fancies from the bakery around the corner and arranged them neatly on the white porcelain plate that had a faded gold trim tracing the edge.
There was a proper teapot complete with a strainer, and the milk wasn’t in a carton. Mother had poured it into a small white jug with a tiny chip on the handle.
Pride of place in the middle of the table was her heaviest, beeswax-polished mahogany cross complete with an impressively detailed suffering Jesus.
‘Daniel has been excited about your visit all week, Father,’ his mother told the priest. ‘He’s nervous but very keen to make a good impression on you.’
Her voice sounded higher than usual, and she didn’t drop any letters at the end of her words.
Daniel stood in the doorway and studied his feet. He could feel John Peters watching him.
‘There you are,’ his mother said in her strange voice.
‘Hello Daniel,’ said the priest.
‘Hello Father.’
‘Hello Daniel,’ the seminarian said.
‘Hello John.’
‘Well, don’t stand back there in the shadows now, lad,’ Father MacCarrick chided in his soft Irish accent. ‘Come and sit with us. Look at this fine fayre your mammy has put together in our honour.’
His mother giggled like a young girl and refolded the napkin at the side of her plate again. When she poured the tea, she talked to Father MacCarrick about the East Coast trip that was to take place during Holy Week.
John Peters pushed a whole French fancy into his mouth and, while Father MacCarrick and his mother were in conversation, he slyly showed Daniel the chewed up fondant mess on his tongue.
Daniel was given his tea in one of the ordinary chipped mugs.
‘Now, will you have a cake, Daniel?’ Father MacCarrick offered him the plate where one fancy remained. Daniel had been told to refuse the cakes, if asked.
‘No thanks, Father,’ he said, breathing in the sugar and imagining the sweet, smooth fondant melting on his tongue.
‘I don’t mind another if there’s one going spare,’ John said, snatching it from the plate.
‘Remarkable restraint, Daniel,’ Father MacCarrick said with approval. ‘A good quality to have, wouldn’t you say so, Mrs Clarke?’
‘We do our best to discourage greed in this house, Father,’ his mother agreed.
‘Very admirable,’ the priest murmured. ‘And what other qualities does young Daniel think a good altar server might require?’
A static noise filled Daniel’s head. He knew all the right answers but they were lost in his brain fog.
‘Come on, lad, we won’t bite.’ Father MacCarrick winked at his mother and she smiled but Daniel saw that her face was tight and pale.
Silence.
John Peters pulled a face at him over the priest’s shoulder.
At last, Father MacCarrick spoke again. ‘John, could you help our man Daniel out here? We’re wanting to know the qualities of an altar server.’
‘Don’t stumble, don’t fall asleep, don’t yawn and work as a team,’ John rattled off. ‘Keep yourself smart and upstanding at all times, Father.’
‘Perfect. Thank you, John.’ Father MacCarrick smiled. ‘I’m guessing you knew all of those qualities, Daniel. Am I right?’
‘Yes, Father.’ Daniel nodded and tried not to look at his mother’s cold, incisive stare.
‘Now then, I wonder if you might avail us of the duties of a book-bearer? See Daniel, this is to be one of the prestigious duties of our new altar server at St Mary Magdalene.’
Mother had said earlier what an honour it would be to act as Father MacCarrick’s book-bearer in church. She had told him exactly what duties a book-bearer should carry out for the priest, and she had tested him several times. But now his head was as empty as a licked-out cereal bowl.
‘Daniel?’ Father MacCarrick tapped his long, slim fingers on the table.
Daniel watched the priest’s fingers and began to feel light-headed. A hot trickle of perspiration slid down his back and he shifted in his seat.
‘Carry the book,’ Daniel whispered.
‘Carry the book indeed.’ Father MacCarrick laughed quietly but there was a brittle edge to it. ‘It’s a little more than just “carrying the book” though, am I right?’
‘Yes, Father,’ Daniel said.
‘He does know all the answers,’ Daniel’s mother pleaded. ‘I made sure he knows all of it, Father.’
‘John?’ The priest turned to the seminarian.
‘The book-bearer holds the book of prayer for the priest at the beginning and the end of service,’ John recited. ‘He must ensure the book of prayer is open at the correct page and hold it at such an angle as is easy for the priest to read from, Father.’
‘Quite.’ Father MacCarrick nodded gravely. ‘Thank you, John.’
The priest stood, walked around the table and stopped directly behind Daniel, placing his hands on the boy’s shoulders. He bent forward to speak quietly into Daniel’s ear.
‘You’re a bright lad; we all know that so let’s have another go. Can you tell me the duties of an acolyte, at all?’
Daniel felt the warm pressure of Father MacCarrick’s hands on his shoulders, smelled the priest’s slightly sour breath on the side of his face.
Daniel’s hands began to shake and he couldn’t make them stop, even when he pressed his fingers into his thighs.
‘Daniel,’ Monica Clarke said, ‘tell Father MacCarrick the duties of an acolyte this minute.’
Daniel heard the threat loud and clear that hovered under her reasonable tone.
‘C-candles,’ Daniel stammered.
He wanted Father MacCarrick’s hands off him, but when he shrugged his shoulders the priest dug his fingertips in harder.
‘Carry candles in pairs at the beginning and the end of mass and also during the gospel,’ John offered.
But as he continued to speak, John’s monotone voice drifted further and further away, and Daniel watched his mother’s face contorting and her mouth opening wide but he was unable to make sense of her words.
John smirked at him, and he felt the pressure of Father MacCarrick’s fingertips digging into his collarbone and the warmth of the priest’s body behind him. Suddenly it became too much.
Daniel vomited all over the table.