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  So began the Duo’s time of religious fervour.

  “Forgive me Father for I have sinned. It has been 24 hours since my last confession,” I said trying not to sound bored.

  “You again! This is the fifth time this week! Give me patience! In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost.”

  “Ditto.”

  “Ditto? I may be an old fashioned priest but as far as I’m aware Ditto is not a sin.”

  “I mean same sins as last time. Just trying to speed things along, it’s a Captain Carbuncle and the Aliens from Zogeriod night.”

  “Well ditto to you too boy, and don’t come back until you have a proper confession to make.”

  The next day.

  “Forgive me Father for I have sinned.”

  “Terry, this had better be good!”

  “I have wasted the time of the church by confessing poorly.”

  “Get out, get out,” were Father McFerter’s last words.

  Bobby continued successfully confessing for a few more days by mining sinning ideas from Eastenders. For reasons Bobby could not explain Father McFerter eventually threw Bobby out when he confessed to acts of necrophilia and bestiality with his battery operated Dalek.

  At least there was still the choir and bible studies.

  “Terry, why do you have your fingers in your ears?” Choirmaster Ferguson angrily asked.

  “Tone deaf Ted hurts my brain straining for those high notes!”

  “You stupid boy, I can’t hear anything. He’s not even singing, he’s just mouthing silently,” was Ferguson’s rather unsympathetic retort.

  I tried to explain, “It must be like that mosquito thing for distressing teenagers, you can’t hear it but it’s killing the rest of us.”

  “Ted, are you singing?” Ferguson sceptically asked.

  “Just practicing my dog scales,” Ted sheepishly replied.

  “What? Just stop it and you, Terry, get your fingers out of your ears! Now, from the top and with some feeling, please,” Ferguson pleaded.

  My technique was to try and fit as many notes as possible to each word on the basis that some of them would be spot on. Bobby just droned. It was quite a pleasant soothing one note drone, a bit like a vacuum cleaner. Anything that drowned out the noises Ted made was good.

  “Stop, stop, for the love of god, please stop! Bobby, I’ve told you before you have to open your mouth when you sing. Hissing through clenched teeth is not singing!” Ferguson exclaimed in frustration.

  “Don’t you think that’s a rather reactionary view? I’d like to think I’m creating a new singing form, a pure minimalist approach to musical worship,” Bobby replied, showing some surprise that the choirmaster was questioning his technique.

  “God give me patience. Bobby you’ll sing my way or not at all, got it?” was Ferguson’s uncompromising response.

  “I’ve no artistic objections to standing at the back of the choir and contributing silently,” Bobby helpfully suggested.

  “Me too, as long as I’m not standing next to Ted, otherwise I’ll need ear plugs,” I offered.

  “That’s it! Get out, both of you,” were Ferguson’s last words on the subject.

  And so our interlude of musical worship abruptly ended.

  Bible classes went the same way, it just took a little longer. The class was held every Thursday after school right at the back of the church, in a dusty alcove overlooked by menacing paintings of saints and ugly statues of elderly deformed people. Our joining had massively swelled class numbers. There were now five of us but only one zealot, called Donald. The other two were Tracy and Jimmy, who were barely out of nappies, and clearly struggling with the some of the deeper philosophical aspects of bible reading, and who had been sent by their mums as a substitute for expensive babysitters. We of course had a serious purpose; becoming irresistible religious babe magnets.

  “Why didn’t Noah take some cute dinosaurs, they could talk and were very friendly,” little Tracy asked, quite reasonably I thought, though I think she was on shaky ground with the whole cute thing. I think that was something Hollywood stuck on later.

  Bobby decided to answer Tracy before Sister Patricia could open her mouth, “Good point Tracy. Now a non-believer, damn them to hell, would suggest that the whole Noah thing was made up anyway and dinosaurs were extinct millions of years before man even turned up. But the bible tells us it’s the dinosaurs that were made up.”

  Tracy immediately burst into tears and ran sobbing from the church screaming, “I hate the bible, the bible people killed all the nice dinosaurs.”

  “Next time Bobby, would you let me handle the questions, I’ll let you know if I need help,” Sister Patricia gently suggested.

  “Was Bobby wrong about the dinosaurs, did Noah take some? How come that’s never mentioned? You’d get a lot more kids interested in studying the bible if there were dinosaurs on the Ark. Must have been intense. They’d have ripped every other living thing to bloody shreds, the whole Ark would have been covered in gore and entrails,” Jimmy quizzed, getting enthusiastically involved in the debate after being asleep most of the time.

  “Over to you Sister,” Bobby whispered.

  “I think we’re straying off the point of this lovely story,” Sister Patricia answered with a tetchy edge to her voice. “That’s enough about dinosaurs, let’s get back to Noah.”

  “Tracy and Jimmy have a point though, don’t they? Exactly what does the bible say about dinosaurs? Did they exist and were they ever cute?” I asked quite innocently.

  “Idiots, what are you doing here? Another stupid word about dinosaurs and I’m gonna launch a crusade on your arses,” Donald the zealot squealed, going a bright red as he shook his little fist at the two of us. He looked quite scary.

  “Donald, language, and that’s not very Christian, let’s all just calm down,” Sister Patricia almost shouted.

  “Actually, I thought bloody crusades against unbelievers was a very Christian thing to do. Weren’t there nine of them between the 11th and 13th century, and of course there are the modern versions,” Bobby interjected.

  Donald flung his small frame across the bible study table and grabbed Bobby by the throat pushing him over, while screaming, “Here comes the inquisition you dirty atheist.”

  Shortly afterwards Sister Patricia invited us to leave her bible class.

  Having been pumped up on religion for over a week now I decided to try out my rusty bin babe powers on Madge. I waited until she’d completed her schedule of strenuous bully activities for the break and was looking a little tired, and approached cautiously.

  “Madge, notice anything different about me,” there was only a couple of minutes break time left so there was no point beating about the bush of love.

  She turned her lovely little face slowly in my direction and stared with a mixed expression of confusion and disgust.

  “What?” Madge asked.

  “It’s just, you know, you’ve probably noticed, I’m getting religious in an intense kinda way,” I hopefully explained.

  “Why?” Madge replied looking more confused and annoyed.

  “Well, you know, it’s a serious thing and I thought maybe you and me might have some kind of theological get-together after school, maybe, if you’d like?” I stammered, encouraged by the absence of any violence, so far.

  Madge didn’t reply. She just gazed at her feet for a few seconds gently shaking her head from side to side, sighed deeply and then walked away heading back inside the school.

  Fantastic, she hadn’t said “No”, which meant she was thinking about saying “Yes.” It was really working. Bobby the genius had done it again - but there was more religiosity to come.

  “Terry, phase one has been concluded successfully. We have established our zealot credentials and it’s time to move onto phase two,” Bobby decided despite both of us now being banned from confession, the choir and bible studies.

  “Does your mum still have those plaster masks of Jesus a
nd Mary?” Bobby rather bizarrely went on to ask.

  “I guess so,” I replied.

  “Good, excellent, bring both to school on Monday.”

  My mum won the masks at a funfair years ago. At the time I thought they were a rather disappointing prize for managing to shoot three tin squirrels with three shots. My sharp shooting mum was never able to repeat that prodigious feat even when more sensible prizes were on offer, like a robot. Now I realise it was all fate. My mum had been granted her temporary marksmanship powers just to win those particular masks so that one day they could play a critical part in Bobby’s mysterious plan. Spooky. The masks themselves were very ordinary and more like saucers with crude faces in deep relief on the underside. But where were they? If I just asked mum she might just remember, drag them out and put them on display somewhere out of reach. Worse, she might start a dad-conversation with me. Recently these had become quite strange. She would ask me what I thought of living with dad in Glasgow for a wee bit. It sounded good for a holiday, but why didn’t he just come home? It made no sense. There was nothing for it, I would have to offer to clear out the attic and hope I found them before having to do too much clearing. After Sunday mass it was four hot sweaty hours into the clearing before they finally surfaced. We now had the tidiest attic in town and I had the spine of a sixty-year old miner. That night I slept on my back like an upturned turtle with my knees and arms gently waving in the air.

  I hobbled into school on Monday, doubled over and with the masks safely stowed in my satchel.

  “Well done Terry. At lunch order the custard, but no prunes. It is essential your custard is unsullied,” Bobby advised.

  Lunch was normally conducted like a final grand prix qualifying lap. We usually went in, stuffed our faces and got out as fast as humanly possible, thus maximising break time for important cogitations. Not today. Bobby insisted I chew each mouthful one thousand times and cut every pea in half. Finally it was time for pudding. We took our dinner plates back and collected the custard. The two of us were the only ones left at dinner except for garbage gorger Greg who was still scavenging leftovers.

  “Give me Jesus, and you slip Mary under the custard. Quick, while no one’s looking,” Bobby unexpectedly ordered.

  “Now eat the top layer till the face of the mask is barely visible. Good, now we need to get the custard to cool and set around the features so start blowing,” Bobby continued.

  A little while later Bobby called out, “Hey Greg, look at this.”

  “Are they leftovers? What’s that in your custards, yours looks like a map of Australia and that one’s like a, not sure really, a face? Anyway, are you two finished, can I have them?” Greg hungrily asked.

  “Blasphemer be gone, these custards are signs, portents. They are miracle custards, now get lost,” Bobby declared while shooing the salivating Greg away.

  “Sister, we have a sign, actually two signs, Jesus and Mary custards!” Bobby shouted while we simultaneously jumped up pushing our chairs over and pointing momentously at our desserts.

  Soon the whole school was abuzz with news of the custard miracle. The sacred desserts had been safely secured in the school fridge while the nuns discussed the meaning of the strange visitation. One thing they seemed very sure of was that Bobby and I were very lucky and very special boys. Mother Superior and novice Maria asked to meet us just before the end of the school day in the dining room, or “House of the Sacred Custard” as Bobby had taken to calling it.

  “We’ve all noticed your sudden impressive spurt of devotional activities and it would be wonderful to think this special occurrence is your reward. However, there are rules about these sorts of things, so someone from the Bishop’s office will be here tomorrow to carry out an investigation. Isn’t that exciting? Oh, and Maria wants to say something to both of you.”

  I turned to check on Bobby. He’d never been this close to Maria and I just hoped he wouldn’t do anything stupid. I needn’t have worried. He looked like a dribbling rabbit caught in the headlights of an oncoming lorry.

  “Bambinos, you really make me think about the faith you have and what is my faith. Your devotion to mother church humbles me. Tomorrow I have to make a big choice about my vows. You really help me, so special gracia.” A miracle! Maria kissed our cheeks, both of them. I was having sex with someone other than myself and it was a woman, a gorgeous woman! Bobby fainted.

  “I had this fantastic dream, Maria was snogging me,” was the first thing Bobby said when he recovered.

  “That was no dream,” I said as I continued applying cling film grabbed from the kitchen to my cheeks, hoping to preserve the sensation of her lips on my skin for as long as possible.

  “Wow! Then the nightmare about the Bishop’s inquisition was a dream,” Bobby happily declared, grinning from ear to ear.

  “If you mean the Bishop’s custard investigation then that was no dream either,” I helpfully explained and then Bobby passed out again.

  “I don’t understand. We’ve both had sex with Maria, mission accomplished. Who cares about the custard now? Don’t worry, Mum will never notice the plates are missing,” I said, trying to sooth a panicking Bobby.

  “Terry, you don’t understand, Maria will hate me if she finds out about your trick custard. I could get excommunicated, then she’ll never snog me again! We have to get your mum’s masks out of the custard before the Bishop’s man arrives tomorrow.”

  What about me? I wouldn’t have said no to another kiss but I just accepted that I’d had my one go and that was it, my sex life was over. What was wrong with Bobby, how could he possibly be expecting another snog?

  “Correction, we will be excommunicated!” Bobby suddenly added as though he’d read my thoughts.

  “You seriously think I could be excommunicated as well. Mum wouldn’t like that, not at all.” I was shocked by Bobby’s sudden use of the ‘we’ word. I was losing the happy feeling hidden under my cling filmed cheeks.

  “We have to get Jesus and Mary out of the custard tonight. There’s no other way,” Bobby insisted.

  We met just after midnight outside the school gates, both of us dressed entirely in black. I’d had to improvise a black balaclava. My only real one was red so I’d used my dad’s old black boxers. By leaving the fly unbuttoned I could see reasonably well. Bobby appeared to be wearing a big black sock over his head that needed darning. The toe holes just about allowed him to breath and see, but not at the same time.

  We squeezed through the railings and crept along the church wall towards the House of the Sacred Custard at the back of the playground. Bobby would bump into things and then gasp in pain, only to swallow a mouthful of sock. I hoped for his sake he was using a clean one.

  “Push the window up and climb in,” Bobby mumbled through a layer of thick wool. Once inside I nimbly fell off the sill. Adopting a perfectly balanced ninja fighting stance I carefully banged all the really painful parts of my bony anatomy and some softer parts against every sharp furniture edge I could find in the dark, while edging my way to the door to let Bobby in.

  “You know the plan, start your Mickey Mouse watch we have exactly 4 minutes,” Bobby whispered.

  Four hours later, bruised, tired and slightly electrocuted we sneaked out and headed for home. Inside my satchel was the prize we’d come for, the Mary and Jesus custard soaked masks.

  “I have some very sad news boys. Last night the school fridge failed and everything melted. All the food was ruined. I’m afraid nothing much was left of your special custards. Maria would also like to say something,” was how Mother Superior broke the welcome news.

  “Bambinos my faith cannot compare with yours. You are one with God, I envy you. You make fine priests one day. I’ve tried hard but cannot believe as you do, so I must leave mother church. I’ll return to the dancing with the pole and try and make happy people my way. Ciao.” And then she leant over and kissed our cheeks. We were having sex again! Bobby and I were stunned. Twice in one lifetime? It was enough to tak
e the edge off Maria’s departure. My only regret was not being Polish and able to dance.

  Bobby and I saw Maria one last time before she left the island. As a special reward for our religious fervour, Mother Superior organised a special evening mass to pray for Bobby’s dad and I got another rosary. So I did rather well out of it. At the service Maria sang like the angel she was. I bribed tone deaf Ted not to sing. It was a beautiful ceremony, but a bit over the top I thought. Bobby’s dad was only a bit sick, but the nuns used any excuse for more church time.

  Now, I knew Bobby was an atheist like me, but that evening in church he pretended to pray very hard for a very long time and then he and his mum cried a bit together. Obviously he was really going to miss Maria, but what was his mum crying about?

  Chapter Seven – Culture

  “My mum says it’s the biggest disaster to hit the island since the terrorist attack on the brewery,” I mumbled, sitting forlornly on the school steps, head in hands.

  “From what I’ve read the so-called attack was all very tame. In 1991 Lady McStrugg of the Temperance League hijacked a milk float and crashed it into the brewery. The building, the milk float and 98 pints of milk were utterly destroyed. Oddly enough Lady McStrugg only suffered a minor blow to her head and subsequently developed a taste for gin flavoured cottage-cheese. I reckon there’s been nothing to compare with our current predicament since the meteorite strike of 1822 that wiped out the dinosaurs and destroyed the olde sweete shoppe,” Bobby sadly recited while a thin smile rippled around his mouth.