CH 4

Floating in the warm water was so good, a blissful sensation of peace enveloped her, only a cd with relaxing music at a low volume from a stereo hidden somewhere was interrupting the chirping of the birds and the occasional jingle of the bells all around the place.
She was not alone in the swimming pool but it felt it was reserved for her only.
Joanne – the teacher – had a voice and a way with words she was able to soothe her tormented soul.
When the lesson began, her mind could not concentrate on the positions she was asked to perform, the priest's face was rooted in her brain, the evening they met, the time spent in his garden, at the cafè, the final parting at the bus stop.
She wanted to cry, it hurt, so much, but she was supposed to be silent, following Joanne's lead, so she kept tears inside. Until – a few minutes or maybe an hour after – she woke up from the meditation with a clean and free mind.
She felt ethereal, her soul had quieted and her body too.
When Joanne prompted the group to bathe it was like a rebirth, a nw start, she cut off all memories and recollection, her family, her life and her work.

Becoming a Buddhist suddenly appeared interesting, a different kind of religion, faith and devotion. She felt stronger an ready to take in the afternoon one of the walks Hilda had suggested.

Father Benjamin took the priest apart after breakfast.
"We want to see if you can maintain your wow in the future. Regarding the boys the method can be not orthodox but they are here, not in juvenile hall. We try to help them, we give them rules they can follow for a different kind of life."
The priest tried to hide is amusement at the notion of orthdodoxy.
"The results are proven good. Now you have your morning free time. Go to the sergeant at the gate."
James took from his pocket a small timer, set it on 60 minutes and handed it to the priest.
"You're back at my desk before it expires, or today you'll clean all the kitchen by yourself. Understood?"
"Yes sir. And, sir?" He looked around at the nature surrounding him. "Are there foxes around?"
"Foxes? They are everywhere in England. Why do you ask?"
"We're in Wales, sir."
"This is a fucking island! Foxes can travel. Are you afraid? Shout and they'll run away."
The gate opened and he was out, alone. He never felt freedom was so important. He breathed again, started walking; he was scared, fuckingly unsure of what to do, where to go. In the end he just followed the wired fence of the camp until he reached the woods, then got back.
He wondered if the other priests were out, but no one was in sight. Were they scared or bored or resigned by now? For how long he'd confined there?

The preparation of lunch was a repetition of what London witnessed at dinner; hamburger and peas as the main course, another a holy lecture from a different reader.
He was ordered to control the peas, a sea of green balls swimming in the tomato sauce.
The other cooks in the kitchen weren't eager to talk, the sergeant observed from his desk, full of sheets in neat precision. There was a middle aged man from Manchester, whose red nose and cheeks betrayed his addiction.
A fat man with a strong Scottish accent, named Carlisle, and another whose skin revealed Caribbean origins were both around his own age
London's timid attempts at conversation failed in a thick silence, Kingston was the most reserved of the group, his face a mask, he barely spoke two words.
The priest resigned, controlled the grill and imagined to be at the parish summer fair, in front of the large BBQ, while the altar boys and girls were around him to receive their share.

After lunch he craved a cigarette, he needed it, like he needed too many other things and people, too. He left the kitchen and wondered how to get busy somehow.
A boy with light olive skin and moustaches – a product more of adolescence than of a conscious choice – was sitting on a chair outside the kitchen, his face hidden between the knees, swinging very slowly
The priest looked at him for a little while.
Seldom he saw sadness and impotence so mixed up. Hallo he said in a low voice.
The boy moved, surprised someone was addressing him
"You re talking with me?"
"There's me and you only. You seem in need of help."

"I don't want to be here."
"I suspect few people like places like this."
"Do you?"
"Not at all, but we're stuck here."
"You're ..a priest, aren't you?"
"I'm not perfect, maybe."
"At school, a classmate passed me a knife, he had to get rid of it. I didn't want it, I spoke aloud and the principal saw me and …it was not my fault, but since my dad had a bad record and is often in jail they sent me here."
"No one believed you?"
"No! and my mother is always drunk so they think I'm a piece of shit. I didn't want the knife, I swear, and now my life is more fucked up than before."