Leave a Light on for Jesus

Vincent Cobb

Description

Leave a Light on for Jesus is a fictional story although some of its origins are based on my upbringing. The book is dedicated to my late sister, Pat, who suffered terribly during her short lifetime. Poor Erin Dooley never had a chance in life. Physically punished by bullying Christian Brothers at school, savagely beaten at home he was fated to become a victim. When his father kills Erin's sister Cathy, by beating her to death, Erin suffers a mental collapse and is sent to a psychiatric hospital. He reinvents himself (and his past) and goes to London, where he is taken by a Catholic priest to a nearby care home. There the abuse continues. Father David, the socalled benefactor, is a pedophile who sexually coerces Erin, encouraging his downward spiral into drink, drugs and homosexuality. Archie and Nick, already themselves victims of Father David's perversions, befriend Erin and they all leave the care home to embark on a career of professional male prostitution, when more, and even greater tragedies, are to follow. POOR ERIN NEVER STOOD A CHANCE IN LIFE... This book is a horrifying tale of a young life destroyed by misfortune and abuse from violent and perverted adults, and is not a story for the fainthearted.

Sujets

• Lettres et linguistique

Informations

• Publié par: M-Y Books
• Date de parution: 01 mars 2010
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781907556418
• Langue: English

Extrait

Leave a Light on ForJesus
Vincent Cobb
Smashwords EditionPublished by M-y books Ltd at Smashwords)
Copyright 2009 Vincent

Prelude

Thevision, always hit Erin unexpectedly; he could be anywhere –having a quiet guzzle from his bottle of Scrumpy cider down by therailway sidings, or even dozing off in his favourite bus shelter,when it suddenly came on him. And it was always the same, aterrifying kaleidoscope of varying colours for Erin, swirling andchanging in ghostlike patterns, always maintaining a unique andunidentifiable form. Its consistency lay in the blood – therewas always the blood. Not the seeping or trickling of blood thatmight occur had he cut a finger, but a gushing river of blood thatwould only happen had someone’s throat been slashed. And try ashe might he couldn’t stop the flow; it poured unremittinglydown his face and onto his arms and into his cupped hands, until hestood there, alone and in the semi-darkness, like a sacrificialoffering.
Finally,he was compelled to cry out in horror, partly because the nightmareterrified him, but mostly because he knew instinctively he was asilent and helpless witness to an indefinable tragedy that was takingplace before him. He struggled once more to bring the vision intofocus but it continued to elude him. Until, finally, he was left onlywith the feeling that whatever was happening was savage and violent,and that it somehow involved him and yet was determined he shouldremain nothing more than a sightless spectator.
Hetried to speak, to plead with whatever or whoever it was so he mighthelp, but his voice croaked in his throat and the sound emerged asnothing more than a whimper. And still the blood continued itsrelentless flow. Then, he thought he heard someone calling his name,agonisingly, more like a scream than a cry for help. But he washelpless to intervene. He felt his tears begin to flow and a terriblesadness overwhelmed him. And he continued to stand there, transfixed,a lone and impotent figure with the blood covering him like a shroud.
He heardthe voice again, calling to him as if from a great distance,disembodied, almost ethereal. Then, slowly, it began to take shape.
PROLOGUE
“ Mr.Dooley.” The voice was clearer now.
“Mr.Dooley, are you going to join us or shall we carry on without you?”
“I’msorry, your honour, I was havin’ another of me turns.” His mind cleared in that instant and he was back in the present, withthe unhappy reminder he was actually on trial in the Magistrate’sCourt.
ErinDooley was a pitiful figure who had long since parted company withreality. The man in the dock, a shadow of what he used to be, hadprogressively and unwittingly resigned his place in society, promptedby many years of suffering brought about by a whole range of brutalabuse at the hands of various institutions.
Theeffects of these experiences had left him with an inability to copewith life or to care for himself; they were also the cause of hisincurable clinical depression.
Born inBlackpool, in the North of England, of Irish parents, it wasdifficult to assess his real age; in fact, he could have beenanywhere between his mid-thirties to mid-fifties. His face wasravaged by years of alcoholic abuse; he sported a shock of unruly,prematurely greying hair, a large bulbous nose - a further trophy ofhis self-indulgence - yellow stained teeth that hadn’t seen abrush or toothpaste for eons, and a permanent, dirty stubble on hischin.
Hisattire completed the picture with a shabby jacket he had found on acouncil tip, trousers that were worn at both knees and tied with apiece string, and shoes that would have insulted Oxfam had they beenoffered as a gift. Someone, certainly not Erin, had evidently madesome attempt at cleaning his clothes to rid them of the body lice. Hewas a sorry figure of a man, one of life’s losers, who invokeda mixture of both compassion and disgust in people.
Asa habitual boozer who lived on the streets, scrounging or stealingmoney wherever and whenever the opportunity presented itself, he wasconstantly in trouble with the law. Today was no exception. Onceagain he found himself in front of the magistrates – this timeaccused of breaking into the charity boxes at the local CatholicChurch .
“Areyou Erin Dooley? Currently on remand at Her Majesty’s Prison.”
“Iam, sir. Yes,” he answered in a quiet, almost disinterestedtone – his accent a strange mix of Lancashire and Irish.
“Excuseme. Is that a yes to both questions?”
“Yes,sir. Me name is Dooley, Erin Dooley.”
“Andwhat about your place of residence? Where do you live when you arenot in prison?”
“Onthe streets…anywhere really. It all depends on’weather.”
Theyoung prosecuting solicitor leaned back against his table, as if todistance himself as far as possible from the obnoxious smellemanating from Erin’s direction.
“Couldyou perhaps be more precise, Mr. Dooley.”
Erinshook his head, indicating he really didn’t have the patienceto answer stupid questions. “Well, if it’s raining, thenI might sleep in’ bus shelter – the one near the church.Except it gets a bit full when it rains – then I might go downto the railway sidings. Sometimes, if’ weather’s verybad, then I might sleep at Arlington House or even the churchMission. Does that answer your question? Yer honour.”
“Iam not your honour, Mr. Dooley, I am the solicitor for theprosecution. Shall we agree that you are of no fixed abode?”
Themagistrate smiled inadvertently at the exchange and then covered hismouth with a hand to disguise his response. Young Barker, thesolicitor, patently inexperienced, was beginning to get on hisnerves, and whilst he too found little about the witness to endearhim, there was an intangible quality about him, almost like a veil ofdeep sadness, which the magistrate couldn’t help but respondto.
“Canwe get on, Mr. Barker,” he enquired, “this isn’tthe Crown Court!”
“Ofcourse, your honour. Mr. Dooley,” he continued, “you arecharged with stealing money from the church of the Divine Saviour, acharge to which you have pleaded ‘not guilty’.
“That’scorrect, sir. It was more a case of bad luck than anything.”
“Couldyou explain, please?”
Dooleypaused as if to gather his thoughts.
“Mr.Dooley?” the prosecutor prompted.
“Yes,well, I have to think about it, sir. I wouldn’t want you to begetting the wrong impression about me, now would I? You see, sir, I’mwhat you might call one of life’s casualties. I’ve triedme best, God knows I have, sir, but all me life I’ve beenplagued by bad luck…”
“Mr.Dooley,” the chief magistrate interrupted once more,
bynow visibly losing what little patience he had left. “Will youplease answer the question?"
“Well,the bad luck I mentioned was that I happened to be in church thatnight Your lordship,” he said turning pleadingly to the bench,“I was merely sheltering from the rain on account of the busshelter being full. It’s just that I’d had the odd drinkor two so I couldn’t be held responsible for me actions. Itwasn’t me that broke into the charity boxes, it was someoneelse who was there before me; when I went into’ church theboxes were already busted open, I just collected some pound coins offthe floor, meaning to hand them over to the parish priest, FatherPatrick. But the police came and arrested me before I had thechance.”
“Soyou do at least remember being inside the church at the time of theincident?”
Erinsimply nodded.
“Andyou have already heard Father Patrick, the parish priest, testifythat he actually witnessed you breaking open one of the charity boxeswith a screwdriver. In fact he called the police before he realisedwho the thief was. Nor does Father Patrick recall your offering toreturn any money to him. Isn’t it true, Mr. Dooley, that youwere in the process of stealing the church’s funds?”
Dooleyturned to the magistrate, striving to focus his attentions on theproceedings. “Well, I agree it might look that way to anyonewho didn’t know me, your Honour. “But if me dear friendArchie were here he’d tell you what an ‘onest man I am.And I’m a good catholic, sir – you ask Father Patrick.”
“We’vealready heard Father Patrick’s testimony,” the magistrateinterjected again, “ and since it appears to be a fairlystraightforward case of your word against his, I don’t think weneed waste any more of this court’s time. As for this personArchie you refer to, I’m curious as to why he hasn’tpresented himself to the court to speak on your behalf; he can’tbe much of a friend, can he. We will retire now, Mr. Barker, toconsider the matter further…”
“Sir,”Dooley interrupted, “Archie can’t be here ‘causehe’s dead. It was too many nights spent in’ rain thatgave him an infection and killed him. Otherwise he would be here.”
“Yourhonour. If I might speak?” It was Father Patrick addressing thebench from the well of the court. He was quite a tall man, slimlybuilt, and in his early sixties. He had an earnest manner about himthat carried conviction when he spoke.
“Proceed,Father.”
“WhenErin – Mr. Dooley – refers to his friend Archie, I canvouch for his truthfulness. Archie did actually exist, many yearsago, and he was indeed a friend of the defendant. However, the ArchieI knew, sadly, was killed some time ago although I have no doubt hecontinues to live in Mr. Dooley’s memory. Is the court aware ofthe defendant’s psychiatric background?”
“Yes,Father. We have his records, and we understand what you are saying.The defendant has a long history of psychiatric illness, includingperiods of hospitalisation. You may be assured that this will betaken fully into account in our deliberations.
“Now.If there is nothing further we will retire.”

Themagistrates returned after a fairly extensive absence during whichtime Dooley slumped down in a chair and attempted to light up acigarette. When the court usher tried to prevent him he argued thatsince there were no ‘No Smoking’ signs in the court hedidn’t see any reason why they should stop him. Finally, one ofthe policemen