Jasmine's Journey: The French Collection, #3

PROLOGUE

Beyond the Wall

Vulnerable, abandoned, godforsaken and neglected

Impoverished, unfortunate and cruelly unprotected

The world outside oblivious, did no-one care at all?

Indifferent to the wretched stolen lives beyond the wall.

Children raped and beaten and methodically brutalised

Sadistic violence commonplace but how come no-one realised?

Final beatings certified as accidental death

Impartial to their suffering, no point in wasting breath.

A child who was a ‘runner’ could expect a Brother’s fist.

Battered with a hurley stick, a broken leg or wrist

Dragged back to their torment, locked behind the iron gates

A never-ending nightmare, only dreaded hell awaits.

A mentally defective, wanton women, ‘whores’ and ‘prostitutes’

Pregnant out of wedlock, adolescent girls and destitutes

Oppression, degradation and a system that was punitive

The selling of their babies, diabolically lucrative.

Toiling in the laundries, they were little more than slaves

Worked to death then cruelly cast aside in unmarked graves

A daily dose of silence, prayer and gross humiliation

Spartan, cold, indefinite, their bleak incarceration.

Alcohol and drug abuse and mindless criminality

Help to numb the memory of terror and brutality

Misfits of society, they fight their private war

Shamefully betrayed, absurdly locked away once more.

Lies deceit conspiracies to cover up the truth

Wicked clerics free to rape and violate our youth

The Pope is in denial, does he just not care at all?

Indifferent to those wretched stolen lives beyond the wall.

This amazing poem by Carol Ellis was written to raise awareness of the terrible plight of those unfortunate women and children subjected to a life of rape, torture and sometimes death in the industrial schools run by the Christian Brothers and the ‘Magadelene’ laundries run by nuns in Ireland. Vulnerable orphan boys raped and brutalised by the ‘Brothers of Christ’ and young girls incarcerated, often the only reason given was that they were attractive and therefore at risk of ‘moral endangerment’. Some were already pregnant, sometimes by their own fathers, when entering the laundries to be incarcerated ‘beyond the wall’. Others were impregnated by priests whilst incarcerated and their babies sold for profit to wealthy Americans.

The last of the laundries was closed in 1996. Many of the victims live with their memories of the abuse. In support of the victims there is a campaign called ‘Baby Shoes Remember’ whereby pairs of babies shoes tied with black mourning ribbon are tied to the railings of Catholic Church properties all over the globe. Please tell others in support of those affected so that those victims can never be conveniently forgotten by the Catholic Church. Think of them as you read ‘Jasmine’s Journey’. Jasmine is a work of fiction. The abused children of Ireland (and elsewhere) are real.

JASMINE’S JOURNEY

CHAPTER ONE

Jasmine Guichard knew what was about to happen. Other awful stuff had happened before, many times in this place. But that didn’t make it right, and it didn’t mean she had to like it. For as long as she could remember, Father Louis Dupuy had brought her down here and moved his hands all over her young body while she had to take his zizi out of his trousers and jerk it until it spat stuff. But recently, Father Dupuy was missing and a new Holy Father had arrived. Younger and more aggressive. Father Barbier, the new priest, had pulled off her clothes and tried to push his zizi inside her. He hadn’t liked it when she had wriggled and squirmed and scratched his face. He hadn’t liked it at all.

So Father Barbier had called Mother Superior down to help, but Jasmine had spat and hissed and scratched like an alley cat until Father Barbier had decided he was no longer interested in her. Her refusal to do what the Reverend Father had wanted had cost her twenty lashes of the studded leather belt that the Mother Superior kept in a cupboard in her room. Father Barbier had pushed Jasmine face down on the desk while Mother Superior had brought the leather belt down on her bare back and buttocks. Whilst doing so, she had quoted Bible verses.

The desire of the righteous will be granted. And then something like, And that slave who knew her master's will and did not act in accordance with his will, must receive many lashes.

Now, a week later, Jasmine’s back still hadn’t healed and she didn’t think she would be strong enough to take another beating. Best just lie back and let Father Barbier do what he wanted. One of the older girls told her that it might be a little bit painful to start with, but nothing like twenty lashes of the belt.

As she sat on the edge of the hard bed, she heard his footsteps behind her and smelled the cloying aroma of L’Eau d’Issey Pour Homme. It was a man's perfume that might have worked well on a freshly showered body. On a fresh body, Jasmine guessed it would have had a woody aquatic fragrance. Father Barbier used it to cover the body odour that was more noticeable on a red-head who didn’t take care with his personal hygiene.

She continued looking forwards and, as he walked into her view, she couldn’t help herself - she closed her eyes. For all his faults, Father Dupuy had had the face of a kindly old uncle. When he came to say prayers, he dressed in a charcoal grey suit and a white clerical collar. When he came to have his zizi rubbed, he used to dress in tweeds and polished brown shoes. On the other hand, Father Barbier’s look was hard and mean. Jasmine listened as clothing rustled in front of her. Then she felt hard, sharp fingers gripping her shoulders and forcing her head up.

Open your eyes, Father Barbier said.

Jasmine sat tight, her small neat face with a turned up nose looking as angry as an innocent child’s face could look. She had a line of lighter hair along a parting on the top of her head. Her friends had nicknamed her ‘Badger’.

Open your eyes, Father Barbier said again, more sharply this time.

She did, and drew her breath as she realised he had already let his trousers and underwear drop to the floor. His zizi was already swollen and stiff.

Take it in your hands, my child, Father Barbier said in a sibilant whisper.

But in that instant, young Jasmine Guichard made the decision that was going to change her life. And, though she would never realize it, it would change the lives of thousands of other people. She never knew what possessed her to do it. Her action wasn’t premeditated - it was disgust and loathing that made her rip at the priest’s penis with her finger nails. He shouted out and she leaped from the bed. She made a dive for the door that led down to the forbidden chambers that she had never seen, but which the older girls assured her were there.

As Father Barbier grasped his scratched flesh, Jasmine struggled with the old fashioned handle, but soon released the catch and pulled the door open. Ahead was a long, dark passageway cut out of the stone. She spotted a light switch on the wall to her right and hit it with her hand, illuminating the passage with a string of hanging bulbs. As she gulped for air, Barbier grabbed her shoulder, and swung her round. He raised his hand to strike her.

But his clothing was still round his ankles and his manhood was exposed. Without thinking, Jasmine hit and kicked him in that part of his anatomy and he lowered his hands to protect himself. She took advantage and darted through the door into the long limestone passage. Knowing that he would follow, she ran as fast as her eight-year-old legs would carry her.

The passageway descended steeply. In places, the roof was several metres high. Elsewhere even she felt that she might bang her head if she wasn’t careful. A shout echoed down the passage from where she had come. It was Father Barbier and he didn’t sound at all happy. Jasmine forced herself to run faster. The air was burning in her lungs. She could hear his heavy footfall behind her, and he was catching up fast.

As she ran, she passed several passages branching off on either side. None of them were lit, so she ran on past them. Then, as if in answer to a prayer that she hadn’t spoken, she rounded a bend and ran straight past an opening with lights at the far end. She stopped, sensing it could be her way out, stepped backwards and looked to her left. She was disappointed when, just a few metres along the new passage, she saw a heavy floor-to-ceiling metal grill, like the bars in a prison. A woman was walking past several metres away on the other side. The woman stopped and did a double-take. Jasmine was just about to call to her for help when Father Barbier stormed around the corner.

Jasmine fled again and now Barbier was just a few metres behind. Despair chased through her veins like a fast-moving poison, choking any hope from within. And then without warning the passage opened up into a huge vaulted cavern cut out of the limestone. There were seats, a table, some beds, an enormous television screen, and other furniture she didn’t have time to assess or understand. Diagonally opposite, about fifteen metres away, was another opening with floor-to-ceiling metal bars. This time though, the grill was open and lay back against the rock wall. Jasmine ran to it. She was about all used up, but sensed that Barbier, too, was struggling. She could hear his breathing, hard and fast and rasping in his throat. She darted through the opening, then gasped as her world turned dark. This passage was unlit. The only light came from the opening into the high gallery she had just passed through.

As the darkness closed round her, she realised that Father Barbier was no longer running after her. She slowed, then stopped and turned and saw his outline blocking the entrance that she had just taken. He was holding his chest and gasping for air. He drew several deep breaths then said, Come back Jasmine. There is no way out down there and you will be lost in minutes without a light.

I’m not coming near you. You are evil. I hate you.

Come on. Be sensible. Let’s talk about it.

There’s nothing to say. I don’t want to touch your zizi.

I’m going to shut and lock this gate if you don’t come out of there.

I’m not coming out. Just go away and leave me alone.

Barbier stood observing as the nervous wringing of her hands began to escalate and the rapid twitch of her eyes flicked from him to the metal gate and then back to him several times. After a moment, he said, Alright, Jasmine, if that’s what you want. I’ll count to ten. If you are not out of there by then, I shall leave you there to rot. It’s your choice. One... two... three... four... Just come out damn you.

Go away.

Five... six... seven... eight... nine. This is your last chance young lady. Come out of there now or stay there in the dark. You’ll not be so brave when I turn these lights out in a few minutes.

Jasmine didn’t answer. She glared at the man she was running from and decided that she wasn’t going back. The Reverend Father had a rigid posture, a sour look to the mouth, and a narrow look to his eyes. His anger radiated off him like a dirty secret. Cold dread had haunted Jasmine during the chase down the long passage to escape Father Barbier, but now it had evaporated with the realisation that he wasn’t going to go any further. She didn’t want to touch his zizi and she certainly didn’t want it inside her. That part of her body was private. And with that realisation she shouted, I don't just dislike you - I hate you. God hates you too. You are an evil person.

Father Thierry Barbier swung the metal grill shut with a crash that echoed along the passage. A simple but solid padlock hung from the back of the gate. He passed the shackle of the padlock through the two matching hasps and locked it with a solid click. His angry face mirrored his red hair. Even his shaking fingers were angry. He yanked on the lock to test it, then turned around and marched away. A few hours in the pitch dark would soon have the girl pleading to be let out. Then she could be punished. Meanwhile, he would go and find a more compliant girl to satisfy his needs.

At the slamming of the gate, Jasmine began to tremble with fear. He was right, of course, the new Father. Once those lights went out and she was left in the pitch dark, she would be glad to agree to anything he wanted. She had always hated the dark. Spiders and scorpions and rats and bats lived in the dark. Her resolve seemed to crumble and she wondered whether to shout and get him back, but her eye was caught by something protruding from the wall of the passageway close to the closed gate. She stepped towards it, her heart pounding. Carved into the limestone wall were three shapes, like faces with their mouths in a wide rictus scream. In one of the mouths was an oblong object, just a little bigger than the palm of her hand. She picked it up and examined it. It looked like a torch, with a clear plastic lens at the front. Jasmine clicked on the button, but nothing happened. She clicked it, on-off on-off on-off with the same result. In desperation, she stared at it, trying to puzzle it out. Then the lights went out.

The darkness was absolute. It was as dark and deep as the night that Mother Superior had locked her into the cleaning cupboard because her bed was not as tidy as the Mother Superior thought it should be. Jasmine clung to the torch as though her life depended on it. She shook it, then clicked the button again. Nothing. Not even a faint glimmer. It seemed that the batteries were flat. In nervous agitation, her hands caressed the casing, fingers moving around it in constant motion. It was all she had to cling onto in that eternal blackness.

Her thoughts and fears were accelerating inside her head. She wanted them to slow down so she could breathe but they wouldn't. It was like her head was on a roundabout that was spinning faster and faster, no matter how hard she tried to stop it. Her breaths came in gasps and she felt as if she would black out. She was aware of her heart hammering inside her chest like it belonged to a rabbit running for its skin. Her head spun and spun and she squatted on the floor, trying to make everything slow down to a speed that her brain and body could cope with. She felt so sick. She wanted to tell someone what was happening. She wanted someone to come and take her somewhere light and warm and safe.

All she had to cling on to was a torch that didn’t work. She clasped it tight and, as she clasped it, her brain registered that there was something unusual on one side of the plastic cover. Something that protruded a little from the body of the lamp. In a nervous gesture, Jasmine slid the ends of her fingers under it and discovered that it folded out. She felt around it, wondering what it might be. It was a handle of some sort and she discovered she could turn it, though what purpose it served, she couldn’t fathom.

She turned the handle, two, three, four times, but still the torch did not light. In desperation, she clicked what she thought was the on-off button one last time. To her intense surprise, a faint glimmer of light crept from the device and into her innocent heart like a ray of sun through the mist. She turned the handle again, and again, and again, ten, twenty times, and the light grew brighter and brighter with each turn of the handle. She realised that it was some sort of wind up flashlight that needed no battery. Jasmine had heard of them, but in the secured confines of the convent, she had never seen one.

In pure elation, she wound and wound until the LED light was bright and lifted her spirits. She had no idea how long it would last, but felt sure she could crank the handle again to recharge it. Now, at least, she could advance down the passageway and find another way out.

After a few deep breaths, to try and calm herself, Jasmine turned to face whatever was in the passage. She straightened her shoulders and began to walk with care along the tunnel. The silence enveloped her. Lonely silence. Dark silence. The silence of the tomb. The passage sloped down and loose stones covered the floor. She shone her torch around, wondering what this place was and how it had got here. There must be a way out somewhere.

CHAPTER TWO

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Either side of him, rows of bleak, empty-eyed skulls formed the walls. Above and below the skulls, bleached femurs, tibias, and ulnas were piled high, one on top of another. There were hip bones, ribs, spines, feet and hands too. Along hundreds of metres of passageways, the remains of between six and seven million dead people lay exposed to his view. They lined the tunnel walls and formed archways in high vaulted chasms. The temperature was a constant 14°C. Perfect for storing wine, though none was on display here. Here, there were only dead people reduced to their basic minimum. No flesh, no tissue, no ligaments, no blood. Just bones. Millions and millions of bare, white bones.

Walls of skulls. Columns of bones. Even, in places, the roof itself was lined in bones and skulls. All staring with unseeing eye sockets at the visitor to their underground domain. The skulls reminded him of man’s fragility. One inscription read, in French, ‘Si vous avez vu quelque fois mourir un homme, considérez tojours que le meme sort vous attend’. If at times you’ve seen the death of a man, remember always that the same fate awaits you. And so he reflected on the fact that all these bones had been people with families and friends. They were people with their good points, their bad points, their strengths and their weaknesses. But now they no longer inhabited those bodies of which these millions of bones had been part. Now they were all dead, and there was something pleasing about that. Nature had done what God had intended.

The Vicar walked along the narrow passage with care. For a very good reason, he always moved with care. He was a fit muscular man of forty-three, though many thought he was older because of his steel grey hair. The Vicar’s mind belonged to The Lord but The Vicar’s body was his temple and he worked hard to maintain his levels of strength and fitness. With his azure blue eyes and perfect white teeth, he could have found work in film or television, but that was not The Vicar’s calling at all. He was God’s instrument, not Hollywood’s.

Today, as always, The Vicar was immaculately dressed. Today, he wore an exclusively tailored pale blue suit, a white open-collar shirt and a pair of light-grey hand-stitched leather slip-ons. On Sundays, except when he took a holiday such as he was now enjoying, he always wore a black suit and black clerical shirt with a white detachable cleric’s collar. He was after all an ordained Anglican priest, even though he had no parish of his own. The world was The Vicar’s parish, and leading people back into God’s ways was his vocation in life.

As the group moved forward again, The Vicar spotted the young couple who had smiled at him earlier. They were smiling still now, and holding hands, as they had done for most of the guided tour. It was nice to come across polite, well-mannered folk in today’s world. Particularly polite well-mannered young folk who weren’t afraid to show their affection for each other in a simple way. A few moments earlier, the couple had been talking together in a somewhat agitated way that made The Vicar think that something had disturbed them. But now they seemed at peace again and moved forward just behind the tour guide.

A big, heavy man behind him jostled against The Vicar as he had done once or twice earlier. His visit to Paris’s catacombs had found The Vicar rubbing shoulders with some of the great unwashed, and The Vicar was always fastidious about cleanliness. He knew he would need to take a long, hot shower when he arrived back at his hotel. But it was unavoidable in some of the narrow passageways that he would make contact with other tourists.

Unknown to many, Paris sits on an underground space ten times the size of New York’s Central Park. A network of over 150 miles of underground tunnels forms a maze beneath Paris, and a small part is open to the public. The tunnels and galleries were created when stone had been quarried to build the capital. Forty-five million years earlier, the area was covered by a tropical sea. Many, many metres of sediment accumulated on the sea bed, forming the limestone deposits visible in the catacombs today.

As early as the first century AD, the Gallo-Romans used this limestone to build Lutetia, the Gallo-Roman name for Paris. From the thirteenth century onwards, the open quarries on the slopes along the river Bièvre were replaced by underground workings to supply the huge quantities of stone required to build Notre-Dame Cathedral, the Louvre and the city ramparts. In the tunnels and galleries, the supporting pillars and bell shaped roof cavities bore witness to the mining carried out at the site over the centuries.

The Vicar had listened intently as the tour guide had explained how the skulls and bones that lined the walls were no accident. Situated twenty metres below ground, the ossuary contained the remains of millions of Parisians, transferred there between the late eighteenth and mid-nineteenth centuries, as they closed graveyards because