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BEING FROM Dublin 8, sixteen year old Mark-Joseph had the choice of a dozen churches within a few minutes cycle of his home, which between them celebrated mass almost continuously from
early Sunday morning till very late in the evening. He loved the promiscuity of consistent change, and until that summer had never attended any mass or church on two Sundays in a row. But by
the end of June, there he was for the fourth time, leaving the house at eleven-fifteen to walk to St Teresa’s Donore Avenue, to make a public commitment to the same end of pew seat, as if his days of
roaming were over. The ten minute wait for his lover to arrive made easier by the distraction of defending the seat against people who thought he should move up, and indeed by the commencement of the mass.

    Mark-Joseph was no stranger to fantasy. On the airiest of evidence he constructed whole lives for people, beginning usually with their home. In Sonny’s case, a tiny over-crowded flat, a bedroom smelling of boy’s feet, filled with bunks and partially-
abandoned clothes, bicycle parts, and comics. And in the midst of this squalor, the herring-bone suit which was to become so familiar
to Mark-Joseph, covered six days a week with cellophane and hanging on the back of the door, the cellophane removed by his mother on Saturday nights to air while he was in the pub with his mates, drinking ten or fifteen pints of Smithwicks, then showing no sign of the session on Sunday except that he’d wait until after mass
for his breakfast.

   Sonny was a rough boy. Mark-Joseph would not have used those words himself, but by family agreement there were boys to whom he was never going to speak, and Sonny fell squarely into this category. It wasn’t just that Mark Joseph’s parents owned their own house and that Sonny’s parents rented a Corporation flat, nor the different schools picked out for them, although Sonny had finished the only school available to him by then. It was more that Sonny would as soon slap Mark-Joseph as speak to him, and Mark-Joseph would sooner be called a snob than address him and risk a slapping.
Even after they’d been lovers for weeks he only dared to look at Sonny’s face when he was sure he wasn’t being watched.

    At half-eleven mass, the back of St Teresa’s is filled with men who stand throughout the ceremony with their hands joined in front of them and who slip out through the door before the last gospel. Other men station themselves along the centre aisle at the ends of the first few pews, even when there are plenty of seats closer to the altar. At crucial points in the celebration all the men join in by going down on one knee or by lowering their head. But something is always held back, allowing progress to be monitored regularly on wrist watches, or on the clock on the front of the organ loft.

    Sonny is clean, icy-looking. The cut of the suit, his straight bearing, the short oiled hair, but most of all the sure way he has of standing during the mass: one hand in his pocket, and his right leg
rocking gently back and forth at the knee. Contained, not impatient, but certainly not to be tampered with.

    He’s always late. And on the last Sunday in June, Mark-Joseph watches as the familiar herring bone legs push between the men standing guard along the aisle, to stand inches from his right shoulder, again. Mark-Joseph is wearing his best slacks, with a short-sleeved pullover and a clean opennecked shirt. His shoes are modern, laced, and rubber-soled. Sonny’s herring-bone Weaver-to-Wearer suit blends with his lemon shirt and knitted tie. It’s his Sunday best and will remain so until Christmas when it’ll become his everyday suit. His shoes are handmade Italian slip-ons with leather soles that announce his arrival.

    It’s difficult for Mark-Joseph to believe that Sonny could possibly be interested in him. He’s a Charles Atlas weakling, only able to take care of himself by staying out of dangerous situations. Having to run away when he strays too close to people like Sonny. It isn’t that he wants to be him, or even to be like him; all Mark-Joseph wants is to be less afraid. Why should whole swathes of the world slap him if he comes too near? But if Sonny is choosing to stand so close to him, then maybe there is some chance word will get round. Sonny
says: “Lay off.”

    He becomes more sure of the bleachy smell in early July. Pungent but sweet. Familiar. But how could such a thing become part of the ceremony, like the sanctus bells or the incense at high mass? Wrapping itself round him, calming him even as it draws him out of the ceremony and demands its own attention. Strong enough to wash away the guilt he feels at not concentrating on the mass, and not preparing to receive communion. The edges bristling with exciting danger. And the timing, just before the communion, both appalling
and perfect. That anyone would dare to do ‘it’ at mass and yet the knee, inches from his shoulder, is now still. Sonny’s head bowed and his hands clasped in front of him. His closed eyes allowing Mark-Joseph to linger a second as he turns back from checking the clock. The thought of what might be happening, as shocking as any slap, making him sit shaking when he should be going up to receive. The way already clear where Sonny has moved to allow him out, but instead of going to communion, he turns towards the exit and walks
out into the warm sunshine to try and regain whatever it is he has lost.

    Leaving mass so early was daring, and allowed him to walk to the corner diagonally opposite the estate of flats where he imagined Sonny lived, and to linger for a while to watch the comings and
goings, wondering if Sonny was still eating his breakfast, or already down in the pub for a few pints before Sunday lunch. Mark-Joseph walked on towards home, taking extra time to get there in a mixture of new bravery, and fear that his parents would know he’d been up to something.

    It was a week of confusion and anticipation. His life on the verge of being engulfed into Sonny’s world. Mark-Joseph set to disappear. His tentative plans for university and travel set to wait until he knew what Sonny needed. Hijacked. From now on it
would be violence, cramped smelly corporation flats, and a suffocating family insisting him into their cloying intimacy. Maybe Sonny had no choice, and Mark-Joseph was to be his joy forever.

    At twenty-five minutes past eleven the following Sunday he’s in his aisle seat, smelling of aftershave, and feeling crisp in his newly-ironed shirt and slacks, fresh from the dry cleaners. But he must watch the altar, concentrate on the mass, and not allow himself to drift off listening for Sonny’s arrival, the thought of which fills him with such cold excitement. He must shut him out, and listen to the word from the altar, force himself to become one with the congregation, in their coughings and mutterings and kneelings and sittings and standings. Eventually, he is briefly unaware of Sonny,
until just before the communion when the dry sweet comfort enters his nostrils and fills him with calm satisfaction.

    He is steady enough to go to communion, and returning to his seat lifts his head to peek at Sonny standing guard, his head bowed and his hands clasped together in front of him, and moving back to allow him past. Mark-Joseph kneels and tries to thank God for coming into his body. But all he can think of is how Sonny is feeling, and if he’ll be back again next Sunday. And worst of all: “What is expected of me now?”

    It’s a relationship. For the rest of July and the first two Sundays in August it’s regular and satisfying and exciting. Mark-Joseph arrives early to secure his chosen seat and settles back to listen for the slap of leather on the marble floor. As the mass begins, he reconfirms his promise to God that he will do his best to concentrate, especially when it’s most necessary. But he also asserts his and Sonny’s place in the congregation. Their status as lovers locked together as one person, fulfilling themselves in each other’s love. Sometimes he manages to let the ceremony take him over briefly, but mostly it comes to be like lying in bed late, drifting in and out of sleep and dreams and a warm bed and a sunny bright day.

    And then on the third Sunday of August Sonny is gone. The gap in the aisle closed up. Mark-Joseph turns to see if he’s further along or
in the porch or down the side aisle; all he sees are the usual faces and stooped creatures. He blames himself. He tries to reason that his lover might be ill, or has gone on holiday. It is August. But he keeps returning to the obvious: it is all his fault. He had wanted too much, had not responded properly, or been sufficiently aware of Sonny’s
needs to put them first.

    Something about the walk to mass the previous Sunday had been the high point of Mark-Joseph’s life. The sixteen years he’d spent lurking on the edges had ended. He was strong, alive. He and Sonny, opposites but perhaps not such opposites as he had supposed. He was needed. Sonny telling him that he never had to be afraid again. He could stand up straight and walk where he wanted,
and only run to stop something getting away from him. From him. It sounded so important, life escaping. And it could have happened, but not now, now that he had Sonny.

    Entering the church, he delays in the porch to read the pamphlets and posters, and to insinuate himself into the band of men finishing their cigarettes and holding back their involvement until after the mass has started. But not too long. His seat could be taken, forcing him to be rude to get it back.

    So he moves in and waits, his neck stiff and his shoulders back in readiness to give his all to Sonny. His head lifted towards the ceiling, an inviting smile on his face, as the herring-bone pushes in beside him. Holding the image of the two of them clasped face-to-face through the mass. Never slipping for an instant, kneeling or standing
or sitting. Rolling between each of them and incorporating the poses he’s seen in the cinema. His stretched neck, his shoulders down, his back arched to best advantage. During the consecration he even allows his right arm to straighten so it almost, perhaps actually, touches the cuff of Sonny’s trousers. Mark-Joseph is taller, broader,
and braver as he allows himself to feel the pleasure Sonny is experiencing, and holds himself rigid until the other’s satisfaction is complete, and both right hands join their left. Each of them at peace.

    Today he enters the church even more filled with the power of Sonny’s love. There will have to be words spoken at the end of mass. It has gone on so long, and the pitch is now unbearable. Even if Sonny doesn’t try to speak to him, Mark-Joseph is ready to move their relationship into a new and even more dangerous, but ultimately more satisfying, phase. Of course it’s terrifying. The first words
will be stumbling - maybe just “Hi,” or “Sonny?” - before letting him take over immediately.

    And when his lover doesn’t join him in the aisle, Mark-Joseph blames himself. It must be because of last Sunday. He spoilt it. Had broken the spell, changed it from being a secret spiritual pleasure into something vulgar. And now he’s paying the price.

    And yet before he leaves the church he convinces himself that he can change the ending. He’ll attend half-eleven mass next Sunday and if Sonny isn’t there he’ll go to every mass the Sunday after that.
And if that fails he’ll start to hang about the entrance to the flats, and try the local pubs. Sonny will take him back, and in exchange Mark-Joseph will promise never to acknowledge what is happening or try to change it, control it, or influence it. Sonny can be the boss and Mark-Joseph will remain the innocent, the untouched. He’ll pray for loss of awareness, for the return of innocence. He begins by asking God before he leaves the church. Sonny and Mark-Joseph are an
item. Nothing can change that.