I knew I was going to Hell, I knew I was. Sister Bernie had said so, and so had Father Mike, so it must be true. Frankie was my big brother, but I could run fast for a girl so I was in front. I could always run faster then him though, ‘cos he’d had the callipers on when he was little. The Ladies’ League had paid for him to see a specialist who’d made him walk without the irons, and now he could run after a fashion. This time we ran like Old Nick himself was behind us. We ran up the narrow street past the rows of tiny, soot covered, terraced houses, in and out of the groups of ‘Wifies’ jawing, arms folded, at their front door steps. Frankie narrowly missing a clout round the ear from one or two of them. To the sound of squealing tyres, we ran full tilt across the main road. The drivers honking and swearing at us.

Hell sounded like a pretty awful place, when they told you about it in Sunday School, lots of tormented souls ‘writhing’ in agony. The kids in school whispered that you spend all day standing on your head in pooh, and only come up for tea-break ! That sounded far worse than ‘writhing’ to me, whatever that was.

Maybe, I thought, if I keep on running the Devil wouldn’t catch up with me. Good idea. One small problem, my lungs were on fire and I knew if I didn’t stop soon I’d throw up. Just like Denny O’Malley threw up on the charabanc last Easter treat. We didn’t think he was ever going to stop, and when the little kids saw it and smelt it lots of them threw up too!

We both turned sharp into a narrow, dirty, little back alley. "Oh Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. I’ve got to stop!" said Frankie, who up until then had been right at my heels but slowing dramatically.. I staggered to a halt, and turned to see him doubled up, red faced, with hands on knees, blowing for tugs. Now that I’d stopped, my legs couldn’t seem to hold me up any more and I sank to the flagstones in a heap. The rest of the world carried on by us oblivious to our state, cars and lorries whizzed past on the busy street. Without realising it we had run almost all the way to the back door of St. Cecilia’s, our church.

"Frankie, you mad sod!" I panted, trying to get air into my lungs. "Why did you do it?" Even through his gasping for breath, Frankie threw me a big cheesy smile. "Because it was there short-arse!" he laughed. We’d been in Mr. McReady’s scruffy hole of a corner-shop almost every day of our lives, it seemed like, but today had been the first day we ever saw a bundle of five pound notes out on the counter. It had been more money than either of us had ever seen before. Mind you, being orphanage kids that wasn’t really saying much. Neither of us had two ha’pennies to rub together, and the backside was hanging out of Frankie’s trousers, same as most other kids around here. So Frankie had grabbed it and run. I stood there for a couple of seconds watching the film play in my head again, and not quite believing what had happened. Then I ran too. I’m not completely stupid. No one had chased us, at least as far as we could tell. They wouldn’t have caught us anyway, me and Frankie we’re fast, even for a cripple and a girl, and these streets and alleyways are home to us.

"Oh Frankie, we can’t keep it. You know that don’t you?" I said, really worried now because I wasn’t sure if Frankie had been there on the Sunday we’d covered Hell. "We’ve got nowhere to hide it, for a start, We’d get found out". "Leave that to me," says Frankie, hitching up his drawers, "I know a place we can hide it for a bit, at least until the heat dies down." I think the Jimmy Cagney movies might have a lot to answer for. "Come on!" He said, and he led the way into the vestry.

I got up and followed on behind and couldn’t see Frankie when I entered church. In the deep cool dark I was disoriented, but bobbed a knee automatically in the aisle. Then I heard the booming voice of Father Mike say, "Well, if it isn’t my two favourite trouble makers!"

Frankie had reappeared to my right, looking suitably innocent. "Hello Father, whatchya doin’?" "Can’t stop my lambs, I’m running late, I should have done this before mass. I’m just off to check the Poor Box to see what the less fortunate of the parish have to be thankful about today," he called over his shoulder.

A moment’s silence, and then, "Glory be to God and all the little angels!" shouted Father Mike. "‘Tis nothing short of a miracle!". He waved the bunch of fivers at us.

I looked at Frankie’s miserable gob and I laughed and laughed. Jimmy Cagney? My arse! I might still be sick, but maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t going to Hell after all.

End