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For Haddock, winter went by in a vaguely dreamy haze of happiness. Calculus graced him with company and kisses and cuddles between the professor’s studies. Nestor bravely took on the monstrous task of clearing and cleaning the whole cellar - which was good, because Haddock’s ship model collection was steadily growing and the cellar would be a good place to display them. Justine restocked and organized the pantry and made fruit pies and hearty meals. Tintin sometimes helped in the kitchen or in the cellar and then, late March, left for Norway. He was back within two weeks, having located the missing Belgian diplomat with the aid of a local guide. An avalanche. Poor fellow, but nothing suspicious, those things happen if you foolishly go outside in the cold and mountains and snow.
Tintin however seemed to have had a good time in the Norse mountains; he returned to Marlinspike Hall with a slight sunburn and sparkling eyes, full of stories about reindeers in the snow and frozen waterfalls and round mountains beneath clear skies.
For the first time, Haddock briefly wondered whether he had been up to something else in Norway beside his mission.
Then Calculus agreed to spend the night with him and he definitely didn’t think anymore about Tintin.
Haddock went down to make coffee the next morning. He felt like he was walking on water. The mirror in the hall looked back at him, smiling, beaming, glowing with satisfaction and joy.
He’d thought… well, he didn’t really know anymore what he’d thought. In these last months dream and thought and fantasy had twisted so tightly around each other in his mind he couldn’t tell them apart anymore.
And the real thing outshone it all.
Calculus hadn’t been shy or held back at all. It had been glorious. He also hadn’t been quiet. It was probably a good thing no one else slept on the top floor.
Haddock felt himself flush as images of last night played again through his mind.
“Is he so good, then?” a voice beside him said, and he spilled coffee beans all over the kitchen counter.
So much for privacy in this household.
Face even more aflame, he looked up to see Justine calmly digging her hands into a bowl of dough, smiling at him.
He really should know better than be caught off guard by lovely, innocent looking ones by now.
A few weeks later however it was his turn to waggle his eyebrows at Justine as she hooked up with the new electrician that had come over to fix the wiring in the cellar, a stocky blonde woman with a Dutch accent called Helena.
And they definitely didn’t wait before sleeping together. Haddock caught a glimpse of them slipping into Justine’s rooms only a few nights after the two had met, before the door clicked into lock.
Well. Good for her.
Nestor politely went on pretending nothing at all had changed. That show of ignorance went ill with his newly attained habit of pointedly knocking on every door before he entered.
Tintin, meanwhile, somehow truly seemed to remain oblivious.
“They’ve probably retreated to Justine’s bedroom already,” Haddock said one evening when Tintin was walking around, looking for Helena.
“Oh,” Tintin said and blushed, like Haddock had said something obscene.
Hm. Interesting.
“You think it’s wrong for two women or two men to sleep together?” he asked. His friend had seemed fine with it. But Haddock still wasn’t entirely sure where exactly the lad stood in this matter. Better use this opportunity to have more clarity about Tintin’s feelings.
“No. I haven’t thought that since a long time,” Tintin replied, sincerely. “Please, Captain, don’t think I’m judging them, or you and the professor. Sometimes I just don’t expect it when - I mean - I’m not sure I can explain.”
And the lad quickly left.
Haddock’s curiosity about Tintin’s sexuality was reignited.
Haddock now spent most of his evenings with Calculus, of course, but he impulsively decided to take Tintin out to some public event every other week. Heavens knew the lad hung around too much with people far older than him; it would be good for him to meet more people his own age.
They went to a concert. For fancy dinner in a candlelit wine cellar, accompanied by a classical pianist. To a new theater production. Tintin genuinely seemed to enjoy the events; Haddock observed him with some wonder.
Tintin had a good ear for music, occasionally singing along perfectly in tune, his beautiful face aglow with joy. The boy also conversed easily with fellow guests, seemingly interested in anyone and anything. And then there was his fame, of course. Everyone always seemed to know Tintin. He caught the attention everywhere he went and didn’t even seem to be aware of it.
It was no surprise really that Tintin would catch some romantic interest.
The weird thing was, Tintin either didn’t notice the flirting, or just blandly ignored it. And there was so much of it. Pretty lasses mainly. Haddock observed with amusement how they intentionally gave Tintin a bit of a view when they bent down to pet Snowy. A few well-dressed, bold young lads were flirting as well this evening (everyone behaved a little more freely in the theater world).
Haddock decided a bit of encouragement was proper.
“You can go home with any of them, if you’d like. I wouldn’t mind at all,” he whispered in Tintin’s ear.
Tintin looked startled for a moment, then comprehension dawned in his eyes. But the boy just shook his head.
One evening Haddock stumbled upon Tintin smiling over photos and multiple densely written pages he'd received from Chang. A realization dawned on him.
"You're in love with Chang!" he exclaimed, proud to have finally figured it out. Of course. Haddock remembered well how upset Tintin had been when he’d thought Chang had died. His tears. His nightmares. How Tintin had gone on to stubbornly defy the rugged, frozen landscape between the world's highest peaks to find him. Everything made sense now.
But, to his dismay, Tintin just burst out laughing.
"Oh Captain, must you match-make? Chang is happily married! You've even met his lovely wife!"
Haddock crossed his arms. "Plenty of homosexual men are married."
Tintin sobered up a little, though a smile was still tugging at the corners of his mouth. "I know. I've interviewed several of them. But Chang is my dear friend, Captain, like you are. I love him. That's not the same as being in love with him."
Haddock didn’t think that he was lying.
He had been so sure for a moment. But that confounding boy just kept throwing him off balance, leaving him grasping for something sturdy to hold on to. He just didn't understand.
Haddock properly breached the topic one morning when it was just the two of them (and Snowy of course) in the kitchen, eating breakfast.
Tintin’s reaction wasn’t what he’d expected.
Not desiring romance at all? Was that even possible? Haddock surely hadn’t heard of it before. How could it, when it brought one such pleasure and happiness? Surely everyone would want that?
He felt torn on what to do. On one hand, he was quite concerned. Tintin hardly ever seemed scared of anything, but maybe this was the one exception. Did he still believe stories about sin and sickness? Or was some medical ailment holding him back? That could be an embarrassing topic he couldn't blame Tintin for avoiding. On the other hand, Tintin was a surprisingly independent young adult. He didn’t seem to miss a lover in his life.
Maybe meeting more queer people would help Tintin get a bigger picture of romance - perhaphs he would see something he could like.
The lad agreed to join him to Brussels for a drag party on a Tuesday evening. He even seemed excited. But once they were at the little backroom bar the party was held, Tintin once again surprised him. The lad didn’t act as someone down for a good time. Instead he went around all like the inquisitive journalist, asking questions to the colorful assortment of party guests, the queens, the bears, the transsexuals, the butches, the androgyn ones, who mostly seemed quickly charmed by Tintin's kind curiosity. One simply can't help but trust Tintin. Even criminals never seemed to think he would really turn them in.
Which begged the question, who did Tintin trust?
Haddock didn't listen in on his conversations. Instead, he enjoyed the rather trashy music and banter and occasional flirting, and simply relaxed. He should bring Calculus next time. The thought of the professor attempting to dance to this music made him grin.
The party winded down and finally it was just a dozen people around a table, drinks in hand and the mood turning more serious. It was only then, when a handsome young man started to express obvious interest in Tintin, that Haddock noticed the lad becoming uncomfortable.
Tintin clearly enjoyed company. He seemed accepting of all kinds of people and all kinds of relationships. So what was the reason he kept rejecting romance? Haddock felt worry and frustration gnawing at him. He just wanted Tintin to let go of his innocent and well behaved public image for once. To claim happiness for himself.
***
Back in the kitchen, over some late tea and honey biscuits, Haddock couldn’t hold himself back any longer.
“Flogging flyheads, boy, what’s wrong with you?” he thundered. “Did one of those priests from your church touch you? Is that why you’re so afraid of sexuality?” He regretted that specific choice of words as soon as they were out of his mouth, but he couldn’t take them back anymore. They hung heavy in the still air between them.
Normally Haddock didn’t condone this kind of crude, offensive humor at all, but apparently it still lived in head, and in his frustration it had rolled mindlessly off his tongue.
Frozen, Haddock could only wait to see what Tintin's reaction would be.
Shock, first. Then his eyes narrowed. Haddock flinched. He had seen that look a few times before. It had never before been directed at him , though.
He’d really messed up now. Not for the first time, Haddock cursed his lack of thinking before speaking.
Tintin’s posture had stiffened. He looked ready to storm off. Haddock would be left alone in the silent kitchen with just his concerns and regrets for company.
Even Snowy seemed to glare at him.
But Tintin did not move. A curious mix of expressions quickly replaced the rage.
When Tintin looked at him again, he just looked sad. And that stung even more than anger. Haddock found his voice.
“I’m sorry, my lad-” he stumbled. “I shouldn’t have - that was a rude thing to say-”
His stammer echood in the kitchen and died away.
Tintin spoke up then, his voice soft. “How would you like it, captain,” he said, slowly, thoughtfully, “if someone asked you if you’re just scared of women and if that is why you’re a homosexual?”
Haddock did remember to think before he spoke this time. But he didn’t have to think long. The idea was ridiculous. He snorted.
“I’d laugh. It’s not how any of that works - it’s about desiring men, loving men, not about fear for women.”
Tintin nodded. “Captain, please understand - it’s no different for me. It’s not that I want but then get scared and therefore hold myself back. The desire just isn’t there in the first place. The same way you feel about women, I feel about everyone.”
“But you clearly were uncomfortable when he invited you over to his room.”
“Yes. Because he was very kind and engaging, and having to reject him was difficult. Especially because I can never name a good reason. I just don’t want to."
Tintin took a sip of his tea and then went on, "And, Captain, for me it’s even more than not wanting. It’s like asking me" - he raised his tea mug - "let’s say, asking me to drink sea water. Not only has drinking it no appeal, but also I know that if I would make myself anyway, that I’d feel horrible. I would be sick. I would wish to be anywhere else, do anything else. How would that be fair to myself - to my partner?”
“Have you actually tried, or are you just assuming all this?”
“Have you ever tried sleeping with a woman?”
That shut Haddock up. He reluctantly had to admit the very thought was off-putting. There barely had been any women around when he’d first started to get these urges, and when there were, later, he’d already grown to understand he could never properly love a woman. And if that understanding of himself was reason enough not to experiment, he reasoned, sure, it should also be reason enough for Tintin.
Barnacles. He realized he was getting nowhere with this conversation. What he’d be thinking, that he could win an argument against Tintin? The clever boy could be more stubborn than a heavy laden freight ship with tail wind once he’d done his research and made up his mind. He’d have an answer to all of Haddock’s objections.
Worse still, the lad was almost always right when he was in one of his stubborn moods.
Possibly Tintin had also laid awake many nights, pondering questions and doubts over and over. In that case, everything Haddock could think of to say, he’d already have asked himself a hundred times.
Better to just be as honest as he could then.
Haddock swallowed. “I’m trying to understand it, Tintin. But I admit it’s not easy. Such an averse reaction surely can’t be healthy. What causes it?”
Tintin shrugged. “Why are people the way they are? There's been countless philosophers discussing that question for centuries. But the why shouldn’t matter. I'm wholly content to be a part of this family without a partner of my own. Let that be enough.”
Haddock still wasn’t entirely convinced something wasn’t wrong, but it was clear he was only causing Tintin distress with his concern. If this was the lad's wish, so be it. Haddock wouldn’t bother him with it anymore.
“All right. You'll always be family anyway, whatever you decide to do, dear lad.”
Tintin warmly smiled at him, stood and walked towards the door, Snowy on his heels. Then, quite sudden, he turned back around and stood still before Haddock.
Snowy stood still and alternately watched the door and Tintin, looking as confused as Haddock felt.
Tintin’s expression now turned so grave Haddock was rather taken aback.
The boy sighed - a long, tired sound. “It would be easy for me to walk away right now, captain. So easy. But it wouldn’t be right. You were honest with me - I want to be honest with you.”
The pressure in Haddock’s chest, that had been lifting, dropped down again.
It didn’t help that Tintin had balled his hands into fists before putting them into the pockets of his blazer, seemingly not knowing what to say. That was rare. What got the boy so apprehensive? Haddock tried to look encouraging instead of afraid.
Tintin finally spoke. “What you said. It’s true.”
Haddock was confused for a moment. Hadn’t Tintin just told him in clear language that his - how to call it, his non-sexuality - wasn’t about him being scared?
Then he remembered what he had also said.
He felt like the ground beneath him was moving. His breath got stuck in his throat; his heart hammered heavily in his chest.
He’d heard rumors. He’d thought them tasteless jokes, disturbing but otherwise harmless fantasies of the mind maybe, not as truth, not as a thing that really happened. Surely church clergy would never hurt children. Not in this horrific way. It was just too wrong.
Well.
Apparently not.
For once in his life he found himself lost for words to say.
The silence was unbearable. Tintin wouldn’t look at him. That wasn’t good.
Haddock jumped to his feet and gathered the boy close to him. Tintin was stiff in his arms before he shakily exhaled and his knees promptly gave out; Haddock caught him and carried him over to the sofa in the corner.
He was vaguely aware he was furious. The last time he’d be close to this livid had probably been when he’d discovered his second mate had taken advantage of the newest member of his crew, and what had happened to Tintin… well, he didn't really know what that kind of thing did to a child but it seemed reasonable to assume that it was worse on all fronts. Also, this was Tintin. His Tintin, his dear cheerful friend, who had appeared with dramatic flair into his life when he’d given in to despair, who could smile in mortal peril, who would walk straight into gunfire if he thought it was the right thing to do.
Who looked so fragile and hurt right now.
Haddock could use a very strong drink.
But Tintin needed him. A clarity descended over him as years of experience of leading a ship’s crew took over. Haddock could be the calm captain in the storm. He could deal with his own emotions later.
“I’m so sorry that happened, laddie. Tell me,” Haddock said, his voice low and reassuring, dreading what he’d hear but understanding on some level that Tintin needed to get this off his chest. He wrapped an arm around the boy’s shoulders. Snowy, always the attentive dog, curled up on Tintin’s lap. “Whatever you want to tell me, I’ll listen.”
And Tintin told him. He left out most details but Haddock's mind mercilessly filled them in himself. Like the reporter he was, Tintin painted vivid images with his words of the small, slight child he had been, all alone between nuns with unsmiling faces. A slighty older boy, called into back rooms of the Catholic school to help with administrative tasks because he ‘was doing so well in class’, the kindness that gave way to commands and threats, the tasks gradually becoming sexual in nature, again and again. The terror and humiliation and pain of having his body invaded. Not even knowing what was going on, what was happening to him, being powerless to stop it. Being taught to be grateful for pain and suffering, for it would bring him closer to God. Long sleepless nights filled with fear and doubts. Conflicted feelings, thinking the abuse was punishment he must have deserved, thinking it was his own fault for having enjoyed the attention at first. The shame that kept him silent. Tintin cycling through Brussel, sticking his nose in danger and books and distractions, looking for a way out, anything, until he’d stumbled into one that took him far away from his youth. The memories that kept on plaguing him. How he’d grown older, never to desire romance. Thinking he let his abusers break him, change him, win by rejecting all sexual relations. Reaching a hard won peace with himself.
It explained certain things about Tintin that had been puzzling Haddock. How secretive he’d been about his past and how completely he had seemed to cut himself off from it. Tintin’s outrage at people abusing power that had seemed so personal at times. How he was both younger and older than his actual age. The way Tintin often acted, recklessly throwing himself into dangerous situations, like he did not consider his life worth protecting at all.
Haddock also was in awe of the resilience of the boy. It surely would have been tempting to let his head down, to grow bitter and suspicious, to try and numb his feelings. But in spite of the hurt he’d built up a life fighting injustice, choosing to be kind and cheerful, befriending people all over the world, becoming part of an uncommon but loving household. While silently carrying this pain with him for years. Haddock doubted Tintin realized how well he'd done.
And now Tintin had had the courage to tell him this, despite the fact that Haddock had been insensibly bothering him about his personal life, like Tintin owed him explanations. Haddock didn’t quite know what he’d done to deserve this amount of trust. He didn’t know at all how to best support Tintin. But he vowed to himself there and then that he would try his best.
Starting with believing Tintin when he said that finding a lover would only hurt him. No matter how happy it made Haddock, they weren’t the same person and Tintin should make his own decisions. Haddock was acutely more aware now that it would be wrong to pressure him.
He told Tintin how proud he was and held the boy as he finally cried into his shoulder.
***
Telling the captain had been the hardest thing Tintin had ever done. It was also one of the best things he’d ever done, on a similar level with his decision to take that first journalist job and with his decision to join forces with that drunken captain stuck on his own ship. A tightness in his body that he’d not known how much it had been bothering him let loose a little.
Why had he known so firmly all those years that he could not tell?
He wouldn’t even have known how to at first. Anything in the school’s library had been strictly censored. It was only when he’d started sneaking out into the public library nearby that he’d learnt some words. Books that showed and explained bodies, safety in relationships, all kinds of pleasures and boundaries. Gradually he’d started to doubt some of the doctrines. Started to understand how wrong the abuse actually was. One day he'd decided to leave at the first chance he got, to try and find some other life, terrifying as that was. He had managed to leave. He had first found a loyal companion and protector in Snowy. But of course Snowy couldn’t speak.
He’d made friends. Moved into Marlinspike Hall. He’d found happiness, he really had. It had wrapped and twisted itself all around the old pain and numbness. It hadn’t replaced it.
He’d started to think it would never lessen unless he would start to talk. He’d just never seemed to be able to figure out the right moment, the right words. The captain’s thoughtless comment, no matter how shocking and offensive, had been the opening Tintin had clamped himself to like a drowning man desperately holding onto a life buoy.
And wouldn’t Haddock be proud for him for using that metaphor.
Not long after his midnight conversation with the Captain he told Nestor, who looked at him earnestly and then made him hot chocolate, and Calculus, who firmly held onto his hand and then got him a copy of I never told anyone, which upon reading made him feel less isolated. Then he told Justine and Helena when they both were curled up on the couch, close together, and found out Helena had faced similar sexual abuse from a family member as a child. He could have conversations with her he wasn’t able to have with anyone else.
He’d felt all alone for so long, but both to his sadness and relief, it turned out he wasn’t. Just how many children did this happen to? Someone should investigate.
Tintin was now able to walk into the kitchen early in the morning and confess that he had not slept well because he’d dreamt of shadows slipping into his room Snowy would warn him, he was in Marlinspike Hall, he was safe, but what if, always what if ; or to ask anyone to take him out on a trip somewhere when he was feeling particularly restless and worthless; or to just leave him alone for a while because you just can’t share everything that troubles you.
And having to find the words to communicate his past abuse helped him create more clarity in his own head. It was like the gaping emptiness inside of him was transforming into a post-war battlefield, painful and messy still but now at least somewhat manageable.
It had changed the captain, that was easy to see. The captain had never been what’d you call light-hearted, even when he was visibly happy, but his gaze now had a new gravity to it. Though he’d shared Tintin’s drive for justice before, Tintin noticed that he looked out for injustice in less obvious places now. The captain got to work. He arranged funding in the village for housing for women who had fled their violent husbands. He also got involved in the village’s school board, sometimes asking Tintin and Helena for advice on what practices to change in order to leave children less at the mercy of the adults with power over them.
Tintin would feel guilty for disturbing the captain’s well-deserved rest at home, but then, he saw that doing the work and the connections Haddock built doing it did the captain good.
Their advice got concrete results a few months later after a teacher was arrested on suspicion of molestation. A girl had disclosed to the new confidant that her teacher had made her look at funny pictures and then had put his hands under her clothes, making her cry. It may be only one small village school, but it had made a difference in a child’s life already, and once Tintin wrote an article for the local newspaper about the case the changes got picked up by several other schools.
In a surprising turn of events, his missions out in the field fighting crime got more nerve-wracking. It hadn’t occurred to him before how much risk he usually took. Putting his own life on the line had often seemed like a reasonable sacrifice; now Tintin realized that, in most cases, it wasn’t. He thought back to the stories and psalms and paintings he had absorbed into his eager brain when he was young. They had made pain and death beautiful, the miracles and rewards and salvation outshining all the suffering. Saint Sebastian, tranquil while he was helplessly bound and cruelly struck by arrows. Saint Cecilia, smiling, even looking ecstatic as she slowly bled to death in the Roman baths, the swirling waters turning red around her. Even God Himself loved His own son yet had sacrificed him and it had saved all of humanity.
It had sometimes helped when he had to lie down naked to picture himself as one of the holy martyrs, his soul purified by torment of sword or fire or stone on his exposed body and then welcomed into the eternal grace of Heaven.
It was only later when he began to question it all. He turned back towards the bible. The more he read, the more inflicting and glorifying suffering seemed in contradiction to its teachings of kindness and caring. But of course that itself was the greatest sin in Church. The very first sin. Never question authority. Lucifer questioned and then fell from heaven. Just follow. You will be forgiven everything, even mass murder, if only you just confess and believe.
Well. He had left that path long ago, though it kept on unexpectedly curling around like a snake, biting him in the back. He’d chosen to trust his own values and judgment, to be kind like Jesus had said, to try to be happy. He wanted to return to that cozy sitting room of Marlinspike Hall with its mismatched companions he loved so well. And if that joy was temptation leading to sin leading to damnation, then so be it. He had no interest in a world where all things that made you feel good were forbidden. Where'd he'd have to burn down joy in himself and in others in the name of God. Where the only life that really counted was the afterlife.
He did discover however that being a bit more cautious was in the end safer not just for him, but for everyone involved. In Italy when his attempt to locate a group of kidnapped olive farmers went awry and he got caught himself, he was immensely grateful he had taken a few minutes to warn the police beforehand of his plans and have them secretly follow him. All nine were soon freed, unharmed. He’d never been able to get them all out alone.
In another case, something about the posture and the words of the man holding him under gunshot sent him to a near breakdown.
Things sometimes got worse before they got better. And he’d apparently still had a lot of untouched memories to work through. But he had trust he would manage to do that. He’d come so far and now even had supportive family and friends standing at his back, after all.
***
“Hi there, Tintin! What you’ve been up to?” Haddock called out when he caught sight of him walking down the stairs. The Captain clearly just came from outside; he was brushing mud from his shoes and taking off his coat. A task made more difficult by Snowy jumping up against his legs.
“Working on the press release I told you about.”
“You’re going to reference your own experience?”
“Not yet, Captain,” Tintin said. “It’ll be like revealing a weakness.”
“Thunder and rain, boy, you’re not weak!”
Tintin was in his thirties now, but the captain wouldn’t stop calling him a boy. Not that Tintin minded.
He firmly shook his head. “I appreciate your words, Captain, but that’s not what I meant. I really can’t while I still do this work. It would make me more vulnerable. I don’t want any of my opponents knowing that - they might get ideas.”
The captain’s face darkened. “Have any-”
Tintin quickly shook his head. “No, don’t worry, they haven’t."
"Not them,” he added, a second later.
And that last part sounded more bitter than he’d intended. He’d been bashed on the head, tied up, kidnapped, locked up, almost killed, more times than he cared to remember - but even those who were out to hurt him and dispose of him because he dared to stand in the way of their crimes had never done what that nun, those two priests, that bishop had done. And he’d not even been an enemy, an equal. He’d been a child they’d had no reason to hurt. They had given him reasons and he’d believed them but they’d all been lies. He’d been so small. So vulnerable. So easy to manipulate.
He’d never really thought of it from that perspective before. He’d blamed himself, which made sense, he supposed. If others are the ones at fault then that means you don’t have any control over the situation at all and that’s too devastating to deal with. But you do have control over yourself - just deny yourself more, pray harder, be better, and they’d surely stop. Only of course they didn’t because the abuse never had anything to do with how he had been behaving in the first place.
Perhaps the Captain could teach him how to be more angry for his younger self’s sake. Maybe that felt better than this numbness and tiredness in his stomach.
The man in question looked relieved, even though the deep lines in his forehead hadn’t smoothed out. “You’re really going to give me a heart attack one day, lad. Can’t you just stay safely home and satisfy your thirst for adventure by writing stories about characters getting themselves into danger? I bet you have enough material to write some excellent novels by now.”
Tintin grinned, cheering up when he’d remembered why he’d come down. “I never thought to hear you asking for more books in this world! Actually, Captain, I just wanted to tell you that I’ll be flying to Greece this evening.”
Haddock theatrically put his hands in his hair - when had it become so grey? - and groaned.
The captain cared so much about him. It still took him by surprise. Tintin moved closer and comfortingly put his hand on Haddock’s shoulder. “I’m already more careful than I was.” he said, softly. “I can’t let this go - I’ve discovered a group of Greek border guards are blackmailing war refugees into giving up everything they have left, only to then push them back onto the sea. Somebody needs to go and gather proof. But, really, I’ll do my best to return alive and whole.”
Then he ran up the stairs to pack his suitcase.
***
The cathedral was huge and tall, high spikes rising up into the Spanish blazing blue sky. The Captain waited outside with Snowy while Tintin and Calculus went through the heavy wooden doors. Inside, it was cool and darker and quiet. The sun shone through a large glass-in-lead window, sprawling an intricate patchwork of colors on the ground.
“How does this make you feel, Tintin?” Calculus asked him, as always a bit too loud but that didn’t bother him at all. The silence already had been suffocating. He’d forgotten how sharp the scent of burning incense was.
Tintin took his time before he answered, listening to his steps echoing on the patterned stone tiles, touching the cool stone of the walls, looking at the paintings and organ and elaborate altar. The stone carvings were gorgeous.
It was as if he never left. How many hours he’d spent in places similar to this one. How many years - studying, praying, hoping, fearing. All the other places he’d traveled to, everything he’d seen and done, it all seemed unreal now. A child’s wild dreams. Could he ever outgrow his youth?
But the professor beside him was very real. Real like the captain, waiting outside, a sturdy silhouette against the midday sunshine.
“I both love and hate it,” Tintin finally said. “This brings back so many memories. The bad meant I had to leave eventually, it was killing me. But that doesn’t mean there weren’t good things as well. Calm. Connection. Beauty in art and song. Those comforting rites, bathed in candlelight. Sometimes I miss it.”
“You know you can come back, if you ever want to.” Calculus had become more vigilant about attending mass on sundays. Tintin knew the professor kept a watchful eye out to the children attending the church near Marlinspike Hall. Tintin sometimes wished he could do the same. But his fight was a different one.
He shook his head. “Personally, I can’t unsee the ghosts beneath the beauty. But, strangely, that is not what scares me most. What scares me even more is all I can’t see yet.”
Somewhere in the building, a baby started to cry.
***
“Are you ready?” The Captain asked, gruff, but Tintin could easily see it was just nerves.
He nodded. “As much as I’ll ever be.”
“We won’t leave your side.”
He gratefully smiled at the professor and the captain, then he took a deep breath and led the way into the press room. Twenty two journalists stared up at him. A video camera was rolling. Several large lenses were directed at him. Nestor, Helena and Justine had taken seats in the front row - a priceless show of support.
He hadn’t wanted to hide behind a typewriter this time.
“Ladies and gentlemen, dear colleagues, gathered here this afternoon,” Tintin formally started as soon as he had taken a seat. The whispers died down. “I have a matter of importance to share with you. Please give it your undivided attention.”
Tintin could sense the curiosity in the room. The way this press conference was organized - privately by him, subject unknown, on personal invitation only, was an unusual way of doing things.
He admired the work of every single one of these journalists and trusted them to share what he had to tell them to the world with respect.
That did not make this anything easier, though.
He still wasn't exactly sure why talking about this subject was so difficult. Which was frustrating, because it was his job to figure things out and then describe them into clear words, and he'd looked through books and publications and talked with psychologists but there just seemed to be hardly any answers at all. He had to find his own.
Some kind of deeply felt shame remained, something inside that was screaming at him to shut his mouth and walk away. But he was determined to break through it.
Not all who had underestimated his stubbornness lived to see the next day.
“I want to tell you about something that happened to me when I was a child. For a long time I couldn’t speak of it. I believed myself to be the only one it happened to. Yet it has come to my attention, much to my grief, that I am far from the only one. I raise the alarm, for I fear a large scandal that will demand proper investigation and response.”
Silence. Many faces looked at him with puzzled expressions. Tintin looked down at his notitions for a moment, more to gather his courage than to read his text.
He knew what was written down there by heart. Had thought of what words to say for years, changing and turning them over and over in his head. Again. And again.
Below the table, the captain gave his knee an encouraging little squeeze.
Time to finally get it out.
“Some of you might know that I grew up in a catholic orphanage. In primary school I got good grades, so I transferred to a boarding school managed by the same Church for further learning by the age of 10. Several of the clergy of those institutions greatly misused their power over me. Let me be clear here - I’m not talking about ordinary punishments that school children regularly receive, though I firmly believe myself it's not a proper way to treat children.”
One last deep breath before the great plunge.
“I’m talking about systematic, repeated abuse of a sexual nature instead. Being inappropriately touched. Being made to perform sexual acts before or with clergy no child should ever have to perform. It was an horrific thing to go through. Even after all those years, it still affects me in more ways than I can comprehend.”
So. That was the hardest thing said. Tintin leant back in his chair and surveyed the impact of his words.
He saw wide-eyed shock. He had expected that. Some journalists were intensely studying their notepads. He’d expected that too. If he himself hadn’t had words for so long, he couldn’t just expect everyone to know how to reply to such a proclamation either. Tintin was just really lucky with his roommates.
Other expressions were more difficult to interpret.
A reporter for the local Brussel newspaper stood. He started by thanking Tintin for his honesty, because “sharing your story must have taken great courage”. It indeed had, and Tintin was glad the man understood that.
He then asked Tintin what reasons he had to believe this child abuse was widespread. Well, that question was easy to answer.
He held up a pile of letters and said, “Because other victims have written to me any time I have reported on sexual abuse cases. A lot of these letters tell of child abuse done within institutions of the Catholic Church. Some even tell of other clergy walking in while it was happening, which tells me more in the institution knew, yet didn’t intervene. And I also know even high church officials were involved. A bishop was one of my abusers.”
Some genuine anger at that. Good.
An older journalist, a silver-haired woman, took the word. “In your short life so far you have already been through more than anyone should ever experience, Tintin. You’ve told us before about kidnapping, inprisonment, attemped murder. How would you say your experiences of this abuse compare to other bad experiences?”
They were so kind to him; it choked him up. He took the time to drink some water before taking the word again.
“A few unfortunate times I’ve seen a person die right before my eyes, not having been able to save their life. I’d say those are my worst memories. But memories of my abuse otherwise are certainly some of the most upsetting ones I have. If you’re in lethal danger, that’s terrifying enough, but there’s the adrenaline rush that helps you pull through, that dampens pain and fear. Sexual abuse is different. It’s… I don’t think that I can properly explain this in a few sentences, but it’s like long drawn out torture that just doesn't end, no matter what you try, no matter how much you want it to. And I had to deal with that alone.”
Yes, there were tears in his eyes now, but he wasn’t ashamed of them. Calculus handed him a tissue. He heard the emotion seeping into his own voice when he started to speak again.
“It is humiliating, invasive. You feel exposed and torn apart and ashamed. You literally don’t have control over your own body anymore. That's bad enough anytime, but when you’re just a child when that happens, it’s hard to know who you are anymore. There was no grown version of me before the abuse happened. Who might I have been without it?”
That loss of identity was perhaps the most painful part of it all.
A lot of sympathetic glances, which was comforting.
Now don't make me angry, for all you are is just one lonely boy before God. You'll need me at your side.
Hush. I'm just teaching you a valuable lesson because I love you. Stop fighting the fate God wrote for you.
Even if you try to tell - no one will believe, no one will care. You're no one, really. Where will you go? Who do you have but us?
He had believed them. But they had been lies. All of them.
He answered questions after on how the abuse had started, on how it had ended, on how he coped with it, on what course of action he would like to see being taken.
"Mr. Tintin, you do feel more angry at the Church for its firm condemnation of homosexual acts, while some of these same men have been sexually abusing you as a boy?"
"It wasn't just men."
Stunned silence.
"Look," he said, already feeling tired, "This may sound odd if you were not raised traditional Catholic, but the Church is not opposed to sin. It considers each and everyone of us sinners by nature already. Because even thoughts or feelings are regularly considered a thing of evil, no matter how good you try to act, it's just never enough. The Church is very much opposed, however, to not confessing your sins. I won't pretend I could mind-read my abusers. I don't know exactly why they did what they did. But my best guess is that they felt entitled to their twisted, control-obsessed idea of intimacy, and they could do that without much consequence if they just confessed and repented, so they did. Sexual sin is considered only the least grave of the deadly sins - homosexual or not, forced or not, it doesn’t matter that much. If you're going to get punished anyway, I guess some feel that you might as well earn it. And women could get away with more than men."
The things sister Lucia had done to him in the name of care.
To his relief the journalists didn’t ask him if this had anything to do with his lack of interest in a love life. Some certainly would come to their own conclusions anyway. Well, nothing to do about that. It was still a painful mess even to himself, but he'd made his peace with it. That would just have to do.
The only question he eventually refused to answer was if he would give more examples on what church clergy had done to him.
(He laid his hand down on the captain’s arm, which was trembling).
“I’m thinking of submitting a full testimony to the police. Sorry, but I don’t feel like sharing more details with you. That’s personal and extremely painful information the public is not entitled to know.”
He eventually ended the conference, feeling exhausted and empty but also relieved. Helena immediately came forwards to hug him. He gratefully leant into her strong embrace.
***
TINTIN ASSIGNED HEAD INVESTIGATOR INTO CHURCH SEXUAL ABUSE ALLOGATIONS
The ginger-haired reporter with his white dog, famous since young age for his many successes in uncovering organized crime, last year made headlines accusing the Catholic orphanage and boarding school he grew up in of sexually abusing him.
Tintin made his appearance at the press conference announcing the investigation yesterday evening, looking smart in a white woolen jumper and brown suit. On being asked about the investigation, Tintin said:
“Please understand that we’re not out to deliberately destroy the reputation of the Church, like some have so kindly suggested. The sexual abuse of children itself is the greatest stain upon it and the Church should do well to not hinder me and my team’s process of truth seeking. There are urgent questions that simply need to be answered. How many children have fallen victim to this abuse? What happened to them, how were they affected, who did know of it, what was done or not done to protect children entrusted to the care of the Church? Should anyone in particular be brought forth for justice? We can’t fully know how to support former victims or how to improve the current safety of children if we don’t have this information open out on the table.”
Being asked about his own youth and how it might affect the investigation, Tintin spoke:
“Until recently in my career, I have focused my efforts on organized crime. However, once I came to understand that domestic violence, abuse that is done by people the victim knows and might even love, is not made up of rare isolated cases like I thought but instead is underreported and poorly understood, I felt motivated to change my focus. Reporting on organized crime is easier, it has that exciting edge about it. People love to read those articles. To be confronted with the truth that the perpetrator of violence might be your own priest, friend, partner, family member, and you might not even know it’s happening, however… that’s just painful and uncomfortable. In particular if it’s sexual violence. Because we don't tend to talk about sex. But we as a society need to face these uncomfortable truths, for they are hurting and killing many of us from inside, and ignoring them won't improve anything.
“Some concerns about my objectivity in this investigation were raised, considering that indeed I was a victim of sexual abuse by church clergy myself. But I would argue that only someone who went through this themselves can truly understand the devastating impact this abuse has on victims. They need someone in charge who takes this seriously, who knows the religious setting, who they can feel safe to tell their story to. I have spoken to a lot of other former victims already, and many told me they wouldn’t have opened up to someone unable to relate to their experiences. I’m proud to represent them. A team of experienced researchers will help me.”
Looking grave and concerned, Tintin went on to adress victims personally.
“If you were pressured into sexual acts with church staff as a child yourself, I kindly but urgently ask you to contact our team. You can tell your story anonymously, on the telephone, in person, by letter, in whatever way would be most comfortable and convenient for you. I understand only too well that doing so may be terrifying. That you may have doubts if what happened to you really counts as abuse. That you may feel ashamed or uncertain or guilty. Please know that we value all stories and all information you are willing to share. If I’ve learnt anything in the past years it is that silence only works in the interest of wrongdoers, past and present; talking about my own abuse has certainly been difficult but improved my wellbeing. You don’t have to carry this burden alone anymore. Also know that your story will help to keep more children from experiencing the same pain you went through.”
Victims, witnesses or anyone else being able to provide relevant information can contact the investigation team on 0800-02937 or write to Postbox B4 1002, Brussels. The investigation team will also travel through Belgium for local interviews and research the coming year.