2007 - A tale etched in blood and hard black pencel (29 page)

A rip reports above the sound of the struggle, and a box comes flying out of the bag as the handles tear the manky old thing in two. The box clatters against the head of a girl two seats forward, then a moment later the entire row gets up and starts making for the aisles, some of the girls shrieking as they do so. Karen thinks she sees something green flying through the air, then definitely sees another row spontaneously decide to evacuate.

Within a few seconds, half the hall are on their feet, either to pile out of their rows despite the dire protestations of McGinty and Flaherty, or to get a better look at what improbably appears to be—yup, that’s certainly what it looks like; uh-huh, there goes another one—1S3 and 1S4 being attacked by an airborne squadron of frogs.

What follows is probably not the most sacred of spectacles, though maybe it could become a new sacrament: the Cleansing of the Puddocks from the Blessed Dinner Hall. Or maybe she’s viewing it the wrong way, and the frogs are God’s instrument in cleansing the Consecrated Canteen of unholy toerags such as James Burns and the JJs.

It makes for superb entertainment, far and away the greatest enjoyment she’s ever derived from a church service, with the added bonus that it eats heartily into the Mass’s possible duration. They’ll have to ditch a couple of hymns, maybe, and Father Flynn will have to settle for a fleeting mention of the Poles and his new-found love of
Solidarnosc
, ‘the only trade union I’ve ever heard of bloody priests sticking up for’, as her dad has bitterly remarked.

Watching them try to gather the errant green invaders while attempting to deter further hordes of the congregation from fleeing their seats gives her the briefest hope that the teachers will decide the simplest plan is to abandon the whole thing, but deep down she knows there’s no chance of that. McGinty and Flaherty are grimly determined that it will be seen through: it’s a point of principle, an uncompromising religious crusade. The precedent—and therefore incentive—would be catastrophic. If somebody died in here, they’d still finish the bloody service. So no way they’re letting some farcical carry-on put an end to
Holy Mass
.

Farcical, she thinks, yes, but not entirely unbiblical.

Karen looks at the tome in her hand, the bookmark at the reading Father Flynn has chosen, and starts flicking further back.

The place is finally returned to order, minus the amphibian visitors and about as many pupils: the boys to answer, via leather, for what happened; the girls to rein in their hysterics and in a couple of instances give their slime-smeared hair a rinse in the toilets. Father Flynn gets the show back on the road, noticeably cutting down on the pregnant pauses, then calls for the readers to come forward.

Karen knows there’ll be trouble, but hazards they’ll consider it theologically shaky ground to belt somebody for the crime of reading from the Bible. And besides, it’s just too good a chance to resist.

“First reading,” Father Flynn announces, and gestures Karen to the lectern.

“A reading from the book of Exodus,” she says. In the front row, she sees Flaherty’s brow furrow with satisfying confusion. “Then the Lord said to Moses, Go to Pharaoh and say to him, Thus says the Lord, Let My people go, that they may serve Me. But if you refuse to let them go, behold, I will smite your whole territory with frogs…”

§

So he’s sitting alone again, trying to make one drink last, feeling conspicuous as he always does in such situations: paranoid that everybody is looking, everybody is thinking ‘Billy No Mates’ or ‘Sad Mr Stood-up’. It’s a restaurant this time, which makes the effect even worse than the pub. Having a drink on your tod in a bar can at least be open to more generous interpretations: swift one before catching the train, mate running late, quiet wee indulgence with the paper or a book. Sitting on your Jack Jones at a bistro table for two, however, makes you the establishment’s conversation piece.

It’s to be expected, Martin appreciates. He’s done it to others often enough, caught up in meetings and unable even to get so much as a text through to that effect. It must be a dozen times as bad for the polis, with maybe only hospital doctors having it worse. This, he speculates, may be a large part of the reason Karen is divorced. Still, no news is good news, he reckons, checking his watch. She wouldn’t call to say she’s running late but on her way if she could be here any minute. The only reason to call now would be to cancel altogether, so, dear mobile, be silent.

He can’t believe he’s feeling so anxious; partly regarding simply whether she’s going to show and partly in anticipation of being here with her if and when she does. He was cooler waiting for Becky Soleno, but perhaps that’s not as daft as it sounds. If Becky Soleno hadn’t shown up, how much would he really have cared? Yeah, she was beautiful and never out of the glossies, but those things didn’t make her particularly special to him. Not like Karen Gillespie is special. This is the date his inner fifteen-year-old never had, and nothing Becky or Kara or any of the others had to offer could compete with that.

They’ve got some very important issues to discuss, obviously, but mostly he’s looking forward to catching up. Well, perhaps ‘catching up’ isn’t the term, because that would imply that they had a past relationship worth the name to catch up on. But maybe it is catching up nonetheless: catching up by having the conversations they were never able to because of whatever classroom convention decreed that only the coolest boys and girls could ever talk to each other. Catching up by getting the belated opportunity to find out who each other really is, really was.

This thought unfortunately brings him back to last night, and another conversation with someone he’d never truly spoken to. Was he hoping to bed Karen, too? Go for the hat-trick: three nights, three women, one horny but lost and fucked-up little boy? No. He just wanted to talk, wanted to get to know who Karen really is because back then he never had the chance. With Jojo it was different, something else, some brutal act of mutual catharsis.

So, to be more honest, Martin, you’re saying you didn’t want to get to know who Jojo really is? You reckoned you already knew all you needed to know and the book was closed? No. Okay, kind of. But what he really wanted last night was for Jojo to find out who
he
really is. That’s where all that aggression and resentment, all that frustration was coming from, wasn’t it? Uh-huh. Yup. But it wouldn’t have happened if it wasn’t
mutual
aggression, resentment and frustration.

His drink is just about gone. It was a bottle of Sol, not quite chilled enough, served with the standard affectation of a slice of lime. The lime was about the only thing he really tasted. He could murder a pint of Eighty like he had at the Railway.

His phone rings. It’s Karen. Shite.

She isn’t going to make it. They just got access to a mother-load of Colin’s files and documents, and she’s going to have to spend the rest of the evening sifting through them. She apologises, says maybe tomorrow. He says he understands, and to remember their deal. She asks what he’s going to do with the rest of his Saturday night. He looks at the colourless trickle at the bottom of his bottle and says he doesn’t know. He’s lying.

R
obbie’s still got this sound in his ear from when his da leathered him last night. It makes this high-pitched noise that goes
eeeeeeeeee
. Sometimes it seems loud, sometimes it’s just in the background, but it’s fucking afternoon interval now and it’s still there.

His maw and da argued about it afterwards, like they always do. Da says he needs to learn to take it, toughen him up like Boma and Joe. (Da doesn’t batter them much any more because they’re getting too big and they’re liable to hit back.) Maw said Da never hit them anything like he hits Robbie. Da just said: “Aye, well,” and that seemed to be the end of it.

Robbie
can
take it. He gets a battering off Boma all the time. Not so much Joe, but then Joe’s more liable to take shite out on Boma, because Joe’s the oldest. Boma’s a cunt when he’s in a mood. Robbie can take that, and take leatherings off his da, and he reckons that means he could take anything the boys in his year could dish oot, no danger.

He ought to have more of a rep. He’s been at St Grace’s more than six months, fuck, and he’s hardly fought anybody. Some folk don’t need to fight much to have cunts feart of them, but nobody’s feart of Robbie. Every cunt’s feart of Boma and Joe, but none of it seems to have rubbed off. He’s sure folk shat it from Boma when he first came to St Grace’s, simply because he was Joe’s wee brother, but then Boma looks like Joe a lot more than Robbie looks like either of them. Now, obviously Robbie’s not the biggest, so he’s hardly going to be in there with the likes of Jai and Paddy, but fuck’s sake, at the moment he’s not fucking quoted, and when you see who is, it gets even worse. Christ, that boy Pete McGeechy, who looks aboot five stone soaking wet, had a fight with Richie Ryan, for fuck’s sake, and that’s him made now. There’s plenty will be keeping their fucking mouths shut who before that would have been happy ripping the pish out of him. No, Robbie needs to make a mark. Needs to be seen panelling some cunt so folk get the fucking message.

That fucking
eeeeee
noise, man. Doing his melt in, so it is. Some other cunt needs to be hearing that, so he does.

Question is: who?

Paul McKee leaps to mind. Always does. Unfinished business. If it’s all about reputations, about who battered who, then that’s a record he really ought to put straight. But, but, but, but, but…He’d never admit it to anybody, but when it comes down to brass tacks, he doesn’t fancy it. He always came out with some shite about how he never fought back that day against Paul, but the truth was he was feart. There was a look in Paul’s eyes, this burning, angry look, that told you how much he wanted it. Robbie’s seen his big brothers fight so many guys, and seen the look in their eyes that tells you they’re beat, sometimes before they’ve even started. Even the ones that start all determined, you can see the moment they know they’re beat, see the fear, after which they just want to end it soon as, minimise the damage. Paul’s look was like the opposite of that, the look Robbie’s seen in his brothers’ eyes: something mental inside, something that just wanted to hurt you and didn’t care what you gave back.

There’s plenty of cunts Robbie could take no bother, but there’s no point if they don’t fight back. Just start leathering into somebody like that and folk don’t think you’re a fighter, they think you’re a heidcase. Plus chances are you’ll get one of the real big men knocking fuck out you because you’re out of order. That’s why Martin Jackson’s a non-starter, even though some folk think he must be harder than he looks because they heard he fought Boma. Total shite. Boma just fucked him for a laugh, like swatting a fly. Robbie’d love to show him up, show what happens when he
really
tries to fight not even Boma, merely Boma’s wee brother, but he knows it just won’t happen. Martin probably wouldn’t fight back, which would make it pointless. Plus Martin’s all palsy with Kenny Langton, so there’s no fucking way Robbie’s just going to go up and start picking on him. Aye, what a fucking disappointment that was, Kenny and Chick: Robbie thought they’d be starting wars but instead they’re big mates, and so is every cunt in that class. Kenny and Chick don’t even fucking smoke any more, because it would get them chucked out the school football team. Tight wee fucking unit, that 1S5 mob. Never even fight among themselves, even with Tarn Mclntosh in there. Big fucking disappointment.

But then there’s Coco, isn’t there, who he battered in primary. Coco fucking thinks he’s it these days. Thinks every cunt’s forgotten he was one of the wee poofs just because he hangs about with a different shower up at St Grace’s. Smart mouth on him. Joins in if folk are laughing at Robbie. Comes out with all sorts of cheek because he knows Aldo will laugh at it, but that doesn’t mean Aldo would protect him. Aldo likes the sight of a good fight as much as anybody.

Aye. Maybe about time a few folk got reminded where Coco stands compared to Robbie.

He sees him across the social area, near the big pile where everybody dumps their bags. Robbie bends down and makes sure the laces on his Docs are tied tight, then walks across.

He just hovers about at first, on the edge of the conversation. He knows a way in will come soon, and it does when Coco refers to him as Turkey’. It was Aldo started that a few weeks back. Robbie fucking hates it, but when it’s big Aldo, there’s not much you can do. But Aldo saying it doesn’t mean every cunt can say it.

“Don’t fuckin caw me Turkey, Coco, ya cunt, or I’ll batter your fuckin melt in, awright?” Robbie says. He gives him a push in the chest to underline his intentions. A few folk’s eyes and ears have perked up. Good. If nothing happens, at least they’ll see Robbie laid down the law, and Coco shat it. “I’ve fuckin leathered ye afore and I’ll dae it again,” he adds, figuring he might as well broadcast the track record seeing as he’s got an audience, including folk who never went to St Elizabeth’s and so don’t know.

“Aye, it was fuckin Primary Three, Turkey,” Coco responds, with a disbelieving,
disrespectful
laugh.

Robbie seizes the chance, pushing Coco again with each question. “So ye hink ye’d dae better noo, eh? Hink ye’d dae better? Ye want your go? Dae ye? Ye want your fuckin go?”

He’s waiting for Coco to push back, because that’s his cue: that’s an accepted come-ahead that everybody can recognise, no question of Robbie just lamping him unprovoked.

Instead, Coco punches him flush on the the jaw. Robbie doesn’t see it coming, only feels the impact, and in that instant knows he’s just fucked up on an enormous scale. The image he’s had of Coco in his mind, he realises too late, is not the boy he’s now fighting, nor has it been for months. He’s taller than Robbie now, a good few inches, but the main difference is bulk, muscle, power. He’s filled out, stocky, sturdy, like Chick Dunlop, like Kenny Langton. Like Boma. Like Joe.

When Coco hits him, it’s not like in fights with other kids before. It’s like blows from his brothers or his da. Each one shakes him to the bones, impacts through his whole body, which is why he knew he was beaten after the first.