2007 - A tale etched in blood and hard black pencel (8 page)

“How does he talk like that?” James asks. “Where’s he from?”

“Ma maw says he’s fae one of the islands.”

“Aye,” James, says, remembering the comic-book classics he liked to flick through in the library. “The Island of Doctor Moreau.”

They make their way through the Main Building and exit at the door nearest the Infants’ playground, minimising their route through Primary Four-to-Seven infested territory. When they reach home turf, they find Martin, Richie, Gary, Paul and Robbie gathered round Colin, who is standing with his back to the fence, holding something.

“Scot, Jamesy, check this,” Martin says, and they move in closer.

Colin is holding a wee red plastic device in both hands. “It’s a killertine,” he tells them. “Watch. Somebody gie’s another cheese puff.”

“Fuck off,” Gary objects, “I’ve gave up half the packet.”

“Aw, come on, don’t be moolsy,” insists Richie.

“S’awright, there’s wan on the ground that’s big enough,” Gary points out, rightly clutching his poke of the tuck shop’s rubbishy attempt at crisps.

Colin picks up a length of cheese puff from the concrete and places it through the lower of two holes in the killertine, then sticks his index finger through the other.

“There’s the blade. You see it?” he asks Scot and James. There is a thick white strip across two pillars of red plastic, poised above the two holes.

“Aye,” they confirm.

“Right. Check this.”

Colin plunges a handle down and drives the blade to the bottom of the killertine. It chops the cheese puff in half but incredibly leaves his finger unharmed.

“That’s fuckin amazin,” Scot declares.

James is so impressed he can’t even find the words at first. He just laughs with delight. “Dae it again, dae it again,” he pleads.

Robbie walks away, followed by Paul, and then Gary. They must have seen it enough times already, though in Gary’s case it might simply be to preserve his cheese puffs.

§

Noodsy lifts his head from his knees and looks at the walls so tightly enclosing him, the grey steel door and its narrow observation slit closing off all contact with the world. He feels sick. He hasn’t eaten, hasn’t felt hungry. He hasn’t slept since they brought him here, and not much in the nights preceding, either. He keeps thinking he’s going to throw up, so it’s probably just as well there’s nothing down there.

He’s scared, really fucking scared. He wants out of here like he’s never wanted anything before.

He’s been in this nick—this cell and others just like it—so often it’s practically his second home, but on this occasion it’s different; on this occasion it’s creeping him out. It reminds him of the first time, except that it’s far worse than that. Sure, he was scared back then, too, just a boy, really, but full of bravado and a determination not to let anyone—polis or fellow inmates—see his fear. Today he’s wearing it all on his sleeve; can’t help it. It reminds him of the first time, aye, but that’s not the feeling that’s creeping him out. What’s got him spooked, his guts churning and his eyes unable to close is the feeling like it’s the
last
time. All those other arrests were for kiddy-on stuff compared to this. Fines, service, the odd jakey sentence. Occupational hazards. But what he’s up for now, you’re talking about the big picture. Twelve o’clock Mass.

Life.

They say it doesn’t mean life, but the folk who say that have never stared down the barrel at it. Look at the best-case scenario, for fuck’s sake: he’s gets out in twelve, maybe fifteen—about fifty years old—and to what? No house, no wife, no kids, nothing. He’s thirty-seven next birthday. Time, he knew, was running out to get hold of himself, and that was before…this.

Christ, what was he thinking? Well, he wasn’t, that was the problem. That was always the problem, but he’d never screwed up as badly as this before; not even close. Life, for fuck’s sake. He never thought about that when he was doing it, when he was in the midst of all that madness, did he? That’s what the politicians and journalists who are always banging on about tougher sentences being a deterrent all completely fucking fail to understand.

No cunt ever thinks he’ll get caught.

“L
ine up neatly and quietly at the door, boys and girls. We’re going to the gym hall for an assembly.”

Aw naw.

Scot suspected this was coming, right enough. Clarice’s been eyeing the clock every five minutes since they got back after lunchtime. Assembly does get you out the class and away from the jotters for a wee while, but it’s not exactly playtime. In fact, along with school Mass, it’s about the only thing that makes Scot wish he was back at his desk doing long division. It’s hellish: St Lizzie’s version of the Black Hole of Calcutta. Everybody from Primary Three upwards gets stowed into the gym hall to compete for the last few oxygen molecules as their arse-cheeks gradually go numb from sitting cross-legged on the hardwood floor. Numb, aye, but not quite numb enough, because something about that position seems to bring the farts out in folk; and not big raspers that you can at least get a laugh at. It’s always the silent-but-violent variety, so nearby and thick in the air that they actually smell
warm
—and that’s just what your nose has to put up with if you
don’t
end up sitting close to Smeleanor.

All of which is to say nothing about the cabaret, which usually takes one of two standard forms, or if you’re really unlucky, both. The less frequent of the two is presided over by Harris, and begins with a wee lecture about whichever patron saint is blowing out their candles today up in heaven, concentrating mainly on the horrific manner in which they met their holy end. She usually works herself up into a mighty temper while delivering this, with the result that Scot reckons she’s trying to imply that it was somehow their fault. This, however, is merely a preamble to her principal enthusiasm, which is to lead a marathon, unaccompanied hymn practice, by the end of which Scot is usually convinced the bloody martyr had it easy.

Today, though, it’s the more familiar routine, the main event, the one you’ve not been waiting for: Ladies and gentlemen, put your bum-cheeks together for the
All-Old Momo Show
. Which would be a shite enough prospect if it
wasn’t
coming on top of this morning’s class invasion and random assault.

Scot catches Jamesy’s eye as they troop along the corridor and see the headmaster up on stage in front of a half-empty but rapidly filling floor. They both know that it’s the older weans who are most likely to be singled out during assembly, but it can depend on which classes get there first and therefore who ends up sitting nearest the front and in Memo’s direct line of vision. When they were in their proper classroom, back in the Infant Building, they were usually safe, coming in at the coo’s tail behind everyone else, but the utility room is only yards away from the gym hall. Jamesy’s also probably thinking, like Scot, that Momo’s assemblies, for no apparent reason, tend to be on a Friday, with Lingalonga Harris taking the floor on Tuesdays. This is Monday, the first day everyone’s back after the fire, so any bets that’s top of the agenda. In a way this realisation is slightly comforting, because at least it dispels Scot’s fear that Momo overheard his impression of him in the corridor earlier and is lining him up for a public belting, like happened to that Primary Six who swore at Mrs Ford.

The early arrival doesn’t work out too badly. Mrs Cook’s Primary Four class got in first and she has organised everybody to line up in files rather than rows. This means Michelle, Carol, Alison and fat Joanne end up two abreast at the front, leaving Scot and his pals a comfortable distance back. They are also a comfortable distance away from Smelly Elly, but as soon as he sits down, Scot can smell the same niff you get off her: sour milk and stale piss. He hears someone say, “Awright, Scotty,” and looks to his immediate right, where he sees Matthew Cannon, who lives round the corner from him. Sitting just behind Matthew is Harry Fenwick, one of Eleanor’s brothers, which explains the smell. It’s a bit of a sin for Harry, really, because he’s not a pure bastard like the other Fenwicks, or permanently angry and spiteful like Eleanor.

It’s bucketing down outside by now and the windows all steam up as the place fills. The hall is surprisingly quiet for so many weans being in, which just shows you the effect Momo has without even opening his mouth. Sadly, that part is coming soon enough. And indeed, here we go.

“Hallo boys and gerrals,” he booms out.

“Hello, Mr Monahan,” comes the mass response. Scot can hear a few ‘Hello, Momo’s mixed in, coming from some of the more daring or just mental bigger boys.

Momo strides back and forth, pacing the wooden boards before the wee stage at the front. Harris usually stands up there when she’s subjecting them to the hymn-practice grief, but Momo likes to be as terrifyingly close as possible to his audience. He always walks like he’s trying really hard to hold in a jobbie, and on these occasions his coupon adds to the effect, contorted by this uncomfortable strained gurning that it took Scot months to work out was actually his attempt at a smile.

“And are you all working harrrd?”

“Yes, Mr Monahan.”

“And are you all haaaa-ppee?”

“Yes, Mr Monahan.”

The ‘Yes, Momo’ chancers usually chuck it by this point, not wishing to push their luck.

“Do you know what makes me haaa-ppeee? Harrd worrk. Good boys and gerrals. That’s what makes me haa-ppee. Do you want me to be haa-ppee, boys and girls?”

“Yes, Mr Monahan.”

“Do you want me to be saawd?” This illustrated by a face like a boxer dog after a swift boot in the cheenies, as well as a sudden slump in the shoulders and bending of both knees.

“No, Mr Monahan.”

“Do you know what makes me sawd?” Face still like elbow-skin, voice giving it kiddy-on crying.

“Yes, Mr Monahan,” chant about two-thirds, the remainder opting for the negative. It’s the same routine every time, but not everybody is quite sure of which response the auld bastard wants at this point or what everybody else said the last time. What they
are
all sure of, right enough, is every word of what’s coming next.

“Lazy bones,” Momo says, coupon now all sour like he just picked his ear and ate it. “Poor workers, classroom chitter-chat-terers, daydreamers, window-starers,
bawd iggsl
” The catchprase gets fired out at high speed and maximum volume. You always see a few shoulders stiffen and straighten from the folk who’ve drifted off a bit and aren’t paying attention. “And do you know what else makes me saaawd?”

It’s usually about fifty-fifty at this point, with Scot himself not sure whether they’re supposed to be clued up and say, ‘yes’ or awaiting revelation and say, ‘no’.

“Seeing Jesus on the cross, and the starving babies in Africa. So say your prayers, and give to the Black Babies. You’ll all do that, won’t you, boys and gerrals?”

“Yes, Mr Monahan.”

Aye, but we’re not quite finished the wish-list yet, are we, sir? On you go, Momo. The grannies and toddlers.

“And remember, be nice to wee toddlers,” Momo implores, offering a ‘kindly’ expression that looks kindly enough to have any toddler bawling its eyes out. “And when you see old ladies, help them to cross the road.”

Nae kidding. This is the script. Every time. Every. Fucking. Time. Word for word. Scot’s still sure the assembly’s been called because of the fire, but whatever else is on the agenda, it was always going to have to wait until this part is by with. It’s like one of those dolls with a string you pull. Really, does the guy never think, Hang on, I’m actually boring
myself
here? Jeezo.

And the thing that gets Scot every time he watches Momo in action is that he’s the heidie, the headmaster. You have to be clever to be a teacher, so you’d think you’d have to be extra clever to be the teacher in charge. And yet Momo comes across as one of the most stupid adults Scot has ever encountered, with maybe just Father Neeson edging him out for the allcomers’ title.

It’s probably just as well everybody’s so bored of this as to have stopped listening, especially the Primary Sevens who’ve been hearing it for donkey’s, because they’re getting big enough to forcibly implement Momo’s wishes. If they took it to heart, then Braeside Main Street would be full of old dears trying to get back to the side of the road they were happily doddering along when the St Elizabeth kids decided to do their master’s bidding.

Now, though, with the greatest hits concluded, it’s time for a new number.

“Boys and gerrals, there is something else that has made me sawd of late. Very sawd indeed. There was a fiyarr; a big fiyarr.” Momo says this like it’s news, as if nobody’s noticed the entire back of the fucking Infant Building has been missing since last week and the Primary Threes haven’t realised they’re all sitting in the wrong classrooms. “And it burnt down the Infant School. And all the wee Primary Ones, the poor wee Primary Ones, and all the lovely wee Primary Twos [more balls-booted boxer-dog here] are having to go to the Church Hall for their lessons. And all the wee Primary Threes have lost their classrooms as well. All because of this terrible fiyarr. Now, do you know how fiyarrs are started?”

There’s close to no response at this point, apart from some dutiful ‘No-o, sir’s from a few of the lassies, including, inevitably, Michelle and that lot down the front. Joanne’s voice comes through clear and recognisable, securing her grassing rights as ever. Momo realises he’s off the hymn sheet here and decides to spotlight some solo performers. This is when it pays to be as far as possible from the front.

“David Reardon. You can tell us: how do fires start?”

There’s a wee gap while this poor boy gathers himself after the shock of being suddenly picked out. “You turn on the bars, sir?” he suggests.

A few of the bigger ones laugh, though they quickly zip it. You can tell everybody else is holding it in.

“No, not an electric fiyarr, David. A blaze. Daft boy, idiot.” David’s awfully lucky Momo would have to bend down to reach him or his scalp would be getting pummelled right now. Momo sighs. Time to bring in reliable help. “Helen Dunn,” he bellows, spotting her near the front. “How do fiyarrs start?”