The Dead Republic (20 page)

—Got that?

—Yes, sir.

—That’ll be fine, he said.—Off you go.

Peter slid over the wet tiles. He tried not to run because he knew he wasn’t supposed to.

—Poor Peter, said Strickland.—He’s a bit of a worrier.

He picked up the broken neck of the bottle. The spout, for pouring the ink, was still jammed in it.

—Can you get that out, Henry? he said.—And I’ll find a new bottle.

The bell was rung every morning. Strickland lifted it over his head, held it there for a long second, then let it fall, his arm held straight - it shaved his knee. It went up again, and down, four times, and the boys, cold and giddy, got into their lines and waited for the go-ahead, permission to walk in, out of the cold, in to the hissing radiators and coloured chalk. They turned up every morning, and they were let in. No boy was stopped at the front door. The nuns were safely next door, in the girls’ school, and they never climbed over the railings.

These boys ran out of the new houses every morning. Most of them had been born in rooms like the one I’d been born into -
What about me?
But their parents had brought them out to clean air, fresh paint and free primary education. The houses were good, and built by the state. The school was good, built by the state. It was a national school - although this was Ireland, so the manager was the priest - and this was my reward. I’d been run out of the country before the state was founded. But now the state was looking after me. And I looked after its little lads. They’d be waiting, some of them, when I took the block of keys from my jacket pocket and found the one I wanted, and opened the front gate.

—Hiya, Hoppy Henry.

—Jesus, lads, you’re early.

Hoppy Henry - I fuckin’ loved my name, the cheek and life that went into it. And I thought the boys were like me, and that they loved the place. It took me a while to calm down, to notice the shivers and malnourishment, the ringworm, the bruises. It took me a while to accept that poverty could also be suburban. And it was a while before I noticed the disappearing boys. That last lesson came with a cough.

I heard it as I crossed the yard, on my way to the outside jacks with a bucket of disinfectant. The yard was closed on three and a half sides, by the school itself, the hall and bike shed. The wind was trapped in there and made to do laps. It went clockwise, always, and so did the kids. All games, the chasing and the football, went from left to right. That morning was a windy one, the middle of April but still winter, even if there were pink blossoms being whirled among the running boys. I was the only one walking into the wind, from my windowless office in under the hall, to the jacks.

—Howyeh, Hoppy!

The top layer of the disinfectant was being shaved off by the wind and thrown back into my trousers. There was a slate, fresh-smashed, on the ground, near the front door - dangerously near it. I’d get rid of the disinfectant first, clear the jacks of kids and throw the contents of the bucket so hard it would smack the back wall and roll back, chewing the old smell with its new one. Then I’d go in to Mister Strickland and warn him about the flying slates. I looked up now to see if there were more slates missing or on their way down. There was the bucket of disinfectant pulling the arm off me; I was going to have to climb out onto the roof and into the strong, mean hands of the wind; I’d found rat droppings on top of my desk, when I was mixing the disinfectant. It was a fuck of a day already. But I was happy.

Then I heard the cough.

It came straight out of my memory, like one of the slates. Came out, and down, and sliced me. My mouth, my eyes - I was split in half.

Victor. My brother, and his last cough - I’d woken to its dying echo but he was already dead. And I’d just heard it again. I’d heard a cough that had opened flesh. There was a dying child in the school yard.

The yard was full. Every boy under twelve from the Ratheen estate was in there. But I saw him immediately. There were invisible hands holding him up at the shoulders. His face was white and disbelieving - he was climbing out of his own mouth. He knew it but he didn’t understand why his own life was leaving him. He was trying to close his mouth, but couldn’t.

The wind whipped around me; I could feel the disinfectant splashing on my hands, over a lifetime’s cuts and damage. I didn’t put the bucket down. I wanted to move, but I couldn’t. The kid’s mouth was closing, slowly. His eyes were back; his shoulders were coming down. He was alright, for now. He’d cough again. I’d be given another chance.

Strickland came out with his bell. He saw the broken slate and stepped back into the school, the corridor behind the glass. I saw him shout, and immediately his staff, the country boys, came running out past him, ready to herd their lads out of the yard.

I finally moved. I went over to the jacks and threw the disinfectant. The bucket went with it; I couldn’t hold on. It clattered against the far wall, above the urinal. The hand stung, and I let it sting. I took my punishment, but it wasn’t enough.

I got up onto the roof. I hoped the wind would grab my arm and throw me down into the yard. But it wasn’t as strong up there; it wasn’t trapped and angry. I looked down at Strickland walking back across the empty yard. He had the kid with him, trotting along beside him, happy now with the big bell in his hand.

It was called consumption when it got Victor. Now it was T.B. And it was under control, well on the run. There were sanatoriums, and a man called Noel Browne. No one coughed to death in the new Ireland.

But I knew what I’d heard.

There was just the one slate missing. The others were well tacked down. I got off the roof; it was easily done, even with a wooden leg. I went down the wide stairs to Strickland’s office to tell him the good news, to lick up to him and hear him say
Good man.
To make sure he hadn’t seen me standing by while the poor kid was breathing his second last. I nearly ran along the corridor. I knew it; I was pathetic.

I’d been lots of things in my time, but never pathetic. Never in my own eyes. I’d been stupid and magnificent, and all the little countries in between. But I’d never seen myself as pathetic; I’d never been on that island.

When I got to his office he was coming out, with the kid. He had his coat on.

—I’m bringing Seán home, he told me.

Seán looked quite excited. He was going home early, in a car. His lungs were sleeping; he was grand.

Strickland locked the office door.

I kept an eye out for Seán after that. But he didn’t come back.

I asked Strickland.

—Young Seán, I said.

—Poor Seán, he said.—He’ll be fine.

—Where is he?

—Wicklow, said Strickland.—In the sanatorium up there. In a room all by himself. His mother, God love her, can look in at him every Sunday, through the glass. And his father’s there too. In another room.

He clapped his hands, once.

—But, he said.—Seán will be back.

I believed him. But I woke up. I began to see and hear. I still saw the progress, and smelt it. It came from the walls, and from inside the classrooms. But I knew I wasn’t in a republican heaven. Bad lungs weren’t left at the gate, and bad bastards occasionally crawled off the farm and became teachers. I kept hearing Seán’s cough, every time I crossed the yard, even fighting the loudest wind. Every time I walked along one of the corridors.

I declared war, a guerrilla war. I declared, but no one heard me. I always carried my excuse - the mop or a spanner - and I patrolled. Quietly, lightly - I went easy on the limp. I roamed the corridors, upstairs and ground floor, and the three extra rooms hidden away at the back. I stood among the hanging coats. And I waited. All the training came back; I’d never lost it. Boys and staff went past but they didn’t see or hear me. I could stand still for hours. I could withstand the pain that ate its way all through my leg; I could even ignore it.

I listened, and heard the slaps. I counted them. Four, five, then the sixth. Six was as many as I’d tolerate. Six of the famous best. Three whacks on each open hand with the leather strap. The limit: I’d allow no more. But then I heard the seventh, and the eighth. The ninth, the tenth. I heard the objections, killed in the throats of fifty-four witnesses, the silent outrage. And the terror. I was outside. The boys were inside, watching a brute lose control of himself. Living it, and being destroyed by it.

The three o’clock bell -
go home, go home
. I stepped out from the coats as the door opened and the boys came out, in a long, slow line. Still pale and scared but ready to laugh and pretend it had been nothing. It was hard to tell which of them had been the victim. But I saw him. And I’d remember him.

I made my move.

I filled the door before the teacher could get out. This was Mister Mulhare. I didn’t know his first name. The job was easier without it.

He spoke first - I wasn’t going to.

—Henry, he said.—I’ll leave you to it.

He had his bag, the
mála scoile
, under his arm. He tried to walk around me.

I didn’t move.

He was young, still in his twenties.

—The latch on the window beyond needs looking at, he said.—Good man.

I still didn’t move. Then I stepped straight into him and shut the door with my heel, just rightly weighted, no big bang or ricochet. He stepped back, nearly fell, to get out from under me. His bag slipped from under the arm; he held it now in both hands.

—Fuck the latch on the window, I said.

He was short and broad. He came from a line of mountain men. But he was scared. He tried to look outraged but nothing came out of him.

—If, I said.

I stepped on his foot and brought the rest of me forward to meet it. I was a tall man again.

—If I ever hear you slapping any of the boys again, I said.

I stayed still now, hung right over him.

—I’ll kill you, I told him.—Slowly. D’you hear me, Mister Mulhare?

—What do you mean?

I hit him.

I back-handed the cunt, sent the slap bouncing around the walls and maps.

—You know what I mean, I said.—If a kid misbehaves, you can slap him.

He was still clutching the schoolbag. He hadn’t touched his face, where I’d whacked him. It was turning red, and his eyes were catching up.

I stepped a bit closer. He was backed up to his desk now.

—To a maximum of six, I said.—Three on each hand. But only for the mortal sins. Once in a blue fuckin’ moon. D’you understand me, Mister Mulhare?

I laid off the sarcasm. I threw no extra weight into his name or the
Mister
.

He nodded.

—Good, I said.—I’ll be outside. Always. Counting. If I hear more than six, you’re dead.

A sharp dig to his gut; my fingers reminded me that they’d been broken before.

He dropped the bag.

—Or you’ll wish you were dead.

I stepped back.

—If anyone else hears about this, I said.—Do I have to say more?

He shook his head.

—I know, I said.—It’s a bit of a shock. I’m the caretaker. Yeah?

He nodded. He wasn’t ready to talk.

—Your daddy told you all about the War of Independence. Yeah?

He nodded.

—And I bet he told you he was in the thick of it, I said.

He nodded.

—Yes, he said, as he picked up his bag.

—And I bet you never really believed him.

—He has a medal.

—They all have fuckin’ medals.

I didn’t hit him.

—I was there, Mister Mulhare, I told him.—And I never got a medal. And I didn’t have a fuckin’ farm to go home to.

I hadn’t planned this, but it was coming from somewhere sore right behind my ribs. I moved in close again - I parked right up against him. The schoolbag was back on the floor. I shoved it aside with the wooden foot, no twinge or protest from the knee.

—If your da was ever in the thick of it, it was because I ordered him to be in the thick of it. Where are you from, Mister Mulhare?

—Kilkenny.

—I know every inch of it, I told him.—Every ditch and hiding place. Is your da still alive?

—Yes.

—That’s because of me.

—Thanks.

—No problem. You understand me.

—Yes.

—Your da and his brothers and cousins took their orders from me. And so do you.

—Yes.

—Remember that, I told him.—All those stories your da told you, I’m in every one of them. I was there. And now I’m back.

I stepped away.

I was tired now. I’d gone too far. I was a gobshite. But the teacher didn’t think so. He was shaking. Trying to gather himself and stay whole.

I opened the door.

—I’ll be listening, I told him.

I left him there and went up to the roof, to do some shaking of my own. I watched Mulhare walk across the yard, to the gate and the bus stop up on the Main Road. I shook till I stopped, and got down off the roof. I locked up and went home.

I passed him the next morning. I made sure I did.

—Morning, Mister Mulhare.

—Good morning, Henry.

—I fixed that latch for you, I said.

—Oh. Thank you.

—No problem at all, I said.—It’s why I’m here.

I watched him stand at the door of his room. He smiled at the boys who walked past him. He smiled big at every one of them. He looked at me and closed the door. I did the bits of business that made my job, and listened. Mulhare didn’t use the leather strap at all.

I didn’t overdo it. I left him alone, and the others too. I knew they had a few pints on Friday, the younger ones, after they’d emptied the school and cleaned their blackboards. I saw them gathering around the cars, giddy for drink, boys again, laughing much louder than they had to. They all pushed in - there were three cars, and seventeen of them. They didn’t drink local. They wisely kept going, on into town. I wished them well and I knew: Mulhare would eventually yap. He’d move on to the small ones one Friday night, and it would all come out. In one of the culchie pubs, on the shoulder of a fat nurse from home. He’d tell them what had happened. Or he’d tell her - he’d whisper it wet, into her ear. And she’d pass it on, when he’d gone into the jacks to vomit; she’d whisper into the ear of her off-duty pal, who was sitting beside, or on the knee of, another of the teachers, or his cousin, the Guard. It would be all around the pub and out the back door by the time he’d finished puking and cleaned himself. The band in the corner would be putting it to music.