‘Is that the time?’ said the Reverend Head looking at his watch. ‘Father McMullan must have had his foot on the accelerator this morning. Are you all right, Martin? Is there something biting you?’
‘No, Father.’ The keys were gnawing into the flesh of his hand.
‘Carry on with the worm search.’
‘Pardon, Father?’
‘The early bird.’
‘Oh …’ The Reverend Head continued on his way to his room, his hands behind his back. Martin walked towards the sacristy. What the fuck was he going to do? Condor was, at this very minute, getting out of his vestments.
He went into the altar boys’ room. There were two servers there. First-year boarders. One of them was a wee McKelvey from Cookstown — there seemed to be one of them in every year.
‘Where’s Condor?’ Wee McKelvey waved his thumb at the next room. Martin stood not knowing what to do. He was still trembling, still shaking. Then he heard Condor’s deep voice.
‘Anyone seen my keys?’ Condor came to the doorway. Then into the altar boys’ dressing room, where he stood with his hand on the jamb. He was by now in his soutane with the shoulder cape.
‘No, Father,’ said McKelvey. It was only then that Condor noticed Martin.
‘Brennan — what has you here?’ Martin didn’t say anything because he knew his voice would shake and give him away. He didn’t know where he got the idea or the strength to put it in motion but he pushed past Condor into the sacristy and began as if looking for the keys. As he passed the priest he got a whiff of tobacco. His movement was so definite that Condor and the two altar boys followed him. The altar boys looked around. Martin went to the far side of the robing table and squatted down. There was a dark green metal wastepaper bin.
‘Is this them, Father?’ Martin rattled the bunch of keys against the metal and held them up.
‘Good man.’ Condor took the keys from him and slipped them into his pocket. He then picked up his other paraphernalia — coins, which he pulled towards himself like a poker dealer, his pipe cleaner and stuff. ‘We don’t often have the pleasure of your company at this hour of the morning, Brennan.’
‘No, Father. I’m turning over a new leaf.’
‘What has you in here?’
‘I wanted to ask McKelvey something.’
‘Come on boys — get a move on.’
And Condor was away. The sacristy door slammed. Martin exhaled.
‘Jesus.’
‘What did you want to ask me?’ said wee McKelvey.
‘Knock, knock.’
‘Who’s there?’
‘Doctor.’
‘Doctor Who?’
‘How did you know?’ Martin walked away and headed for the toilets.
He checked through the cloth of his pocket that the key had not disappeared. It was still there. He couldn’t wait to show it to Blaise and Kavanagh.
It was still very early. There were a couple of first-years hanging around in the yard outside kicking a tennis ball against the wall. Martin had to hurry the last few steps into a cubicle. He chose the same one as he’d sat in when he’d been skiving off from Wee Jacky’s English class. It was becoming quite a home from home. He got his trousers and drawers down in the nick of time. He sat there and let what was left in him drain out. His head was in his hands and his elbows rested on his knees. But where on earth was it all coming from? He’d only had a sausage roll and an egg and onion sandwich in the last twelve hours. His appetite had disappeared because of his nerves. He couldn’t afford this. He was skinny enough, without all this loss. If only he could eat more, exercise more. He’d thought of doing muscle-building exercises — of sending away for Bullworkers he’d seen advertised — but that was as far as it went. They were far too expensive.
He heard voices and smelled cigarette smoke. Boys coming in for a quick puff before class started. The five to nine warning bell went. Martin looked around and saw that there was no paper. What a fucking place. When he needed it in an emergency. Then he realised he had never crapped in school before, in all his years there. And he was doing a year more than most. His bag was in the locker room so he couldn’t tear a page from a jotter. He began to go through his pockets. On his bare thighs were two round red marks where he had rested the points of his elbows. The only thing he found in his inside pocket was a slip of paper his mother had given him, and made him promise to carry with him at all times. It said ‘In case of an emergency please notify a priest.’ But it was too small. He found a softness at the bottom of his blazer pocket and pulled it out. A serviette, navy blue and bunched up.
‘Thank you mother.’
At lunch time when they reached the row of shops Kavanagh protested. Blaise said Kavanagh was the tallest and therefore looked the oldest. Martin agreed that Kavanagh looked the most responsible. Kavanagh said the Car Accessories people weren’t stupid — they knew the age of guys in school uniform.
‘Schoolboys get keys cut too,’ said Blaise. Eventually Kavanagh went in and got the key cut while the other two waited outside.
‘What we need to know now,’ said Blaise, ‘is when the papers will arrive. Maybe I should make another phone call. What do you call the guy in the school office?’
‘Cuntyballs.’
‘No, his real name. I can’t phone up the Ministry of Education and say My name is Cuntyballs.’
‘I don’t see why not,’ said Martin. ‘Maurice Collins, I think.’
‘Mistah Collins.’ Blaise spat the name out in a military manner.
Inside the shop they could hear the metallic saw-whine of a key being cut.
‘Have you got money for the phone?’ said Blaise. Martin handed over what change he had in his pocket. There was a phone box further down the road on the same side.
‘Will we wait for the man?’ said Blaise.
Martin nodded. Kavanagh came out with two keys lying flat on his palm. One of them was bright and new. Blaise took charge of it. The other he turned over to Martin. Then he dusted his hands with some satisfaction. Martin slipped the key into his trouser pocket.
They walked down to the phone and waited outside. There was a woman in the box which meant at least the phone was working. When she hung up the three boys crowded in. Blaise produced a small diary and set it on the shelf. He put in Martin’s money, then dialled. They all listened to the purring of the dialling tone.
‘Yes, thank you. Mr Livingstone, please?’ Blaise covered the mouthpiece with his hand. Kavanagh was laughing, but trying not to do it out loud. Blaise rolled his eyes, told them in a hissing voice to shut up. A voice came on the line. Blaise stated the name of the school and asked when could he expect delivery of this year’s examination papers. The tiny voice in the earpiece said,
‘Who am I talking to?’
‘Cunt … Collins, Mistah Collins here,’ said Blaise. Martin bent over and started biting his finger. Kavanagh’s tall body jack-knifed but still he didn’t make any noise.
‘Just a moment …’ There was a pause. Blaise smiled and moved his eyebrows. He said to Kavanagh ‘Cuntyballs is a nice man — everybody likes him. Hello?’
‘Yes, hello. They should be there on Tuesday the 25th. In the morning some time.’
‘Can you not be more precise than that?’ Kavanagh was still in fits and shaking his head furiously, telling Blaise to get off while he was still ahead. Blaise went on, ‘I’m a busy man and if security is to be a priority I’m going to have to be there — ready and waiting — to uplift the said papers on their arrival.’
‘I can’t be that precise. But mid to late morning is the best I can do.’
‘Very good — thank you Mr Livingstone. Thank you for all your help.’
When he put the phone down the noise of laughter was deafening. They were all howling in the confined space. Blaise was trying to say that he almost told the Ministry of Education that his name was Cuntyballs. While Kavanagh was trying to point out that Blaise had, as near as dammit, admitted to the man his name w
as Cuntyballs. And Martin was screaming that Blaise told the man his name was Cuntyballs. There were bite marks and blood on the knuckle of Martin’s finger.
On the Tuesday morning they had a class in Jacques Cousteau’s room which overlooked the driveway. Martin sat on a stool by the window and watched the comings and goings. After eleven, a navy van drew up and the driver disappeared out of sight in the direction of the front door. There was another guy in the van. Martin could see a bare forearm resting on the rolled-down window. The guy was flicking the ash from his cigarette. After a while Condor and Cuntyballs came from the direction of the office behind the willow tree. There was a trundling of metallic wheels and Joe Boggs arrived from a different direction with his railway porter’s trolley. Martin gave the thumbs up to the others and asked to go to the toilet. Cousteau just sighed and nodded.
Martin headed down the stairs towards the front door to see what he could see. Condor stood in the corridor his feet astride, his hands in his pockets, making the black bell of his soutane as wide as possible. Behind him, round the corner, Cuntyballs and Joe Boggs struggled up the main stairs with the railway porter’s trolley loaded with brown paper packets. Joe was higher up the stairs, Cuntyballs stooping below him, hoisting the wheels up the treads of the stairs, the way he would help a woman up steps with her buggy.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’ said Condor. His voice echoed deeply in the empty corridor.
‘The toilet, Father.’ Martin looked closely at his Roman collar. It seemed perfectly normal.
‘You know the reason we have a break?’ He swung the arm out to expose his watch. ‘In ten minutes’ time?’
‘Couldn’t wait, Father.’
‘Are you some kind of oul woman? Couldn’t wait ten minutes?’ He waved him by. Martin went across the yard into the toilet. He stood listening to the mournful sizzling and swishing of the urinals and when he thought sufficient time was up he went out again. He went up the back stairs and looked down the length of the upstairs corridor. The door of the cleaner’s store was open and Joe Boggs was coming out with his trolley. It rattled even more now that it was light. He and Cuntyballs were laughing at something.
‘Look, where I bit myself in the phone box the other day.’ Martin held his finger out for them to see. There were ripples of laughter still running through the three of them as they sat in the locker room. It was empty at this time during the lunch break. Everyone had gone to the canteen or down to the shops or over to the daffs for a smoke.
‘Oh I forgot to tell you,’ said Martin, ‘about Condor’s collar.’
‘What about it?’
‘Next time you see him take a good look at his collar.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s not all it seems.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s cut from a Fairy Liquid bottle.’
‘You’re taking the piss.’
‘I am not. I saw it with my own two eyes. In his bedroom.’
‘Fuckin skinflint.’
‘Turn-collar,’ said Blaise. ‘So what’s next?’
‘It’s over to you,’ said Kavanagh. ‘The next move is yourn.’
‘Did you remember the torch?’ Kavanagh produced a torch from his bag and shone it in Blaise’s face to prove it was working. ‘Nobody, but nobody should get to know about this.’ Blaise looked from one to the other. Martin and Kavanagh nodded. ‘If word gets out — we’re fucked.’
‘I want that back. It’s the light of my life.’
‘You’ll need something like a draught excluder for the light under the door,’ said Martin. ‘Just in case somebody’s passing.’
‘At four in the morning?’ Blaise sounded scornful. Then he paused. ‘Hey maybe create a diversion. Shoot a racehorse or something.’
‘Where would you get a racehorse at four in the morning?’
‘Shooting it would wake everybody.’
‘Shoot the Sexual Athlete when he’s having a wank on the track.’ They all fell about laughing at the thought of being shot in mid-wank.
‘But how are you going to wake at four?’ said Martin.
‘The same way I wake at eight.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Bang your head on the pillow eight times or four times before you go to sleep. That’s when you wake.’
‘If you get caught, swallow the poison,’ said Kavanagh.
‘And tell them I had nothing to do with it,’ said Martin. ‘Any of it.’
His nose was cold. And his eyelids. He kept twisting and turning in the bed, hoping that he would fall asleep on the side he was lying on. Then giving up and turning on the other side. He tried to imagine what Blaise was doing. He had never been in the boarders’ dorms, so he found it hard to picture. It couldn’t be four o’clock yet. His school diary said that sunrise was at 0452. Blaise was such a madman. He’d asked Martin if he knew anyone who would like to buy a thing signed by W.B. Yeats. He showed it to him — a handwritten document of about three pages. It was an introduction to something called Geetanjali by Rabindranath Tagore.
‘I read it,’ Blaise said. ‘It’s crap but it might be worth a few quid.’
‘How did you get it?’
‘It came into my possession.’
Another day the Spiritual Director had been telling them about some king of England who was a bit of a lame duck.
‘Why do you call him that?’ Blaise had said.
‘What?’
‘A lame duck.’
‘Because he was that kind of person. A total disaster.’
‘To be a lame duck is fairly OK. Ducks fly. Ducks swim a lot. To be lame is only a minor irritation for a duck.’
‘It’s a term of speech, Foley. No matter what its origins are, it means to be seriously disadvantaged.’
‘A king?’
‘In some departments. He was a born loser. People use words to mean what they want to mean.’
‘If it was a hen, sir, it would work better. A lame hen.’
Maybe it was something to do with his saint’s name but he did have a thing about animals. Normally he would have been all for disruption on a grand scale but one day, during the morning break, a black mongrel strayed up the long school drive. Jimmy Flynn from Martin’s year went over to it and made friends with it. He enticed it through the corridors, its claws clicking and padding over the floor, to the inner school yard. It was a poor-looking thing like one of those beach dogs — excitable and quivery — who would run after anything thrown for it, would skulk if scolded — a complete underdog of a dog. It ran this way and that in the crowded playground almost berserk with the amount of attention it was getting. Guys fed it bits of their lunch, threw gym shoes for it to fetch. When the bell went Jimmy Flynn brought the dog to heel and said, ‘We’ll get a bit of mileage out of this. Bring it into English.’
But Blaise intervened. Without saying a word he took the dog from Flynn. He stooped and held it by the hair at the back of its neck and walked it to a side door behind the kitchens. It was a door within a door. A gate. He opened it and let the dog out into the street. He made a joke of it, saying, ‘It’s too intelligent for in here. If we let him stay, he’d only get dog’s abuse.’
Another time in the Religious class the teacher asked for an example of something they thought immoral. Blaise said, ‘Horses in bullfights — the picadors’ horses — the ones with the quilted sides — that are terrified of being gored. Well, they have had their vocal cords cut so their screams won’t be heard. Because it would disturb the crowd.’ There was silence for a long time after that — as people thought about it.
He hoped that Blaise would chicken out of stealing the exam papers. That way Martin would be in the clear. He had got into Blaise and Kavanagh’s good books for getting into Condor’s room and nicking the storeroom key but if it was Blaise who chickened out that would suit fine. There would be no more to be said. It would be one hell of a big relief. Maybe Blaise was all bluster. When it came to the crunch he might not
be up to it. Martin imagined him coming along the corridor in the morning.
‘Well?’
‘It’s off. I got up last night but it was just too dangerous.’
‘Too bad.’
‘I don’t think we should go ahead with this. It’s too risky.
Martin would probably bluster a bit: ‘What the fuck did I risk my neck for — getting into Condor’s room?’ But after a while he could come down to a more mousy position and shrug and say ‘I suppose it suits me.’
Martin wondered if Kavanagh felt the way he did. But Kavanagh usually spoke out. He wouldn’t be mealy mouthed about it. He would have said something like, ‘We will proceed no further in this business, Mrs Macbeth. The whole thing’s a bad idea.’ Or could it be that he, too, was the undercow of Blaise, that he, too, was in thrall to him. Maybe Martin just imagined Kavanagh was strong willed, strong minded. Maybe Kavanagh was like Martin — do I dare to eat a peach? Maybe Kavanagh was the catcher of his falling dream. Attached to nothing.
He tried to hold his nose to warm it up — put a warm fingertip on each eyelid. It must have worked because he remembered nothing else until he woke in the morning with the words of his dreams repeating in his head, words which he was convinced would solve everything. Garabandy. Milkquistic. Fockuental.
9. A Photographic Evening
He met Kavanagh at the top of the road and they walked to school through the drizzling rain.
‘Well?’
‘Do you think he’s done it?’ said Martin. Kavanagh shrugged and screwed his face up against the rain. They didn’t mention him again.
The Anatomy School Page 20
