The Anatomy School

by Bernard Maclaverty

  It looked like he was going to pass them with a nod but he came right up to them.

  ‘I’ve just been telling the team a thing they didn’t know.’ He put his head to one side and stared down at them. ‘Where were the first organised games in the world, boys?’

  ‘The Olympics?’

  ‘In Greece?’

  ‘No.’ Condor shook his head slowly. ‘It was in Ireland.’ The three boys laughed. Condor said, ‘The original Olympics based itself on the Tailteann — the Ancient Irish Games. Most nations look over their shoulders at a sister nation. The Greeks had their eye on Ireland. So the crucible of Western civilisation had to do its homework when it came here, boys. Does that not give you a wee lift? Brennan, does it not make you proud? Mr Kavanagh?’

  ‘Aye, a bit.’

  ‘Before the English were out of their beds, historically speaking. The Greeks were learning from us.’

  ‘Is there a Greek hurling team, Father?’

  ‘Always the smart answer, eh Foley.’

  ‘If it was anything, Father, it was a smart question,’ said Blaise. Condor stared at him, refusing to smile. ‘I forgot to ask you yesterday, Foley — where is your father at the moment?’

  ‘Iowa State University. I think it’s a town called Ames.’ Martin looked at Condor’s football boots beneath the hem of his soutane. The priest was making vague attempts to clean the mud from the sides of his boots in the long grass. As he turned the boot sideways the aluminium studs on the sole gleamed.

  ‘So — gentlemen,’ he said. ‘Any word of anything?’ All three shook their heads. ‘I have enough respect for you and your families to know that you wouldn’t be involved in a thing like this. So I will not ask you again. I know that you know.’ He paused, then hitched up the front of his soutane and put his foot up on the bench where they were sitting. A kind of nonchalance. He leaned his elbow on his knee. Martin felt it was a gesture that showed he was trying to get in with them. ‘All I’m saying is that I wouldn’t be too dismayed if who-ever-it-was ended up getting what he deserves. A doing. Not just a little doing but a good doing. The kind of a doing this particular gentleman deserves. And I’d be looking the other way. On a particular day at a particular time I would be otherwise engaged. Do you get me?’ All three of the boys nodded. ‘We can police our own outfit here. Despite what I said to you yesterday, Foley.’ Condor was wearing banded green and white football socks with his black clerical trousers tucked in, as if he were riding a bicycle. ‘Good day to you, gentlemen.’ He walked away, his hands joined behind his back, printing the black ash of the track with his studs. He had the wide straddled walk of a man who worked on boats. He looked back once to gauge the effect of what he had said. There was a sort of knowing smile on his face.

  When he was out of earshot Kavanagh said, ‘This is serious.’ All three boys looked at the Gaelic team. They were still shooting in, not caring whether they scored or not. Those who weren’t directly involved in the action stood with their hands on their hips looking in the direction of the three boys on the bench.

  ‘That cunt has just set me up,’ said Blaise. ‘If he said it to us, he has said it to them.’ There was silence as they considered this.

  ‘Maybe we should make ourselves scarce,’ said Kavanagh.

  ‘I hope he’s not accusing all of us,’ said Martin. Kavanagh looked at him. Blaise’s eyebrow went up. ‘I need a smoke.’

  In the daffs they stood away from the door behind the central island of urinals. Martin offered Blaise a cigarette but he refused. Then he changed his mind.

  ‘The calming properties of nicotine,’ said Martin. He lit Blaise’s cigarette. ‘It’s not a matter of taking sides. I’m just not into that kind of stuff.’

  ‘What kind of stuff?’

  ‘Dirty pictures.’

  ‘Do you think I am?’ said Blaise. ‘I have as much interest in them as I have in attending … a vicar’s tea party.’

  ‘I fuckin hate that too,’ said Martin. He inhaled deeply.

  ‘What?’ said Kavanagh.

  ‘That vicar’s tea party stuff. Clichés. Cunts who prophesy doom.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Blaise said, ‘it just slipped out. I wasn’t thinking.’

  ‘If Condor starts a war it’ll make Vietnam look like a vicar’s tea party.’

  Martin put on what he considered a newspaperman’s voice. ‘I hate that.’

  ‘Small cucumber sandwiches and tea and tea strainers and some cakes with red cherries on the top.’ Kavanagh tried to think of other suitable items. There was an unfamiliar sound.

  ‘It would be good if you ever did get invited to a vicar’s tea party,’ said Blaise, ‘to go along with a machine gun up your coat and your pockets full of hand grenades and kill every old woman wearing a hat by hacking her to death with a machete and piss on all the dead bodies and napalm them and blow the fuck out of them and then run around shouting I’m trying to make this vicar’s tea party look like Vietnam because I don’t want to accuse the press of cliché-mongering.’ The unfamiliar sound came again. Like metal on stone. Over and above the singing and sizzling of the water rinsing the urinals.

  ‘Rape and pillage,’ said Kavanagh. ‘Never pass up an opportunity. The younger ones at least.’ Some guys from around them began to drift away.

  ‘I prefer to think of rape as unrequited sex,’ said Blaise. ‘A journalist spokesman today was at a loss to describe the scene, the vicar’s tea party having been removed from his repertoire and rendered redundant. It was as if the sharpest arrow had been removed from my quiver, he complained.’ Blaise, when he did smoke, held the cigarette delicately between his long white fingers and closed his eyes when he inhaled. Now there was just the three of them standing in the corner laughing at their own jokes.

  Still the unfamiliar sound persisted. It sounded faintly like horses’ hooves. A rattling. A sound as of something hard moving over cobbles.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I dunno.’ They stopped talking to listen. Then realised that they were on their own. Sharkey, still in his football strip, stepped out from one side of the urinals. O’Grady came round the other side. It was clear now what the noise was. They were still kitted out as they had been on the field. The sound was their football boots on the floor. The metal studs rippled on the terrazzo as they moved. Now there were six or seven of them.

  ‘Here comes the fucking militia,’ said Blaise. Sharkey, his face pale, gestured to Martin and Kavanagh.

  ‘You two — c’mere.’

  ‘What are you on about?’ said Kavanagh. Sharkey beckoned with his head. Kavanagh went over to him. Martin followed but out of the corner of his eye he saw a streak of green and yellow as O’Grady lunged at Blaise. Sharkey was past the both of them in an instant. He kicked hard at Blaise and Blaise let a small scream out of him. ‘What on earth …’ Other guys in the team were holding Kavanagh and Martin. Somebody had an arm round Martin’s throat, tight enough to crack his Adam’s apple. The daffs was filled with the rattle and clack of studs on the floor. A toilet door banged open as Blaise fell against it. People were shouting. ‘Hey! What …’ ‘Fucksake.’ Kavanagh wrestled two or three bodies in their football shirts. Martin fell and the elbow of his blazer went into the drain of the urinal. The water sluicing through the trough was cold. For Martin everything had gone into slow motion. Blaise was half yelling, trying to rationalise, trying to calm everyone down. From his position on the floor Martin saw someone kick Blaise in the chest and he went down, backwards into the cubicle. Momentarily Martin saw it — saw Blaise’s head jerk as it bounced off the rim of the toilet bowl. The arc of his descent jigged as he hit on the way down. There was a sickening sound of bone on delf. Everybody heard it — over the sound of the studs. Guys in jerseys were scrumming in now, having a kick.

  ‘Not his face!’ somebody shouted. Kavanagh was trying to haul them back, yelling his head off. Sharkey told the team to stop. And within seconds they were all away to get dressed and the place was emp
ty. The urinals flushed and the only sound was the sound of water as it ran into the drains. Kavanagh had been hit on the face and there was a wisp of yellow snot and blood across his cheek. There was mud streaked on his neck and the collar of his shirt. His school tie had been pulled so tight it looked like a striped noose. Kavanagh hunkered down.

  ‘Come on, Blaise,’ he said.

  ‘Is he OK?’ said Martin. He hated having had his sleeve wet with piss and water. Kavanagh tried to assist Blaise to his feet but his body just lay down again. Martin was frightened by Blaise’s ashen colour. With his eyes closed his pale eyelashes seemed longer.

  ‘He’s out cold,’ said Kavanagh.

  ‘Let me see.’ Martin tried to lift Blaise by the shoulders. His head lolled. He tried slapping the pale cheeks lightly like he’d seen people do in films. Kavanagh’s face was also chalk white.

  ‘Maybe we shouldn’t move him,’ said Kavanagh. ‘In case there’s something broken.’

  ‘Put this on the ground.’ Martin took off his blazer and folded it into a pillow. He rubbed dry the damp patch on his forearm and elbow. ‘Maybe we should get a doctor …’

  ‘I think he needs an ambulance.’ Kavanagh was touching Blaise’s wrist looking for a pulse. ‘Go to the office. Tell Cuntyballs.’

  Martin started to run. There was a crowd outside the daffs waiting to see what had happened. Some guys resisted Martin, pushed back at him. He flung himself into them and seeing the look on his face they opened up. Martin ran. If it was serious he was glad to be away from it. He was scared shitless by what had happened. The rest of the quad was crowded and he had to cleave his way through, pushing and half running.

  ‘Watch it — outa the way.’ He struggled through the corridor, which was also crowded. He pushed open the office door and the first thing he heard was Condor’s voice coming from behind the partition. Martin rapped the frosted glass window in the hatch. Nobody answered. Cuntyballs said something to Condor. Martin rapped again — this time much harder.

  ‘Take it easy, boy.’ The window was drawn back with a little ball-bearing snarl and Cuntyballs peered out. Condor stood leaning on the mantelpiece.

  ‘There’s been an accident. Foley’s hurt. He’s over in the da … toilets. Maybe he needs an ambulance.’

  ‘What? What are you on about, Brennan?’

  ‘It’s Foley, Father. He’s just lying there.’ Condor looked at the colour of Martin’s face — at his shirtsleeves, saw the urgency.

  ‘God above.’ Condor came out from behind the partition and shouted, ‘I’ll use my car if necessary,’ and with that he ran through the outer door. At the sight of Condor running, the crowds of pupils parted to let him through. Martin followed but lagged behind. He was afraid that Blaise would be dead by the time they got to him.

  Kavanagh and Martin were in an empty classroom. The last bell of the day had gone ages ago and it only took the school a couple of minutes to empty. Kavanagh had just come back from the hospital where he’d spent the whole afternoon. He gave Martin his blazer back. He sat on the top of the desk with his feet on the seat and his head in his hands. Martin sat sideways in a desk across the aisle from him.

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I dunno,’ said Kavanagh.

  ‘Jesus.’

  The board hadn’t been wiped for days and there was an accumulation of stuff on it. To earnestly try. Thomas a Becket. Up yours. Fiat lux.

  ‘D’you think he’s gonna be all right?’

  Kavanagh continued to stare down at his feet.

  ‘Yeah — sure.’

  ‘He didn’t say anything?’

  ‘Naw. He just lay there. His pulse was going. Then Condor came in and cleared the place — he took one look at him and starts saying an Act of Contrition into his ear. He told me to stay with him and keep saying it. Then he ran for his car. Where the fuck did you get to?’

  ‘He said nobody was to go in.’

  ‘So you did what you were told. Good boy. Full marks. I didn’t think he should have been moved but Condor scooped him up. I had to stay in the back of the car with him. Condor drove like a fucking maniac. He kept shouting that he’d anoint him as soon as we got to the hospital.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘Next door. The Mater.’

  ‘Did the doctor say anything?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did Condor say anything?’

  ‘No. He didn’t say a dickie bird.’

  ‘Did you tell him what happened?’

  ‘No. I think he knew what happened.’

  Martin’s stomach felt tight. It was like there was a hand inside him squeezing his gut. He didn’t know how to say things. If he said things it would let some of the tightness out.

  ‘You know what this means,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘We’re going to have to find those exam papers and put them back.’

  ‘Yeah, I thought that in the back of the car. Fuck. Aren’t we awful?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘To be thinking that way — at that time. The guy may be dying.’

  ‘We better do it quick, before somebody else finds them.’ Kavanagh seemed very big and hunched and stunned. It was almost as if he was going to cry. Martin didn’t know what to do. He said, ‘It’ll be OK. It’s just the shock. He’ll be back tomorrow, as right as rain. And we can tell him we put the papers back.’

  ‘I didn’t like the look of him.’

  ‘He’ll be OK. He’ll wake up and call the doctor a dumbfuck.’

  ‘What if he doesn’t wake up?’

  ‘Don’t be so bloody morbid.’

  They sat for a long time saying nothing. Martin was trying not to panic, trying to figure out what to do for the best.

  ‘There’s no harm done if we leave the papers back.’ Kavanagh didn’t react. Martin stood and moved towards the blackboard. There was a duster sitting on the ledge — a block of wood with a piece of felt stuck to it. He began wiping off the writing. ‘There’ll be another inquisition, especially when Blaise’s old man finds out. They’ll come looking for his stuff. And find the porn. And the exam papers.’

  Kavanagh raised his head. ‘What is there to involve you and me in it?’

  ‘Not a thing. But if they find the porn and the papers they’ll come to us — because we were the only mates he had.’

  ‘And we can say we know nothing about it.’

  The classroom filled with chalk dust. Martin felt it dry in the back of his throat. He began patting the duster against the board, leaving slightly overlapping impressions of itself. He could taste the chalk.

  ‘If there’s a whole investigation into this,’ said Kavanagh, ‘that’s my chances of doing Medicine fucked.’

  ‘That’s your chances of doing anything fucked.’ The sun came out and beamed through the window making the swirling chalk dust seem flat. ‘But we have to do it for his sake.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Tidy up.’

  ‘We have to do it for our sake. Self-protection. Future prospects? Fucking zero. Can you tell lies?’

  ‘I’m useless at it,’ said Martin. Distantly, in the corridor, they heard the sound of running feet.

  ‘The two things must be kept absolutely separate. No fucking way must porn and exam papers be mentioned in the same breath. In fact nobody, but nobody, must mention exam papers. If Condor threatens to put hot needles up your cock — you still know fuck all about exam papers.’

  Doors were slamming.

  ‘That’s the boarders going for their tea,’ said Martin.

  ‘The ganches — the country ones getting their noses in the trough.’ Kavanagh slid down off the desk. ‘Right — let’s get one.’ They walked towards the dining hall and pulled a first-year aside.

  ‘Where does Foley sleep?’

  ‘The Wee Dorm.’

  ‘Show us.’ The boy led them upstairs and showed them cubicle 17. Then they chased him. They had to move with stealth because this place was ou
t of bounds to day boys. If anybody saw them there’d be a whole interrogation.

  ‘I’ll keep an eye,’ said Kavanagh. He stood by the door looking up and down the corridor. But he also tried to keep out of sight. He waved Martin on. The place was huge and smelled of feet and body odour mixed with disinfectant and carbolic — there were red blocks of Lifebuoy on the washbasins around the perimeter. There were about thirty wooden three-sided cubicles, like in the Retreat House in Ardglass. Martin moved as fast as he could without making noise. In each cubicle was a bed and a hospital green metal locker. There was a glass of water filled with bubbles on the one in Blaise’s cubicle. The partitions did not go right to the ground and Martin stooped to check that there were no legs or feet to be seen anywhere. Suitcases lay under each bed. Martin pulled Blaise’s case out and flipped the lid open. From a distance Kavanagh shook his head.

  ‘No.’ He pointed to the locker. Martin pulled out a wig the same colour as Blaise’s hair and held it up. He frowned. Again Kavanagh pointed. Martin went to the locker beside Blaise’s bed. He pulled open the top drawer. Some of the bubbles in the glass rose to the surface. They fell upwards. The drawer was full of socks and underpants, things folded tidily. He took the drawer completely out of its recess and set it on the bed. Beneath it he found a handful of envelopes, including the one containing the dirty photographs. They lay flat where the drawer had been. Kavanagh was making urgent noises from the doorway. He gave up his lookout post and came to Martin.

  ‘Where’s the key for the cleaner’s cupboard?’ said Kavanagh.

  ‘How should I know?’ Martin’s head was turning this way and that looking back at the door. ‘Maybe Blaise has it — in his pocket.’

  ‘That’s just fuckin lovely.’ Kavanagh raked through the drawer in the locker looking for the shiny newly cut key beneath the socks. ‘You must have the original.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Well why didn’t you say.’

  ‘Because you didn’t fuckin ask.’ Martin took the key from his trouser pocket. It was the first time he had seen Kavanagh look panicky. Kavanagh replaced the drawer in its recess and slammed it shut. Martin handed him the envelopes.