‘We’re in deep shite and no mistake.’
‘It’s OK. It’s OK, we’ve got the stuff. Come on.’ Kavanagh looked at the envelopes in his hands and hesitated. ‘Hide them.’ Kavanagh slid them under his armpit and buttoned his blazer. They began walking to the stairs. ‘Let’s go past. See if there’s anybody about,’ Kavanagh said.
‘You take these.’ He handed him back the envelope with the dirty pictures. ‘And destroy them. Completely. Incinerate the bastards.’ The envelope was too big to fit in his inside pocket so Martin folded it in half and pushed it down so that not even a fringe of it could be seen. He buttoned his blazer.
They headed for the chapel corridor where the store room was. With all the boarders in the ref, the place echoed — sounded like what it was — an empty school.
‘I don’t like this. It’s so bloody risky.’ Kavanagh was whispering. They were both walking warily, trying to make as little noise as possible.
‘What else can we do?’ Martin looked round behind him but there was no one in the corridor.
When they came to the door marked 109 Kavanagh stopped. ‘You or me?’ he said.
‘You’ve done fuck all so far,’ said Martin.
‘Don’t be such a pain.’
‘I’ve got the porn to get rid of.’ Kavanagh looked around warily.
‘The key?’
Martin handed it over and went on ahead to where the corridor turned at right angles. Round the corner was empty. Martin felt OK. It hadn’t felt this way when he’d been on his own in Condor’s room, nearly crapping himself. Now it was different somehow. Kavanagh’s involvement made it seem like nothing could go wrong.
He nodded to Kavanagh. Kavanagh looked in the other direction, then raised his arm, inserted the key and opened the door. Martin began to count. A light came on in the store. Shit the bed one — shit the bed two — shit the bed three.
‘Come on, ya girny bastard.’
On the count of shit the bed fourteen the light went out and Kavanagh emerged. Martin heard the door of the store snap shut. Kavanagh came striding up the corridor.
‘Let’s go, wee man,’ he said.
Martin set off beside him. They went down the stairs, at speed, barely touching the treads. Along the corridor and out into the quad.
‘Should we maybe go and visit him? On the way home?’
‘Naw,’ said Kavanagh.
‘Was everything OK in there? In the store?’
‘Yeah.’ Martin was breathing faster with the effort of keeping up. He was nowhere near as fit as Kavanagh. When they reached the top of the drive Kavanagh looked round at the school building.
‘Jesus.’
‘What?’
‘Don’t look. Just keep walking.’
‘What?’
‘Condor’s watching us.’
Martin stared ahead, still walking.
‘Where?’
‘Upstairs.’
‘Fuck. Did he see us, d’you think?’
‘He’d be blind if he didn’t — we’re the only ones here.’
‘In the corridor, I mean?’
‘Naw — you would have seen him,’ said Kavanagh. ‘He’s just looking out. Having a wee nosy. It’s a nice evening.’
They continued to walk, to act natural. Martin hitched his bag into a more comfortable position on his shoulder. It was a thing guys did naturally.
‘Maybe we better keep talking,’ said Martin.
‘Yeah, until we have our backs to him. Think of something.’
‘Have you had a flutter recently on the relative velocity of either an equine or canine quadruped?’
‘Indeed I have not,’ said Kavanagh. ‘For it is not my wont to speculate in such a fashion. Had I shekels aplenty I would spend them otherwise.’
‘You bewilder me, sir. I had been led to believe by others that you would hazard your very soul on the speed of an animal. Relative to its peers. Is he still looking?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Kavanagh. ‘I don’t want to look round.’
By now they had turned into the driveway and had their backs to the school.
‘Oh happy horse to bear the weight of Anthony.’
‘The devil damn thee black, thou cream faced loon.’
‘It’s OK. Cut it out.’
They walked in silence for the fifty yards down the left side of the drive. Then they heard a car engine behind them, the distinctive sound of a VW. Kavanagh turned.
‘Aw Jesus.’
It was Condor. The priest leaned across the front seat and rolled the passenger window down.
‘Are you boys for home?’
‘Yes, Father,’ said Kavanagh. Martin was aware of the envelope of filthy photographs in his pocket. He hesitated.
‘Maybe I should just walk …’
‘Jump in,’ said Condor. ‘I’ll run you up.’ Condor opened the passenger door and gave it a little push outwards. When he straightened up behind the wheel he couldn’t see their faces. The boys looked at each other. Martin climbed into the back seat, Kavanagh sat in the front.
‘It’s been one of those days,’ said Condor and gave a heavy sigh. The boys nodded. ‘The seat belt.’ Kavanagh looked around him and pulled the belt and clicked it into place. Condor put the car into gear and they moved forward. The indicator winked to the left. The car smelled of stale pipe. The tray by the gearstick was grey with spilled ash. A green pine tree swung from the driving mirror as the car idled waiting its chance to move into the roadway. A hanging tree.
‘I’d just like to thank you boys for all you did today.’ Neither Martin nor Kavanagh spoke. Both boys were looking this way and that waiting for a break in the stream of traffic, hoping the journey would be over as soon as possible. What was Condor hoping to get out of this? He had never given anyone a lift in all the time Martin had been at the school. ‘I’m just off the phone to the hospital and the news is not good. They say they might have to operate. If there is evidence of internal bleeding. Anything to do with the brain …’ He tut-tutted and shook his head. Suddenly the road was empty and they moved out of the driveway. ‘But please God everything is going to be all right.’ Martin listened to the gear changes and the rising engine note. He had never before seen Condor from this position. He wondered if he could see the Fairy Liquid writing from this angle but there was no sign of it. The back of Condor’s neck was like the school noticeboard — like someone had pierced it with drawing pins. And some of the holes were occupied with blackheads. But he couldn’t be blamed for this — how could he see the back of his neck? Blaise had told them of the ludicrous ritual of having to submit to an inspection by a dorm prefect after they had washed at night. Why hadn’t they told Condor he had blackheads in his neck? Maybe it was a skin disease? Martin tried to look away. You should not allow how somebody looked to influence what you felt about them. He looked at Condor’s hands on the steering wheel, the black tufts of hair on the joints of his fingers, the memory of pouring water over them serving his mass.
Blaise might be dying at this very moment. That was what he couldn’t think of.
Now that they were in the main stream of traffic Condor felt he could talk more easily.
‘So, what happened?’ Both boys shrugged.
‘I was on the other side. I’m not sure.’
‘What about you, Martin? Did you see what happened?’
‘Not really.’
‘Any reason? Come on, boys — this is now a serious matter.’
‘Not that I can think of.’
‘Nor me.’
‘Boys — there comes a point when you have to cease to be schoolboys. We leave all that kind of thing behind us.’ His voice was pitched somewhere between wheedling and reasonableness. ‘There was an accident in the toilet block — that much I do know. What I want to know is how and why?’
‘There was some bad feeling — after an RK class.’
‘Was there a fight?’
‘Musta been.’
‘Foley fel
l.’
‘Who was the bad feeling with?’
‘I’m not sure.’
Condor gave a sigh.
‘What was the bad feeling about?’
‘I’m not really sure.’ Condor shook his head in disbelief.
‘It’s like the Mafia talking to you boys. Different tack. How well did you know Foley?’ Kavanagh looked over into the back seat at Martin. He made a downturned mouth.
‘Not well, but …’
‘He didn’t seem to know anybody,’ said Martin, ‘when he came into the school. He hung about with us — a bit. When there was nobody else.’ Martin could see Condor’s eyes watching him. Condor’s eyes in the driving mirror were like somebody looking out of a dark letterbox. The eyes flicked between watching the back seat and the road ahead.
‘Boarders and day boys don’t mix much,’ said Kavanagh. Condor half turned to him in the passenger seat and said, ‘But he was a day-boy inside his head.’ There was a long silence.
How utterly fucking crass to mention the inside of Blaise’s head. Martin felt like rabbit-punching the back of Condor’s neck. ‘We haven’t been able to catch up with his father yet. God knows what he’ll say. That’s one of the worst things a priest has to do, boys — is to be the bringer of bad tidings.’ Condor shook his head. His hair was black and wiry. ‘That a rough-house in the toilets should lead to such an accident. Frail boys are much more vulnerable when it comes to something like this. He was a strange boy — didn’t play any sport. Did he find it hard to make friends?’ Again both boys shrugged and were silent. ‘What I said earlier … Up at the field. I’m sure that had nothing to do with it. Foley wouldn’t have been involved in any such thing.’
‘No, Father,’ said Martin.
‘He just wouldn’t,’ said Kavanagh.
‘It’s doubly sad, then. Some rotten apple thinks he’s got off scot free … But there will be a time. A time will come.’
They were approaching a pedestrian crossing. A girl and her mother hovered waiting to cross. Condor slowed down and stopped the car. He smiled at them as they crossed slowly. When they were off the crossing Condor looked both ways, making sure no one else wanted to cross, before he drove on.
‘Up at the field at lunch time — I was talking through my hat. What I meant was that somebody who infects a barrel of apples deserves to be punished. Am I not right about that, boys?’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘Better a millstone and all that.’
‘This’ll do me here, Father, on the right,’ said Martin. ‘This is my street.’
Condor indicated to turn right and waited in the middle of the road.
‘What number?’ Martin told him and he pulled up in front of the door. ‘There you go. Door to door service. No tip expected.’ Kavanagh got out and angled his seat forward, then Martin got out. ‘Thanks again, Martin, for everything,’ shouted Condor bending low over the steering wheel to see him. ‘And a few prayers wouldn’t go amiss.’ Kavanagh got in again. Condor waited until Martin had opened his front door, then saluted.
‘Is that you, Martin?’ his mother’s voice came out from the kitchen. He touched his inside pocket to make sure the envelope was still completely out of sight. Then went in to face her.
‘Very stylish indeed,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘The blazer buttoned.’
He went outside to the toilet and bolted the door and had a look at the pictures again. Even though the light was poor — he could hardly even see them — they were still not sexy in the way the magazine he’d found at the bus stop was sexy. Anyway how could he do a thing like that with his friend lying in the hospital. Him doing it at the same time as Blaise could be dying. The photos were disturbing. They made him feel like an intruder. He’d have to get rid of them as soon as possible. In school, flushing them down the toilet hadn’t worked — indeed it had started the whole fucking mess. Going out a walk and throwing them in a bin somewhere would mean that somebody else might get their hands on them. Some kid, maybe. Better a millstone. He’d definitely have to burn them. But his mother was in and out the kitchen all the time.
‘Can I light a fire in the front room? Do a bit of studying.’
‘I’ve very little coal left and he doesn’t come till Tuesday. I’m trying to eke it out. Just go upstairs and use the electric fire.’
He went to his room and lay down on the bed. Downstairs, with his mother, he’d wanted to cry, like when he was a child — when he’d fall or get hurt in some way and run home, holding everything in until he got in through the front door. Then the floodgates would open and his mother would come to him to see what it was all about. But now he was too old for all that. He hadn’t even told her what had happened to Blaise. She wouldn’t understand. She’d ask stupid questions or questions that couldn’t be answered they were so embarrassing.
‘But why did they knock him down? Why don’t you go and tell the Headmaster what you saw? Was he a good boy? The best thing you can do now is to say a prayer for him.’
He lay on the bed covers, his hands joined behind his head until she called him for his tea. After that he went back to his bedroom. His mother watched television. He found it almost impossible to read a single line of anything. From downstairs he heard the signature music for each of her programmes. He didn’t feel like going down and watching with her. When they watched television together she was always on eggs, prepared for anything ‘iffy’. Then she would switch channels.
‘What’s on the BBC?’
If there was something ‘iffy’ on the BBC as well she would switch off.
‘That’s quite enough viewing for one evening,’ she would say.
He tried to read his chemistry notes. Again and again he saw the bounce of Blaise’s head, heard the loud rap of bone against the rim of the bowl. He stared down at the page as if he was hypnotised. And could only get rid of the image by shaking his head. The words bounced off his consciousness as if there was a guard in front of it — a glass wall. He would fail his exams again if this was the way he was going to study.
Before bed he went down for a cup of tea and a sandwich.
‘Still wearing the blazer?’
‘It’s not warm up there.’
On the late night local news there was nothing of any interest. He wanted there to be an item about Blaise. His mother yawned and said, ‘Will you slack the fire for me?’
In the kitchen they had an all night grate. A Sofona. He pulled the curtains back to let some light into the yard and went out into the coal house. He covered the fire with a shovel of coal. Then covered the coal with fine slack. He set the shovel outside. When he came back in, his mother was damping down the fire. Pouring on wet tea-leaves and potato peelings saved from the plastic sink tidy, slapping the slack flat with the dainty hearth shovel. He hated her doing this. It was as if he did the labouring part of the exercise, but she was the only one who could do the intelligent part of the job properly. She oozed a sense of satisfaction that things that would normally be thrown in the bin were helping to reduce the fuel bills. She put up the front of the grate and closed off the draught until there was just the slightest wisp of smoke rising from the black and shining slack.
‘Bed,’ she said.
‘Night.’
‘Don’t forget to say a mouthful of prayers.’
‘No.’
He went up to his bedroom and considered whether or not to get changed. If his mother came up it would seem strange to see him sitting there in his blazer at two in the morning. So he changed into his pyjama bottoms and slung his blazer over the back of the chair at his bedside. He was inches from the photographs in the pocket. He turned his pillow upright and got into bed.
Fuck the prayers. He wasn’t in the mood, didn’t believe they were of any use any more. He lay with the light on, staring ahead.
Half an hour passed. He could hear no sound. He got out of bed and opened his door and listened. His mother always left her bedroom door open
, so that if he was out late he’d have to present himself on his way to bed.
‘Nice night?’
‘Yes — a few pleasant burglaries — in the last one I got a full bottle of vodka, so I’m thoroughly and completely pished.’
‘Oh that’s nice for you dear. Don’t vomit too loudly. Night-night.’
She was not a loud snorer but he could hear sleep noises coming from her bedroom. Rhythmic breathing, mouth smacking. He went to his blazer and took the envelope from the inside pocket. He knew he could be caught sneaking down the stairs so he put on his pyjama jacket and stowed the envelope under his arm. He clamped his arm to his side and began to go quietly down the stairs. He passed her open door and heard her regular deep breathing. The light switch in the kitchen always gave a loud click so he had to ease it up soundlessly until the light came on. He closed the door with extreme slowness because it had a ball catch, and could give out a loud snap if closed quickly. The fire irons were set upright beside the hearth. He took the poker and opened down the fire. The layer beneath the black smoking slack was red and glowing between the bars. The envelope had stuck to the skin of his ribs. He untacked it and it gave him a sticking plaster sensation as it pulled away. He took out the first photograph and slid it between the bars of the fire — pushed it in further with the poker without looking at it. Pictures in the fire. A game his mother liked to play with him when he was small. The photo glowed and burst into flames. Little fantails of blue ran along the edges. Its shape curled and squirmed. He was burning them. At last. Getting rid of them. The grey-white smoke rising from the slack increased. He pushed a third photo in. The first two had blackened and there were tiny lights winking on and off as the air touched them. The next two he put in together, the women face to face. He stopped. Was that a noise? He stuffed the envelope beneath his arm and listened. He opened the door. The ball catch gave a little ringing sound once it had been sprung. Nothing. He couldn’t even hear his mother breathing. But that was a bad sign. She might be awake. The next thing he’d know she’d be standing there in the nightie with the hair tied back.
The Anatomy School Page 26
