Boy

by Des Greene

His first thoughts were that he was late and a terror engulfed him. The tug of his mother’s hand brought him back to an even worse reality. The greyness of the limestone took on a fearsome hue. He hated it with the hate that only intense fear can generate. He wanted to run away again but the firm hold of his mother’s hand was like a vice. He could hear the sounds from the classrooms. The rhythmic repetition of words in Irish - those hateful meaningless words that brought only grief. Once more he felt sickness rising in his stomach. If his life were to end now it would be a glorious relief. But that choice was not his. he had been cast into an evil world and must swim not being able to sink away without trace.

  They turned left into the school. The two front doors were closed as class had started. His mother pushed resolutely at one leaf and pulled him in. By now nature had taken over and he was pulling against her hand. She turned to give him a wild stare that threatened him with the direst consequences if he embarrassed her further in this public place. He wilted under her stare and resigned himself to fate. What could be worse than the dire circumstances he already found himself in? Yet as they approached the door of his classroom he felt his heart pounding as if about to explode.

  His mother’s knock on the glass door panel had the immediate effect of causing a total silence in the classroom. Steps approached and the door opened. Brother Cannice stood there looking serious but deferential to his mother who was still a young attractive woman. Her feminine presence was power over the celibate man. Apologies were offered and accepted. Her advice to the teacher was to beat the bad behaviour out of the boy. She did not want this to happen again. She was mortified. She had more than enough troubles as it was with a bedridden husband. This was intolerable. Brother Cannice could not agree more and they cordially left it at that, shaking hands in conclusion.

  Like a lifeless animal, the little boy just stood there while the conversation was taking place. They talked about him as if he wasn’t there. Yet he was there, pale and shivering in abject fear. The few classmates who could see out the crack in the door recognised his fear. They shared his fear and hated it as much as he, for it brought potential terror to them also. The wild animal who has tasted blood does not know when to stop and usually takes other innocent prey in his demonic lust. They did not want to be innocent fall out of this current tragedy. So while there was pity and empathy there was revulsion too at the person who was making their territory more dangerous.

  All the time you could have heard a pin drop. Even the bravest and most foolhardy prankster would not dare to play a trick or make any noise that might unleash the terror that was about to unfold. The conversation ended the boy entered and took his place at his empty desk. He put his bag at the foot of the desk as he had done every morning that year since entering first class. He took out his Irish reader and placed it open at the current text in front of him. He heard the classroom door close and could hear his mother’s steps retreat. There was a long and disturbed silence. He dared not look round. Everyone was, head down, staring at the Irish text.

  The slap across the back of his head sent his forehead forward thumping off the top of the desk. The open book softened the impact but could not ease the shock. The terror was unleashed. The physical pain was nothing compared to the mental anguish and loneliness. Despair has no depths for a little boy. He just kept falling . He shrieked in pain and started crying fitfully. He felt his shoulder being dragged up to the top of the class. For the first time he glimpsed Brother Cannice’s face and recognised the red- cheeked fury. He saw him open the large top to the teacher’s big desk. Inside he knew were an array of canes that had different degrees of terror. He froze in fear as he recognised the long straight stick that emerged.

  Brother Cannice with the stick in one hand used the other to drag the little boy over to his high chair. It was on this chair situated centrally at the head of the class that the brother conducted his daily reign of terror on the class. From here he had an eagle eye view of all that was happening. It was impossible to look into another boy’s copybook without the huge risk of being spotted. It was the perfect lookout tower - a symbol of power and authority that was in the constant view of all pupils. Now with a vice like hold on the child he ascended his throne and with one swift jerk he hauled the boy over his lap. His outstretched hand swung down with lethal ferocity and the crack of stick on flesh sent shivers down the spines of all present. The little boy howled losing all sense of self-control. He roared in the searing pain wanting to die - to disappear from the face of this cruel world. He was unaware of the pale faces of the class as they looked on - each afraid that the terror would spread and envelop other innocents. Once more the black-clothed arm of the brother went back and the swish of the stick through the air was followed by the most pitiful wail. The boy was losing all energy to cry out. The thrashing continued for what seemed an eternity. It was as if time had stopped there in that terrified classroom - the more they wished time to pass the more slowly it went. Seconds were like minutes. Minutes were hours. For the little boy it was a lifetime, to be repeated over and over again in a recurrent nightmare.

  When he had finished Brother Cannice was panting and appeared wasted by the strenuous effort. He pushed the boy away from him and took a deep breath. The boy still in deep shock and pain limped back to his seat. All eyes were averted not wanting to share in his pain. There was danger in association. This was a precarious time. The little boy found it difficult to sit down on his bruised buttocks. Through the tears he stared at the loathsome text book in front of him. He tried to understand why all this was happening to him. He must have done something very wrong. He prayed for forgiveness.

  As he passed through the gates the bell rang out. It was too late to turn back.