by Cethan Leahy
As far as I could tell, the main reason for the meaninglessness of the principal’s speech was that he was dancing around how Chris died. He was being very vague about the cause of his demise, giving few details, if any. But Adam and I had our suspicions; most likely it was the one fate of young men that no one likes to speak of. When we all filed out of the assembly room, there was immediate talk and it was clear the masses were not as perceptive.
‘I heard he was in a gang and he got murdered.’
‘Nah baiy, a neighbour said he was having a wank with a belt around his neck and tightened it too much.’
No one asked for Adam’s guess, but he didn’t have had time to answer as a female teacher tapped him on the shoulder.
‘Could I speak with you for a moment, Adam?’ she said.
‘Well I have Bossy for CSPE now; I mean Mr Busey.’
She smiled. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll have you back to Bossy in a few minutes.’
They walked into her office, a small room above the gym. On the door was sellotaped a makeshift sign, a sheet of A4 protected by a transparent sleeve, the kind you put into folders. It said ‘Miss Costigan, Guidance Counsellor’ in large writing.
‘Sit down, Adam,’ she said, pulling out a seat for him at her desk and picking up some leaflets resting on it. ‘You’ll have to excuse the mess. I’ve just moved in.’
‘Yes, Miss Costigan.’
‘None of that – call me Sandra. Or Sandy if you like beaches.’
This joke got no reaction, so she chuckled herself lest a vacuum occur.
‘Anyway, Adam, I brought you in here to tell you that … there is nothing confirmed but it is looking very likely that Chris killed himself.’
Adam said nothing, but he did blink.
‘Ah … It’s probably best I don’t go into details. But we felt that given your recent difficulties it was best to warn you in advance that you will be getting a lot of reminders or “triggers” if you will. I discussed it with your teachers and we are willing to give you the rest of the week off if you think you need it.’
‘No thank you, Miss. I just want to get back to normal,’ said Adam.
Miss Costigan smiled a sad smile that said she sympathised and God love ’im. ‘I admire your bravery. Okay, you can return to class. Oh, and also, I would appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone about Chris. I’m sure they will find out soon enough but it would be good to not have the school awash with scandal for a day at least.’
Adam nodded and walked out the door. Down the corridor, a first year ran past, bashing into him. ‘Sorry! Hey, did you hear? Someone topped himself!’
***
Adam spent that night looking at Chris’s Facebook page. It hadn’t yet been turned into an official memorial page, but the timeline was filling up with tagged photos of happier times and captions like RIP MY FRIEND and TOO GOOD FOR THIS WORLD.
Sad Face.
Adam scrolled down through each one and read the comments underneath, long paragraphs on the cruelty of life with thirty-two likes and growing.
‘Is that him?’ I asked.
He nodded and I, perhaps not in keeping with the solemnity of the moment, got excited. ‘That’s the guy I saw. The disappearing boy,’ I said.
‘What is wrong with you? The guy is dead,’ Adam said, closing his laptop.
I was about to explain why this was exciting when there was a knock on the bedroom door, his father’s signature rat-a-tat of three.
‘Adam?’ he called.
‘Yeah? I’m on the phone,’ he said, pulling out his phone to make his story believable. Which might have worked except his parents knew he had no friends.
‘Can I come in?’
Adam didn’t respond to this, which Dad took as a non-objection and slowly walked in. Miss Costigan had rung earlier to tell his parents what had happened so that they would be prepared. His mother had attempted to talk about it when Adam got home, with little result. The subject was further avoided at dinner, when his father gave it a shot and was ignored.
‘Are you okay?’ Dad said.
‘I didn’t know him.’
His father smiled faintly. There had been a lot of smiles with mysterious meanings aimed at Adam that day.
‘It’s still okay to feel sad if someone you don’t know dies.’
Adam shrugged.
‘Ah, Adam, I don’t want to put too much pressure on you, but when stuff like this happens in school, you can talk to me or your mother about it.’
‘I know, Dad.’
They watched each other for an awkward minute. In the end, Dad patted Adam’s shoulder. ‘We’re watching a movie downstairs if you want to join.’
‘No thanks, I’m tired. I think I’ll just have an early night.’
I’d seen this conversation a million times. In fact, it felt like the only conversation I’d seen. I was hostage to this conversation. When his dad left the room, Adam reopened his computer, his sad, morose face scanning more posts. I looked at the deceased in photos of more pleasant times and I felt that apparently inappropriate excitement bubble up again. He looked exactly like the boy I’d seen.
II
Everybody Knows
Seven
It was my first funeral, so I was determined to enjoy it. It was a week after the incident and the relevant people were satisfied that there was no foul play and that Chris’s death was indeed a case of self-destruction. This meant it was time to put him in the ground.
The funeral took place in a small church somewhere in the greener part of the city. Everyone from his year and Philip’s year was there. I believe the idea was to form a united front, an army of mourners, or warriors of grief if you are feeling romantic. They didn’t look very convincing, though. The assembled students looked uncomfortable, unsure how to act in this unfamiliar place.
Adam was especially twitchy that day. He was given permission beforehand to not attend, given his ‘condition’; in fact, Dr Moore had emphasised that he thought it was a bad idea for him to go. But Adam waived the permission, saying that he didn’t want to make an issue of it (although I personally felt he was making it more of an issue by going). The vice-principal told him that he admired his desire to get on with things. I, however, was baffled that he turned down yet another opportunity to skip school.
Outside the church, various adults spoke in hushed but surprisingly cheerful voices. I thought they would be discussing their memories of Chris, but instead they appeared to be taking advantage of the boy’s death to catch up on what had happened since the last funeral within their circle.
The church was a modest building, certainly not on the scale of the massive cathedrals I had seen in vampire films. In fact it looked surprisingly cosy among the trees and in the unseasonal brightness of the day. Good burying weather, I guess.
Led by Brother Dermot, the RE teacher, the students were squeezed into several rows of seats in the back and were told to wait in silence for the service to begin. Not knowing what to do, they sat there watching the grieving family as the priest prepared at the altar. Philip was positioned at the edge of the front pew, looking everywhere but at the gleaming coffin in the centre of the aisle.
Suddenly the organ erupted with a song that I didn’t know the name of, but which didn’t seem to be a church hymn. I’m guessing it was one of Chris’s favourites. (I noticed a boy from Adam’s year take his phone out to record it.)
The organ came to a hush when the priest took to the altar and everyone stood up. The mass had begun.
Throughout the ceremony, Adam was transfixed, watching the deceased’s family carefully as they struggled to retain a presentable face. If I had to guess, the main thought going through his mind was that this served as an alternative-universe peek at what his funeral would have been like. Instead it would be his father grimly staring at the coffin, his mother crying so hard that it distorted her face into a horrifying mask.
The priest gave a sincere, Wikipedia-style synopsis of the deceased’s lif
e. This was occasionally interrupted by various family members who walked up to the lectern and said their pieces and prayers, some struggling to finish their simple offering. When his turn came, Philip gave a little speech on his now deceased sibling. It had some mild jokes in it but what really struck me was Chris’s impressive list of accomplishments, although I think it was a mistake to list them all, as it emphasised what a tragic loss his death was. It would probably be easier to mourn people if it appeared that they contributed less to our lives.
The mass came to an end. The coffin was lifted by men in black suits and they passed us by, bearing the weight with surprising ease. Taking advantage of my ghostliness, I took a little peek inside but it was too dark to see anything. Night-time in a box. It was carried out to a really long, black car waiting outside.
Once loaded, people approached the family to pay their respects. There was a lot of shaking of hands and people saying sorry. Not sure why – they didn’t kill him. Unsure what to do, Adam stepped towards Philip, but was squeezed out by the other students. This was no loss, however, since Philip seemed distracted.
I wanted to follow them to the burial but it was only for close friends and family, so Brother Dermot escorted the rest of the students back to school. The bus was in no great rush and Adam stared out the window, watching the buildings pass by. No one sat next to him, probably thinking he’d rather be left alone with his own thoughts. Although, even in normal times they felt no requirement to speak to him, so Adam sitting on his own was actually not uncommon.
On the way, we passed a graveyard. I wondered if it was the same one that Chris was headed to. It looked nice.
‘Hey, I just realised something,’ I said to Adam, having just realised something.
‘What?’ he said quietly.
‘I’m a ghost who has never been to a graveyard.’
Adam snorted. Unfortunately, he did this on a bus filled with mourning students, but they already thought he was weird, so it didn’t lower his reputation any further.
Eight
In that week’s session, Dr Moore was playing with a pen in his hand as he asked, ‘What made you decide to go to the funeral? I did strongly recommend that you shouldn’t attend.’
This was our third solo visit to the psychologist and Adam was slowly becoming more open. In fact, the whole situation was quickly turning into a routine: Adam turned up with his mother; that Douglas kid would come out of his appointment and say hello in some bizarre way; followed by an hour of Dr Moore asking questions, nothing but questions. Perhaps he only spoke in questions.
‘Did you feel somehow obliged?’ Dr Moore said.
‘I guess,’ Adam said.
‘How did the funeral make you feel?’
Adam leaned back and looked up at the ceiling for the moment. ‘Strange. I didn’t really know him other than that his brother is in my class. Like, he is … was very popular, and a star on the rugby team, which is very important in our school. They are like gods. I think he even won some awards for, um, rugbying.’
‘Do you think that was important?’
‘Not to him apparently.’
‘Adam.’
‘Obviously I felt sad for his family, but I dunno, he had so much potential, it almost makes it seem more tragic than if …’ Adam let the sentence trail off, its meaning pretty clear.
‘Adam, I must emphasise to you that there is no ranking to suicides: each is as tragic as the others. Don’t fall into the trap of thinking that somehow you would be missed less because you don’t have a shelf full of sports trophies,’ said Dr Moore.
‘I guess. It’s just, if a top rugby player with lots of friends could commit suicide, anyone could.’
Nine
A tanned couple on a beach.
A smiling man on skis.
Another couple drinking wine outside a café.
A vast array of images of humans having good times flicked by on Mum’s laptop. She was on a website called Holidaze.ie. Adam had once again gone to bed early, thus freeing me up to observe his parents in their natural habitat – the TV room. Mum sat across the couch with her feet on the armrest and Dad sat in an armchair, flicking through the many channels they had in the faint hope of finding something interesting enough to hold his attention for a least a few minutes. They looked more relaxed than usual.
‘I was thinking we should go somewhere. It would be something to look forward to,’ Mum said, to which Dad replied, ‘We probably should check with Dr Moore first, but that sounds like a good idea.’
He switched the channel and settled on the news.
‘Can you change the channel? I’m sick of news for today.’
‘Sorry,’ Dad said, before embarking on a merry jaunt through the movie channels. It may surprise you to learn that Mum’s job wasn’t solely walking into Adam’s room and looking slightly mournful while smiling when talking to him. During the day she read the news bulletins on the local community radio station. It explained the times where she appeared to be unusually well-informed on what roadworks were happening where and which TD said something they shouldn’t have.
‘Oh, what I would give to live in a bubble for a day and hear nothing of the world,’ she said, closing the laptop. Sensing it was time for a conversation, Dad lowered the volume on the TV, having settled on an episode of Inspector Morse (a show about a guy who solves murders by listening to lots of opera).
‘Bad news day so?’ he said.
‘It’s nothing but constant misery. I tell you, I feel like Atlas carrying the weight of the world on my back,’ she said, confusingly comparing herself to a book of maps.
‘At least you are still getting to use your Classical Studies degree for jokes,’ Dad said.
‘Did you hear another boy killed himself? Somewhere up past the station,’ she said.
‘I hadn’t heard.’
‘Poor kid. In work we were given these guidelines for reporting suicides. You know, don’t glamorise it, don’t detail the method. I wish life was like that. Someone out there editing our lives, keeping out the rotten details.’
‘The poor parents,’ said Dad.
‘I sometimes fear that one day I’ll have to report Adam’s death.’
‘I think they would give you the day off.’
‘Har har.’
‘How do you think he is?’ Dad said, suddenly serious. ‘I like to think he is doing better.’
‘He does seem more – not cheerful – but less gloomy since he went back to school,’ she said. ‘The sessions with Dr Moore seem to have helped.’
‘It’s been three months since it happened and I still have no idea why he did what he did.’
‘Remember what Dr Moore said. It’s not anyone’s fault. Adam is a depressed kid and depression is sneaky.’
‘That’s not very helpful,’ Dad groaned. ‘I mean, he doesn’t have a terrible life. He goes to a good school, has loving parents, regular food. He’s quite lucky, really.’
‘I think he knows that. The trouble is, I guess, that the D word turns everything into ash. He just has to work harder than everyone else to be happy.’
‘Hardly seems fair.’
‘I’d feel better if he had some friends. He’s shut us out. I imagine he must be so lonely. You know, I think I’ve heard him talking to himself on occasion. I’m going to mention it to Dr Moore next time.’
‘At least we’re more prepared, aren’t we?’ his dad said. ‘If there is a next time, we’ll see it coming.’
‘I hope so.’ Mum sighed and opened the laptop again. The mood lightened once more as she clicked on a picture of a grinning woman by a pool.
‘Enough of old Miss Misery. How was your work today?’
‘Oh, same old, same old. We tried to start the new project, but Harry was late for the meeting.’
I had learned that Adam’s dad was in IT but what his actual job entailed was very unclear. The only things I knew for certain were that it involved computers and Harry was useless and it was onl
y a matter of time until he was fired. As Dad proceeded to drone on about work, I took the opportunity to wander out into the night.
Ten
In Adam’s room the blue carpet is a little too wide, so it curls up when it meets the skirting board on the left side of the room. There is a desk on which there is typically a tower of school books, a framed photograph of a deceased grandfather and a loose pile of papers, pens and other stationery. There are two posters on his wall. One is for the movie Sin City and features an attractive woman with a lasso. The other is a poster of a band, The XX, and the integrity of the Blu Tack holding it up on the top right-hand corner was beginning to falter.
There is a single bed with a plain set of sheets and duvet cover, though when these are in the wash there is a second set covered with multiple versions of a weird-looking creature apparently called a Pikachu. There is a bookshelf with the following books standing in this exact order from left to right: The Outsiders by S. E. Hinton (unread), The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins (unread), To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee (read), The Stand by Stephen King (half read), The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams (quarter read), The Enemy by Charlie Higson (read), Catcher in the Rye by J. D. Salinger (three-quarters read). There is a window made up of four panels which has a handle that can be twisted in such a way that you can slightly open it or open it fully. On the ceiling there is a yellow stain, most likely from a leaking pipe, which, if you look at it from a certain angle, resembles half a bicycle.
Is this getting tedious? Try living there. I spend so much time in this room with Adam’s cheerless company that I can recount in specific detail every inch of the stupid place. For the best part of a month we went nowhere but this room, Dr Moore’s office, Adam’s school and the routes between the three. If it wasn’t for my night-time rambles and the odd funeral, I’d have gone mad. Still, I wanted to see more of the world when everyone wasn’t asleep.
So one Saturday afternoon I requested that we go for a walk.
