Wee Danny

by Gerard Brennan

  I grab a handful of Adrian's T-shirt and sink my head into his face. His nose erupts. The fight's not out of him yet but he's swinging blind, tears and blood clogging his vision. His right hand lands on my face and he tries to catch my ear with it. I take hold of his fingers and bend them back. A quick quarter-turn of the wrist.

  Snap.

  Adrian screams and I suppress a grin. I can't look like I bossed this fight. The speccy creep swings at me with his left and I let it land once, twice, three times. But I hold on to the mangled fingers with all my strength. Grind them together. Adrian looses an Al-Qaeda-style jihad scream. He connects another couple of punches, much weaker than the previous flurry. And then we're tackled by the supervisors. I hold on to his mangled digits for another second before we're separated.

  "My hand, my hand. The wee fucker's destroyed my hand."

  Adrian's screams don't earn him much sympathy.

  "What's the matter?" The supervisor holding on to me can talk easily because I'm not struggling. "You break it on Wee Danny's head?"

  "It looks pretty bad," the other supervisor says.

  "Serves the bully, right. I saw him tackle this wee fellah for hardly any reason at all."

  "He threw his bowl at me!"

  "The lad tripped and you know it."

  Adrian's on the floor. I'm ushered to the nearest bathroom to clear my face. The sympathetic supervisor stands outside, content that I'm not in a rage and not too badly hurt. I run the hot water tap and dampen a handful of blue paper towels. Before I wipe the blood from my face I allow myself one huge, devilish grin at my reflection. I look evil as fuck. In a good way, like.

  Escape

  Conan takes up a lot of bus seat, but that's okay, because I don't. Plus, I let him have the window seat so I have plenty of space on the aisle side and don't feel a bit claustrophobic. Conan's too busy taking in the passing scenery to chat. It's only a small bus and the seat across from me is made for one. I don't bother talking to the Billy-no-mates sitting in it. My mind is occupied and the silence suits me.

  I rest my elbows on the back of the seat in front and close my eyes.

  Guilt gnaws at me again.

  It's been at me since I wrecked Adrian's hand. I don't understand why. It's not like he didn't deserve it. All right, so I heard he liked to play the guitar and he's going to have to take a break from strumming for a while. I bet he was shite at it anyway. And maybe I did go a little too far, but I had to stamp out any notions of future revenge. It may be that I felt bad about Adrian getting excluded from this trip by baiting him into the fight, but if the fellah had any cop-on at all he'd have taken his time to get his own back. I can't help it if he's too stupid to handle me.

  Or maybe he's smarter than I give him credit for. He came up to me a few days after the fight, his hand all strapped up and supported by a pinkish foamy sling. His glasses had been bent out of shape in the scuffle and they rested askew on the bridge of his swollen nose. I told him he needed to stay out of my way if he wanted to continue wiping his own arse.

  "Why do you have to be such a dick?" Adrian's eyes held more sorrow than anger. "I've been trying to make peace with you for ages but you're determined to hate me."

  I looked at him, silent, waiting for another insult. The speccy creep worked his mouth a few times but no sound came out. Then he turned his back on me and hurried off.

  Now I see it for what it was. A mind fuck. He's just looking sympathy so he can suck me in and get me vulnerable. Well, he can fuck right off.

  My stomach will feel better when we get out of this shitty wee fuck-bucket of a handicapped bus and breathe some air.

  I think of Conan and how kids like him probably travel in these yellow buses all over the country and what snap judgements people make about them. Window-lickers, spastics, retards. Words that I'll try not to use again. Try not to think about. My stomach feels worse.

  "Are we nearly there, Miss?"

  She turns and the hassled look on her face is a welcome distraction.

  "It'll be about ten more minutes, Danny. All right?"

  Some other wee … eejit pipes up. "You said that ten minutes ago."

  "Shush now," Miss says.

  A chorus of "Stop the bus we wanna wee-wee!" breaks out. Miss opens her mouth to tell everybody to shut up, but a laugh tumbles over her blow-job lips instead. Now this is what it's all been about. The craic starts here.

  I prime up my best Pavarotti voice and belt out, "Because the boys in the back can't swim!"

  Miss shakes her head at me but I can see the indulgent twinkle in her eyes. The humpy-hole supervisors are as humourless as ever, though. I return a few dirty looks then slump down in my seat. We turn off the country road and onto the entrance to Castle Ward a little under ten minutes later.

  The bus driver pulls in at a wooden hut and some geeky guy comes out for a quick natter with him. The geek slaps the side of the bus like he's probably seen real men do and the driver ploughs into a speed bump. A few of us cheer like we're on a roller coaster. Juvenile stuff, but we're hyped up worse than a bunch of primary school kids about to hop off the bus at the zoo. You have to expect a wee bit of messing.

  The bus rolls down a lane that seems to go on forever before I see the mansion that Alan told me about. But I only catch a glimpse before the trees lining this wee narrow road thicken and cut off my view. We get parked up in a spot that must be about half a mile away from the big house. I can't see why we couldn't just drive up to the front door. Parking is a bit of a bastard in Belfast but these country types will dump their cars anywhere. They probably just want to keep the riff-raff at bay or something. Pricks.

  We have to line up at the side of the bus while they double-check nobody's run off. You'd be some sort of escapist genius to pull that one off in the seconds it took us to stretch our legs, but sure, when has common sense ever ruled anything?

  Conan's beside me. He nudges my upper arm with his elbow and looks up to the sky. "Do you think it'll rain today, Danny?"

  "Nah, mate. There's not a cloud in the sky."

  "That's good."

  But he looks nervous, like he's been tossed way out of his comfort zone. I'd read that autistic kids don't like to have their routines interrupted.

  "You all right with all of this, big man?"

  "I'm okay, Danny. I'm okay."

  He looks awkward, though. Tense.

  "You having one of your headaches?"

  "No."

  I get as close to his ear as I can manage without looking gay and say, "Don't worry, Conan. I'll be with you all day, right?"

  His shoulders drop a few inches. The sun is shining. I feel good.

  Out of the Frying Pan

  "This is a load of shite."

  "Danny, shush."

  "Sorry, Miss, but I feel like we've been conned."

  My hands are sore, my T-shirt is damp with sweat and my trainers are fucking stinking. These National Trust gangsters should just get a big fucking chain and link us all together. They've got a solid hour of free labour out of us and we've not even been near the big house or seen anything half interesting. I've been picking green shit off the wall of some sort of barn thing and the ground is in the shade; slippery as fuck. Miss is standing in the sun, of course, watching me and Conan and a bunch of other suckered-in losers busting ourselves. They've made cunts out of us.

  "It's not a con, Danny. It's a scheme."

  "Sounds like the same thing to me, Miss."

  "You didn't think you were getting a wee holiday, did you?"

  I want to call her a bitch. Tell her to fuck off and not treat me like a moron. But even though I want to beat all around me, I can't lash out at her. She's not really the one in charge anyway. My real gripe should be with Alan, the fuck-wit. He sold this shite to me like it was a holiday.

  "Sorry, Miss. I'll just get back to work here, will I?"

  "No need to be sarcastic, Danny."

  She tips me a playful wink. It keeps me going for another w
ee while.

  I get bored pretty quick, though. "What do you think of this, Conan?"

  The barbarian looks at me for a second then shrugs. He goes back to scraping the crumbling stone.

  But I need him to talk to me. "It's not much fun, is it, big man?"

  "We're not meant to have fun."

  "Ach, we shouldn't be denied a bit of banter, surely?"

  "Bad boys should be punished."

  I don't like where Conan's mind is going. None of us here are really bad. We just got caught. I reckon we're unlucky more than anything else.

  This scraping walls business is pure shite. I take my trowel-type thing and throw it at the soft ground. It sinks in like a throwing knife. I'm too cool.

  "Can you do that, big man?"

  Conan looks down and smiles a little. He nods.

  "Show me."

  I skip back a step. Conan's scraping thing sinks into the mud right between the footprints I've just left. I'm about to shout at him for endangering my toes, but the look on his face stops me. He's got proper mischief in his eyes.

  "You had me there, mate."

  Conan sniggers. "Made you jump."

  "You sure did, big man."

  I could probably give him a wee payback fright. It'd just take a phantom punch. But I think he should have his wee victory over me. I shake his hand instead. His grip's a bit awkward and for one truly horrifying second I get the feeling that he wants to hug me. His other arm twitches. And he just claps the back of my hand and double-handshakes me like an old cartoon character. It occurs to me that I have a sidekick. Weird.

  "You're a good lad, Conan. We should have some more fun today."

  "Want me to throw that again?"

  "No, that's the kind of thing that only works once in a while."

  "You sure?"

  "Trust me."

  "I do, Danny."

  One of the supervisors trundles up to us. "Get back to work you two."

  I don't even look at him. "Are we getting a break or what?"

  "Aye, I'll give you a break. One for each leg."

  It's obviously a joke but I'm tempted to put the shits up this prick and tell him he can't physically threaten me. That'd be a bit of a dick move, though. And I've got other things on my mind. Like how to make the best of this crap situation.

  I pick up my scraper and get stuck into the wall, flat-out elbow-greasing it. So fast it's an obvious piss-take. The supervisor moves along, grumbling. As soon as he's out of sight I throw the stupid tool back in the earth.

  "You ever been to Newcastle, Conan?"

  He shakes his head. "Is it any good?"

  "Ach, it's all right. Definitely better than this. And there's a water park."

  "Swimming? Wish we were there now."

  "Why don't we go, then?"

  "Are you … slegging?"

  "No, mate. I'm not taking the piss. Do you want to see Newcastle?"

  "Yes." Conan looks around like he expects a taxi to pull up and cart us off.

  "We can't go right this minute, but when the time comes you'll need to move fast."

  "Sure, I can do that."

  I hope you can, big man. I hope you can.

  Real Escape

  Miss and the supervisors are busy with a pretty brutal fight. Two of the younger kids are going at it with rakes. Part of me wants to stay so I can keep Miss safe and see who loses an eye first – I'm hoping one of the supervisors takes a backswing in the face – but I know this golden opportunity won't come up again. It's a godsend that I had no hand in orchestrating. A sign that luck is on our side. I take hold of Conan's elbow and shush him with a finger on my lips. He nods, understanding that it's time to move.

  We walk slowly at first, eager to remain unnoticed. I'm heading towards the car park in an effort to get my bearings. As soon as we're out of sight, we run. Conan is making those happy-grunt noises again. I should tell him to stop but I want him to have some real fun. No point offending the big bastard.

  The driver is outside our wee yellow bus smoking. He kicks at one of the rear tyres and doesn't see us approach. I pray that he's left the keys in the ignition. But no. I get to the open door and immediately spot the empty ignition slot. And now the aul fellah has seen us. His yellowing eyes are big as tea-stained saucers. He shifts his gaze from me to Conan and back.

  "What are you boys up to?" His voice quakes.

  At this point, we're already in trouble. May as well dive into the deep end. "Give me your keys, mister."

  "I can't do that, son."

  "Ach, you can. It's easy. Hand them over now or the big man takes them."

  To Conan's credit, he remains cool in the face of this obstacle. Maybe he's frozen by fear. The aul fellah hesitates, sizes the barbarian up with a quick up-and-down glance. But common sense prevails and the driver hands over the keys. I'm glad he's not some sort of have-a-go hero. I'd hate to have to beat up a man so close to collecting his pension. Those days are well behind me and that's where I want them to stay.

  "You got a mobile, mate?"

  He hesitates, then says, "Aye. I've not topped it up in a wee while, though. It'd be no use to you, son."

  "You think I came down the River Lagan in a bubble?" I hold out my hand. "Give us it."

  I smash the driver's phone to slow down his ability to tout on us – no credit, my balls – and take a couple of his cigarettes while I'm at it. Lambert and Butler. Any port in a storm. He looks grateful when I hand him back the rest of the packet and his snazzy Zippo lighter. I can spark mine off the wee electric doo-dah in the bus's dashboard anyway.

  "Do you want to drive, Conan?"

  "I don't have a licence."

  "Right. I'll drive, then."

  "Okay."

  I climb into the driver's seat and Conan sits down behind me. His worried face fills the rear-view. The driving position is dead on. That aul fellah must have short legs. My da used to say all Belfast men have short legs because they walk everywhere and wear them down. Bit of a random thought, like, but your brain does some weird shit when the adrenaline starts pumping.

  The engine rumbles to life. I'm shitting myself, but it's great. It's been too long since I've had a bit of mayhem on the go. I tear out of the car park, gravel-dust clouds rising in our wake.

  "We're going to get in trouble," Conan says.

  "Not before we have a bit of fun, though. Unless you want to get off the bus?"

  "No, let's have fun."

  "Well all right, then! Fasten your seatbelt, will you?"

  The barbarian complies instantly. He's like a well-trained Rottweiler. I don't know why he does what he's told when he has the ability to unleash a mauling on me, but I'm not stupid enough to question it. As long as he's on my side, I can keep us both safe.

  I check the speedometer. We're at forty miles an hour and there's a speed bump ahead. It looks flat enough. I sink the accelerator but we're on a slight incline and the old Mercedes engine has lost a bit of heart.

  "It's going to get bumpy, Conan."

  The barbarian giggles like a little girl. He makes me smile.

  We hit the ramp and jolt the creaking suspension. I drive one-handed and rub my wrists in turn; they're sore from gripping the steering wheel too tight.

  "Do it again, Danny."

  "One more time, mate."

  I look in the rear-view mirror. The aul fellah must have raised the alarm by now but there's no sign of pursuit just yet. All I want to do is get a head-start, make it to the top of the lane and dump this old bus. When I'm on the main road …

  Fuck knows.

  I'll figure it out.

  Conan won't. He just wants to enjoy the rollercoaster.

  Here comes the bump.

  "Ready, Conan?"

  "Yes, yes, yes."

  His eyes are wider than I've ever seen them. If he thinks this is fun, wait until we really get things rolling.

  This time something underneath the bus clangs. I hope the aul fellah has decent insurance.

>   "Again, again."

  "I'm sorry, mate. We have to get off here."

  I remember the geek in the hut at the entrance. If these National Trust guys have any sort of cop-on the geek will be on full alert. Might even act out a movie scene and block the road with crates of watermelons or caged chickens or something. Maybe I should plough on through, see what's around the bend.

  "Again?"

  "No, Conan."

  "Please, Daddy."

  Did I hear him right? No, maybe we're both a little too excited here.

  "This next bit is going to be even more fun, big man."

  "The bumps are fun."

  I can't keep talking to him over my shoulder. It's something I've noticed over the last few weeks. He can act like a deaf kid at times. Like, he knows you're making noises but if he can't see your lips move then the words aren't getting to the right parts of his brain or something? I don't know. But I pull the bus onto the grass that runs alongside the lane and kill the engine. Then I whip round in the seat so I'm on my knees and facing Conan. He smiles at me like we've just met on the street.

  "Did you ever play soldiers?"

  Conan shakes his head. "Soldiers are baddies."

  Fuck. South Armagh education. Well we're not playing Crossmaglen Provos, I'll tell you that for nothing. Fucking cider-stealing, secret-drug-dealing, punishment-beating, killjoy bastards, the lot of them.

  "What about hide and seek, Conan?"

  "Hiding's scary. You can't leave me on my own."

  "I won't. That's not the way I play it."

  "Really?"

  "Let me show you. If you don't like it, we'll stop. Cross my heart, Crossmaglen."

  The mention of his home town judders him to a slightly different level of attention.

  "You're funny, Danny."

  "Aye, funny looking, right?"

  Conan pops open his seatbelt and stands up. He reaches out his hand to me. I go to shake it and realise that's not what he wants as he shifts his grip on contact. And now we're just like those little kids paired up for their trip to the zoo. Tasked to look after each other because we're too stupid to be trusted individually.