Bone Idol

by David Louden

  I left without looking back, the old man with his hair slicked back, slumped in his seat sinking Guinness. On the way down the road it occurred to me that he wasn’t completely against the idea of being a writer as a profession, certainly seemed a lot more open to it than he was comic book illustrator. I made a mental note to try and steer the conversation in that direction the next time we sat down across from one another.

  14

  FORTWILLIAM’S intersection with the Antrim Road was slowly turning into a warzone and by the time I’d reached fourth year it was showing little sign of improving. The problem was the bus lines which different schools crossed at. The two Protestant girls’ schools directly facing our rear entrance were not the issue; the only thing that seemed to trump politics and religion was firm tits and an onion butt. The problem was the Protestant boy’s school that lay a little further up the road and would often pelt our bus with blue paint or bricks so that it ended up in no fit shape for occupation. When this occurred we’d repay them in kind by waiting at the intersection and when their bus came within range we’d give it everything we had in us. One day two first years got on the wrong bus and took the thumping of their young lives, the next day two of our fifth years grabbed one of the Model students and covered his head in green, white and orange paint before giving him a kicking and sending him home to his parents temporarily branded. That Friday O’Reilly emerged from the Comfortable Place for the first time in months.

  “This feud with the Boys’ Model stops today, any boy involved in anymore violence will be immediately suspended. This is your only warning gentlemen, think twice before you screw your little lives up.”

  On Saturday I lay on the couch and nursed one when something seemed to rattle the house. I wasn’t entirely sure of whether it was in my head or not until I saw a wave of people race through our cul-de-sac into the next street like The Rolling Stones had just materialized from out of nowhere. I was in the house alone; it was becoming more and more frequent for this to occur. I’d get to my feet and throw on my shoes ignoring the laces’ plea for orderly looping and step outside. Every car in the cul-de-sac, which was in the high twenties as they all parked outside the church which faced our house, was screaming. Their headlights flashing, their siren yelping, their black and red and white and silver finishes all covered in a layer or grey dust. The same dust sat on every window even though I had watched the neighbour’s wife out cleaning and soaping them earlier. The sky itself seemed to be made up of grey brick dust and that’s when Jeff turned the corner. His hair dull, his face and tee shirt united in one muted colour; the only deviation from the dull grey he was coated in being a dark red trickle of blood that came from his ear. He walked right up to me and asked for a glass of water.

  “Fuck Jeff what happened?”

  “My mouth tastes funny,” he explained unblinking “I need a glass of water.”

  I’d stoop to go eye-to-eye with him, taking both of his arms in my hands.

  “What the fuck happened Jeff?!”

  “Andrew.”

  “What about Andrew?”

  He’d point in the direction of the parochial hall and before I knew what had happened I knew what must have happened because I grabbed my phone and ran in the imaginary line round the side of the house which Jeff’s finger had charted for me. People were queued twenty deep taking in the spectacle; people who had never went anywhere near the parish hall in their forty years on the planet now crowded round to witness the boy who had the worst fucking luck anyone was likely to have and still manage to survive.

  Jeff would explain later how they’d been walking past the parochial hall which had just had security fences installed recently after six thefts in eight months. He was carrying his football and talking to his friend Andrew when the little freckly kid slapped the ball from under Jeff’s arm and booted it towards the security fence. The next thing Jeff knew he had a mouth full of dirt, two clogged eyes and ringing in his ears that felt like someone had built a school in his skull without applying for planning permission.

  The fog would clear and he’d see what I’d see – Andrew impaled on two security forks that sat on top of the fence; the only thing keeping his red tubing inside his body being the fact he was hanging upside down. I got through to the emergency services and had no sooner hung up than we all had our attention dragged back down into the neighbouring cul-de-sac as a steady pop-pop-pop-pop-pop rang out but louder. I was still towards the back of the crowd so was able to run in the direction in time to see a car speed off through our cul-de-sac and out on to the main Oldpark Road.

  The house belonged to the old lady’s best friend, they spent most Saturday’s drinking tea and talking over old times in her front room, the front room that now had it’s face riddled with perfect little round holes that hissed steam as the loose brick dust escaped and danced in the air. I had barely begun to process the realm of possible consequences when my mum appeared from out of the crowd holding her friend’s Chihuahua which had managed to throw it’s leash and dart off in what was now a harmless direction. She’d throw an arm around me and kiss my head and I was relieved. She’d see Jeff who was standing by our front door drinking a glass of water covered in dust and under that a healthy coating of Andrew’s heme and call him over for a sticky embrace too.

  She’d send us inside like she did with me before and when the cops arrived an hour later she’d give them shit about their response time in as many ears as she could abuse.

  When we got back to school the following Monday word came down from the Model that some of the older boys thought what had transpired in the heart of (sometimes) working class North Belfast was funny. One kid even bragged to know someone involved.

  “Your boy Carter in fifth year is looking to pull together a gang, anyone who wants to fuck their shit up should skip the last period today and meet him down by the back entrance.” informed Jason.

  “But what about all that shit O’Reilly was saying?” Scott queried.

  “He can’t fucking suspend us all.”

  “So you’re in then Doug?”

  “Fuck yes I’m in.”

  I’d never given a shit about religion, Mum always raised us to measure a person by what they did rather than how they pronounce ‘H’ but what chance did I stand? She had a temper, the old man wasn’t shy of a short fuse either and I wanted to look that kid who thought it was funny in the eye and watch his face turn from smug narrow-mindedness to contorted in agony as I smashed in every loathsome fucking tooth in his foul fucking face. My blood boiled at the prospect of getting my hands round his neck and ringing the life force clean out of it before using his limp corpse as a weapon on anyone else who’d get in my god-damn way. This had fuck all to do with religion, this was about family.

  Our last class of the day was French. Scott nabbed some soldering metal from the technology department and jammed it in the lock of the classroom door before heating it up with his lighter, it burned bright and set perfectly.

  “By the time she gets through dealing with that it’ll be home time anyway.” he boasted.

  We met with Carter and the fifth form kids as slowly but surely the school emptied. We were no longer a group of punks playing hooky we were slowing turning into an army. Gerry Zippo rolled up his sleeves and slapped Chris Foster on his small shoulders. Chris was smaller than some of the first year students and as a result of taking up smoking too early in life would stay that way for as long as we knew him; the kids called him Peahead for obvious reasons and it stuck so good that only those of us who knew him from Primary school actually knew his full name.

  “Alright Peahead, what the fuck are you doing here?” Gerry said.

  “Looking to do some damage.”

  “You planning on headbutting a lot of dicks are you?”

  “Fuck up Zippo face!” demanded Carter, he was the only one who made reference to the scar Gerry’s old man left him.

  We’d march up the dark road as trees shook in the wind and cast
leaves upon us like confetti and slowly but surely our numbers continued to grow as we came closer and closer to the main entrance of the Model school.

  Word had spread before us, when we arrived at the school gates they had amassed a fighting battalion of their own; many of them bigger, broader, meaner looking than Carter and Jason combined. It didn’t matter though, I didn’t want to beat all of them just one in particular – although who that was sat as a mystery before me. I contented myself with the fact that whoever got in my way would be tagged it.

  Our two lines stood long-eye fucking one another across a picturesque no-man’s land. Out of respect we waited for Carter to set us loose, I imagine the other side did the same. Eventually a rock came hurtling through the sky and struck one of the kids on our end on the shoulder and then it all exploded. Both sides charged forward, snarls and screams roaring from every direction. Jason had raced in front of me and clobbered one greasy looking poster boy with a hammered fist that switched his lights straight out. I jumped over his body as he lay dangerously in the way and landed right in the thick of it. I’d take the forehead to an unknown nose scrambling my brain for a moment and spraying claret all over the front of my uniform.

  “Ya Fenian bastard!” screamed a boy an inch or two shorter than me as he charged into me, both arms swinging.

  He caught me good on the side of the head but there was no force to it or to him. I laid one into his mouth and he rocked backwards so I grabbed him by the tie and did it again and again and again until someone else got my attention and I dropped him as though he was a Marlboro that was down to the filter. I got two fingers in the eye and then found myself in a headlock with someone else kicking at me from directions unknown. I grabbed the kid by his swingers and twisted until he let go then I clobbered him square in the throat sending him to ground gasping. Jason had the grey school jumper ripped clean off his back but he was laying in heavy boots into a kid on the ground like he was putting something back in place; I looked round to see Scott smash someone who looked just like him into a brick wall but Gerry Zippo was getting schooled. I charged towards the kid but as I did Carter beat me to it and punted the boy a good ten yards off Gerry. Even Peahead was holding his own; rabbit punching his way through the basketball teams rib cages until out of nowhere a red brick collided mid-air with the side of his head sending out the most vicious thud and switching his lights off. The thrower started laughing and went to run; I gave chase and caught the little coward just inside their school grounds. I pounded him three times on the back of the head before the caretaker dragged me off him and give me a thump on the nose for my trouble. As I lay on the ground coughing through my red fountain I saw the kid disappear and the caretaker slowly walk back towards the main school building.

  I was on my feet with my belt coiled around my hand before I could think and the only thing that hurt more than the wonky nose was the bloody pressure hissing in my ears. I caught up with the man and give him a licking that Frankie McIntyre would have been relieved to avoid. When I got back most of the kids were gone, I watched as Jason and Scott stood smoking cigarettes and then the three of us saw Peahead get bundled into the back of a car and driven in the direction of the Mater Hospital. As the sirens rang out we disappeared into the tree line and worked our way slowly home knowing no pre-planned narrative in the world could explain the damage to our weather beaten faces or school uniforms.

  15

  “I get it,” said Miss McCormack, her hands firmly planted on those hips “you’re one of those guys huh?!”

  “And what if I am?!” I said defiantly.

  “I took you for more than that, that’s all but don’t worry about it that’s my mistake, it won’t happen again. It’s probably a good idea that you’re not too wowed with taking my class this year, me being Protestant and all.”

  Of course she was, I was wild about her. It was only an honest to Hannah law of sod that she would be and that I’d make myself look like one of those ignorant cunts this place grew so well. If I had been a smarter guy or less like either parent I would have been physically able to back down, but what chance did I stand?

  “I guess so.”

  “Well you heard the Head Master, get yourself down to his office and report for your suspension.” she said, turning her back on me.

  I’d reluctantly leave without saying my bit. I’d stomp across the bridge down the stairs and round the back of the school towards the break in the trees and the rural-like trail that would lead to the Comfortable Place.

  I’d take what was my usual seat in the waiting room, the peat fire roaring and scenting the air with a nostalgic idea of Ireland.

  “Send him in!” hollered O’Reilly.

  I had watched as his secretary had complained of sickness and he had sent her home twenty minutes earlier so I got to my feet straightened my spare tie and let myself in. I’d make a beeline for the decanter but he’d cut me off with a palm to the air.

  “Nope, no drink for you Mr. Morgan, punishment for being such a disobedient little prick.”

  I studied his tired old face as it rested behind his hands before pulling out my cigarettes and lighting one up. I’d offer the pack his direction and he’d take one for now and…

  “One for later, we’ll call that asshole tax.”

  “Very good sir.”

  “Are you humouring me Douglas?”

  “No sir, and may I add how handsome you look in that suit…very Simon Templar and shit.”

  “I like you boy, why do you have to be such a pain in my ass?”

  “In fairness I haven’t been here due to official business in a while.”

  “True son, very true but I’ve still got to suspend you.”

  “You really got to do that?”

  “Afraid so, two weeks starting now and then you’re on probation for six months one misstep and you’re done.”

  “Fuck sir, that’s a little harsh.”

  “Can’t be seen to play favourites my boy.” he said puffing down on my cigarettes.

  “Will this be going on my final record?”

  “You looking educated beyond your five years here son?”

  “Hard to imagine there being more out there to learn than what’s spilled out in the maximum security classrooms here but yeah…I mean maybe. I was going to take Miss McCormack’s creative writing class but she’s pretty much put the skids on that.”

  “Those are the breaks, now if you don’t mind you’re suspended and a lousy drinking partner so get the hell out of my office.”

  “Don’t suppose I could finish off today before…”

  “Go home Mr. Morgan, take your lumps like a real man.”

  I stubbed out my cigarette and left the school. I’d look up towards Dani’s classroom to see if she was looking out for me but there was no sign of her and I felt stupid for it. I’d head into town to see the old man and maybe grab a beer with him but his spot on Castle Street was unattended and the barman at Copperfield’s who Dad called Clive even though it wasn’t Clive anymore hadn’t seen him.

  I’d get home and break the bad news to the old lady who rather than thump me and call me all the names of the day just shook her head and deflated a little more. She sat in the living room which was undergoing another makeover with her head in her hands.

  “Have I been that bad a mother?” she’d ask earnestly.

  “What?”

  “Tara’s moving out to live with that fucking retard of a boyfriend, you’re getting yourself thrown out of school and Jeff’s hanging out at that shop again with those drug dealing bastards! What did I do wrong?”

  I’d reach an arm towards her but I didn’t know how an embrace should fit when she was teary like that so I stopped and lay the stranded hand on her shoulder.

  “It’s two weeks Mum, that’s it.”

  “Oh it’s always something, it’ll be something else soon enough.”

  “Seriously chill out a bit, it’s two weeks when I get back in I’m going to do that cr
eative writing course and you’ll see…”

  “I thought you wanted to be a graphic designer.”

  “No Ma, you wanted me to be a graphic designer.”

  “So you’re going to be a writer now then?”

  “I don’t know maybe, we’ll see if anything comes out.”

  I got to my room and eased the lid off a pint of whiskey I kept into my football boots mixed it with some ginger ale and climbed back into my book.

  The next morning I rose directionless. I got dressed and washed my teeth before heading to the parade of shops that sat on the fork of the road where the Oldpark Road split with Rosapena Street. I’d hand over the money for my order and call a cab to take me to school.

  When I arrived it had just turned break-time. As I strolled through the playground every little snot-nosed brat would stop and point at me and the large bouquet that sat awkwardly in my hands. I would have preferred if they were all somewhere else but if they weren’t littering the tarmac in the open spaces they were occupying the classrooms and the thought of an audience of thirty for this made my balls hide inside me. I got to her door and knocked twice waiting for her to call me in. The door would inch open and I’d tentatively step inside the classroom where she was going over lesson plans, a pencil tucked behind her brown curls, keeping them at bay.

  The neckline of her dress plunged to excitable levels and it was only when I saw the smoothness of her bosom that I realized just how stupid this whole fucking stunt was but by that point I’d crossed into the target zone and any retreat would result in a greater shooting down than ploughing ahead could ever cause. I’d pull the flowers in front of me and pray they were made of Kevlar.

  “Douglas.” her voice stressed my name.

  “So the old man could never say sorry when he was in the wrong which was all too often…so he’d bring flowers home instead.”

  “I’m not too sure that’s entirely appropriate here,” she said, getting to her feet, her dress dancing around her curves “and I don’t think I can accept these.”