Authors: Kevin Holohan
Just as Brother Mulligan was about to launch into how to tell a souper (one who came from a family that had betrayed their true faith and converted to Protestantism in order to get charity soup during the famine and thus doubly suspect) from a Protestant of older stock, there was a sharp knocking at the door.
“Good morning, Brother Mulligan. We have come to relieve you. This is Brother Moody,” clipped Mr. Pollock as he entered.
“Now, you boys,” said Mr. Pollock, abruptly turning his attention from Mulligan to the class, “this is Brother Moody. He has been seconded to us from Drumgloom Industrial School to replace Brother Kennedy who will be resting for the remainder of the school year, and I can tell you that Brother Moody will be standing for no nonsense.”
Mr. Pollock had no need to point that out to them. They had spotted it from the very first moment. Moody was young, far younger than any of the Brothers in the school. He couldn’t have been more than thirty and he had that look. Finbar had seen it before on the younger Brothers in Cork. It was that blue shave, that raw, overly close shaved look to the face that lasted all day and bespoke a vicious temper and an indefatigable capacity for punishment. They could not do a blackout on him. They could not tire him out by having him beat them. He came from Drumgloom, a name that sent a shudder through even Lynch.
“Well, Brother Moody, we’ll leave you to take over,” grinned Mr. Pollock evilly, and ushered the puzzled Brother Mulligan out the door in front of him.
Brother Moody accompanied them to the door and bid them goodbye with a smile that died into absolute menace when he turned to face the boys.
* * *
“Don’t dare answer me back again, you little brat!”
Finbar sat down stunned. He’d barely managed to stand up before Brother Moody had smacked him across the face with the leather strap. All Finbar had said was that there was a glare and he couldn’t see the part of the blackboard where Brother Moody had written.
“Any other blind boys who need a waking up?” asked Brother Moody.
No one moved. No one made a sound.
Brother Moody smiled in satisfaction. He inhaled deeply. Yes, there it was, that beautiful, unmistakable, invigorating odor: ungovernable little brats stewing in their own fear.
The Brother proceeded to call the roll, fixed each boy with a stare when he answered his name, and made little knowing nods of his head to show that he had been filled in on exactly who to watch out for.
The rest of the class was spent conjugating verbs and declining nouns in chorus, and copying down sentences to translate that night for homework.
“Ye know nothing now but I’ll learn ye Latin if it kills ye,” concluded Brother Moody, and strode out as Brother Boland’s bell echoed up from the yard.
I
n the quiet of the empty hall, disturbed only by the muffled sounds of the boys going home from the yard outside, the untunable school piano became host to a jolt of unease that ran through its dusty frame.
Warped, battered, and now condemned to having occasional hymns and the so-called tunes of alleged musicals pounded out on it between the long periods of neglect, it languished. In its heyday it had been used in the at-homes of Mrs. Dorothy Nesbitt-Blenner (née Beckett), an affluent Rathmines widow, much given to acts of philanthropy and founder-member of the Providential Ladies Choir. In her well-appointed drawing room it had accompanied no less than Count John McCormack himself as he rendered a memorable “Sliabh Na mBan” and a perfectly serviceable “Madre, non dormi?” from
Il Trovatore
.
A brief tremulous residue of that glory day rippled through the piano’s woodwork. Its hammers shuddered minutely against the rusted strings and a tiny shiver of warm recollection ran along its stained ivory keys just before the wall above it softened and buckled and the climbing ropes and frame, together with one of the large metal window frames, came crashing down on it to forever put it out of its misery. One sad, regretful discord shimmered through the crushed wood and severed strings before silence again settled on the hall.
* * *
“That Moody is a complete fucking bollix!” shouted Scully as they ran for the light.
“I would’ve kicked him in the head!” spat Lynch.
“Yeah. Dead right,” concurred Finbar.
The bus narrowly missed them as they ran across the busy junction at Breen Street. They were not in a hurry. They were just playing chicken with the buses as usual, their liberation from Moody giving them more willful, mad energy than normal. Finbar felt almost giddy; infected by Lynch’s reckless verve.
“Come on! Quick!” yelled Lynch, and ran into the traffic behind a large truck. He grabbed onto one of the door handles on the back and put his feet on the crash bar. Just as the vehicle started to pull off, Scully jumped up beside him. Finbar stood rooted to the spot; he had not bargained for this.
“Come on, Bogman!” urged Lynch.
Finbar broke into a trot and managed to clamber on to the truck before it moved into second gear. His breath came in short catches and the sweat gathered under his arms. This was such a bad idea.
“I know!” shouted Lynch.
“What?” called Scully above the noise of the truck. “L&N!”
The L&N was Aladdin’s Cave. It was El Dorado. It was the mother lode. It was a dingy little shop on the West Circular Road full of sweets and ragged secondhand comics and was so apparently unprofitable that everyone assumed it was just another front for the IRA.
The truck began to pick up speed and Lynch cheered loudly. Scully never thoroughly enjoyed scutting: he thought it was tough but a bit scary and did not completely share Lynch’s total disregard for his own safety that at times seemed to border on a death wish. Finbar held on and tried to keep his eyes open, praying that this would soon be over and vowing never to do it again. The driver of the car behind them blew his horn and shook his fist at them. They could slip at any moment and end up under his front wheels. Lynch turned around and gave the driver two fingers with slow balletic elaborateness. The driver swore at them and shook his fist more vigorously.
The truck soon slowed and came to a full stop. They were stuck at the lights. The driver behind them began to grin evilly. He leaned out his window and shouted, “I’m going to give ye the hidin’ of yer lives, ye little shites!”
An icy, dangerous smile flickered across Lynch’s face and he dropped off the truck. Scully and Finbar watched amazed as he ran to the driver’s door and started taunting him. The man flung his door open and began to get out. In that split second, when the driver was off balance and had only one foot outside on the road, Lynch viciously kicked the door shut on the protruding leg. It made a sickening dull sort of crack and the man screamed in pain.
“Run for it!” Lynch shouted at Scully and Finbar, who were still clinging to the truck, numb and disbelieving. The vehicle began to move and the two boys dropped off and belted after Lynch down a narrow street of single-story houses.
“Lynch! You’re fuckin’ mad!” Scully yelled hysterically. He could not believe that even Lynch could do something so senselessly violent. Finbar fixed his eyes on the ground and ran with every ounce of fearful energy he possessed.
Lynch was about ten yards in front of them when he turned around. “Ah, bollix!” he shouted, and began to run even faster. Scully glanced over his shoulder to see the ominous and unmistakable dark blue hulk of a squad car coming down the street after them.
“Oh Jesus!” cried Finbar when he spotted it. He turned around again just in time to see Lynch and then Scully turn sharply down a laneway. He dashed after them, reciting the “Oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God” mantra of one who knows he is suddenly in deeper than imagined.
The lane was damp and treacherous with moss and rubbish. Scully slipped and went flat on his face and Finbar fell over him. They picked themselves up, ignored the hot stinging coming from knees and elbows, and scrambled after Lynch. Some instinct guided Lynch through the unfamiliar maze of lanes and he led them to a deserted part of the canal where they lay panting in the lee of one of the old locks.
Scully’s heart was in his mouth and he expected to be grabbed by a big culchie cop hand any second, but Lynch was exhilarated. Finbar sat shaking and avoided looking at his companions. He could feel fear settle in his stomach like a cobblestone. He could hear his father’s voice:
Run with the wrong crowd and before you know it, you’ll be swearing and smoking and hanging around street corners. Short step from there to reform school and your life is ruined. End up in the gutter.
His father was given to such vatic pronouncements of doom whenever Declan got into trouble, and now Finbar felt himself assaulted by panic. He would soon be arrested and sent to Drumgloom and his father would disown him and—
“That was fuckin’ deadly!” whooshed Lynch.
“Yeah,” whispered Scully, as he furtively glanced around for signs of arriving cops.
“Stupid fucker was askin’ for it,” said Lynch solemnly.
“Oh yeah. Stupid shitebag,” agreed Scully automatically.
“Come on.”
“Where?” asked Finbar cautiously.
“L&N.”
“What!?!” gasped Scully.
“Yeah! It’ll be grand.”
It took Scully two seconds to weigh up looking chicken versus the imprudence of returning to the scene of the crime: “Okay. Deadly. Let’s go.”
Finbar sat on the grass staring at them.
“You staying there, Bogman?”
The only thing worse than going with them was staying there alone and waiting to be hauled home in a squad car. He got up heavily and followed them.
Finbar was frantic as they reached the main road again. He furtively watched for prowling cop cars and tried to keep calm. Barely concealing his relief, he stepped into the L&N after Lynch and Scully and closed the door behind them.
At the sound of the little bell that hung on the back of the door, L&N—the only name anyone had ever given the proprietor—came out of the back room to check. He scowled darkly at them, tugged at the buttons on his dark blue nylon housecoat, and returned to whatever he was at.
The L&N was a treasure trove of old comics, books, sweets that were probably illegal in a lot of the developed world, and, of course, loose cigarettes. The boys stood for a few moments waiting for the gloom to teach their eyes to see right. Ragged piles of comics and paperback books lined the walls. The glass counter was full of toffee bars and unnaturally colored boiled sweets. On the high shelves behind the counter there were faded boxes of breakfast cereals and washing powders no longer generally available.
As soon as his eyes adjusted, Finbar dived into the box of two-penny superhero comics. The L&N was one of the few places left where you could still rent comics. Of course, L&N deemed that the value of the comics depreciated greatly with each reading, so every comic you rented cost two pennies; on return L&N would give you back one.
While Scully rummaged through the war comics, Lynch slipped behind the counter and silently pulled open the drawer of
Naughty Night Nurse Confessions
and
Tittler,
with their promise of almost naked large-breasted women and stories about English women who had sex because they liked it. Had Lynch been aware of L&N’s special stash of Scandinavian “marital guides” in the back room, he would have been back late at night with a crowbar and a wheelbarrow.
“Scully, look at this ride,” he hissed, holding up an enormously breasted cover girl.
“Deadly,” cooed Scully.
Finbar barely caught a glance of full-color flesh before Lynch pocketed the magazine and grabbed another one.
“Get out from behind that counter before I come out there and split ye!” shouted L&N from the back room.
Casually Lynch put the
Tittler
in his jacket and ostentatiously stomped out from behind the counter. Scully had already picked out three pocket-sized war comics full of stealthy sentry knifings, intrepid allied heroes, and swift deaths of fiendish enemies. Finbar had two
Dan Dare
s, one
Commando,
and one
Superman
that he had not read before.
“I’m taking these!” called out Scully, waving his fistful of fictional wartime fury in the direction of the back room. No answer was forthcoming. Calmly he walked to the curtain that separated the back from the rest of the shop. Finbar followed him with his comics in one hand and eight pennies in the other. There, hunched over a low table sitting on beer crates, were L&N and Taft, the English teacher from Southwell, immersed in a game of checkers.
“I’m taking these,” repeated Scully.
“I have four,” said Finbar.
Taft did not even seem to notice the intrusion and L&N barely glanced up. “Sixp’nce and eightp’nce,” he muttered, and held out his hand. He didn’t look as the boys dropped the coins into his palm. Instead he made his move and Taft pounced delightedly, capturing four pieces. The expression of maniacal glee on Taft’s face was enough to send the boys scurrying out onto the street.
“Fuckin’ weirdoes,” said Lynch.
“Fuckin’ madser, Taft,” laughed Scully.
“Who’s he?” asked Finbar.
“English teacher at Southwell. He’s mental,” said Scully a little fearfully. “Seen him at football game last time we played Southwell. He was wearing a top hat.” He had, in a perverse way, a certain respect for the lunatic unease Taft exuded.
From under his jacket Lynch produced the
Tittler
and handed it to Scully. He showed the
Naughty Night Nurse Confessions
to Finbar and said: “You can borrow this when I’m finished.”
“Right, yeah,” answered Finbar drily, promising himself that he would not ask for it if Lynch forgot.
M
artin Mulvey, S.J., Diocesan Investigator, pedaled along the Howth Road with all his might. The driving wind whipped the sea spray against his face. “Blast!” he shouted, and stopped abruptly. He let his bicycle fall roughly against the pavement and strode back to retrieve his hat. He crumpled it up and stuffed it into the pocket of his plastic raincoat. “Damn and blast!” he cursed again as the first tiny drops of rain started to patter on his coat.