The Dead School

  And so it would proceed like that until the veins in Mr Bell’s face showed up more than ever and he asked the class what was wrong with them. ‘What is wrong with this class?’ he would cry hoarsely. ‘What is wrong with it?’

  Which was a silly question to put to the class because it was quite clear what was wrong. It was a rubbish class – that was what was wrong. It was plain to see. Even the juniors in the playground were aware of that. Had been in fact for some time. Consequently they did not pay a lot of attention to what Mr Dudgeon said: If he told them not to do something they would simply go ahead and do it. Even some of the pupils who were normally quite mannerly, even shy, found themselves becoming giddy and ill-at-ease in his presence. It was only really when Pat Hourican got it into his head that he was a bit of a comedian that the situation began to deteriorate rather seriously. He liked pulling funny faces to amuse all the other boys. Particularly Stephen and Kyle. They thought he was hilarious. Whenever they got the chance they rolled up pieces of paper into balls and played hand-tennis with them across the room.

  So between that and a few other things, the class slowly but surely turned to rubbish. Which it most definitely was the day Kyle Collins looked up from his work to see Stephen Webb pointing to the top of the class. Kyle was on the point of telling his friend to leave him be as he was busy but Stephen’s pointing only became more frantic and Kyle found himself quite interested after all. At first he could not really believe it when he saw Dudgy crying. It was simply impossible to believe because you just did not see teachers crying. Crying! Hee! Hee! Kyle chortled behind his hands and tried to catch Pat’s attention. He was afraid Dudgy might see him but he needn’t have worried because he didn’t. He was too busy blubbing like a baba. Like your little baby brother. Stephen rolled up a paper ball and threw it at Pat. ‘Look!’ he whispered as Pat turned around.

  But anyway, that is all by the by, boys and girls. What we are talking about now is the park, and the class’s visit to it on this beautiful spring afternoon. The children formed a crocodile and followed Mr Dudgeon. Mr Dudgeon did not anticipate any trouble because he had warned the class. Pat Hourican in particular. He had told them if they misbehaved in the park and spoiled it for everyone else he would see that they did not have another playtime for the remainder of the term. He was pretty sure that they had got the message this time. The park looked quite beautiful in the snow. A high wall ran around it and there was a row of bare trees which Mr Dudgeon had asked some of the class to sketch. A man in a lumberjack shirt sat on a bench eating a sandwich and reading a newspaper. An old lady with a shopping basket stopped to smile and say, ‘Off on your travels, boys?’ There were ducks swimming in the pond. Mr Dudgeon had done quite a lot of preparation for this lesson. Each child had a special notebook and a pencil. The class was divided up into groups. Mr Dudgeon warned them to stay in the groups to which they were assigned. ‘I want no boy to break away from the general body,’ he said firmly. Then each group set about its particular task. Everything was going swimmingly until a boy came over to him and said, ‘Teacher, Stephen Webb isn’t here.’ When he heard those words Mr Dudgeon went white. He snapped ‘What?’ and the boy repeated what he had said. It was just then that he happened to see two figures at the far end of the park which he realized were Stephen Webb and Kyle Collins. They were trying to climb a tree. Climbing a tree if you don’t mind! Right, this is it, he said to himself and ran as fast as he could across the park. When he got to them he was speechless with rage. Stephen and Kyle had never seen him so furious. Stephen even found himself crying a little bit as his teacher snapped at him. Mr Dudgeon told him he had done it now. He had done it for good this time. He gave Kyle a little push and said, ‘Get over there as fast as your legs will carry you, Collins! Do you hear me talking to you!’

  The funny thing was that after he had said that, Mr Dudgeon felt great. He felt like he was capable of anything. He could not believe it! It was a wonderful feeling. The most wonderful feeling in the world. And he was just beginning to enjoy it when he looked up and saw one of the boys waving and calling Pat’s name. What was he calling that for? As far as he was concerned he could call it a hundred times. A thousand if he wanted. He wasn’t going to be rushed by some upstart of an eight-year-old. He had dealt with Collins, hadn’t he? He had dealt with Webb. And he would deal with Hourican too in his own good time. Except that it was only when he approached the line of yew trees that he realized what was going on. The children hadn’t listened to him at all, had they? They hadn’t listened to a word he’d been saying. By God there would be trouble when they got back to school. Look! They were all over the place! Oh for God’s sake! Now what was wrong? What did she want? Yes! Yes! I’ll be with you in a minute, just as soon as I’ve dealt with these brats!

  The old lady was in hysterics. Her shopping bag was lying beside her on the snow. The man in the lumberjack shirt came running over. He did his best to calm her down but it was no good. Mr Dudgeon went cold all over and started to run. But it was no use. It was too late for him to do anything. By the time he reached the pond, it was all more or less over and he just stood there like a simpleton, staring at Pat’s black head bobbing about sporadically on the surface.

  Which was very sad of course, and not helped by the fact that it also turned out to be the day Marion had chosen to move out, as the note she left explained.

  Burgerland

  At night when you go into Burgerland, the light and the colours come racing at you all together to bludgeon your eyes with yellow and lime-green fists. Not that this discouraged Malachy or dissuaded him in any way from making his customary choice. As soon as his order arrived he seated himself by the window as usual, staring out at the beautiful city streets he was coming to know so well this past few weeks as he rambled aimlessly through them, mourning the loss of the one he loved and waiting to get kicked out of his job.

  A cardboard cheeseburger man waved at him and told him that he could get one cheeseburger free if he collected enough ‘Free Cheeseburger Offer’ coupons. Outside, everyone was having fun. They were spilling out of the pubs onto the pavement with their glasses of beer, singing songs about all the trouble in Northern Ireland. One of the songs had a message. It said that northmen and southmen from Dublin to Belfast to Donegal could all be friends and there would be no more killing or bombing. When the chorus came the girls swooned back into their boyfriends’ arms. Their boyfriends’ sweaters were knotted around their waists. They were having great fun. They sang that we were all on the one road and even if it was the wrong road who cared as long as we were together. When the song was over they all cheered. There was another song playing too, just over Malachy’s head in fact, coming from the wall speaker. He knew it well. The song was called ‘Have you seen her?’ and what a sad song it was. The words would bring tears to your eyes. They were all about a poor man whose girlfriend did a very bad thing. She upped and left him. One day he came home and she was gone and that was the last he ever saw of her. Which was a pity because all he ever thought about after that was her. He couldn’t get her out of his mind. The poor man could not sleep because he was thinking so much about her. Then he would go for walks in the park hoping that he might see her. Catch a glimpse of her. Even that would do. It was no good, however. It didn’t happen. He kept asking the same question, ‘Why oh why did she have to leave and go away?’ But there was no answer. He just kept asking the same question – why did she have to go away? When the song ended the tape went right back to the beginning and began all over again. What Malachy was wondering was – was it ever going to stop? Please let it stop.

  He bit into his cheeseburger. There is one slight problem with the food they serve in Burgerland. You really have to be careful when you are biting into your burger. You have to be extra careful because if your mind is not on what you are doing in all likelihood the ketchup will spill on you. It will spill all over your jacket or coat or whatever. Which is what happened to Malachy. A gout of it went plop. ‘How cou
ld I have been so silly – so stupid!’ he said to himself. But then he thought, ‘On the other hand – what would you expect me to do? Hardly likely I was going to be able to eat a burger all on my own without fucking up in some small little way now was it?’ Oh, no. He wiped the ketchup stain and cleaned his coat as best he could. By the way, there is another slight drawback with Burgerland, for anyone who might be thinking of going there on a regular basis or even on a one-off visit. Skinheads occasionally drop by to eat after their nightly rave-up in whatever cider-swilling den it is they frequent. Malachy was crumpling up the tissue when the door swung open and they came in, shouting and jostling each other and so on. He couldn’t say exactly how many of them there were. Six, seven maybe. They were talking about some women they had met and what they were going to do to them. They said they were going to ‘shag’ them. ‘Shag’ them and ‘Pull the gee out of them’. By all accounts this was what they had in mind. One skinhead was bigger than the others. Both physically and in the mouth region. That was why Malachy chose him. He smiled as he walked over and said, ‘Hey you – fuckhead. Yes – you!’ For a moment everything was quiet. It was as if nothing at all had been said. It was only when Malachy mimed ‘fuckhead’ again with his lips that the skinhead did anything. There were quite a lot of people screaming. ‘He’s going to kill him! He’s going to kill him!’

  In actual fact, Malachy could feel very little. Even when he was lying on the tiles and they were booting the hell out of him. Not that he doubted for a moment that they would have killed him if it had been at all possible. However, shortly afterwards the police came along. A considerable crowd had gathered across the road. They were watching as he was put into the ambulance. They didn’t keep him overnight. The doctor told him he was lucky. How he came to that conclusion Malachy really couldn’t say.

  The Plan

  Mr Extremely Bruised Bubblehead had spent over a week devising his master plan, and now at last came the time to put it into action. So here he was outside the famous Baggot Inn where Paddy Meehan and the Electric Strangers were playing. DUBLIN’S NEXT BIG THING!, said the poster. Well, well, well. Right on in he went, Jack Nicholson style. Fuck you, pal – know what I’m saying? There was of course absolutely no hurry so the first thing he did was go to the bar and order a drink. Meehan was enjoying himself on stage. His guitar was screeching. He was screeching too. ‘I’m on fire! I’m on fire for you!’ he screeched.

  The sweat was running down Malachy’s face. Once more he went over the plan in his mind. He had rehearsed the words he was going to use many times over but he wanted to be sure. The last thing he wanted to do was blow it! He went over what he was going to say once more. ‘You look pale, Marion. Surprised to see me, are you? Just thought I’d drop by to see the band. Just to see how they are getting on, y’know? So tell me, Marion. How’s Paddy? Cut the mustard, can he? Keeping you happy in that department, I hope. Hey, Marion – you there? Maybe you didn’t hear me or something. Could it be that maybe you didn’t hear me or something like that? You know, Marion, this is pretty crazy. All of a sudden you seem to be struck fucking dumb or something. I mean, how can you be? So this is it, Marion – you’ve gone deaf. You’ve gone fucking deaf on me, huh? I mean can you believe that – Marion with nothing to say for herself? That’s a change for sure! Huh, Marion? A change? A change don’t you think?

  If she cried, she cried. That was a risk he would have to take. Big deal. Who gave a shit?

  Just then he saw her. Sitting in a corner on her own. She smoothed a strawberry blonde hairstrand back behind her ear and smiled up at Paddy who hit his guitar a windmill swipe to impress her. That was enough for Malachy. He took a step forward, then turned right around and walked out of the pub. The Pembroke Inn is a very popular bar. He liked it. It was just unfortunate that he couldn’t be left in peace. Some women’s group or other was getting ready for a meeting upstairs. He didn’t mind what they had as long as they left him alone. He couldn’t, however. They couldn’t even do that. There were two of them, practically sitting on top of him. One of them had spiky hair and was rolling a cigarette as she nodded every time Leather-Jacket opened her mouth. This was what she said, ‘The education of men by the movement is not the issue. As far as I am concerned men are now out of the picture. We need to devote all our energies to women and the political education of women. Particularly working-class women.’

  He stared straight at Cigarette – but she ignored him of course. What she didn’t realize was that she had picked the wrong night. He stood over them but they had to show how tough they were by refusing to look up, didn’t they. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘OK.’ He cleared his throat and said, ‘Who do you people think you are? I mean just who the fuck do you think you are?’

  So at last she had decided she would do him the honour of looking up, had she? ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘But we’re having a private conversation. Please leave us alone to have our drink in peace.’

  He said, ‘Isn’t it a strange sort of private conversation when you’re broadcasting it all over the pub? I mean that’s a strange kind of private conversation wouldn’t you say?’

  They said nothing. No doubt they thought he would leave it at that. Go and scuttle off back to his hole. Big mistake, friend. ‘You know something about you people?’ he said. ‘You make me laugh. You make me laugh, you really do.’

  He stared straight at them. Right at them, man. ‘You want to know something about you people? You’re living in a fucking dream world! A dream world, lady!’

  How he managed to fall across the table he did not know. Unfortunately, however, that is exactly what he did, taking five or six glasses with him. The barman had been watching everything and this was the last straw. ‘Get the fuck out!’ he snarled.

  Malachy tumbled off into the night and was still laughing when he reached the Grand Canal.

  Patrick Kavanagh

  Patrick Kavanagh was a poet. He wrote about nature. One of his poems was, ‘If ever you go to Dublin town fol-dol-de-di-do.’ Or something like that. He wrote a lot of his poems along the banks of the Grand Canal, right where Malachy found himself sitting. When he died, Patrick wanted to be commemorated where there was water. That was why they built the concrete seat for him. They erected it along the banks of the canal where he had spent so many happy hours composing his poems. Malachy found all this very difficult to understand. He found it difficult to understand how anyone could bear to sit by the canal at all much less write poetry about it. For Patrick, however, there were no such difficulties. Any chance he got, he was back along those old banks scribbling away. He wrote about its waters tumbling like Niagara, and about the sun glinting off its surface on a summer’s day. Admittedly it wasn’t summer right now but it still required an extraordinary leap of the imagination to understand how poetry could be written about it. There was a foul green scum floating on the top of the water. Little islands of green scum. Awkwardly jammed in the lock gates was a rusted iron bedstead. There was also the corpse of a dog, half-rotted away. He wouldn’t have thought it the place where one would be inspired to write poetry. He would not have thought so. But then of course, he was probably wrong about that too.

  It was quite foggy now. You wouldn’t have been able to write poetry even if you wanted to because the fact was you could barely see your hand in front of your face. All he could see of the woman was her white shoes. As she came up close to him he saw that she had long lank blonde hair which was darkened at the roots. She was wearing a red imitation leather coat. Between her fingers she held an unlit cigarette. Her voice was cracked and hoarse as she asked him for a light. When he handed her the matches, she hesitated for a moment then sat down beside him. She looked at the cigarette and said, ‘It would be twenty pound.’ There was nothing he could think to say. On the far side of the canal a chimney stack belched smoke. A half-drunk man went by behind them, supporting himself against a tree until his drink-fumed coughing spasm passed. She repeated, ‘That’s what it would be. Or maybe for you
– fifteen.’

  Malachy was only barely aware he had spoken to her at all. He looked at her when he said it. He didn’t turn away. It was all quite low-key. I mean he wasn’t crying or anything. In fact, his voice was quite emotionless. What he said to her was, ‘I let a young boy die.’

  She didn’t say anything. She just lowered her head. He felt her move closer to him. She squeezed his arm gently. Then she said, ‘I’d let you do anything you want. For fifteen, I’d let you do anything you want. Just you.’ She opened her coat and he could see the pale white flesh of her neck and upper bosom. ‘Anything?’ he asked and she nodded. She was nice, he thought. She had a kind face. Sad that that wasn’t what he wanted. He knew it was wrong, even to think of asking her but his hand was already in his pocket. He took out the two Wilkinson Sword blades wrapped in white tissue paper. He stroked her hair and whispered softly into her ear. When he looked again she was standing facing him. ‘You don’t understand, Mister,’ she pleaded. ‘I have a girl, Gráinne. Mister, she’s only three. Please don’t hurt me. That’s all I ask. Please don’t hurt me. Don’t cut my face. That’s all I ask.’