2007 - A tale etched in blood and hard black pencel

by Christopher Brookmyre

  Today, though, it’s the more familiar routine, the main event, the one you’ve not been waiting for: Ladies and gentlemen, put your bum-cheeks together for the All-Old Momo Show. Which would be a shite enough prospect if it wasn’t coming on top of this morning’s class invasion and random assault.

  Scot catches Jamesy’s eye as they troop along the corridor and see the headmaster up on stage in front of a half-empty but rapidly filling floor. They both know that it’s the older weans who are most likely to be singled out during assembly, but it can depend on which classes get there first and therefore who ends up sitting nearest the front and in Memo’s direct line of vision. When they were in their proper classroom, back in the Infant Building, they were usually safe, coming in at the coo’s tail behind everyone else, but the utility room is only yards away from the gym hall. Jamesy’s also probably thinking, like Scot, that Momo’s assemblies, for no apparent reason, tend to be on a Friday, with Lingalonga Harris taking the floor on Tuesdays. This is Monday, the first day everyone’s back after the fire, so any bets that’s top of the agenda. In a way this realisation is slightly comforting, because at least it dispels Scot’s fear that Momo overheard his impression of him in the corridor earlier and is lining him up for a public belting, like happened to that Primary Six who swore at Mrs Ford.

  The early arrival doesn’t work out too badly. Mrs Cook’s Primary Four class got in first and she has organised everybody to line up in files rather than rows. This means Michelle, Carol, Alison and fat Joanne end up two abreast at the front, leaving Scot and his pals a comfortable distance back. They are also a comfortable distance away from Smelly Elly, but as soon as he sits down, Scot can smell the same niff you get off her: sour milk and stale piss. He hears someone say, “Awright, Scotty,” and looks to his immediate right, where he sees Matthew Cannon, who lives round the corner from him. Sitting just behind Matthew is Harry Fenwick, one of Eleanor’s brothers, which explains the smell. It’s a bit of a sin for Harry, really, because he’s not a pure bastard like the other Fenwicks, or permanently angry and spiteful like Eleanor.

  It’s bucketing down outside by now and the windows all steam up as the place fills. The hall is surprisingly quiet for so many weans being in, which just shows you the effect Momo has without even opening his mouth. Sadly, that part is coming soon enough. And indeed, here we go.

  “Hallo boys and gerrals,” he booms out.

  “Hello, Mr Monahan,” comes the mass response. Scot can hear a few ‘Hello, Momo’s mixed in, coming from some of the more daring or just mental bigger boys.

  Momo strides back and forth, pacing the wooden boards before the wee stage at the front. Harris usually stands up there when she’s subjecting them to the hymn-practice grief, but Momo likes to be as terrifyingly close as possible to his audience. He always walks like he’s trying really hard to hold in a jobbie, and on these occasions his coupon adds to the effect, contorted by this uncomfortable strained gurning that it took Scot months to work out was actually his attempt at a smile.

  “And are you all working harrrd?”

  “Yes, Mr Monahan.”

  “And are you all haaaa-ppee?”

  “Yes, Mr Monahan.”

  The ‘Yes, Momo’ chancers usually chuck it by this point, not wishing to push their luck.

  “Do you know what makes me haaa-ppeee? Harrd worrk. Good boys and gerrals. That’s what makes me haa-ppee. Do you want me to be haa-ppee, boys and girls?”

  “Yes, Mr Monahan.”

  “Do you want me to be saawd?” This illustrated by a face like a boxer dog after a swift boot in the cheenies, as well as a sudden slump in the shoulders and bending of both knees.

  “No, Mr Monahan.”

  “Do you know what makes me sawd?” Face still like elbow-skin, voice giving it kiddy-on crying.

  “Yes, Mr Monahan,” chant about two-thirds, the remainder opting for the negative. It’s the same routine every time, but not everybody is quite sure of which response the auld bastard wants at this point or what everybody else said the last time. What they are all sure of, right enough, is every word of what’s coming next.

  “Lazy bones,” Momo says, coupon now all sour like he just picked his ear and ate it. “Poor workers, classroom chitter-chat-terers, daydreamers, window-starers, bawd iggsl” The catchprase gets fired out at high speed and maximum volume. You always see a few shoulders stiffen and straighten from the folk who’ve drifted off a bit and aren’t paying attention. “And do you know what else makes me saaawd?”

  It’s usually about fifty-fifty at this point, with Scot himself not sure whether they’re supposed to be clued up and say, ‘yes’ or awaiting revelation and say, ‘no’.

  “Seeing Jesus on the cross, and the starving babies in Africa. So say your prayers, and give to the Black Babies. You’ll all do that, won’t you, boys and gerrals?”

  “Yes, Mr Monahan.”

  Aye, but we’re not quite finished the wish-list yet, are we, sir? On you go, Momo. The grannies and toddlers.

  “And remember, be nice to wee toddlers,” Momo implores, offering a ‘kindly’ expression that looks kindly enough to have any toddler bawling its eyes out. “And when you see old ladies, help them to cross the road.”

  Nae kidding. This is the script. Every time. Every. Fucking. Time. Word for word. Scot’s still sure the assembly’s been called because of the fire, but whatever else is on the agenda, it was always going to have to wait until this part is by with. It’s like one of those dolls with a string you pull. Really, does the guy never think, Hang on, I’m actually boring myself here? Jeezo.

  And the thing that gets Scot every time he watches Momo in action is that he’s the heidie, the headmaster. You have to be clever to be a teacher, so you’d think you’d have to be extra clever to be the teacher in charge. And yet Momo comes across as one of the most stupid adults Scot has ever encountered, with maybe just Father Neeson edging him out for the allcomers’ title.

  It’s probably just as well everybody’s so bored of this as to have stopped listening, especially the Primary Sevens who’ve been hearing it for donkey’s, because they’re getting big enough to forcibly implement Momo’s wishes. If they took it to heart, then Braeside Main Street would be full of old dears trying to get back to the side of the road they were happily doddering along when the St Elizabeth kids decided to do their master’s bidding.

  Now, though, with the greatest hits concluded, it’s time for a new number.

  “Boys and gerrals, there is something else that has made me sawd of late. Very sawd indeed. There was a fiyarr; a big fiyarr.” Momo says this like it’s news, as if nobody’s noticed the entire back of the fucking Infant Building has been missing since last week and the Primary Threes haven’t realised they’re all sitting in the wrong classrooms. “And it burnt down the Infant School. And all the wee Primary Ones, the poor wee Primary Ones, and all the lovely wee Primary Twos [more balls-booted boxer-dog here] are having to go to the Church Hall for their lessons. And all the wee Primary Threes have lost their classrooms as well. All because of this terrible fiyarr. Now, do you know how fiyarrs are started?”

  There’s close to no response at this point, apart from some dutiful ‘No-o, sir’s from a few of the lassies, including, inevitably, Michelle and that lot down the front. Joanne’s voice comes through clear and recognisable, securing her grassing rights as ever. Momo realises he’s off the hymn sheet here and decides to spotlight some solo performers. This is when it pays to be as far as possible from the front.

  “David Reardon. You can tell us: how do fires start?”

  There’s a wee gap while this poor boy gathers himself after the shock of being suddenly picked out. “You turn on the bars, sir?” he suggests.

  A few of the bigger ones laugh, though they quickly zip it. You can tell everybody else is holding it in.

  “No, not an electric fiyarr, David. A blaze. Daft boy, idiot.” David’s awfully lucky Momo would have to bend down to reach him or his
scalp would be getting pummelled right now. Momo sighs. Time to bring in reliable help. “Helen Dunn,” he bellows, spotting her near the front. “How do fiyarrs start?”

  Helen, like everybody else, knows there’s no single correct answer to this, and given how things just worked out for David Reardon, she sensibly takes a wee moment to think about it. There’s total silence while she does, with everybody in the hall aware that Momo’s temper just got turned up a wee notch. You could hear a pin drop, which means there’s nobody in the hall doesn’t hear the slightly louder noise of a wee squeaky fart from somewhere to Scot’s right. It’s a really tight one, a high-pitched number that sounded like whoever did it was trying their best to hold it in. A few folk giggle, and Scot can feel his face creasing up while he tries, like just about everyone else, not to laugh.

  “Matches, sir,” Helen decides.

  “That’s right, Helen. Good girl. You must never play with matches,” he informs them all, wagging a stubby finger for emphasis. “Because fiyarrs can get started by accident. Now, Brendan Mclntyre, do you think this fiyarr was started by accident?”

  Brendan, one of the Primary Sixes, pauses only a moment before replying, “I don’t know, sir,” an answer Scot admires for its astute reading of the situation and deft prevention of any follow-up.

  “Well, do you want to know what I think?” Momo asks the room. “Do you want to know what I think?” he repeats, starting to pace, giving his opinion the big build-up. He pauses for impact, letting the silence grow, and it grows just long enough for a second fart to fill it: this time louder and slightly longer, but still with enough tightness to suggest another failed bum-struggle.

  Scot is shuddering now, and from all sides he hears the wheezy tittering of several weans fighting their own losing battles against laughter.

  Fortunately, Momo either never heard the fart or is ignoring it and pressing on regardless. “I think it was started by accident. Because, sawd as I am to say it, I think it was started by some bawd iggs at this…very…school. And bawd as they might be, I don’t believe, I can’t believe anyone could be so bawd, so very, very, very bawd indeed, to deliberately burn down the lovely wee Primary Ones’ and wee Primary Twos’ and wee Primary Threes’ classrooms. And that’s why I’m going to give them the chance to own up. That’s why I’ve called everyone here to assembly. If whoever did it can be as big and brave as to own up, like they thought they were big and brave when they were playing with matches, then we can put the matter behind us. They can stand up and say sorry to all the other children sitting here, then come with me to the Church Hall to say sorry to the wee Primary Ones and Primary Twos, and after that the police won’t need to be told. But if they don’t own up, here and now…” Momo paces again, shaking his head. Scot knows he’s looking at a volcano about to erupt. “Then woe betide theml Because they will be found. The police are clever—very, very clever—and they have machines for finding out who is telling lies. And when those bawd iggs are found, I will be taking my strap, and I will drag them round each and every classroom, from Primary One to Primary Seven, and I will belt them in each and every classroom, for all the boys and gerrals to see. And they will be crying [boxer-dog once more] like wee babies, crying and crying, and when they have run out of tears, I will take them back to the first class and begin again!”

  Momo’s voice echoes off the walls. There’s weans with their hair practically standing on end now. It’s as well the Primary Ones and Twos aren’t here, because any bets they’d all be greeting.

  Scot has to hand it to Momo: he makes it sound like a good offer. And if anybody believed him for a second about his end of the deal, he might even get takers. Hell, there were one or two eejits who would probably be prepared to own up and say sorry in exchange for the boost it would give their reputations to get the credit for something as massive as the blaze. If they believed him for a second.

  “So now, here is your chance, your one big chance, to do it the easy way and own up. To say sorry. I’ll give you ten seconds, and then, after that, I’ll be practising with my strap. I’ll be eating steak and drinking milk to build up my muscles for that strap.” And with this, he pulls the aforementioned black leather tawse from inside his jacket where it’s permanently draped over his shoulder, grips it in his giant, knobbly fist and lashes it down with all his might against the stage. The crack echoes off the four walls, the reverberation felt in Scot’s and probably just about everyone else’s stomach.

  Momo sticks the leather away again and folds his arms. “Ten…nine…eight…”

  Even from halfway back down the gym hall, Scot can see that the belt has left a big brown mark on the stage. Any bets it’s left a few brown marks elsewhere as well.

  “Three…two…one…”

  If Scot thought there was silence earlier, then that was a riot compared to now, with every person in the place simultaneously holding their breath. You can hear rain on the windows, the purr of a car driving past out on the main road.

  Then there sounds out the biggest, loudest, longest, wateriest brammer of a fart Scot has ever had the privilege to witness. Nae kidding, this is world class. You don’t just hear it, you feel it, like when a high wind rattles the sills or an aeroplane flies low over your house. It’s more than a fart; ‘fart’ doesn’t seem a big or long enough word for this arse-concerto. It’s an event, almost on the scale of the fire.

  And immediately, of course, there is total uproar: a dam breaking as all that high tension collapses and everybody totally cracks up. Even the most fearful and most self-disciplined weans are helpless, their terror of the heidie no match for the irresistible hilarity of the moment. Scot is bent over where he’s sitting, and even through tears in his eyes he can see some of the staff’s features contort as they strive professionally to keep the smiles off their own coupons. And in the middle of it, like he’s trying to hold back the tide and not get washed away, is Momo, bellowing his lungs out. “Who was tha-aat? Who? Who made that terrible and disgusting noise?”

  Aye, fuck’s sake. Like somebody would own up to a fart like that under any circumstances, never mind to Momo on the warpath. Give us peace.

  Scot has heard there is someone in Primary Five who can make himself fart when he wants to, but you hear a lot of shite like that, and thus he hadn’t given the reports much credence. Scot can make himself burp (though if he does it too much it gives him the hiccups), but until now he didn’t believe you could make yourself fart—or believe anyone would want to. But the timing of these trumpetings has just been too good to be accidental.

  Momo is now walking forward among the squatting assembly like he’s wading out to sea. “Quiet!” he shouts, but for the moment the laughter is still too infectious. “I said quiet!” he tries again, this time with the added visual cue of pulling the belt from his shoulder.

  This has an immediate, widespread impact. Everybody tries really hard to hold it in, and the noise dies right down, though there’s still a lot of shoulders shuddering. Scot can see some folk nipping their own skin so that the pain stops them from thinking about how funny the fart was.

  Momo holds the belt in both hands, folding it in two. “Who made that noise?” he demands again. His eyes are blazing. His previous antics were a calculated effort in putting the wind up everybody, but since the wind came right back out, you can tell he’s totally lost the place. The mad bastard’s probably even forgotten all about the fire by this point. “Who? Who?” He leans down and stares at one of the Primary Fours. “Derek Coogan. Was it you?”

  You can see this Primary Four’s whole body tremble as he shakes his heid and says, “No, sir.”

  “Allan McQueen. Was it you?”

  No, but if you keep this up, Momo, somebody’s going to actually shite themselves, never mind fart.

  Momo wades deeper, further up the hall, getting nearer to Scot. He can feel his heart beating faster, imagines wee Jamesy’s will be doing double that again. He stops on the spot and starts sniffing the air. There’s
close to silence again now; Momo’s cranked up the tension once more and put the fear back into atmos. He takes another couple of steps, still sniffing, his eyebrows bunched together like two caterpillars having a square go. Then Scot feels a horrible sensation running through him as he realises what’s about to happen just half a second before it does. Momo’s stopped over Harry Fenwick, his nostrils still twitching and a look on his face familiar to anybody who’s just arrived in a Fenwick’s immediate vicinity.

  “Haa-rold Fenwick,” he blurts out, slavers dripping from his gub in his blind outrage. “Disgusting boy. It was you.” And with that he reaches down a huge paw and yanks poor Harry to his feet.

  “Sir, it wasnae…” barely escapes from Harry’s mouth before greeting drowns his voice.

  Momo practically drags the boy along with him, shouting, “Out! To the front!” as he does so. He’s got hold of Harry’s jumper at the back of his neck with one hand and is already battering lumps out his head with the other as he hauls him forward. “We’ll see how funny those revolting noises are in just one minute,” Momo rumbles, for the benefit of all present, not just Harry.

  Momo all but throws him against the wee stage as he lets go of Harry’s neck, the force nearly knocking him off his feet. He puts a hand out to steady himself but his legs are all wobbly from fear. “Get your hands out, disgusting boy. Filthy boy, ” Momo shouts. Harry’s bubbling away, shaking like a wet dog as he reluctantly lifts a hand out, palm up. He looks tiny compared to Momo, who is towering over him, trembling as much with rage as Harry is with terror. “Both hands,” he adds, so Harry will place one hand under the other. This is so the impact won’t knock the hand away and lessen the blow. Momo is a fucking bastard.