They had the first two periods free, but they had to be in school at nine like everybody else. If they were late Condor would thump them just the same as any other day — except that he would shelter from the rain in the Science archway. Free periods had to be spent in the study hall, studying.
Martin and Kavanagh went straight there. A strong smell of wet blazers was everywhere and the windows had steamed up on the inside. Overlooking the rows of desks was a life-size statue of the Curé d’Ars with one arm extended. He had a bald head and grey locks and the two purple tabs of his priestly French garb hung out over his collar. The boys always put something in his right hand. This morning it was a Coke bottle. Every boy in the school referred to him as ‘this curio of ours’.
Martin and Kavanagh sat on the desk tops with their feet on the seats, talking. It was not nine o’clock yet, so nobody had turned up to supervise. Free periods depended very much on who was supervising. It could be dire silence with somebody like Condor, forced to sit there reading and rereading the same line for forty minutes. Maybe turning a page just in case he was keeping an eye on you. Or it could be easy going, a bit of chat here and there, with Wee Clo or Cousteau.
Blaise appeared in the doorway. He walked towards them. He was carrying a leather briefcase. This was unusual because, being a boarder, he carried only the books he needed for the next class.
‘Well?’ said Martin.
‘Well what?’
‘Come on — fuck ya,’ said Kavanagh. ‘How did it go?’
‘I found it difficult to sleep …’
‘Me too …’
‘But when I did get up at four there was some bastard moving around. He was a prefect — I could hear him pissing — boy, could I hear him pissing — like a man on stilts.’
‘So?’ Kavanagh said.
‘I went back to my bed.’
Martin and Kavanagh looked at each other.
‘That’s not so hot,’ Martin said. ‘The rest of us risk our lives …’
‘But when the dorm settled I got up again.’ Blaise began to unzip the top of his briefcase. ‘And I went downstairs with the key you so generously provided, and my torch and my bath towel. And I got these.’ He looked all around, but seeing only first-years trying to finish homework, he produced a brown envelope with a cellophane window. He offered it — held it out in front of him while he looked down into his briefcase. Kavanagh out-waited Martin. Martin took it and looked at the cellophane window. ADVANCED LEVEL CHEMISTRY pale green with this year’s date on it, so many days hence.
‘Fuckin hell.’ He felt weak. His insides sank. But Blaise was handing him another envelope. ADVANCED LEVEL PHYSICS. Pale pink.
‘Jesus.’ And ADVANCED LEVEL ENGLISH LITERATURE and PURE and APPLIED MATHS in pastel shades of blue and cream and yellow. Martin was in a kind of daze, just taking each envelope as it was handed to him.
‘Holy fuck, Blaise,’ said Kavanagh, angling his head and reading the titles in the cellophane windows.
‘Fuckin hell. Get these out of sight,’ said Martin as if he had suddenly become aware of the danger. He grabbed his bag and slid the envelopes down behind a ring binder marked English Notes.
‘Relax,’ said Blaise. ‘And here — did somebody not mention O grade Latin as a requirement for something?’
‘Shit the bed.’
‘I was the best part of half an hour in there sorting through this stuff.’
‘Why are you giving them all to me?’ said Martin.
‘It would be very dodgy for me to attempt steaming them here — in the school dormitory,’ said Blaise. ‘I don’t even have access to a kettle.’
‘Access to a fucking kettle.’ Martin didn’t know what he was saying.
‘Will these not be missed?’ said Kavanagh.
‘Nobody’ll miss an envelope until the day of the exam,’ said Blaise, ‘and by that time we’ll have put them back.’ Blaise was still holding out the O grade Latin papers. Martin seemed frozen.
‘There’s no point in having two stashes,’ said Kavanagh. ‘Twice as easy found. You take them all, Martin.’
‘Gee thanks.’ Martin took the Latin papers and slid them down into his bag with the others.
Over the day the quality of the rain changed — but it never stopped. It went from drizzle to showers and it rattled against the windows of each classroom they went to. Martin watched the droplets on the pane beside him quiver and run into one another. In one classroom there was a wire grille protecting the window and the rain dripped and zigzagged from one level to the next. The drainpipes clunked and spluttered. And all day the papers burned there in his bag. He barely let the strap slip off his shoulder, did not dare to be parted from it for an instant. In Physics, after he took his textbook out he fastened up the buckle straps to their shortest and set the bag on the walked-over wet floor. He made sure to place the leg of the stool inside the loop of the shoulder strap and never to take his behind off the stool. Somebody, acting the maggot, could just pinch it for a laugh — throw the bag around the wet playground, then where would he be? During English the rain stopped and the sun even came out for a bit. There was homework to be handed in and Wee Jacky came round the desks gathering the exercise books. Normally the boys set them on his desk at the end of the period on their way out but today, of all days, he came down among them.
‘The results of your labours, please, gentlemen.’ Martin opened his bag and dug for his orange English exercise book. Wee Jacky stood waiting, a pile of a dozen exercises already in his hands. The brown envelopes could be seen. And he was sure Wee Jacky saw them — but there was no recognition of what they were. Martin refastened the buckle straps, his heart pounding.
The last bell of the day rang and everyone headed down the driveway. Kavanagh was staying on for something energetic — pole vault or basketball practice. They had planned to meet later at Kavanagh’s place. And do the business. Kavanagh said on Wednesdays his people went out to the Old Boys and his sisters were never in.
Martin turned for home outside the school gates. After the rain everything looked rinsed — trees, pavements, even the red buses looked clean. His bag bulged with camera equipment he’d borrowed. He kept to the inside of the pavement. Less risk there. He could hardly believe the way he was thinking. If a lorry careered off the road and hit him, he’d be brought to the hospital. The police would be called in and they’d have to sort through his bag for proof of identity. And find the exam papers — like finding a copy of the worst wank magazine in the world. One day at a bus stop he’d found one in the waste bin. He couldn’t stand there at the bus stop flicking through it — he wanted to have a good look at it — so he slid it into his bag. If he’d been knocked down that day his mother would have been mortified in front of the hospital staff.
‘Mrs Brennan, we’re obliged to return Martin’s effects. I’ve looked through them. I’m dreadfully sorry. Of course he may have just found this filthy magazine in a waste bin at a bus stop. And the bus hit him before he could get round to having a wank. Of that we’re definite. So he’s probably in heaven.’
‘Thanks be to God for small mercies.’
Even though he had been to Kavanagh’s house several times he could never remember which of the doorbells worked. The Victorian one looked useless. The white push-button on the porch door sounded dully somewhere at the back of the house. At half eight, it was still bright and birds were singing. The porch door was of stained glass and he saw Kavanagh’s shape coming to open it. The hallway was large, big as a room with a wide staircase. Kavanagh put him in the sitting room and went off somewhere. Martin unslung his bag and sat on the sofa staring at the ceiling. The room was so quiet traffic could be heard from the main road. The large bay window was cloaked in heavily patterned curtains which were held back by tasselled cords. The pelmet had a gold fringe. It was all heavy duty stuff with flock maroon wallpaper in a fleur-de-lys pattern. He liked to brush his fingers over the upraised flowers. There was too much to look at in the
room and yet there was nothing to look at. It was about ten times the size of the parlour at home. And the pictures on the walls were terrible — scenes of cattle drinking beside a cluster of framed certificates belonging to the sisters — both older. One had done dentistry, the other psychiatry. And his da. Kavanagh’s old man was a doctor, not a GP but a hospital doctor. There was also a brass relief of Whistler’s mother. A clothes brush with a matching brass handle attached to it. From somewhere else in the house he could faintly hear music. Country and western. It sounded like ‘The Padre of Old San Antone’. He thought of the papers in his bag. And suddenly, for no reason he could think of, he felt hopeless. Infinitely sad. Even the material of the sofa beneath his hand felt wretched. The feeling was so intense it clenched his stomach. He closed his eyes and waited for it to disappear. Kavanagh stuck his head around the door.
‘How many sugars?’
‘But I’m just after my own tea.’
‘You could force down another one.’
‘Two sugars.’
Kavanagh’s head ducked out, leaving him alone again. Still the mournful tune went on. And the traffic. And the disaster they were about to get involved in. His limbs felt weighed down so that he could not move. His muscles had turned to lead. Gravity had increased its hold on him and wanted to drag him down through the sofa, through the floor. Fuck, what a …
Kavanagh pushed the door open with his foot and came in bearing the tea. There was a slice of cake each. They drank their tea from china mugs.
‘That’s German cake,’ said Kavanagh.
‘It’s good,’ said Martin. He rubbed his fingers free of the icing dust.
Mrs Kavanagh, obviously dressed to go out and looking great in a red dress, silvery stockings and sling-backs, came in to say hello. She stood at the doorway as if not wanting to intrude. Her feet were apart on either side of the door and her hands rested on the inside and outside handles. Looking at her, he felt the bad feeling draining out of him.
‘That’s what I like to see — feeding the brain cells,’ said Mrs Kavanagh. ‘This year of all years.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘How d’you think you’ll do?’
‘Haven’t a clue.’
‘Do a bit of work,’ she mock-scolded. ‘You can’t leave it all up to the Man Above. Prayers are all very well but there’s no substitute for the studying.’
Kavanagh sat silent, not joining the conversation, his head down. Martin remembered the day Kavanagh had taken the soup in his house. He’d been embarrassed about his mother but there was no need for Kavanagh to feel that way. Mrs Kavanagh was old but kinda sexy at the same time. She played with the door, moving it slightly between her feet.
‘What are you going to do next year?’
‘If I get enough marks I’ll go to the University.’
‘To do what?’
‘A degree.’
‘Good for you. In what?’
Martin was in mid shrug when the phone rang in the distance. Mrs Kavanagh said, ‘That’s me,’ and Martin heard the click of her high heels on the tiled floor as she ran. Kavanagh rolled his eyes. Martin contradicted him.
‘Naw, naw. She’s OK. Every time I come here she looks younger.’
Kavanagh snorted.
‘My ma’s old,’ said Martin. ‘Like Whistler’s mother.’
‘Who he?’
‘The painter — there on your wall.’
Kavanagh stood up and closely inspected the brass plaque.
‘I never knew that was anybody’s mother — just thought it was some oul woman.’ He paused and pulled a face. ‘Fuck, this is desperate.’
‘Yeah — I’ve never been this jumpy about anything.’
They climbed the stairs to Kavanagh’s bedroom. There was a radiator on the landing with about ten pairs of flimsy knickers on it. Martin stared. In the bedroom they didn’t say anything. Martin picked up a pack of cards and began laying out solitaire on the carpet. After a while they heard the slam of the front door.
‘Hold on,’ said Kavanagh. Martin heard the car pull away and gather speed. Kavanagh went downstairs for the kettle. Martin sat looking around, saw himself reflected in the wardrobe mirror. The style of the room wasn’t as bad as downstairs. Kavanagh must have exerted some taste. There was a small wooden crucifix above the bed. An old-fashioned fireplace was painted white. A desk and a chair by the window. On the wall above this desk was a year calendar with each day of the past Xed out in black. Some dates in June had been enclosed in red boxes, each with the subject of the exam written above.
Kavanagh had photos of himself in frames on the wall: an action shot of him soaring over the bar in mid pole vault — various basketball teams since first year — early ones in baggy white gym kit, later ones of the school team with their green and yellow strip. In each picture Kavanagh sat in the middle with his arms folded and his knees open and a big grin on his face. Say cheese. And everybody said ‘Fromage’. He always wore number 9.
‘Who took the pole vault shot?’
‘A guy from the Telegraph. At the Interschools.’
‘I’ll take some of you. Maybe this year.’
Martin set up his gear. The tripod — the legs hardly extended at all — on the desk holding the camera beneath — shining the desk lamp down on the paper — the cable release — the light meter. When it was all done he went to the window and stood looking down into the street. There were trees growing out of the pavements on both sides of the road. Roots were heaving up, here and there. The leaves looked washed and bright green. A black taxi cab pulled up. It took a long time before anybody got out. The engine was still running, the cab shuddering. The back door opened and Blaise stepped down carrying his briefcase.
‘Fucksake …’
Martin heard the doorbell and the voices coming up the stairs.
‘But how did you know where I lived?’ Kavanagh was saying.
‘I asked Cuntybollicks.’
‘Cunty Balls. His second name is not Bollicks. Look who’s here,’ Kavanagh shouted ahead to Martin.
‘Hi,’ said Martin. Although he said a lot of hurtful things, Martin somehow felt better with Blaise there. Safer in some way.
Kavanagh hunkered down to plug the kettle into a wall socket. It began to rattle and bubble almost immediately. ‘So what brings you here?’ he said.
‘I didn’t want to miss the fun.’
‘There’s no fun yet. Just wait till we build up a head of steam here.’
‘That’s another reason I came.’
‘What?’
‘I’m not happy with the steam idea. When I tried it on Condor’s envelope it didn’t look good. It wrinkled and stained a bit. Even when it dried out, it looked tampered with.’
‘I thought you didn’t have access to a kettle,’ said Martin.
‘Don’t be so tiresome, Martin.’
‘No, really. Where did you do this?’
‘There are kitchens in the school.’
‘So how do you propose opening them?’ asked Kavanagh.
‘A knife — anything.’
Kavanagh and Martin looked at each other, not understanding. Blaise produced a sheaf of large brown manila envelopes from his briefcase.
‘After school I went into town. Her Majesty’s Stationery Office. With Condor’s original. And I asked them for the nearest thing to it.’ He held them out to Martin. ‘Compare and contrast.’ Martin opened his bag and took the exam envelopes out. It was as if they’d been taken from the same ream of heavy duty brown paper.
‘A man on a galloping horse …’
‘Blaise — you’re a fuckin genius.’
‘They’re not cheap,’ said Blaise. ‘I’ll be looking for a contribution.’
There was a shiny letter opener in the shape of a sword on Kavanagh’s desk. Blaise picked it up.
‘Here goes,’ he said. ‘What’ll we start with?’
‘Highest card chooses,’ said Martin. He pulled the wrecked game of solitaire together
and began to shuffle the cards. He stood and imitated a drum roll, then dealt a card to Kavanagh. When he flipped it over it was the seven of hearts. The drum roll continued and he dealt a two of clubs to Blaise. They all laughed.
‘Cheat.’ The noise Martin was making rose to a climax as he dealt himself a Queen of Diamonds.
‘A charlatan and thimblerigger.’
‘English — we’ll take a look at English first,’ said Martin.
‘Sell — fish.’
Blaise looked through the cellophane windows and selected the correct envelope. He slid the miniature sword beneath the flap. Martin felt it like a stab in himself. The bad feeling began to fill him again. Blaise made little sawing motions, leaving a smooth slit. As he did so he bit down on his lower lip.
‘Wait,’ said Kavanagh. ‘I don’t want to sound melodramatic — or like it was in a movie — but what’s the state of fingerprinting at the minute?’
The other two shrugged.
‘It might be wise to assume that they can detect them on paper,’ said Blaise.
Martin was again full to the brim with misery. He couldn’t say anything for a while.
‘Certainly on cellophane,’ said Kavanagh. ‘They can find as many prints as they like on the outside of the envelopes — but not on the papers.’
‘You might be right,’ said Blaise.
‘Hold everything.’ Kavanagh got up and went downstairs. During the whole time he was out of the room Martin and Blaise did not speak. Kavanagh came back in, slightly out of breath, with a blue box, like a tissue box. From a slit he plucked a glove made of clear cellophane-like stuff and handed it to Martin.
‘Better to be safe than sorry, Monsieur Poirot. Remind me to put the box back.’ He put on a voice of a fairground salesman: ‘One size fits all. Left or right — it’ll be all right.’
Martin felt that his silence would be noticed. He had to say something soon. The cellophane gloves, when he put them on, seemed to shrink and cling to his fingers.
‘They’re sexy,’ he said.
‘Let me at them,’ said Kavanagh. They all put them on. They made faint rustling noises. Blaise pulled out the batch of pale blue exam papers. The other two couldn’t wait and leaned over his shoulder trying to see.
The Anatomy School Page 21