The Dead School

by Patrick McCabe

  Malachy stood on O’Connell Bridge outside the Film Centre. That had been a favourite haunt of his too in the long-ago days of his wide-eyed Dublin ramblings. Showing tonight: The Female Bunch and Sex in the Classroom. Malachy would have liked nothing better right now than to go inside and sit alone in the urine-smelling dark watching Sergio losing his virginity to his mother-in-law or the lesbian boss of the outlaw women sticking a pitchfork in the groin of the little Mehico farmer just because he is a man. It would be just like old times, stumbling off home then to Rathmines, stopping for barbecued spare ribs and sauce to smear all over his face before he fell asleep in the fireplace, the happiest man in Dublin.

  Which is what he is now, as he waves his vodka bottle, cheering. He wants all his friends to know he is back home. Which is why he stands on O’Connell Bridge and cries out to the shimmering lights of the city, ‘Hey, Dublin – you listening? Fuck you!’ He feels good saying that. That is why he says it over and over and over and over again. Then he gets the fuck on outa there.

  The pubs were spewing them out. A fight started at a bus stop. A woman was weeping bitterly but Malachy was so busy skidding on a slippery patch of vomit that he had no time to help. Another woman in a ballgown was climbing into a limo outside The Gresham Hotel. He fell against the wall and laughed. The doorman told him to move on but Malachy explained how he had got it wrong. ‘No, friend,’ he said. ‘Uh-uh. I don’t move on. It’s you that moves on, friend. It’s you that moves on.’ In the flats there was nothing, only the smell of piss and couples fucking like dogs in doorways. At last he came upon a bunch of likely looking chaps loitering outside McDowell’s – the Happy Ring House, the very place he had planned to buy Marion’s engagement ring – well well! By the looks of things all the skinheads had long since passed away. These were nothing more than half-assed street urchins. They asked him for a light as he went past and he said, ‘Sure I have a light. I sure have, my friend. But I don’t give my lights to cunts.’ Unfortunately they proved worse than useless. There were a few so-called witty remarks – such as ‘Get your fucking hair cut, hippy!’ and ‘Queer’ and ‘Kick the fuck out of him’. But it was just a waste of time. A complete waste of time. All they did was stand there looking at him. No matter what he did it was no use. Even when he screamed, ‘Did you hear me? Did you hear me fuckers you stupid fucking scumbags! I don’t give lights to cunts – don’t give lights to cunts like you!’

  It is hard to believe what they did then. They left him there. Just went off and left him. He lay against the railings and hung his head laughing. What else could he do? What could he do only lie there like a fly in a sound-web of sirens and cries and screeches and laugh as words dribbled out of his mouth, down his coat and onto the street: I like my nose, Mrs Mulwray – I like breathing through the fucking thing, you know what I’m saying? You know what I’m saying, cunts? You want me to take your fucking head off? Is that what you want? Is that what you fucking want – you fuckers, you screwheads! Are you listening to me! You listen to me – listen or you’re fucking history – got that? You got that, fucks?

  After that, he felt like a million dollars. He felt like a million dollars and it was time to do what he had come to do once and for all. ‘Once and for all, Bell – motherfucker!’ he cried. Laughing aloud, he wiped the sick off his mouth. And then he was off again. A one-man killing machine, cutting through the city with hate behind his eyes.

  Across the bay the twin towers of Poolbeg power station rose into the black sky.

  Malachy climbed into the back of the taxi. ‘Drive!’ he said, as the car tore off into the night.

  The Night Stalker

  Malachy could see the headlines now. The headlines and the cops on the TV advising the public under no circumstances to approach this man. Only venture out if it is absolutely necessary. There may be more killings. It is unlikely that the psychopath will confine himself solely to the terrorizing of old retired schoolmasters. Be under no illusions about that, a police spokesman insisted. Sightings have been reported all over the city, says Mr Policeman. Oh, yes. Of course they have. Look – it’s me! Yoo hoo! Die, motherfucker!

  The lights of the taxi swung back onto the coast road as Malachy fell through the gate of number 53 Madeira Gardens with his vodka bottle stuck in his pocket.

  ‘Whee-hoo!’ he shouted as he pounded on the door. ‘Open up! Open the door, man – it’s the Night Stalker!’ he shouted as he swigged the vodka. ‘Open it up or you’re history!’

  A Knock at the Door

  John McCormack was singing away at the top of his voice and it was a wonder Raphael heard the hammering at all. He was trying to get the boys to make up their minds which it was going to be once and for all, hanging or carbon monoxide, when he heard it. Yes, he definitely heard it. Someone battering the front door. He froze, considering this was his first visitor in almost three years, apart from the nosey-parker neighbours, who wouldn’t be calling at this hour anyway. He put his finger to his lips and whispered, ‘Ciúnas, a bhuachaillí! Ná bí ag caint anois. Carry on with your work and don’t make a sound!’

  He winced as he heard it again. Muffled by the music but definitely there. Then – nothing. He was about to relax and tell the boys that it was all over when he heard the clatter of the bin around the back. Every muscle in his body tightened. He grabbed the tongs, turned the gramophone up even louder and told the boys not to move. Then he left the classroom and went out into the kitchen, standing in the doorway with his breath caught in his chest and the nerve ticking over his eye. The shadow moved across the window and his knuckles whitened around the tongs.

  Maggots

  Malachy couldn’t see what the fuck he was doing. First he went flying over a dustbin full of potato skins and the next thing a yowling cat appeared out of nowhere. ‘Fuck you!’ he shouted. ‘Fuck you!’ But there was no going back now. He managed to put his elbow through a pane of glass and pulled himself through but then he went and stuck his foot in a pile of gooey muck beneath the window. What was that but poor old Setanta, or what was left of him, now a sticky mess on the bottom of the Night Stalker’s shoe as he hopped around on one leg with the sweat rolling off him and the maggots all over his hand, which was bad enough without looking up and seeing a pair of eyes glaring out of the darkness. And not just an ordinary pair of eyes either but the eyes of Raphael Bell who was running at him with the tongs, flailing like a madman. ‘You! After all you’ve done you come back here to my house! You come back here to my house!’ he screamed. ‘I’ll kill you! I’ll destroy you like you destroyed me!’, which he did his best to do as he sent poor Malachy flying across the room with a belt of the heavy iron tongs and brought them down on top of him again and again. ‘You made me lose my wife!’ he screamed. ‘You made me lose her and you ruined my life!’

  ‘No! No, you fucker! You ruined mine!’ were the words that Malachy, more than anything, wanted to utter, but as another blow thudded into his ribs, they left him and there was nothing but silence and the giant shape that swayed above him far away.

  Happy Birthday, Thomas!

  And far away he too was bound, to an old familar place where Nobby Caslin was standing by the garden gate puffing away on his trusty pipe. There wasn’t so much as a hint of a breeze and inside the little brown bowl a glow began to pulse straight away. The sun was shining in the cloudless sky. The fledglings were huddled close together in their nests with their eager mouths wide open. Their mothers were close by them singing. Then came the sound of voices. It was Alec and the lads. ‘Hello there, Nobby,’ they said as they passed. They said they were on their way out to the boatshed to see what was going on. Then they burst out laughing and said that they were only fooling around. Or ‘acting the jinnet’ as Packie used to say. ‘Not at all, Nobby,’ they said. ‘That’s all over and done with. The boatshed? Sure we haven’t been out there for years!’

  ‘Well, there you are,’ said Nobby as a cloud of sweet-smelling blue smoke floated past his face. ‘All over now at
last.’ When Malachy looked again, they were gone, swallowed up by the blue sky. He walked up the garden path to where Mrs McAdoo and her little son Thomas were sitting at a picnic table, with a bright beautiful birthday cake. Thomas was beside himself with excitement because of course it was his birthday. He could not wait to get blowing out the candles. His mother was as excited as he was but every time he ballooned his cheeks and got ready to blow, she laid her hand gently on his arm and said, ‘Now, now, little Thomas – it isn’t time yet!’ and he blushed and she laughed. The windows of the town were thrown open and through them the ecstatic bleat of Michael O’Hehir carried up and out and into the faraway clouds. ‘Yes and a fine sunny day it is here in Dublin. The Artane Boys Band is now leaving the field and what excitement there is here today for this match, which must surely be a meeting of the giants!’ Nobby waved to the boys on their way back to the boats. ‘Who are you for, men?’ he cried. ‘Armagh!’ they called and he laughed. ‘Armagh every time,’ he said. They laughed too, dragging on their Woodbine cigarettes. Mrs McAdoo tweaked Thomas’s cheek. She said to him, ‘Who’s my little man? Who’s my little chubbies?’ Thomas got all embarrassed. But he soon forgot all about it when he looked up and saw Father Pat and the Canon coming chugging along in the old black Morris. The Canon rolled down the window and said, ‘Have youse forgot all about the Dummy? Or what the hell is wrong with youse? Jesus Mary and Joseph only youse have me to look after youse I think you’d forget to put your trousers on in the morning.’

  As soon as he heard that, Nobby started to fall over himself with apologies. ‘God forgive us, Canon, do you know what it is we were having such a good time yarning here and having ourselves a bit of a laugh that we clean went and forgot all about our old friend the Dummy.’

  The Canon shook his head and chuckled. ‘Ah never mind – I’m only acting the jinnet. Look – stay where you are and don’t be worrying your head and let me look after the Dummy. I’ll go on out to the lake and get him and I’ll be back in two shakes of a lamb’s tail. How’s that?’

  As far as Nobby was concerned that just simply could not have been better.

  ‘Do you know what it is, Canon?’ he said. ‘That’s topping. That is what I would call topping now. Make sure and bring him in now for we’ll not be able for all this lemonade ourselves!’

  ‘Don’t you worry,’ laughed the Canon as he nudged the Morris forward. ‘I’m not going to go home without a drop of it myself!’ He rapped on the side of the Morris and drove off out the road. Malachy hadn’t realized that he was there himself all along but sure enough there he was over by the gable end of the house, standing beside Cissie and Packie. They were chatting away to beat the band. She was holding on to his father’s arm. They were talking about something that happened a long time ago, before he was born. Malachy didn’t realize the cowman had been standing beside him at all until he heard him say ‘Ssh’ and felt the cold coin being pressed into his hand. He looked down. It was a half crown. The cowman beamed. ‘For the best lad that ever lived in this town,’ he said.

  The Canon stood at the edge of the lake and cupped his hands over his mouth. He shouted, ‘Will you get up to hell out of that, Dummy! I have confessions at seven and then Benediction after that, so come on now – no more of this codding!’ The Dummy had more sense than to argue with the Canon and the next thing you know there’s this great splash and right up out of the middle of the silver water erupts an umbrella shower of diamonds and over to the shore with him as quick as he could for he had more sense than to keep the Canon waiting. The clergyman gave him a playful belt with his gloves. ‘Will you get in to hell out of that or they’ll have all the lemonade drunk!’ he said. Then the Canon grinned and put his arm around the Dummy and off they chugged towards town and the party that was being celebrated for Thomas Little Chubbies McAdoo.

  Which is all very well until you wake up of course and boy when you do are you in some shape. That old Malachy, his ribs were just about fucked and right down the side of his face there’s this big talon of dried blood. He was a right-looking sketch and no mistake, clambering to his feet and shouting, ‘Mr Bell, Mr Bell – I’ve got to talk to you!’ Some fucking Night Stalker all right, after all that wanting to talk to the big lug who had just gone and battered him senseless!

  The Dead School

  But Raphael was far too busy to talk to anybody. By now he was nearly hoarse cheering his Daddy who had long since left each and every one of them far behind as he cut through the swaying field of corn like a clockwork machine, the blade of his sickle hook glinting in the sun. Evelyn was going mental, jumping up and down, shouting, ‘Come on, our Daddy! Come on, our Daddy!’ Uncle Joe puffed on his pipe and tapped it against his knee. ‘I think he’s going to take it!’ he said. And yes indeed it was looking good all right as his arms shot into the air and he cried to the open skies ‘Evelyn!’ and she ran to him before they hoisted him aloft and bore him through the village, shouting their hearts out, ‘He won the race! He won the reaping race!’ As indeed he did and such a singsong there was in the pub, with Uncle Joe getting up to do his party piece and them all starting into Raphael, ‘You needn’t think you’ll get away without giving us Wee Hughie, young Raphael! Come on now – get up on the table out of that and give us a couple of verses!’ And whatever shyness there might have been in him, what could he do only take the floor and, with his chest out, proudly recite, ‘He’s gone to school Wee Hughie and him not four,’ as he had been doing for his boys for the past forty-three years, before they spoiled it, before she spoiled it, before they took his school and burnt it to the ground. Oh you can deny it. You can deny it all you like, my friends. You needn’t think it’ll worry me. I’m past worrying about things like that I’m afraid. I have more important things to do with my time I can tell you, for a start I’m going back to our house with Mammy and Daddy and all our neighbours and we’re going to have a singsong because my daddy won the reaping race which is more than your daddy ever did and I’ll tell you something else, my smart friends, it will be a long time before you spoil this, it will be a long time before you spoil anything again. Your spoiling days are over.

  And so off through the village once more they trooped, Evelyn and Mattie Bell at the head of the throng, everyone with a soda cake or a bottle of whiskey or just a few rashers to throw on the pan, as Uncle Joe slapped the kitchen table and rose to his feet, calling, ‘Order! Order here!’ and cleared his throat as he raised his glass and proposed a toast to ‘The best family in the whole world!’ The cheers lifted the roof and then Pony Brennan took the floor to sing ‘God Save Ireland’ and it was sad because it made Raphael think of a man all alone in an open field with the blood pouring out of his chest and the words he was trying to utter with his last breath weren’t ‘God Save Ireland’ or anything to do with Ireland but, ‘Where is Raphael? Where is my little Raphael? Where is Evelyn? Where is my Evelyn?’ and it nearly broke Raphael’s heart as he looked down upon his father kneeling there all alone because it made him think of someone else too, it made him think of Nessa, his Macushla whose white arms would reach out one last time to touch him but they wouldn’t would they, they wouldn’t you see because that was when it happened, that was when he saw her sitting there. Not Nessa, not his one and only true love, but Evans. Evans with that sneer on her face, her eyes saying touch me go on touch me you know you can’t, you can do nothing. Ask Father Stokes. Go on ask him. He’s sitting over there or can’t you see him? Are you blind as well? Don’t tell me you’re blind as well, you silly old man. And when Raphael saw Father Stokes sitting there fiddling with his fingers and looking at him with eyes that said I’m sorry, Raphael, it was more than he could bear and that was why his fingers closed about her throat and why, for every unborn baby ripped from her and thousands like her, he squeezed her flesh and shook her like a broken doll, shook and shook and shook, crying, ‘You destroyed me!’ And such was his rage that he would have followed her to that pitch-black pit but for a soft voice that came to
whisper, ‘I’m down here, Raphael.’ And he looked far down into the valley, across the field of stubbled corn to where she was standing, a speck waving to him, his one and only Nessa, calling to him as she came towards him up the mountainside that they would be together again. Then her white arms reached out and he left Evans far behind, felt them touch him as once they had touched him in a Dublin boarding house in the long ago, her soft, perfumed skin close to his as she whispered his name over and over and at last he was free.

  Which was more than could be said for Malachy Dudgeon as he came bursting through the door with a big bright hopeful face on him like he’d just won the sweepstakes. ‘I have to talk to you! I have to talk to you!’ he gasped as to his amazement he found his former headmaster half-naked swinging from the ceiling with his baldy lad up like Jemmy Brady’s on a Sunday morning and a neat pile of excrement steaming on the floor behind him. Now whatever approach Jack Nicholson aka JJ Gittes might have taken to the situation, vomiting all over himself and falling about the place going oh no and oh no oh Jesus Christ is hardly likely to have been one of them. None of this bothered Count John in the slightest of course and off he went again, full steam ahead, as the needle found its mark once more.