It was a bad term for him, but he made it through to the summer holidays. His parents sent him off to his aunt's house in some other town for a few weeks and he came back with stories about a girl he'd met through his cousins. They'd decided to go with each other, which seemed to mean they'd text twenty times a day and meet up every other weekend. And sure, it was only a matter of months before Conor got his licence and they could see each other all the time. I was happy for him. Kind of.
Then the summer was over.
The wankers picked up where they left off and Conor got back to throwing the first punch. But he'd gotten bigger and stronger over the summer. He really busted some of these kids. We're talking stitches. Soon enough, it got to the point where nobody opened their mouth to him as it was inevitable that he'd put his fist in there. We started to believe we'd won.
Then Mister Stevenson tried to make a name for himself.
Stevenson – AKA Stiffy because his chinos bunched up around his crotch when he sat on the edge of his desk – was pretty new to the whole teaching thing. I think he'd spent a little time bouncing around schools as a sub before he got a job teaching maths at our place. Whatever his experience, it hadn't equipped him for the boys at St. Joe's. Basically, he got bullied. But rather than fight his corner like a man, he tried to offload some of the attention onto the weaker kids in the class. He got the fellah with the speech impediment to talk us through equations, the terminally shy one to stand in front of the class to present his homework and asked the poor fucker whose dad filed for bankruptcy every question that dealt with money. Prick.
One day Stevenson caught Conor texting his girl during class. Stevenson took the phone off him then tried to act funny. He tapped on the buttons.
“Is your mother's phone number in here, Conor?”
I didn't like the look on Stevenson's face. I don't think Conor did either. He said nothing.
“Mind if I phone her? I'd like to see her some time.”
Conor didn't bite. Stevenson curled his lip, disappointed that he hadn't caused a bigger reaction in the classroom. Nobody wanted to be the first to laugh.
The prick pressed on. “I think we'd have a lot in common. Music for instance. I like jazz… and swing.”
As soon as the S-word came out of Stevenson's mouth Conor sprang out of his seat. He swept the little desk in front of him to the side and charged Stevenson. Conor was pumped up and looked at least twice the size of the cruel bastard. The prick didn't know what hit him. Three brutal punches and one of those evil elbows, it looked like. The teacher pitched backwards and smacked his head off the hard floor. For five long seconds I thought he was dead. Then I saw his chest hitch. He was just unconscious.
“What are you going to do?” I asked Conor.
Conor spat on the prone teacher then turned to me. “Help me with him.”
He grabbed Stevenson's arms and directed me to pick up his legs with a nod. I hesitated. His eyes were too wide, his voice screechy.
“What's the plan, Conor?”
“I'll tell you on the way. Come on.”
The stunned silence from the other boys in the class started to break. One or two kids whooped. A few of them chanted Conor's name. I needed to sit down.
“This is serious shit, Conor.”
“Fuck. You're right. Maybe you shouldn't help this time, mate. I don't want to get you expelled.”
So I left him to it. Bottled out.
Sometimes I wonder if I could have talked him out of it, if I'd just gone with him and seen what his plan was, like. The counsellor I go to tells me that's a waste of time and energy, though. He says I should work on forgiving myself instead. Easier said than done. Often, I think of the little kid that found Mister Stevenson in the toilets, strung up on the doorframe of one of the cubicles. Hanged by his own tie. The kid was just a first year. He never came back to our school after that day.
Some other boy said he saw the cops take Conor from the school and stuff him into the back of the car. He swears on his grave that he heard Conor say, calm as you like:
“You should have seen that bastard swing.”
Also by Gerard Brennan
a novel
Amazon US | Amazon UK
A frank look at the drink and drug-addled youth ejected onto the streets of a socially deprived community as they smirk in the face of authority and play Russian Roulette with their adolescent lives.
About the author
Gerard Brennan is the author of the novels, Wee Rockets and Fireproof, the novella, The Point, co-editor of Requiems For The Departed, a collection of crime fiction based on Irish myths, and the short story collections, Possession, Obsession And A Decompression Engine and Other Stories And Nothing But Time. He lives in Dundrum, Northern Ireland.
From the publisher
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Table of Contents
Bouncer
Hard Rock
Nothing But Time
Day-Tripping
Swing
Also by Gerard Brennan
About the author
From the publisher
Other Stories And Nothing But Time Page 4