by Simon Bourke
Seán reached the end of the corridor and the emergency exit. It was one of those ones with a horizontal bar across the middle which opened when you pushed down on the bar. When he did, though, nothing happened. The door didn’t yield as he’d expected; instead the bar braced against his weight before popping back into place. He pushed harder, really putting his back into it, to no avail. Stupid fuckin’ door! Why did it have to be so awkward? He tried to think. It was too late to turn around and go back the way he’d come. He’d surely be spotted; the element of surprise was lost. And Sheehan probably had sentries positioned at all the major exits by now anyway. He could hide in the utility room, but that would only delay the inevitable. They’d hunt him down like a pack of wolves, tearing him to shreds when they found him cowering beneath some old hurleys. He pushed down on the bar frantically, pumping it up and down, but the door didn’t budge. Maybe he was missing something? A lock somewhere? A button that had to be pressed? He scanned the surrounding walls but all he saw was grey; grey uniformity. The colour of a prison. Which was where he was headed if he didn’t get this fucking door open. In one last desperate effort he grabbed hold of the bar, leant back and pushed downwards, using his entire body weight. Lo and behold, the door opened; swinging out politely, revealing the lush green grass of the playing fields and potential freedom. He hurried out, making sure to close the door behind him with a solid shove. Now he faced his next challenge, the wall. It stood before him, imposing, intimidating, a Goliath to his David. He wasn’t ready to scale it yet; he was only a third year. This was a challenge for sixth years. He had no business even trying to reach its summit, but these were special circumstances and his need was great. He’d only have one shot at it; if he failed, there was no chance of backing up for another go. One of the classrooms on the second floor overlooked this part of the playing fields, and he’d probably already been seen by some daydreaming students. They wouldn’t take much notice if they thought he was just an errant third-year traipsing through the green. But if they saw him hurtle towards the wall at great speed and land flat on his arse they’d nudge their mates, who’d nudge their mates, and before long the whole class would be staring out at him. Then the teacher would be alerted to his presence and would ring down for the headmaster, and before long the posse would have encircled their quarry. So it was all or nothing: make it to the top and his escape was complete. Come tumbling back down and it was straight to the headmaster’s office for the bollocking of his life.
He took a deep breath and sized up the barrier. The key was getting his hands over the top; if he could do that, it’d be easy enough to drag himself up the rest of the way. But there weren’t any footholds on the wall-face with which to propel yourself upwards; the speed of his run-up would determine whether he reached the top, and then he would have to rely on his upper-body strength. He was quite a fast runner, usually at the front when fleeing from neighbour’s doors during games of ‘Tap the Rap’, but he wasn’t particularly strong. He wasn’t feeble either, but his arms were spindly and ill-equipped for the job in hand. However, there was another element at play here, something that could tip the balance in his favour: adrenaline. It had already helped him open the emergency door; that feat of Herculean strength had to have come from somewhere. Now, with his heart still racing and his limbs twitching in anticipation, he fancied that he had just enough of it left for this final task.
Taking one last deep breath he burst into action, dipping his head down slightly like he’d seen sprinters do in the Olympics. The grass was soft and squidgy, the victim of one too many spring showers, but he ploughed through it unhindered. He powered on, head down, until he was within a few feet of the wall then, without hesitation, he leapt outwards and upwards, reaching for the top of the wall with his outstretched arms. He thudded against it about two-thirds of the way up, the impact knocking the air out of his chest. But there was no pain, he hadn’t time for pain. His fingers scrabbled for traction, clawing and tearing at the wall, desperately searching for that grip which would elevate him to the top. For a split second it appeared as if he were magically suspended in mid-air, going neither up nor down, defying the laws of gravity. Then his legs began to give way; he was being pulled towards the ground. It was over. It had been a valiant effort though, right? He’d definitely be able to climb the wall next year.
Then, just when he’d given up hope, his right hand dug into something, a groove, a fissure, it didn’t matter. He swung his other hand round to join it and clamped his toes into the bulk of the wall. He could make it from here if his arms could take the strain. Slowly he began to pull himself up, his entire body trembling from the exertion, but his grip wasn’t strong enough; he was stuck in the middle of the wall like a stricken insect caught in a spider’s web. He composed himself and tried to clear his thoughts. The top of the wall was curved, arching in a semi-circle before beginning its drop to the other side. This allowed those who reached the summit a comfy seating position from which to mock those below. If he could just get a hand over the top to the back of the wall, it would give him enough leverage to complete the job. But could he swing his arm all the way over the top? Was he near enough? There was only one way to find out. Holding one hand firmly in position he clawed with the other, looking for the back of the wall. His remaining hand began to falter, unable to bear his entire body weight. It was now or never. Bending both of his elbows for extra trajectory he pushed off from his handhold, kicking upwards with his feet in the same motion. His fingers gripped something solid and held forth, which allowed his forearms to follow, then his shoulders and finally his torso. He was like a baby exiting the womb, entering a brave new world. Finally, after much grunting and groaning, he found himself atop the mighty beast. Lying on top of the wall, drenched in sweat, his arms aching from his exertions, he grinned widely. He’d only gone and done it. A third year climbing to the top of the wall: was there no end to his brilliance?
Celebration would have to wait. Once the buzz of his escape had worn off, he faced reality: he’d told a teacher to fuck off and then ran out of school. Those were the bare facts. A suspension was on the cards, but that would be nothing compared to the punishment he’d receive at home. His mother always tried her best to see his side, to view things objectively before delivering her final judgement. However, in this instance there were no mitigating circumstances, no case for the defence. He’d been a twat and deserved everything coming his way. And then there was Daryl. He was going to love this; it would make his day. It’d be off to the borstal with Seán and no delay. He’d think about that later; right now he just wanted to sit somewhere quiet and reflect upon what he’d done.
4.
Once he reached the outskirts of the woods, his spirits lifted. This was the one place he felt at ease, the one place he could gather his thoughts in perfect solitude. He broke off from the main walkway and headed into the thickest part of the forest – hopefully he’d get lost, as he had all those years ago. As he walked, he listened to the forest’s familiar, comforting sounds. Birds sang and chirped merrily. They didn’t care that he was in more trouble than he’d ever been before; winter had turned and they had reason to rejoice. Trees swayed amiably in the breeze, the whisper of their leaves growing to a roar before dying out and beginning the process once more. Beneath them, the woodland animals went about their business, the sound of their movements masked by the cadence of the great oaks and yews, alders and ashes. All around him the woods teemed with activity, a sense of life and living permeating the cool, mid-morning air. But to Seán, the future had never looked so bleak.
Walking alone in the woods had cleared his head and allowed him to calm down, but he now felt an immense sadness. Before today his life had been miserable yet tolerable. He hated school and he hated being at home, but at least he had a routine, a fair idea of what lay before him on any given day. Right now he didn’t know what the future held, but it threatened to be a lot worse than what had come before. He sighed deeply, h
is heart heavy, his spirit crushed. What he wanted to do now was to lie down and try to forget about it all. Finding a gnarled old tree whose branches had grown in every direction, he hoisted himself up and lay in the crook of a bough. This would be his hideout until it was safe to re-join the human race.
5.
The one thing Sinéad had wanted when they’d moved into their new house, was a phone. She was a woman of modest ambitions, and having her very own phone to ring her friends whenever she wanted was something she dreamt of. It had remained a dream, however. Daryl had said they couldn’t afford it. They earned enough between them to cover the bill, she argued, but he wouldn’t budge. Who did they think they were? Only posh people had phones. She relented, accepted defeat; one of many compromises required to maintain harmony in their young marriage. Without a phone of her own, though, she was back to scoping out the neighbours, looking for clues to work out which of them had a landline. Once that had been established, she’d have to go over, cap in hand, and ask if she could use their phone. And, further down the line, give out her neighbour’s number as her own contact number should anyone ever need to reach her. It was so shameful; she would gladly have paid her entire weekly wage to avoid the indignity of it all. Thankfully, she had since forged a solid, if lukewarm friendship with her next-door neighbour, Sheila Corcoran. Sheila had a phone which she was ‘more than welcome to use any time, free of charge’. Thanks, Sheila, I’m just going to ring my long-lost auntie in Australia. Oh, did I mention she likes nothing more than a two-hour chinwag with the charges reversed?
But as Sinéad crossed her front lawn, badly in need of its first cut of the year, she knew it wasn’t an aunt from Australia waiting on the line. Sheila had said it was the school, Seán’s school. Was there any chance that it was good news? Had her boy done something remarkable in class, so amazing that they had to call her immediately? If previous form was anything to go by it seemed unlikely, so she steadied herself before taking the handset from her neighbour.
“Hello? Sinéad Cassidy speaking.”
“Oh, hello, Mrs. Cassidy, yes. This is Mr. Aylesbury from Dooncurra Vocational School, yes.”
“Hi, Mr. Aylesbury,” she said, trying to sound surprised and calm at the same time.
“Mrs. Cassidy, yes, yes.”
Mr. Aylesbury had a strange habit of peppering his conversation with the word ‘yes’ at various intervals, as if to underline what an agreeable fellow he was, despite generally being the bearer of bad news. Sinéad had first come into contact with him at a specially-arranged meeting to discuss Seán’s sudden academic freefall, and found herself stifling laughter as he took her through her son’s litany of underachievement. It was all ‘yes, yes’ this and ‘yes, yes’ that; for a moment, she’d wondered whether he had someone secretly servicing him under the desk as they spoke.
“It’s about Seán,” the headmaster continued. “He’s got into a spot of bother, I’m afraid, yes, yes.”
She waited for him to continue; on the other end of the line, Mr. Aylesbury was evidently waiting for her to enquire about the nature of this ‘spot of bother’. When it became clear she wasn’t going to break the silence, he resumed, with some reluctance.
“Well, Mrs. Cassidy, yes. He – how can I put this? He entered into an altercation with one of the teachers and told him where to go. Yes, yes.”
It was worse than she’d expected. This went beyond the normal blackguarding and skitting; she now had a ‘problem child’ on her hands.
“Oh, my God, Mr. Aylesbury, I’m so sorry,” she said plaintively.
“Yes, indeed; yes, a terrible state of affairs. He will of course be suspended indefinitely, yes.”
Oh, he’ll love that; a holiday right in the middle of term.
“I understand, Mr. Aylesbury. Will I come for him now?”
She’d have to get a taxi to the school.
“You’re more than welcome to come to the school, Mrs. Cassidy, yes; but Seán isn’t here.”
“No?”
“Yes, it appears that he left the school in the aftermath of the event, yes, and he hasn’t been seen since.”
Sinéad sighed; not only did she have a potty-mouthed miscreant on her hands, she also had a runaway to look for – and not for the first time. She thought back to that misty autumn Saturday when she’d had the entire population of Dooncurra looking for her little boy. She thought of how scared she’d been and the help she’d received from all those strangers. But most of all she thought of the relief, the pure, unbridled relief when they’d found him. How she’d grabbed him and vowed never to let him go. At the time she’d put it down to childish impudence on Seán’s part. But when his behaviour continued to deteriorate, when he changed from an angelic, butter-wouldn’t-melt little boy to a sour-faced, insolent young man, she knew it wasn’t just a phase. She knew the cause of his discontent, of course she did, but had hoped that it would resolve itself in time. Even when he countered her pleas for him to never run away again with one of his own; to get rid of Daryl, she ignored it. Instead she tried to explain to him, about how she deserved some happiness too, how a woman needed a man beside her and how he might benefit from having a strong male presence around. But he had wanted no part of it.
She’d hoped the move to a new house would change things, give them a new start, but it got even worse. Sinéad tried to bridge the gap between them, to get them to communicate with each other, but her son didn’t want to know. When it was just the two of them, mother and child, he was once more the good-natured, sweet little boy she adored, but as soon as Daryl appeared he withdrew into his shell, and then back to his room. The battle lines had been drawn and there was nothing Sinéad could do. Perhaps the arrival of a sibling would bring them all together. She yearned for a daughter, prayed for one, but when a boy arrived she consoled herself with the belief that he would at least be good for Seán. He, however, looked at the new arrival with barely-concealed disgust; during one family photo-shoot, it took several threats of violence to make him pose with his baby brother. She tried to understand his hostility but it exhausted her. All she wanted was to be happy, to build a family unit. It wasn’t perfect, but surely it wasn’t that bad?
She knew there was no point in going to her own parents for advice. Although neither of them came out and said it, it was clear that they both disapproved of Daryl and the situation in general; her mother through some perverse Catholic doctrine and her father through plain enmity. They cosseted Seán at every available opportunity, ‘that poor child, look what he has to go through,’ and it wasn’t uncommon for him to spend entire weekends there when the mood took him. If they had their way, he would stay there all the time; but she wasn’t going to let her family disintegrate like that.
After reassuring Mr. Aylesbury that Seán would be fine and that she’d notify him of his suspension once he’d been located, she thanked Sheila and crossed the lawn back to her own house. She knew where he was; he was up there in the woods, moping around like some latter-day poet, ruminating on the injustice of it all. She sympathised with his plight, but she had a dinner to put on and hadn’t all day to go traipsing through the undergrowth looking for Dooncurra’s answer to Oscar Wilde. If he was big enough to tell his teachers to fuck off, then he was big enough to come home and face the music. He could stay there for as long as he wanted, but eventually he’d have to answer for his crimes. She filled the pot with water, put it on the hob and set about peeling the spuds. Seán or no Seán, they still needed their dinner.
6
Seán weighed up his options. He could stay here and live off the land as he’d planned to do all those years ago, or return home and listen to his stepfather lecture him on how young men should behave in the classroom. Or, option three, the curveball: he could go to his grandparent’s house. He’d face no lectures there. They’d just be glad to see him; he never called on Tuesdays. He’d be using them, in a way, taking advantage of
their love for him, but he didn’t know what else to do. If he could get them on his side, he stood a chance; otherwise it would be just him against Daryl, his mother a floating voter in the background. He didn’t really give a shit what his stepfather said but he worried about the confrontation, the tension which would envelop the house in the aftermath. He couldn’t face that. Daryl would know about it all by now and be relishing Seán’s return, ready and waiting with all kinds of directives: “Four hours’ study a night. Nine o’clock bedtime. No going out at weekends.” Proper sergeant-major stuff, laughable, really.
The funniest thing of all was that whatever he said didn’t matter. It would be Seán’s mother who had the final say. Because what she said, went. If she wanted Seán to go to a boarding school where they fed you nothing but porridge and muddy water, then that was where he would go. And if she thought he needed a two-week break in the Caribbean to clear his head, he’d be on the first flight out of Dublin in the morning. The trouble was that there was no telling which way she’d lean; she was as likely to offer him a total reprieve as to be there on the side-lines, cheering on the hangman as he was led to his death.