And the birds kept on singing

by Simon Bourke

  “What’s up with ya, boy?”

  “You fuckin’ know.”

  “G’way, boy, it’s only a game. Get over it.”

  Something in his tone riled Murt. Get over it. It was dismissive, mocking. It made light of him.

  “Go fuck yourself, boy.”

  At this juncture, Seán could have been the one to take the moral high ground. He could have walked away, refused to stoop to name-calling; but he didn’t. Because, in a way, this was what he had wanted all along.

  “The fuck you say?” he said, in that threatening tone so common in bucking young males.

  “You heard me,” Murt replied, defensive now, not wishing for it to escalate any further.

  Seán stood in front of him, as if deciding whether he was worth it. His friend wouldn’t look him in the eye, staring downwards in a slightly submissive posture. Satisfied he’d made his point, Seán chose to back away, but not before firing a parting shot.

  “Ah g’way, ya fuckin’ thick cunt.”

  To those watching, this might have seemed like a throwaway comment, but Murt knew exactly what Seán was getting at. He was referring to Murt’s recent academic struggles, making light of something very serious. Murt didn’t want to be demoted to 3B, he wanted to stay in 3A with his mates. Suddenly he didn’t feel so submissive, he felt aggrieved. He’d been struck, and he wanted to strike back.

  “At least I know who my fuckin’ father is,” he spat out, regretting the words almost as soon as they’d left his mouth.

  Murt was the only person Seán had ever confided in when it came to his father. He had never discussed it with anyone else; not his mother, his grandparents, Patrick, even Pegs; no one. He had told Murt because he was his best friend and he trusted him. It hadn’t been easy, he was ashamed, but he’d felt better afterwards. And Murt had been great: sympathising, offering to help him find his real father and, most importantly, keeping it to himself; until now.

  Seán lost control. He allowed himself to lose control, allowed all that pent-up rage and aggression to come tumbling out. Instead of directing it at those who had wronged him, however, he brought it to bear upon a long-standing ally. The first blow sent Murt staggering backwards, a look of surprise on his face as blood began to seep from his nose. He raised his hands to defend himself, but it was a half-hearted gesture. The second punch sent him spiralling to the ground, his attacker pouncing upon his prone figure. Seán continued his assault, raining blows down on his friend, his muffled cries drowning out the sound of his fists.

  “YOU FUCKIN’ CUNT! I’LL KILL YOU, YA BASTARD.”

  Murt fought back. He threw Seán off him, knocking him sideways, and dived on him, driving an elbow into his ribs. They tussled for supremacy, scrabbling around on the ground like a pair of upturned beetles, until the door to the school was flung open and a panicked figure emerged. It was Pegs, alerted to the hostilities by another student. He forced his way through the baying crowd and peeled his friends apart.

  “What the fuck are ye doing?” he pleaded, close to tears. “Ye’re supposed to be friends, for fuck’s sake!”

  Seán rose to his feet, cleaning dirt from a uniform which had been ripped asunder. “Tell it to that cunt,” he said bitterly.

  “What the fuck is going on, Murt?” asked Pegs.

  Murt shook himself free from Pegs’ grasp and made for the school gates.

  “I’m going home. Tell Sheehan I have the flu.”

  And that was that. The fight had happened, and now it was over. Seán returned to class, telling the teacher he’d fallen, and Murt went home. The next day Pegs, playing the role of peacemaker, brought the two of them together, made them say ‘sorry’ and forced them to shake on it. But things were never the same. They fell into an uneasy truce, always civil with one another but making sure they never spent time alone together. What Murt had said about Seán’s father was never discussed but it was always there, hanging in the air between them.

  *

  Seán watched Murt digest the news of his latest love affair. He knew he was hurting, knew he was insanely jealous, and it felt good. Seán McLoughlin might not have known who his father was but he knew how to get off with young wans, and seventeen-year old ones at that. But as good as it was to have one-up on his friend, he was now starting to feel nervous. Basking in the glory of his new coupling was one thing, acting it out in front of a living, breathing audience was quite another. She was coming to the party and she was going to be with him. It was a date. They were going public. He had got by on his wits so far, improvising as he went along, but more would be expected of him tonight. He’d have to talk to her properly, not like the snatched snippets of conversation they’d shared so far. What had he to say that would be of any interest to a seventeen-year-old girl, who was probably going off to college at the end of the summer? He still collected football stickers, for fuck’s sake! He took another long, hard drink of the peach schnapps, and wished he had something a little stronger.

  27

  The party was in full swing. The music had been cranked up as loud as it would go; Dr. Dre and Biggie, Outkast and Cypress Hill. Heavy bass lines reverberated around their private idyll. Joints were passed around, half a dozen on the go at any given time; heavy-eyed smokers already skinning up another to add to the conveyor belt. Some of the girls had started dancing, swiftly followed by eager, uninhibited boys. Even at this early hour couples were pairing off, mate chosen for the night. Seán was on the outside looking in. He was drinking and smoking just like everyone else, but he wasn’t enjoying himself. He couldn’t get into the party spirit, not until he knew his fate. Was he going to spend the night in the arms of the first girl he’d ever loved or was he going to spend it here, checking and rechecking his watch, until he finally accepted that she wasn’t coming? At first he’d been worried about how he and Leanne would get along, but now his fear was that she wouldn’t show up at all. Whenever a new group of people emerged from the trees he looked over expectantly, his heart sinking as another mob of third years arrived to join their classmates. What if she couldn’t find his party? He’d told her they’d be in this part of the woods, but there were two other parties going on nearby. What if she found the 3D mob and their shitty techno music? She’d take one look at that lot and decide third-year boys were no longer for her. He couldn’t take it anymore; he was going to look for her. Taking another gulp from the half-empty bottle, he rose unsteadily to his feet.

  “Just going for a walk, lads.”

  “Whoa,” said Pegs. “Where are you going? Your girl will be here any minute.”

  “I don’t think she’ll be able to find us, Pegs. I’m going to look for her.”

  Pegs placed his hands on Seán’s shoulders. “What time did she say she’d be here, Seán?”

  “Seven.”

  “And what time is it now?”

  Seán looked at his watch, although the gesture was unnecessary; he knew exactly what time it was.

  “Quarter past.”

  “She’s fifteen minutes late, Lockie; that’s normal for women. If she said she’d be here at seven, then you should expect her at eight.”

  Seán looked at him uncertainly, but his friend’s unflinching stare reassured him. Pegs knew the score.

  “Okay, Pegs, you’re probably right,” he conceded, sitting down again.

  “Of course I’m right, Lockie,” Pegs said, joining him on the grass and starting another spliff.

  Seán accepted the joint when it came his way, but his heart really wasn’t in it. He took a couple of cursory drags and held it out to Ginty, then remembered that the wee man didn’t partake in the consumption of illegal substances.

  “Oh, sorry, Ginty,” he said, reaching past him towards Murt.

  “Hold on there, Lockie,” Ginty protested, grabbing the joint from Murt’s outstretched hand. “I think I’ll have a go of this and see what al
l the fuss is about.”

  His three friends looked at one another in amazement. They’d been trying for months to get Ginty to have a smoke, to give them a laugh if nothing else. Time and time again he’d steadfastly refused, saying it wasn’t for him but thanks all the same. And they’d respected his decision, stopped pestering him, left him to it; now here he was, fat joint between his fingers, ready to get high with the rest of them.

  Ginty held the joint in his hand and examined it, looking as if he might swallow it whole. Just as Pegs was about to offer some advice, Ginty brought it to his lips and took a clumsy yet effective drag of the cheap Moroccan Black. The resulting convulsions were expected, but no less funny for it. He bent forward on his hands and knees, spluttering and coughing like an ailing asthmatic, red in the face, drool hanging from his lips. Murt belted his back until eventually Ginty regained himself and took a drink of cider to settle his throat.

  “Where’s that joint gone?” he asked, his eyes watering as he drained the flagon and threw it into the bushes behind him. “Give it back to me, Murt; come on, man!”

  “Hold your horses, Ginty, you’ll get it in a minute.”

  Unable to wait a moment more, he moved on to another group and within seconds they saw him with a new joint in his hands, puffing away like an old pro.

  “Look at him,” said Pegs, wiping away an imaginary tear. “What have we done?”

  “We’ve unleashed the beast, lads,” said Murt, looking over at Ginty in admiration. “Proper little pothead now.”

  Seán had been so caught up in his friend’s first drug experience that he hadn’t noticed the new arrivals, a group of girls. They came in from the opposite side of the clearing, the side he wasn’t watching. These girls were a couple of years older than the rest of people here. And there were four of them. The boys who’d been dancing around the middle of the copse stopped to stare at them, suddenly self-conscious. Music still thumped out from Ciarán O’Donnell’s stereo, but the accompanying whoops and yells had died down. These girls weren’t supposed to be here. They were up to something, probably checking things out on behalf of those scummy bastards from 6B.

  “Keep an eye on that drink,” a voice said as the girls made their way through the crowd. They appeared to be looking for someone; one girl in particular was peering around the group as if expecting to find someone she knew; then she smiled and beckoned the others to follow her. Her unsuspecting target was too busy laughing at the antics of Cathal Ginty to even notice her. She crept up behind him, crouched down and placed her hands over his eyes.

  “Guess who!” she whispered into his ear.

  He didn’t need to guess. The sound of her voice and the heat of her breath made his stomach flip and his chest lift. But he played it cool.

  “No idea,” he said. “Give me a clue.”

  The voice returned to his ear, closer this time. “Someone who’s been waiting to get her hands on you for a very long time.”

  “No, still no idea,” he said, his grin widening. He really hoped the others were seeing this.

  She leaned her head over his shoulder and removed her hands.

  “Surprise!”

  Leanne brought her face around to meet his and planted a kiss on his forehead. Now Seán McLoughlin was no longer the morose drunk dampening everyone’s spirits. For him the party had just begun.

  28

  “Where are we going, Seán?”

  “You’ll see in a minute.”

  He was taking her to his favourite place in the woods, his secret place. He called it his secret, but other people may have known about it too. He’d just never seen anyone else there.

  “I hope it’s not far.”

  “It’s not.”

  Leanne held his bottle of schnapps and he was drinking a can of cider. Their free hands were clasped together, allowing him to guide her through some of the rougher terrain as they made their way. The schnapps had been a great idea; it had allowed him to get royally pissed without ever descending into the kind of drunken messiness he’d been fearful of. He was in control, confident without being cocky, merry but not rowdy. Leanne, surprisingly, had turned out to be a total lightweight. She’d barely finished her second can before she was slurring her words, and a third had seen her overtly groping and mauling Seán in an altogether unbecoming fashion. Not that he’d minded. But if they were to get up close and personal he wanted it to be somewhere private, away from prying eyes.

  “Are you drunk, Miss Tiernan?” he asked, teasing.

  “I am not,” she giggled, trying for the umpteenth time to pull him to the ground.

  “Come on, Leanne,” he said, wrestling her upright. “It’s not far now.”

  Much as he wanted to be dragged to the ground, he was more anxious to reach the secret place. Soon it would be dark and much of the effect would be lost without daylight.

  “Come on,” he said, ushering her forward, “nearly there.”

  “Ah, Seán,” she whined. “Where are ya taking me?”

  “You’ll love it, I promise.”

  “Okay,” she sighed, taking a swig of the schnapps and blundering on.

  Five minutes later, they were there. To Leanne it appeared to be just another part of the forest; all trees, branches and briars. But Seán knew better.

  “We’re gonna have to squeeze in through this bit here, Leanne,” he said, moving towards what appeared to be an impenetrable wall of leaves and bushes.

  Leanne stood truculently, arms crossed. “Ah, Seán, give over. I’m not going in there.”

  He chuckled. “Come on, ya big pisshead. I’ll look after you. Just follow me.”

  Haughtily she did as instructed, plunging through the bushes and flailing along behind him. It was horrific. Branches sprang back against her face, causing her to shriek in pain; prickly twigs clawed her clothes and scratched at her eyes. This wasn’t what she’d had in mind when she’d suggested they find somewhere romantic to be together. Seán sent encouragement and reassurance from up ahead to keep her moving, but she couldn’t help but wonder if this was what dating a fifteen-year old boy would always be like. Would they build a fort upon reaching their destination?

  Gradually the foliage became less dense. No longer did she have to claw her way through. They were now in a tunnel of sorts, a hollowed-out section of vegetation which allowed for easier passage than before. She had to stoop to move forward, but now there was a definite sense of emerging from the undergrowth and heading to somewhere in particular. Through the gloom she saw Seán racing ahead; he had reached the end of the tunnel and was waving at her to catch up. She hurried forward, spilling some of her drink as she went.

  “Look, Leanne,” he said. “Look at it; isn’t it amazing?”

  They were standing by the edge of a pond which opened out into a small clearing. The woods closed in on all four sides, thick and uniform, but here in this private paradise there was room to breathe, to look around you and savour the sense of pure isolation. Several misshapen trees crisscrossed the pond’s murky black water, like a network of roads at a busy junction. The pond brimmed with life: dragonflies darted around the surface, tadpoles shot back and forth beneath the lilies and a number of indeterminate insects dithered this way and that, content to be a part of it all. Several of these insects latched on to the newcomers; Leanne had to bat them away as she took in her surroundings. It was amazing, she had to admit; a real treasure. The kind of place she’d have loved to have found – when she was fifteen.

  “Will we go back now?” she asked.

  “Wait, I haven’t even shown you the best part yet.”

  Seán walked along the edge of the pond and she trudged after him, noting with displeasure that the ground was now decidedly sticky; one false move and she’d lose a shoe, or maybe even a foot. Cute and all as Seán was, he was starting to push his luck.

  He waited for her a
t the base of a tree, one which had grown horizontally outwards and over the pond, serving as a bridge to the other side. The tree’s trunk was sturdy and wide, strong enough to walk upon. As it reached across the water, the branches at the top straining upwards for sunlight, it interrupted the path of a tree coming in the other direction. The two converged above the water, melded together by nature, creating a vantage point which Leanne correctly assumed to be their final destination.

  “Come on, let’s go,” Seán said, taking her hand. “Don’t worry, it’s perfectly safe.”

  Too tired to argue, she allowed herself to be led across the gangplank, expecting to meet her watery death at any moment; but they safely traversed the overpass and moments later reached their very own watchtower. He escorted her into the crook, affording her the best seat and squeezing in beside her. The pond was only ten feet below but they were immune to its dangers, safe in their lofty perch. Above them; brightness, a break in the forest canopy enabling them to peer upwards at the velvety blue sky and the stars glittering in its midst.

  “It’s lovely, Seán,” Leanne murmured.

  She felt for his hand and took it in hers.

  “Lovely,” she repeated.

  There was nothing more that needed to be said. It had turned out just as he’d dreamed. This moment, which he’d played over and over in his head, was now a reality, and even as it was happening he knew he’d remember it for the rest of his life.

  Leanne snuggled up close to him, wrapping her arms around his waist and laying her head on his chest. He looked down at her and smiled. She met his gaze and lifted her face to his. The kiss had none of the raw passion which had characterised their first, but it had something else: tenderness, affection. It filled him with hope and a burgeoning belief that maybe life didn’t have to be so difficult, that someday he might be happy, just like everyone else. That one simple gesture, the touch of her lips upon his, transformed him, infused his soul with something approaching fulfilment. She pulled away from him and smiled contentedly. Burrowing her head in his chest, she giggled self-consciously at a thought she wasn’t willing to share. Seán took a deep, satisfied breath and pressed her as close as he dared.