Boy Who Made It Rain (18 page)

The smokers was a grotty little enclave close to the science classes at the very back of the school. In fact the area had two names. One was the smokers, for obvious reasons; sometimes there could be as many as fifty people there puffing away in unison, including some of the teachers: those insufferable
trendy
ones. It was also known as the groggers because it was an unwritten rule that if any first- or second-year kid dared enter that little patch of hallowed ground, they would be met with a barrage of spittle. Needless to say the vast majority of them stayed away. Those lucky enough to be authorised entry, feeding off the cigarette dregs of senior students, were either relatives of NEDs, or apprentice NEDs themselves. It didn't take an expert to know that the smokers was no place to go for those who didn't partake. And certainly no place for me. Rosie went on the odd occasion to keep Cora company. However, I'm pretty sure she sneaked the odd drag or ten, even though she told me otherwise. I thought I'd pop my head outside there just to make sure.

I could see one half of the smokers from the little rectangular windows in the door. The ground was littered with hundreds of cigarette butts, and that was just in one morning. The janitors usually cleaned it up every day. An exercise in futility. No one to be seen. I opened the door. Stepped outside.

Godot!

‘Well, look wit the fuckin cat dragged in.' McEvoy was standing with one of his legions. A scrawny little runt of a guy, hair matted with gel and pulled down over his forehead. I'd never laid eyes on him before. He must have been an outsider. An infiltrator. Immediately I didn't trust him. His face looked
as though it had been set on fire and put out with a golf shoe. Battle weary. Of course both lads were dressed in the standard attire: the shell suit.
 

‘How are you, Fran? I'm actually looking for Rosie,' I said. By this time Fire Face had run up, placed himself between the door and me. There was no way to turn. I was cornered. It was time to put the plan into action. Not a plan as such, more of a plea.
 

‘Have you seen her?'
 

‘Wit did ah tell you aboot comin back in tae ma school?' He edged closer. As did Fire Face behind me. I could smell him on me. A mixture of smoke, hash and B.O. McEvoy took a long drag of his joint. ‘Eh, wit did ah tell ye, ya Inglish cunt?'
 

‘Look can we not talk about this, Fran?'
 

‘Answer the question cunt.'
 

‘I don't understand what I've done…'
 

‘…Answer the fuckin question bawbag,' he said, taking a step closer. My legs were shaking with fear. Every part of my
body was sweating. My periphery narrowed as everything focussed on this one figure standing three feet in front of me.
‘Waant some ay this wee man?' he asked Fire Face before passing the joint to him. Fire Face reached out from around me and snatched it from him. That was my moment to bolt. They were off guard. I'd out run them, no problem. I was fit. I had endurance. Fucking Rosie.
 

‘Look Fran, I don't want any trouble.'
 

‘Well you've come tae the wrang fuckin place.'
 

‘Do him, Fran,' Fire Face said, with a disconcerting amount of exhilaration in his voice. I turned to look at him. ‘Wit ir you lookin it ya fud?'
 

‘Ah telt ye ye'd git ripped, didn't ah?' McEvoy said.
 

‘Chib the cunt,' Fire Face said. He was riling me more than McEvoy.
 

‘For what reason?' I asked. I felt the top of my thigh. My insurance. My madness.
 

‘Coz yer an Inglish cunt.'
 

‘That's it?'
 

‘Aye.'
 

‘So you're going to jeopardise your freedom just because
I'm English.'
 

‘Nae cunt ill know.'
 

‘They will, because I'll tell them.'
 

‘An if ye dae that a'll fuckin dae ye right in, if ye know wit ah mean.'
 

‘Well you'll have to do that now. Right here and now.' I
was trying to call his bluff, confuse him, stall him, anything. At very least hoping that someone would pop out for their half-hourly hit. Where were those insufferable teachers when you needed them most?
 

‘Wit ir ye talking aboot, ya fanny?' McEvoy said.
 

‘You'll have to ‘dae me in' here and now because if you come anywhere near me, I will tell anyone who'll listen that I was attacked by Fran McEvoy.'
 

‘Oh will ye now?'
 

‘I will.'
 

‘Fuckin stab the cunt, Fran,' Fire Face shouted. I could sense that McEvoy was in a quandary about what to do. If it were just the two of us in the smokers I'm sure he would have backed down. But because this little runt was present, coming between us, he couldn't be seen to back down. He couldn't relent. He had to save face, if not, word would have spread like wildfire among the NEDs, which could mean losing his title and position as number one alpha-NED. It was a shit situation for us all.
 

‘Slash the prick,' Fire Face shouted.
 

McEvoy was feeling the pressure. Both of us were backing him into different corners now. He stares at me with piercing
eyes, places his right hand into his side jacket pocket of his shell suit and whips it out. A knife. A blade. A cutter. I saw the shine. The glint. The sparkle. The length of a middle finger. Just enough length to pierce an artery or puncture a lung or perforate a kidney or burst a heart or prick an eye or
nick a brain or slice a cheek or open a face. This was the moment
that I could end up having my very own fire face. I felt again for my insurance. Still in place.
 

From behind, Fire Face made a grab for my arms. My strength held him off. Or, was it anticipation? Ninja Boy! I was too quick for him. All that rugby had paid off. As I span around I smacked him flush on the nose with my fist. At first I wasn't sure if the loud crack was his nose exploding or was it  his jaw? Cheekbone? He plummeted to the ground. During his journey down my knee rose, connected with the crown, wham! Another crack.
 

Very quick.
 

Very sharp.
 

Very sore.
 

Take no prisoners.
 

He writhed about on the ground moaning.
 

Lots of blood.
 

Lots of agony.
 

Fee Fi Fo Fum I smell the blood of a Scotsman, with a broken nose and possibly a broken jaw. Or fractured
cheekbone.
 

Moaning. I'm looking at him, down at him, feeling this
huge surge of anger rise from within me, anger at the guy who seconds earlier was baying for my blood, who was willing McEvoy to stab me. Egging him on. Chib the cunt, would you? Boiling water. The tipping point. This little prick would get my kick. Again and again and again. Head, stomach, ribs I'm not one hundred percent sure. All of them and more. And more. I was following my feet. One two three. Kick. Boot. McEvoy watches. Out comes the insurance. Surreptitiously. Last resort, I'd reminded myself.
 

OUCH!
 

One two three.
 

Kick.
 

Boot.
 

OUCH!
 

OUCH!
 

OUCH!
 

No more moaning. McEvoy static. Staring. Magnet shoes on. Stuck. Or so I believe. Never underestimate a fool.
 

McEvoy is on me.
 

Pounced.
 

Disgruntled cat.
 

He's heavier than I'd given him credit for. A pain in my back. Winded. More than that. Much more than being winded. Couldn't breath. Struggling to get air into my lungs.
To fill them up. To get this cat-like monkey off my back. The knees buckling. Sweat. Getting hotter. Getting colder.
Punches. Fists. Slaps. Hotter. Colder. Reining in on the back of my head, on the cheek, on the eye. Another bastard bruise. On the same eye. The other eye. The good one. Two bastard-bruised eyes. I'm a boxer now. A prize fighter. Blood running out of the nose. Eyes streaming. Can't get him off. Swinging, slinging trying every move in my repertoire. Catman. Claws penetrating my skin. Use your insurance. I can feel the
 

drip
 

drip
 

drip
 

of the
 

blood
 

blood
 

blood.
 

The nose exploding. The neck stiff. Fuck, he might break my neck. He might have seen that thing they do in films. One sharp twist. Flip. Snap. Broken. Dead. It's so easy. He's a clinger. Time for the madness. He's saying stuff to me. Stuff I don't understand. Two cats fighting. One cat winning. One cat hanging on. Where is his weapon? Where is my cut? Where is the hole? The gash. The blood. The chill. The ambulance. The lights. The doctors. The parents. The prognosis. The tears. The heartache. The campaign. The funeral. The remembrance. The agony. The depression. The guilty. The repentant. Where is everyone else? Spit hits my ear. His spit. Infected spit? I try to
punch him from over my head. Useless. I hit the top of his head. Hard gel. No power. Useless. This is it. The mind is
resigned. The body is weak. The knees buckled. This is it. This is how it's to be. How my life has been mapped out for me. Just bloody well take it and no backchat, Clem. A white light. Slow motion. Peace. A tranquil place. I'm at home here. Good old rugger days.
 

Bang!
 

Bang!
 

Bang!
 

Still they come down. Hard rain. Thoughts of
Bob Dylan.
I'm making it rain. The boy who made it rain. The head is hot. Blood. I can smell it. This is it. It's like what
The Doors
sang about. Yanking. Doing a yanking thing now. Clothes ripped. Shirt exposing nipple. Youthful chest hair. Fluff. Caveman outfit. Funny thoughts through my mind: how will I get home in this state? Time for the insurance, it's now or never. Could I borrow a t-shirt from the drama class? What's for lunch? How will I explain this to Miss Croal? Will mum and dad even notice? Will the school inform them to buy me a new uniform? On knees. Looking at Fire Face. His eyes closed. Peaceful. Snoozing or...? My doing.
His
doing. McEvoy needs rain. Tired punches. Slaps only. Three punches.
 

Bang!
 

Bang!
 

Bang!
 

Nothing. Slap. Dizziness. Stars. Ringing. Madness.
Nothing left except a swing with the insurance. A swing. Or
was it a lunge? A rapid prod? A little poke?
 

Then a pause.
 

A long pause.
 

An eerie pause.
 

McEvoy falls beside me.
 

Over me actually. I push him off like a rag doll. No longer a cat. A ragdoll.
Bagpuss.
Motionless and pathetic. Ugly. My blood all over him. Saturated.
 

My blood?
 

Whose blood?
 

I'm alert. The colour of danger. Punctured in the side. Stitches job.
 

My blood?
 

McEvoy lies still.
 

Still.
 

A waterfall from his neck. Should I stop it? Pressure it? Do nought? Let the juice drain from him. Let him lick it. Breathing. Not mine. Not Fire Face. Not McEvoy. They demanded rain.
 

Tears. Not ours.
 

I turn at last.
 

Behind me.
 

My neck sore.
 

I turn.
 

I turn and see her.
 

At last!
 

At last, I found her.
 

And here she is.
 

She is here.
 

With me.
 

Looking out for me.
 

My guardian angel.
 

Art supply item in hand.
A true artist. A Van Gogh gone tits up.
 

She's standing there.

Staring.

Ice woman.

I recall our art shop jaunt.

The insurance clenched tightly in my hand. Freshly rammed into McEvoy's jugular.

Now in the correct hand.

Staring.

Into McEvoy's jugular.

She stares at the madness. The insurance.

She recognises it.

Her mother's.

Theirs. For tomatoes, cucumbers, chicken, peppers, mushrooms, bananas and now jugulars.
How the fuck did he get his murdering hands on my knife?
That's what she's thinking…maybe. It's swirling around in her head.
That morning. He was in the kitchen for ages while I was upstairs listening to
The Stone Roses. He blagged it then. He must have.
 

‘He was going to kill me,' I said. Shaking. A bit scared. An understatement.

‘Clem, the knife,' Rosie said.

‘I took it this morning, sorry. I was terrified. You can have it back. I don't need it anymore.' My eyes were on McEvoy's lifeless body.

‘Oh Clem, what the fuck have you done?'