Boy Who Made It Rain (8 page)

Looking back it's easy to see that he was lonely. A wee lonely boy. I feel for his parents, coming up here to make a new life and having to deal with what they're having to deal with now. Poor people. We're all dealing with it really, I suppose. One moment of madness and suddenly there's a succession of victims, who'll be dealing with it for a lifetime.

A mother knows her daughter, and I know our Rosie would never have allowed herself to get caught up in something like that. No way. So I'm pretty confident the whole thing will get resolved as everything comes out in the open. I'm not too worried because they'll find the truth sooner or later. You can't keep anything a secret around here. The thing is I'm sick for our Rosie having to stay in that place and answer question after question, day after day. Even I've had to answer a load of questions, but that poor lassie has been repeating herself over and over again until she's blue in the face.

And where are his parents in all this? That's what I want to know. No matter what happens, when they realise that our Rosie has had nothing to do with it, do you think the people connected to the others will forget about all this? No chance. And they're a bad bad lot, I'll tell you that. We will have no other option other than to move. I've already been on to the council about locating us to the other side of the city, or even to another city. I can't be doing with all the looks and gossiping. To be honest I'll be glad to get out of here. A new start for the both of us, that's what's needed.

Maybe we'll even go to England. Somewhere by the sea. That would be nice.

I was standing in the cubicle, the last one as you come in the door, it's nearer the window and it's the cleanest, by a mile, and I'm changing my tampon when I hear this faint sound of ‘Rosie.' I said nothing. Then another whisper/shout of ‘Rosie.' It was Clem. I froze. Then one more ‘Rosie.' I mean can a girl not even change her bloody tampon in peace? This was too much. Next thing I know he was inside the toilets. The girls' toilets. Inside. The flippin girls' toilets. So I totally iced up. Statuesque. Like that game we played as weans. I could hear him checking the doors. I sat on the seat and put my feet up to the door, careful not to make a sound. My red Diadoras ready to block any entry. Or boot him full force in the balls if he dared try to enter. My red Diadoras covering the first and last words of the phrase
CORA KELLY'S SEEN MORE JAPSEYES THAN AN ORIENTAL OPTICIAN
. Poor Cora. ELLY'S
SEEN MORE JAPSEYES THAN AN ORIENTAL OP
sounded much better.
 

I could feel my heart beating faster and faster, which made me even more nervous in case it revealed my position. More whispers. Whispers. Whispers. The idiot was pure making all these mad whispering noises as if he was talking to himself. I listened carefully and realised what he was doing was reading all the graffiti on the doors. I heard
The Smiths
being read. He'd know that that was my handywork. I didn't want him to see his influence staring right at him. Validating him.

My legs were shaking so I had to release them. God, I was so unfit. Bugger it, if he
'
d
peeked over it was his funeral. I could have had him frogmarched out of this school with a blanket lobbed over his dome for perv actions in a flash. I could have screamed rape, sodomy, burglary, anything. I had him by the short and curlies. Then just as I pulled my red trainers off the door and relaxed them on the smelly floor the main door swung open. And what did the bold Clem do? He only shot into the cubicle. Clem shot into the cubicle next to mine. I could make out his breathing. I gave a wee hee hee to myself. That's what you get arsehole! The sound of heels clicked off the floor. I could tell they were cheapo shoes. The click was a cheapo click. Instinct. Probably Primark or Dunnes. They clicked into the cubicle next to Clem's, two down from me. The Mamas and the Papas go to the bog. I was quiet mama. Clem was terrified papa.

The sound of the knickers being taken down sounded familiar. Please don't be a shite. I kept saying in my head. Then the pssssshhhhh sound started. Music to my ears. It was a relief. I imagined what Clem was thinking during all of this. Was he finding all this arousing? The thing is, and this is the totally pure weird thing, I recognised the sound of that piss. I wasn't buzzing. I did. If memory served me right it was the bold Cora in there. It was Cora. Defo. It was confirmed when she didn't wash her hands (Cora for some reason never washed her hands) and left humming that dire
Oasis
song
Wonderwall
, which she loved. She always hummed because her voice sounded like a dog ripping a couch apart.

As soon as Cora left the toilet Clem scarpered as well. I breathed a huge sigh of relief. I put the thing inside me and flushed away the old one that had been floating in the water all that time. I washed up and bolted out of there. I figured I'd go find Cora and tell her how her piss sounded. Tell the minging cow to wash her hands after touching her fandan as well. She wouldn't be that difficult to find. Then I had another great art project idea, I thought I could do something on toilet graffiti, questioning the salacious (a Clem word) writings with a more subtle and positive type of graffiti art. A kind of Banksy for the school generation. I could have had the good things written on the left wall and the bad things on the right wall of the cubicle. I'd call it toilet tennis. Brilliant idea! Was it too late to change? I put it out of my mind for the time being. So I shifted out the bogs and bumped into this pure weirdo of a wee lassie. A future NED in the making.

‘Ir you Rosie Farrell?'

‘Who wants to know?'

‘Ir you Rosie Farrell or no?' She barked back. ‘It's a simple question.'

‘Aye, what of it?'

‘That Inglish guy is lookin fur ye.'

‘Clem?'

‘Aye, that's it. The guy wey the funny name.'

‘Where did you see him?'

‘He wiz hangin roon the fird- an fourff-year lassies' bogs.'

‘What did he say?'

‘Nuffin, jist asked if ye where in there. Seemed desperate.'

‘For the toilet?'

‘Naw, fur you.'

‘Where is he now, any idea?'

‘Naw.'

‘Well, thanks anyway.'

‘Ah heard that he wiz shaggin that inglish teechur?'

‘Who?'

‘The wan wey the blond hair an big tits.'

‘First I heard.'

‘Well am telling ye right now.'

‘Who told you?'

‘Haven't a Scooby.'

‘Your arse you don't.'

‘Don't get wide,' she said. This was a definite contender for the future queen of the NEDs.

‘Where is he now?'

‘Witz he doin hanging aroon the girls bogs fur in the first place?'

‘Dunno, you'd better ask him that.'

‘Pure weirdo if ye ask me, man.'

‘Anyway, what way did he go?'

‘Haven't a Scooby.'

‘Well that's a big help.'

‘I just thought a'd tell ye he wiz lookin fur you.'

‘Okay, cheers.'

‘A heard that Fran McEvoy was goin tae kick the shite oot ay him iz well.'

‘Well you heard wrong, didn't ye?'

‘Touchy.'

‘Shouldn't you be in class anyway?'

‘Aye, so?'

‘What class are you in?'

‘Haven't a Scooby.'

‘There's a surprise,' I said. ‘Well, whatever your name is, it was nice talking to you.'

‘Aye, whitivir. Nae bother.'

I headed off but before I turned to go down another corridor she shouted back at me.

‘It's Izzy.'

‘What?'

‘Ma name's Izzy by the way.'

‘Good for you,' I said. But that wee lassie pure freaked me out. All those things she said about Clem.
I knew it was all too good to be true. I knew something would get in the way. Or someone. I was dead realistic about it in my own head. Even during the times when we were getting on like John and Yoko there was always this thing pure nipping away at my head and telling me that a bomb was about to explode. If truth be known, I was a bit pissed off that I just couldn't get on with enjoying the whole thing instead of always thinking negative thoughts. That was dead annoying. It made me really
defensive and on edge. I don't think I was a good person to be
around at that time. The whole Croal thing was nothing by comparison. Nothing.
 

But there's only my word for it.

A wiz the last one to see Rosie before it all happened and I'll tell you what, if she wiz goin to do anything she would have told me first. As her best mate she would have. No danger.

And if she didn't say anythin, which she didn't, I would have spotted somethin a mile off anyway. No danger.

She wiz just the same Rosie that day apart from havin women's problems, which we all have, and we all have a pure mad off day, but nothin that would lead us to that. No danger.

The thing that made her really annoyed that day wiz Clem. He wiz actin like a pure rocket. I always thought he wiz a smart arse. He thought he wiz pure cool as and dead good-lookin. Pure lookin down his nose at us coz he thought he wiz this pure big brainy guy.

He warped her mind. After she met him she started listenin to all this mad music, you know that type of music that messes with the head. You just need to look at what's happened in America because of that mad music people listen to. Loads of people get killed in schools over there, don't they? And in Germany as well! No, I'm not blamin it
all
on the music. Anyway, she wiz one of those people that didn't believe in all that stuff, she wiz a pacific person. Eh? Someone who believes in peace and all that. A pacifist, whatever.

The last time I saw her wiz in the toilets. They wouldn't let anyone see her, apart from her maw.

A told him from day one. Stay well away man. Don't go anywhere near them. But a suppose all that guff aboot him and Miss Croal brought them tae him more than the other way aroon. All a kin say is that he must have been pure mad with the rage when it happened. His heed must have been mush by that stage. Rid mist ivrywhere. Pure mad as, man. Pure mad as! Thir wir hunners ay lassies greetin their eyes out when they heard.  Some guys as well. A heard thit Rosie's maw wiz movin tae a different area. A think that's fir the best. Specially roon here.

You don't know wit tae believe, do you? You hear all sorts. Big Liam knows a guy whose brother knows a guy who works doon at the polis station. Anyway, who knows? All you hear is one story after another. All ay them as mince as the nixt. A'm no speaking ill ay anyone, but it wiz just a matter ay time.

Rosie's the one a feel sorry fir. Heart sorry fir the lassy. She didnay deserve that.

Maybe, just maybe, Rosie Farrell's subterfuge to regain the affections of her boyfriend went askew and the subsequent consequences of this led to these appalling events. A crime of passion you could say. Who knows what goes through the mind of a teenager scorned? God knows I don't and I have been teaching for a many number of years. We are still learning new things from week to week in this job. It would be prudent for Pauline Croal to remember this fact. At the end of the day, however, what this is is a damn shame and nothing more. It's something that could have quite easily leapt from the pages of a Shakespearean tragedy.

Of course, our school has organised counselling sessions for both our staff and pupils. Collectively we have to move on and learn the lessons of the event.

No, I didn't go. There was no way I was going to that class. I knew that I'd pass my exams. I didn't need to work with a group of nerds talking about poems and Shakespeare and all that crap. It wasn't as if I was going to study English when I left school…I wanted to go to art college or study design or architecture or something like that. I don't know really. But I knew I wasn't going to spend my time at uni or college reading these pure mad thick books though.

It was nothing to do with the fact that Miss Croal was taking the study group. I had no real opinion about her. She just got to me. You know, rubbed me up the wrong way.

There was one time I went to school dead early. The janny had to open the doors for me. That's how early it was. I wanted to make a start on my art project. So I'm standing there looking at the
Miró calendar that I've brought in with me in order to draw out the inspiration I need. All that arty farty cack. Reflection, emotional memory and all that tosh. I bought the Miró calendar a few weeks ago in an art shop in town, at first I was going to give it to Clem as a wee ‘welcome to Glasgow' present but I just kept it for myself. He could stick to his bands. It would have been inappropriate to give him a calendar of a Spanish artist as a welcome to Glasgow anyway. And there was no way I was giving him a Jack Vettriano. He's dire.
 

So I'm standing there like a lemon in the middle of this big empty art room waiting for the god of art to come and scud me full force on the face. There wasn't a soul about. Not a
sound could be heard. Then I heard something in the yard. A
click clicking sound. I look out of the window and see Miss Croal making her way through the yard wearing these heels. Not exactly stilettos but high enough to make an echo. I remember thinking, ‘she's keen.' And then thinking how she's dressed like a slapper for school. If that's what she's jumping into on a Tuesday morning, I wouldn't like to see her on the weekend. Who's she out to impress? I didn't give it another thought until I hear the same click clicking sound walking up the long corridor outside the art rooms. She had to walk that way to get to the English base. And then, all of a sudden, the clicking slows to long pauses between steps. Close to where I was. My mind was full of garbage art ideas: leeks for hair, broccoli noses, zucchini fingers and other rubbish plans when the sound stops. Just like that. As if dead.