Beatsploitation E-Book

Kevin Curran

• Herausgeber: Liberties Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 460

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013

Beschreibung

One good track could change everything. Just one good track and Rob Lynch can finally quit his suburban teaching job and get his band, the Terrors, once Dublin's next big thing, the fame and recognition they dream of. But it's not happening - they need a new sound. When Rob discovers the unique gifts of one of his students, John 'Kembo' Pereira, a troubled African teenager with a particular talent for creating beats, he sees an opportunity that might just keep his musical ambitions alive. As Rob and John's relationship develops, however, a series of disturbing events unfold that will rock both their lives to the core. And when the Terrors start to crumble, Rob finds out just how far he is willing to go, and what he is willing to lose, in order to keep his dream alive. Powerfully capturing the energy, wit and pathos of a changed Dublin society, Beatsploitation gives voice to a cynical, disillusioned generation, caught between the tired values of the old and the uncertainty of the new. An assured, arresting debut by a commanding new talent.

Leseprobe

BEATSPLOITATION

Kevin Curran

For my parents, John and Una Curran. Thank you.

Contents

Title Page

Dedication

September.

October.

November.

December.

January.

February.

March.

April.

May.

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Copyright

September.

On the third note, the low C after the high G and E, I’ve sat down, opened the Mac and started it up. The three notes from the bell cut me off from everything, signal the end of my working day. Chairs scraping off tables and kids shouting aren’t my problem. Even though I’m in my class I’m not a teacher. I’m loading up the songs Steve sent and I’m a musician.

Some student comes up and stands over my desk and goes, ‘D’ye hear about Jake Ryan sir?’

I stare at the screen and go, ‘No, why?’ Humouring him cause the internet’s slow.

‘He’s gone to the Community College.’

‘Good lad,’ I say.

‘He has,’ he goes on, despite my reaction. ‘His ma says this place’s a kip and it’s nothing like they said it would be, so he’s gone to the CC and he’s repeatin second year and he’s gonna do nets for them. He’s captain of the Ireland Under Fifteens now too sir. That’s cat on you.’ He laughs and leaves and the room is empty.

I shake off his words and put on my big ear-muffler headphones. Steve’s been going on about the songs all day in his texts. The new vacuum of the headphones relaxes instantly and I look up at the paper balls, toppled chairs, discarded essays, with a new, almost magic detachment. Dull shadows pass outside in the corridor. They ramble to their lockers, home. The pulled blinds that hide me, silhouette them. There’s the usual rumble as they go and I ignore it since it’s not in my room.

A shadow at the door behind makes me look up. A face, lips moving and I tear my headphones off and through the blaring music go, ‘What?’

‘Sorry Robert,’ a little timid voice goes, some young sub, more eyes than face behind thick frames, ‘can you give me a hand inside?’

I’m fooled by her calm tone and let out a heavy breath and say, ‘Okay. Where?’

She leaves without answering. She’s waiting for me outside and I see there’s a mill-up in the room across the corridor. A crowd is gathering, jumping and clawing to get a glimpse. I look at her and she smiles an apology and I think, Nice one, thanks for the heads-up. On the surface it seems like I’ve a choice, but the moment bystanders see me on the scene, my reputation depends on getting in there.

What reputation? I’m about to turn away, hide out, ignore it all but Lauren comes around the corner and sees me so I pretend I’m just closing my door and I plough through the cheerers, the noise rising with my arrival, and land into the chaos in the classroom. There’s about four or five lads on top of each other, chairs and tables thrown all over the place, schoolbags all over the floor. I size up the situation quickly. The majority of the rumble are lads trying to break it up. I wade in and lean over the collapsing group to try and get between them and get to the two lads battering each other. I somehow muscle in and make myself known, thinking – stupidly – if they see me they’ll stop. They don’t even flinch and keep on wrestling with each other. I can hear their breathing, the heavy gulps and grunts with each dig.

‘Break it up!’ I shout into the noise. Somehow I manage to get between them. A face finally appears. It’s John. Kembo. He manages a few short, powerful digs into the white lad’s head. There’s blood smeared on white skin. Me and another helper grab John, big beast of a fella, all tensed up, and pull him back off the other lad. As we do this either he, or me, or someone else, trips on some bags and we all pile backwards, falling against the wall.

We fumble around on the floor and I scramble to my feet to save any sliver of dignity in case Lauren’s still there. I look up past the smiles and open mouths to see the other lad being pushed out the door before another teacher arrives. Eamon, a big six-foot-two old-school head, shouts orders and tries to get a handle on things. The helpers scarper from the room and I close out the stares, slam the door. I turn and see John towering over me.

‘Outta the w-w-way, sir, please,’ he shouts.

There’s a new silence in the room. The cheers’ve been muted outside. I’m shaking, riddled with adrenaline. So’s he. He’s fuming, breathing all heavy, his chest lifting and falling like mad.

‘Get back, John,’ I say, my hands raised. ‘Calm down.’

We’re both caught up in the chaos of it all.

He goes to grab the door handle, his bottom teeth, his top lip, his breathing whistling through the gap, spit coming and going.

‘He-he called me a nigger s-s-sir an-an he took my box sir. He called me a nigger.’

‘Box?’ I’m saying and he tries to get past by grabbing my shoulder. I hold my ground and grip the door handle. But it won’t keep him for long.

‘Get back John,’ I say, trying to sound menacing, ‘you’re not going out there.’

‘He called me a n-nigger, sir, he took my box. I-I just wanted to like show the class my box. I’m gonna kill him sir,’ he says, his voice pitchy, like he’s gonna cry. Before I can answer him he heaves at my arm. His massive hands seize me and I brace myself and hold on to the door with my left hand and clock him one with my right. Instinct or fear, or both, I dunno, makes me do it. A short circular swing, down over his eyebrow, scraping down to the cheek. His spit is warm on my hand and he jolts back just as stunned as me, his breathing stopped, his mouth gaping. His eyes are massive and his chest still. He looks confused, like he’s thinking of what to do with me. Something sad’s about to be spoken but he stops and lunges for the handle. I flinch, the adrenaline soured into fear, and let the door go. He reefs it open and runs.

The cheers are weak when he emerges and I fall back shaking against the wall. This pain appears in my hand. It looks like it’s starting to swell up. My knuckles are red. My legs are about to give way. My collar is soaked, my armpits sticky. I feel like fainting. And then I see her, cowering in the corner, little sniffles. That sub. Those glasses, the teeth taking over her face. She’s trying to say something, but she can’t stop sniffling.

‘You didn’t see that,’ I say through deep breaths.

‘B … b … but,’ she tries to answer.

‘You didn’t see that,’ I say, a new steadiness returned.

‘But you just …’

‘Where were you when it started?’ I shout, cutting her off. ‘Huh?’

‘I – I had to go, I had to go to the toilet.’

‘So you left the room with a full class still in it?’

‘I – I had to…’

‘Do you think that’ll go down well with the principal?’

She shakes her head.

‘Exactly. You caused this. You didn’t see what just happened there and you were in the room when it started and I heard the noise and came in to help. Okay?’

She pulls up some snots.

‘Okay?’

‘Okay,’ she whispers and heaves a portable stereo cassette player yoke from under a table. It’s like something I had when I was twelve.

‘They were fighting over this,’ she says.

I peer at the piece of junk, say, ‘Give it to me,’ and hold out my hand for her to bring it across the room.

I take it from her and tell her to pull herself together. She rubs her eyes and I say, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll deal with the principal. It wasn’t your fault.’

‘Thanks,’ she whimpers, and I open the door for her and go, ‘Don’t mention it.’

*

Everything. The gollier green sea; the rolling telephone wires hypnotising me as the train rocks down the coast; the stone that hits the window but doesn’t smash it; the long grass coming through cracks in an unfinished road on one of those estates; the rubbish dumped over the ditches onto the sides of the tracks; the bedpan that is the new stadium spied between rooftops; the one lonely crane; the empty, half-complete office blocks; the slivers of silver all merging into just two parallel rail lines; the traffic on the quays; the Mediterranean heat from the backs of busses as they pass me on Wexford Street; the fruit and veg stalls being folded up; the early neon sizzling like a fly catcher across the road; the smell of incense inside the door; the darkness of Anseo; the small glow from tea lights; the chequered floor; the growing list of books on the new shelf; the smell of bleach when someone goes into the jacks; the cool touch of the pint; the dull clink of glass on glass when we say a muted ‘cheers’; the slightly metallic taste of an early evening beer; everything keeps my mind from it until I follow Steve out onto Camden Street for his smoke and he notices the bruise and goes, ‘What happened yer hand?’

‘Nothing,’ I say, ‘just knocking the kids around in school, ye know.’

Steve looks at me through the smoke, narrows his eyes like he’s judging me, big concerned face on him and I grin, finally, as if I’m joking and he shakes his head with a rueful smile and says, ‘Ye had me there man. Either that or ye’ve had another fight with Mono.’

Mono’s the guitarist. Steve’s the bass player in the band. My band. Our band. The Terrors.

‘Nah – just knocked it off something,’ I say and Steve puts out the smoke and we head back in.

We sup away at our pints on the torn couch beside the jacks. Steve says nothing for a while. Doesn’t even ask why I wanted a pint. He stares across at the bar where the new barwoman is doing her thing. After a while of this, when I’ve properly settled and melted back into the seat, relaxed and forgotten all about school again, Steve asks for the time.

I check my phone. ‘Half-six. Why?’

He nods to himself and goes, ‘We would’ve been finished our sound check by now.’

I tell him not to start.

‘I’m just sayin,’ he goes, all innocent.

‘Well don’t,’ I say. ‘I’ve had enough from Mono. And I’ll tell you what I told him: it would’ve been a wasted trip.’

‘No trip to play in London is a waste.’

I don’t have the energy. Really don’t. But I’m compelled to fight my corner.

‘C’mon Steve. London on a Thursday in some random back hole boozer isn’t gonna make us. I’m barely two weeks back and yis were lookin for me to take time off for an unpaid gig for some lad we’ve never heard of. It’s ridiculous.’

‘It’s not.’

‘It is. Forking out for our own flights and accommodation. Not even guaranteed anything from the door. Do you have any idea how much it costs to carry four keyboards on a plane?’

‘We woulda chipped in Rob, if you’d have even entertained the idea,’ he says, lifting his pint, looking like he’s not being swayed by my argument. I tut and blow a breath and wave him away.

‘No yis wouldn’t,’ I say, real low, cause I don’t wanna argue.

I take a gulp of my pint, start tracing my finger down the side of it, ‘I saved us a wasted journey – a fortune – and I’m the one who gets it in the neck.’

Steve shakes his head, ‘Ye don’t know that,’ he says, relaxed now too, ‘we don’t know. The promoter told Mono there was a chance there could’ve been A&R there. He said A&R always go to those gigs.’

I wave him and his holy grail of A&R in London away.

‘Barry said it’d be a good move …’

I laugh, almost spit out my pint. The cheek. I picture Barry, our ‘contact’ with a Major Label in the UK, with his big serious head, rubbing his big, serious, important chin, considering what Steve said to him.

‘Would ye go away outta that,’ I say, drink the last of my drink, glance to the bar, smell the incense. ‘Barry will say anything to sound like he knows what he’s talking about.’

‘He does know what he’s talking about,’ Steve says, holding up his hand to the barwoman and asking for the same again and gathering up the empty glasses, the ripped bar mats, the remains of the Bacon Fries. Dinner. I’m a bit locked. Don’t have the energy.

‘Look,’ I say, ‘London was a con. We’ll have another chance. A proper chance. There’s no point going over there just to say we went over there and play to a sound engineer and the barman. It’ll have to be a proper gig to get me over there, Steve. And I’ll be the first on the flight. I can guarantee you that. That’s the end of it.’

Our pints arrive. Steve smiles and goes, ‘Grassy-ass,’ and she puts her hands on her hips, all impressed, and goes, ‘De nada.’ She turns and when she gets to the bar glances back, still smiling.

Steve goes and asks the question I was half dreading he’d ask, ‘How’s school anyway?’

‘Ah,’ I say, mulling over how to respond, ‘just needed a pint. Feel like I’m after wastin two years of me life with all this teachin lark.’

‘That bad?’

‘I’m after getting myself in a bit of bother.’

‘Yeah?’ he says, a fake disinterest. ‘How serious?’

‘I’ll know tomorrow. Don’t wanna talk about it.’

He whistles and holds up his pint, ‘Maybe ye shudda taken the days off and gone to London after all.’

‘Not a hope,’ I say. ‘Then I’d definitely be outta the job.’

‘Well, cheers anyway,’ he goes and we clink glasses. It’s nice to be here with him, as a friend, now that all the band talk’s been put aside.

‘This is me last though,’ I say after we take our sups. ‘Big day tomorrow. Don’t wanna be stinkin of booze.’

‘Course, yeah, course,’ Steve says and waves to the bar and goes, ‘Kay passeh?’ and all of a sudden we’re having shots on the house and the Spaniard’s sitting with us, nestling into Steve and we’re going across the road for late drinks and I’m swaying at the toilet mirror, still in my shirt and jumper from school and I’m taking my bag and coat from the cloakroom, checking my phone for the first time in ages, seeing eight missed calls from Jen, waiting on the traffic lights, stumbling around the corner and knocking the jackets off the hanger in the hall, slamming the door behind me and slumping onto the bed, landing on Jen’s leg, hearing Jen moaning in my ear, ‘It’s two o’clock Rob, where were you? I’ve been calling you,’ and I’m listening, but sleeping, getting comfortable outside the sheets with my clothes still on.

*

I’ve been in bits all day, hiding in my room, shoving mints in my mouth and shrugging off the incident if students ask me what I know about it. I’m just waiting for the knock, sweating out the worry. Every class has been given a fake test to keep them busy for when the knock comes. I’m not surprised, but still spooked, when it finally arrives. Last class. This time yesterday I think.

The principal sticks his head in.

‘Can I eh …’ he says.

Eyes rise from their work.

‘Me?’

He nods. No emotion.

There’s a hush of whispers.

‘Just need you for a while,’ he says when I come outside. ‘Issues with more of the NN’s again,’ and his eyes flick to the ceiling and he sighs. The sound of scandal starts up behind me. He looks down at his feet.

‘Okay, em, if you can …’

He nods for me to follow.

He walks ahead and I can see deep blue patches on his pale blue shirt. We don’t speak. The corridors are so quiet I can hear his slacks swish. He walks with his hands turned out and flapping, the knuckles near scraping the floor, the bandy leg stroll of a farmer in his fields. I try to calm my breathing. Compose myself. He disappears into his office. I see legs, jeans and tracksuit bottoms and dirty runners.

The principal settles behind his desk, facing John and his mother. John’s older brother sits facing me on the opposite side of the room. We’ve met before.

‘Mr Lynch, this is the student’s mother, and brother.’

I don’t greet them or shake their hands or acknowledge we’ve already met. I just nod.

‘Take a seat, please.’

I sit and wait for it: Kembo has made an allegation.

Kembo is John. Kembo is his African name. John is his school name. The name he picked to try and ensure he didn’t stick out.

The sub is there too. She’s hidden, nearly melting into the pale wall, lurking behind the big potted plant. My legs are fidgety. I cross them and cover them with my hands. I see the bruise on my right hand, cover it quickly with the left.

‘Now, em,’ the principal says, his fingers entwined before his rubbery nose. He stretches his lips and his whole face warps as he savours the atmosphere of fear.

‘Now, we had an issue yesterday with this student.’

John stares ahead at the principal. His right side faces me, but I can see a lump, bruising of sorts, on his left side. It’s hard to tell with the dark skin. His left eye looks bloodshot. The brother glares across to me, silent and emotionless. He’s hard to read.

‘What we believe has happened is that there’s been a very aggressive altercation with another third-year student yesterday. Now, what we hear is that the other student had to visit the doctor …’

‘H-he started …’

‘Enuff!’ John’s older brother shouts.

The principal wipes his mouth and nods to John’s brother.

‘Okay,’ the principal says. His voice, although not rising and not quite angry, becomes more intense. ‘What we don’t need from the likes of you, is more lip. Just button it, okay?’ It’s a deep type of whisper that suppresses something.

‘Sorry sir,’ the brother says.

‘Now, we’ve spoken to the other boy, and we’ve spoken with students in class at the time.’ He stops, a beat, and looks to the sub, extra gravity given to the situation. ‘And I’ve spoken with Ms Faherty.’ The principal’s eyes rest on me. John’s eyes meet mine too. Nothing though. The radiator hums into action. A clock ticks. John’s eyes flicker like he’s got something caught in them.

‘We have a clear picture of what went on,’ the principal goes. ‘We know what has been alleged, by both students, and what has been clarified. The other student is not going to press charges. His father does not want to make a fuss. Ultimately, what we are left with here are injuries and actions and racist taunting that cannot, and will not be tolerated, in this school, on our premises or in our classrooms. Now, there will be changes. And after considering everything, all options open to us, we realise you need to realise that in this school, in this community, you need to adhere to our rules. And if you don’t adhere there are repercussions – so – as of today you will be excluded for seven days.’

‘B-but sir …’

His brother nudges him, grips his arm. He stops his protest. The sub keeps her eyes on the ground.

‘What do you have to say to Mr Lynch?’ the principal says.

John turns to me slowly, his whole body shifting with his head, like his neck is stiff or something. I’m still unsure of what’s going on. My mouth is dry. My chest feels tight. All eyes are on me. I feel like I should say something to defend myself. Launch a pre-emptive attack. And then John speaks, whispers.

‘I-I’m sorry, sir.’

Silence. My heartbeat. The sub looks up, her brow creased.

‘For what, young man?’ the principal whispers, like some daytime TV host, emotional but probing.

‘F-for knockin you o-o-on the ground, sir.’

‘And will it happen again?’

‘No, sir.’

I’m so surprised I nearly forget to accept his apology. The trigger is cocked, but not pulled. I wonder can they see my whole body exhale.

His eyes burn into me, without judgement, no sense of the lie we share.

‘That’s okay John. Let’s just forget about it,’ I say.

The principal gets to his feet.

‘Thank you, Mr Lynch. That’ll be all for now.’

I look to John one last time and try to read his mind, see what’s happening in his head. I stand up. The mother remains mute. The room wobbles. I’m spent.

‘Thanks John,’ I say and the principal nods in appreciation.

As I go I hear the principal start up again, ‘This sort of behaviour makes a positive asylum letter quite difficult …’ and I’m drifting down the corridor, smiling, sweating, confused, but so relieved I could dance. It’s not the relief of keeping my job; it’s the buzz of getting away with murder.

*

Jen’s got a bored look on her face when she meets me at the entrance to the club with my synthesiser. It’s just a little thing that you plug into a digital keyboard. I left it in our apartment. The lads are round the back getting their gear from the van. The driver keeps on hassling us cause we’re running an hour late and he has another pick-up. He tells us he’ll be back at twelve and to be ready.

Jen gives me the synth and I kiss her and say thanks, but then realise something’s missing.

‘The plug?’

‘What plug?’

‘Ah, Jen – I told ye – the plug was beside the bed.’

She frowns, shrugs.

‘I forgot.’

‘Ah, Jen.’

‘I forgot, I’m sorry – what more do ye want?’

‘Can you get it?’

She throws her head back and goes, ‘For real?’

I kiss her forehead.

‘I’m sorry, just ye know I need it, babe. I’d go myself but I’ve to help the lads get the gear in.’

She turns away, without a word, her head shaking, and she calls me from across the road and starts to say something but I can’t hear cause the Luas glides past, scraping and screeching between us.

Denise – one of these ‘Band-Aids’, hangers-on like – arrives off the Luas.

‘Hey you,’ she beams, jumping in to kiss me on the cheek. The noise moves off and Jen is still there, looking on from a distance. I move away from Denise. Her extreme pleasantness, fake happiness, always puts me on guard. Denise sees Jen looking on.

‘Hi Jen,’ she says, waving with her fingers. You can tell Jen thinks about joining us, thinks better of it, and moves off.

‘What you doin here on a school night Bob?’ Denise says and fondles my sleeve.

‘Playin.’

‘Playing?’ she says, laughing. ‘Very funny – this is an up-and-coming showcase. You lads played this last year.’

I shrug it off.

‘… and the year before, remember? It was on in August then, not September – and we all went back to the party in Kieran’s and it was mental and you, didn’t you end up havin a blow-out with him? What was that all about?’

She just won’t shut up.

The lads arrive under the old orange street lamp, finally, with their soft cases and bags of leads. She squints, like she’s short-sighted or something.

‘So you guys really are playin. The Terrors,’ she says and looks into an imaginary space where she sees our name up in lights. Her hand draws across the air, ‘Up-and-coming since 1981,’ and she giggles. ‘What time yis on?’

‘Eleven,’ one of the lads says.

‘Eleven, shame, Ali are on in the other room – sorry guys. They’re massive right now.’ And she leaves, taking the worn steps down into the club.

‘She’s still thick about that gig we got over her band years ago, isn’t she?’ the drummer says and brushes by me with his snare and cymbal bag.

‘Yeah,’ I shrug.

‘Get the synth?’ Mono asks.

‘Yeah, but Jen forgot the plug.’

‘Bob,’ he says, anger in his voice, ‘we’re on in half an hour – Barry’s gonna be here.’

‘Barry’s always here,’ I say, dismissing the buzz of having A&R at our gig, and point at his guitar case, ‘Sure you forget your spare strings.’

‘So what? We can play without spare guitar strings, we can’t play the new song without the synth …’

‘We can play without the guitar full stop.’

His brow creases – he stares hard.

‘What’s that meant to mean?’ He steps toward me.

‘Forget it. Just forget it Mono.’

I turn and take the steps down to the venue. Punters squeeze by going up, peering into the orange darkness.

Mono takes a hold of my shoulder as we go down.

‘What’s that supposed to mean, Bob?’

‘Nothing. I’m joking.’

A bouncer comes between us.

‘You’re blockin the way lads,’ and puts out his hand to display the rest of the stairs.

There’s a huge crowd. The one venue, for this weekend only, has split itself into five different stages. The space can’t accommodate it. The crowd is just too big. I can barely squeeze my keyboards in the door and then we have to get everything ready in a side hall – in everyone’s way as they go to the toilet. This ‘Dublin’s up-and-coming’ festival is becoming more popular every year. I should know; we’ve played it the last four. Our stage is a lot quieter than the previous years. The place isn’t empty – just not rammed like it should be. Like it used to be.

We don’t give the assembled crowd opportunity to clap or shout. We’ve been burned too many times by horrible, embarrassing silences between songs. After one song ends I start another up with a few sounds from my synths. But through my sounds, past lights, through the dry ice, and the odd dancer at the crest of the stage, I can see gaps, and people queuing to go next door to see Ali. There’s a lump in my throat. I get that suffocating feeling.

Jen’s at the back of the room, arms folded, just standing there like she’d rather be somewhere else. She’s on her own. Cut off from the punters swaying and nodding and tapping their feet around her.

The gig goes alright. Not great, but not brutal. We put our gear into the soft cases beside the stairs to the toilets. Barry, A&R from a major label, comes over to Derek, our singer.

‘That was great,’ I hear him shout over the noise of another band starting up, ‘really great.’ Derek nods in appreciation, wearily.

‘Really great,’ Barry says again. He’s rigid, real self-conscious of the fact that our destiny is in his hands, distant but still ‘our mate’. He’s a fan, but a businessman, too old to be trendy, too young to be suited.

I join them.

‘Alright Barry,’ I say.

‘Ah, Bob Terror,’ he says, shakes my hand, ‘great gig, great gig.’

‘Any word on that recording session?’ I say, just to cut out the back-slapping and get straight to it. He smiles an uncomfortable smile and looks to Derek, then Mono, who has joined us.

‘Don’t worry Barry,’ Mono says, hand on his shoulder. ‘I’ll e-mail you about it Monday.’

But we’ve e-mailed and e-mailed.

‘I’m just askin – we’re waitin. We’ll record, pay for another EP ourselves if you tell us …’

‘There’s no need to do that,’ he says.

‘But there is. Time’s passin us by. I dunno if you’ve noticed, but we’re not the most popular band in the city anymore …’

‘But you’re still the best.’

I shake my head.

‘The best according to you, Barry.’

Mono’s hand flickers between the noise and the smoke and the lights. It goes from Barry’s shoulder to mine.

‘The best according to Barry is enough for us, isn’t it Derek?’ he says.

Derek nods.

‘Defo.’

‘Whatever,’ I say, and turn to finish packing my stuff.

Barry steps around me and goes to the back of the venue to fold his arms and look all serious analysing other bands.

‘Well?’ I say.

‘Well what? There’s no need to be like that with him, Bob. He’ll come good,’ Mono says.

‘Yeah, yeah. One session he’s paid for – one – and we’re still sittin on our hands.’

‘We won’t be though. Have some faith.’

‘We will,’ I insist, ‘it’s nonsense. How many bands has he ever signed?’

Mono turns away.

‘How many?’ I shout.

He doesn’t say anything. We all know it’s none. We know he’s been in the job for four years, has worked with a few bands and hasn’t got one of them signed to his major label bosses in the UK.

‘We’re hittin our heads against a brick wall,’ I finish as he walks off. ‘We’re bouncin our heads,’ I say to Derek who’s standing over me as I zip up my bag. He just shrugs.

Jen saunters into our space.

‘Are you ready yet?’ she goes.

‘Gimme a second,’ I say.

She grimaces, stops moving, blows out a breath.

‘You’ve been ages already. This is worse than last year.’

I give her an apologetic kiss, a peck, and she nods a hello to Derek and ghosts through to the toilets.

I struggle out with my gear and walk, weighed down with everything, over the shining samurai steel of the curving Luas lines. Jen’s with me.

‘What a waste of time,’ I say.

Jen links arms with me and gives me a brief hug and says, ‘The same as last year. It’s always the same.’ We get split up, lost between the rickshaws and the oncoming, outgoing, leery crowds from the down-market meet-market, nurse – and Gardaí – cardholding ‘Discothèque’, before finding each other again and making our slow retreat to the apartment.

*

The grass on the field beside the gym has been cut. And I’m dying with hay fever – and a hangover. Kids are kitted out, running everywhere, kicking the three balls I’ve brought out for them. It’s chaos. I take a gulp from my bottled water and Solpadeine.

Cars take the soft slope to freedom at the bottom end of the field, where the school gate is. The drivers, teachers all going home, wave sympathetically, as if to say ‘god love ye’ or ‘fool’. But in fairness the games, if we do well, gimme the chance of a few half days. Anything that gets me out of the classroom is a bonus.

I blow the whistle and roar.

‘Right, c’mon in, c’mon in.’ Four o’clock. I’ll be on the ten past five train.

They saunter over, big men in little men’s bodies, all aching to be taken seriously. Two balls drop from the sky into the group. I take them and grab the third from a small lad.

‘Okay lads, listen up.’

They huddle around. A good few of them look down at me.

‘This is an Under Sixteen Junior Cup team. Junior. So if you’re under sixteen and you’re a senior, in transition year, goodbye.’

There are some groans. Not a cloud in the sky. It’s roasting.

‘So transition years, sorry, but that’s the rules.’

General noise and complaints, curses, lads throwing their arms and fists downward as if they’re punching an imaginary face below them.

‘I’m sorry lads, but if ye can find another teacher to do the senior teams – you can play.’

‘Why don’t you?’ someone shouts.

Cause I couldn’t be bothered.

‘Cause I can’t get classes off for matches for two teams. It’s hard enough for one.’

A handful of them traipse away, deflated, towards their kit bags, the weight of the world on their shoulders.

I gulp my Solpadeine and water.

‘Okay, the rest of ye. How many we got?’

I count them. Twenty-eight. Should be twenty-nine but for our keeper, Jake Ryan, defecting to the other school in the town. Regardless, ten will have to go.

‘Right lads,’ I say, ‘yis all know about Jake goin to the Community College – so we need a keeper. Who wants to do nets?’

A lull. Eyes drop to boots and feet kick the grass. Everyone’s a striker. Nothing.

‘We need a keeper lads – first game’s in October.’

A gentle tap on my shoulder makes me turn. I look up to see John staring down. The bump is gone and his eye’s no longer red. I feel happy, relieved really, now the proof of my dig has disappeared. I can’t be blamed, found out anymore. I’m in the clear. Of course, the other student got the blame, or accolades, around the school, but still, I like being safer than safe. John breathes on me. He smiles a big Cheshire cat smile, grinning wider than wide.

People snigger. Him. We haven’t spoken since the fight. I’ve thought about him though.

‘So you’re back from suspension.’

‘Uh-huh,’ he goes.

‘Okay, you can try out, for sure – but you’ll need gloves.’

‘Why I need gloves?’

‘Cause I said so.’

‘But, I-I don’t have gloves.’

‘It’s not an issue now but you’ll need gloves.’

‘I d-don’t need gloves.’

He holds up his massive hands. Giggles.

‘Yes you do. Boots?’

‘Nah-hah,’ he says shaking his head, kicking his basketball trainers, big tongue, open laces.

Sniggers. Three-quarter-length shorts and a loose basketball top.

‘Why don’t you try out for the basketball team?’

‘They, they threw me o-off it sir.’

More sniggers.

‘Right, doesn’t matter for now. C’mon, get in there. Okay, twenty-nine. Two teams of eleven and subs. I’ll bring you on and off. Squad list will be on my classroom door tomorrow morning.’

I divide them up, give them bibs and blow the whistle. There’s way too many. They swarm. Some shine immediately. John makes some great saves. He’s brave. Huge. Head and shoulders above everyone. The others are afraid of him.

‘W-when can I come out sir?’ he shouts across the pitch to me.

‘Out?’

‘Yeah, like, I wanna be there.’ He points at the group of outfield players swarming after the ball.

‘Later,’ I shout back. ‘Later.’

A dark mass appears from behind the gym before breaking off into three silhouettes. Big pale green faces come into focus the closer they get. It’s the Droogs. They’re young lads. They pass by John’s goal and I can see them throwing stuff at him. But I’m in the middle of the pitch, surrounded by players. I look over racing heads. John runs after the group and swings a kick at them. He just misses and they run off giving him gestures and laughing. While John walks back the ball ripples his net. There’s a groan from his team.

‘What?’ John roars into the field, throwing his arms up. No one answers back. He looks to me. I blow the whistle.

‘That’s n-not fair!’ he shouts. ‘I wasn’t even in goal – them lads w-were callin me names. Th-that’s not fair.’

‘You gotta ignore them John,’ I call back. Everyone’s looking on. The Droogs have gone out the gate.

‘They were callin me n-names sir, th-th-that’s not fair.’

‘You wanna play, you have to stay in nets.’

He shakes his head and folds his arms and glares at me. A seagull flutters in and picks at the leftovers of a chicken fillet roll near the peno spot. John toes the ball out from the net, flicks it back and then lumbers toward it and drives it out. He just whacks it. It’s a daisy cutter that takes the seagull off-guard. The seagull’s smashed. A short squawk and it flops onto the grass. The ball stops dead. One of the second years sneaks over to the bird and toes it.

‘Eh, I think he’s after killin ih,’ he says.

Nervous laughter’s suppressed around the pitch. John steps forward.

‘Bird killer – John killed a bird!’

‘Bird killer! Bird killer!’

His eyes expand and his big bottom lip turns inside out, nearly dropping off his face. He strides over and looks down at it. A gang of jerseys surround the scene. John’s face is calm.

‘Cuchulain,’ someone jokes, quietly, but loud enough to be heard. A wave of laughter washes over them.

‘Stop that,’ I shout, but no one’s listening.

John turns away and grabs his bag from beside the pitch and leaves, the group still laughing. I catch up with him.

‘Ih-ih-it was an accident,’ he says, his head down. His cheeks are glistening. I hear a sniffle as we breeze over the long grass near the school gates.

‘I-I didn’t mean ih. Why’d you haveta put me a-away from them all anyway. I didn’t mean ih.’

‘I know you didn’t John, c’mon back.’ Cuchulain.

He strives on out the gate and I turn to see the jerseys and bibs still standing over the bird.

‘Right – lift it. We’ll get the caretaker to get rid of it. Twenty minutes left. Let’s go. It was an accident, leave it, let’s go,’ I say and blow the whistle.

We play another twenty minutes. A few more catch my eye.

John’s name is the first one down on the squad list. He doesn’t come in the next day to see it.

*

All the way from the school to the apartment, the forty minutes on the train from the suburbs to the city, my headache increases. It’s like the farther away I get from the school, the closer I get to the apartment and that Friday evening, weekend freedom buzz, the more intense this sick feeling gets. I swear it’s my classroom. The lack of windows, a clean oxygen supply. Granted, the school’s newish, just about five years old I think, but the population explosion in the town meant the building filled up quicker than expected and what was a large room in the centre of the school had to be literally split in two and a partition, a thin, rickety wooden yoke, was placed in the middle. The principal wouldn’t entertain the idea of sending an overflow of kids to our neighbours, and competition for students, the Community College; so two cramped classrooms were put where one large one once was.

A few other teachers and me share this space. At least they have windows on their side of the partition, windows that open out into fresh air. My windows open out into a corridor. Not just any corridor, but a corridor where kids’ lockers are. The air in my room stagnates and then the germs outside in the corridor seep in my top windows too. I don’t stand a chance. And so ye have it – I feel brutal. The only positive about this partition mess is Lauren. She’s next door a lot. We can hear everything that goes on in each other’s classes so we have this weird kinda honest relationship. We’re good neighbours. I like talking to her. It helps that she’s beautiful too, I suppose.

Anyway, I’m flat out on the couch back in the apartment after work, just sprawled there, too sick to eat, or too weak to get up and eat, or maybe too weak with the hunger to get up, and I’m taking a gulp here and a gulp there of my Solpadeine and water when Jen comes in.

She’s concerned of course, and she leaves her bag and jacket on the table by the window and comes over and places her soft hand, cool, on my forehead.

‘Wow,’ she says, her eyes given an extra intensity with the make-up she wears for work, ‘you’re really hot. You look so pale,’ and she leans in and kisses my forehead. When she draws away I see her cleavage, but I’m too sick to be interested, and I look at her standing there, her tight little skirt and the high heels and I go, ‘You look great.’ She flashes an eyebrow, like she’s weary or something, and goes, ‘You reallyare sick,’ and we giggle and she moves out of shot into the kitchen.

‘Have you eaten?’ she calls in.

‘Not since lunch,’ I say, a croak in my voice for extra effect. Milking it. Why not?

‘You must be starving – I’ll make my lasagne. That’ll cure you.’

It’s Friday evening so I’m surprised she’s going to all the hassle of her lasagne. She normally makes it at the start of the week to do us a few days. But for some reason there’s a pep in her step. She whistles as she goes and comes in and checks my forehead the odd time and kisses my cheek and when the time comes she turns on some soap or another. She sits down at my feet and rubs my leg but keeps on getting up to make some more noise and do some more preparing out of sight. I see her shadow flitter across the coffee table.

My hunger pains go and after my third Solpadeine the headache softens and before I know it, just as it’s getting dark outside and the smell of her lasagne is filling the apartment, the headache’s gone. I don’t tell her it’s gone though. She’d only think I was making it up. When she arrives beside me with our plates, I make a big deal of sitting up and leaning down to the coffee table.

‘This is nice,’ she says just as she’s about to eat. I look at her. She smiles and rubs my leg, ‘Not you being sick – just this. Not rushing around or running off anywhere. It’s nice to have a night in, save some cash, isn’t it?’

I mumble something, pretending to be restricted in my response by a full mouth.

We eat in relative silence. Jen’s attention is drawn to the television and I interrupt her the odd time with a ‘this is lovely,’ and ‘mmhh,’ just to let her know I appreciate her and to keep her happy cause I know she won’t be later.

When we’re both finished I take the plates up and bring them into the kitchen. Jen protests, but moving slowly, like I’m improving, I say it’s alright, it’s the least I can do. I even wash the plates and the knives and forks, and ease out of the room, unnoticed, and go to the bathroom.

She laughs through her nose, quietly, a confused look on her face when I come back in. Fresh and showered. I’m standing behind the couch, between the hall and the living room.

‘Why’d ye get changed?’ she says, and she must see the remains of the steam floating around the hall cause she goes, ‘And showered?’

‘I’m feeling better,’ I say.

‘And?’ she says, the smile disappearing.

‘And, ye know, I’ve got tickets for the gig in Tripod tonight. The lads are going too.’

She stands up, hands on hips, her head at an angle.

‘It’s, it’s half-nine Rob. That gig’ll be over.’

‘It’s a late one. They’re not on til eleven.’

She blows out a long steady breath, points to the kitchen, says nothing, looks to the couch, kinda peers into it like she’s gonna find the sick me lying there.

‘I thought we were gonna have a night in. I just made you …’

‘I know Jen,’ I say, ‘but you knew the gig was on.’

‘But I came home to find you sick. If you’re sick I presume you’re staying in.’

‘Well, I’m better now so I’m going out. C’mon, don’t make a big deal of this. Ye knew I was goin.’

She waves me away, dismisses me, mad face on her, ‘Go – go on. Go. Go to your gig. Stagger in tomorrow morning at stupid o’clock and be sick for real then for the day. Waste your weekend – our weekend. I don’t care.’

She shakes her head and turns and sits back into the couch.

‘Don’t be like that,’ I say.

She turns the television up.

‘I’ll be back early enough, I promise.’

I think she snorts, scoffs, but she keeps her head still, the lack of movement indicating how angry she is.

It’s bright when I ease in beside her. The room’s spinning, but a steady serene joy. I check my watch. It’s a quarter past seven. Jen mumbles something and I go, ‘Sshh,’ real soft and snuggle up beside her, content and exhausted, delighted to be back.

‘What time is it?’ she whispers, half asleep.

‘Three.’

She mumbles something and goes, ‘Thanks Rob.’

I rub her arm softly and whisper, ‘No problem Jen. I love you.’

I can tell from her breathing she’s asleep when I say it.

*

The school goes quiet only a few minutes after the last bell. Students hang about for a bit, at their lockers or just messing around, but then they clear out – no fight keeps them entertained. The teachers leave just as quick. Silence, and the distant hum of the cleaners hoovering. Everything is empty and still and at ease; the corridors, every room, the court outside the main entrance, the pitch beside the gym, the long grass and ditch the students clear before going on the bounce, the half-built estate at the back of the school the students hide out in when on the bounce. Everywhere is silent. Silence, slow, still silence. I need the silence, especially when it’s on a day I’m rehearsing. We rehearse til about ten at night. I hang around for the ten past five train. Gets me into rehearsals around six. I’m normally there before everyone else. Ready to go before everyone else.

A rustling announces his arrival before he bursts in. The door flies open and hits the wall, shakes the room. The boom is loud. His bag is trailing from his shoulder like an inconvenience. He stands in the middle of the room looking around. A sudden air of disinterest settles over him with a sigh. His fingers expand and contract over his afro.

‘H-how long will I-I be here?’

‘Nice to see you too, John.’

He doesn’t reply. I look at my watch. It’s four.

‘Five.’

His eyes rest on me, nearly closed, in his lazy way.

‘Five?’ he says, half singing the word. ‘Why’m I like, even here? C’mon sir, that’s unfair.’ He slumps and drums a rolled-up A3 sheet off his leg.

‘Yes John, five.’

‘Can I use your computer?’

I shake my head. He’s getting too used to these evening detentions. He sits down and flops back, his bag on the table in front of me. The bag is falling apart. Tippex names and DJs and rap crews – DJ Kembo and ‘Da Brig Boyz’.

‘Well, w-what’ll I do?’

He puts his feet up on a seat. Staples are holding the leather to the sole. There are white gaps where his socks can be seen.

‘What have I told you about feet on the seats?’

He notices what I notice and silently eases them down.

I root around my desk for my headphones. The area is overflowing with books and uncorrected copies.

‘John,’ I say, real serious, ‘stop that noise,’ and I point a vague finger at the rolled-up piece of paper he’s drumming off the table.

‘Wh-why you like tha sir?’ he goes, ‘Just gimme my box back sir, an like, I won’t be like, makin noise or nothing.’

Our eyes meet and I immediately think of that punch, and the fact that he’s said nothing about it. Our secret.

‘You said you’d behave last week and you’re here again. I’m your tutor – so if you’re here, I’m here. I have to be here. And I’m getting sick of it John. D’ye think I like havin you here? You-are-a-pain-John.’

He scrunches up his face, shakes his head, all thick.

‘Th-tha-that’s racist sir.’

‘No. If I said you were a black pain, now that’d be racist. But you’re just a pain.’

The rolled-up piece of paper is like a baton. He holds it steady over his shoulder like he’s gonna whack it down on the table. I find the headphones hidden behind a stack of books. I put them round my neck.

‘When you’re not a pain – you’ll get your boombox, alright?’

He does this backwards kiss thing; his lips pucker like he’s gonna kiss the air – but he sucks in and makes this weird kinda dissatisfied tut.

‘It’s not my fault you’re here, John.’

I pull up the jack from the headphones. Open up my Mac. He doesn’t say anything. His eyes look to some blank spot behind me, big serious face on him. I want a response though. To hear him admit it’s his fault he’s here.

‘It’s not my fault John. It’s yours. The boombox is gone cause you brought it into school and …’

‘Ih-ih wasn’t my fault – my-my mp3 …’ His voice goes deep, but loud.

‘I-don’t-care-about …’

‘My mp3 was thingy – was, ih goh broken sir.’

‘I-don’t-care.’

‘An-an-an I had no like, no other music thingy sir. I just wanted to show people. Ih wasn’t my fault sir.’

‘I-don’t-care.’

My voice remains calm, measured, without judgement or emotion. But still he goes on.

‘I need my box sir, please.’ His tone has changed. He sounds upset.

‘I don’t care John. You’ll get the boombox thing when you behave – and this week, again, even after another talk from the principal, you didn’t behave.’

He hits the paper baton off the table, eyes wide, his chest drawing up like he’s holding something in.

‘He’s a racist.’

I let out a little laugh.

‘Yes John, the principal’s a racist. I’m a racist. Everyone’s a racist.’

‘But he is!’ he pleads.

‘I don’t care. What I care about is you turning up here at four and sitting in front of me for an hour for misbehaving in art.’

He sits up straight, his big cat’s eyes narrowed, the baton pointing at me.

‘B-b-but they – they were slaggin me sir. They’re racist. Th-they are always callin me names. I – I – I’m gonna make a complaint.’

‘Okay – but you, John – you threw paint at them. You reacted to them.’

‘Them’ are two of the three that hound him. The Droogs. They’re three local lads who are singularly weak but new men when they’re together. One’s in transition year, another in third and the other in second year. Wild.

‘Well, didn’t you react to them? What have I said about reacting to them? Write down what they say and give it to me or the year head or the principal. We’ll do something.’

He scoffs, ‘But they never do. I-I tell you like, I tell you all the time and, and you do nothing.’

He hits the baton off the table again. I begin to root around, search for a book.

‘That’s because you seem to cause more trouble than the others do. Be smart about it.’

I tap my temple.

He takes a breath.

‘I’m gonna kill them.’

‘No you won’t.’

‘Yeah I will.’

He laughs. I smile. He holds up his hands, ‘Don’t blame me. They ask for it.’

We smile together. He knows I know he’s joking. For now.

I lay the book I was looking for in front of him. Ignore his baton.

‘Okay,’ I say, taking hold of my headphones, just about to place them over my ears, ‘read the third story – quietly – and I’ll ask ye a few questions afterwards.’

He pretends to be annoyed but he can’t suppress a smile. It’s better than writing lines and he knows it.

‘Ah-sops fah-bulls?’

‘That’s the book title.’ I place the headphones over my ears, everything goes dull, distant, calm, ‘Story three,’ I hear my voice say, ‘“The Boy Who Cried Wolf”.’ I point at the page and just as I plug my jack into the side of the Mac I hear him go, ‘Oh my days,’ and he pouts his lips and runs his hand furiously over his little spongy afro and starts to read.

The song starts up and I’m cut-off from the school, just a spectator to this lad in front of me crouched over reading a book with his rolled-up paper baton disarmed and moving under the words, slowly and deliberately.

October.

We always leave the gear set up over three evenings. The rehearsal studios are a home from home. We pay an hourly rate, but the owners let us keep everything as it is over the three days since packing away and starting up again, getting the sound and all that, is such a pain. If we weren’t able to do it we’d try to find somewhere else. They need the business; we need the space.

There’s something fresh about coming in to the empty room every evening, all the gear waiting for us, like our outside lives were just a break and what we do in here is important – our reality. Our departure and return wipes the board clean every time. There’s hope when I return, for something that will lift us beyond what we are.

We’ve had our gear up for two days this week already. Barry, the A&R lad, is coming down to hear some of our new stuff. He said he’d be down at eight. We’ve rehearsed our new songs to death. Tweaked and tweaked and agonised over them for the last two days. Four songs, over and over. I wonder sometimes if we’re mad and we’re deluding ourselves, if we’ve put all our faith in Barry to get over the fact that we know, deep down, no one else would be interested, has even shown an interest. Barry’s a convenient scapegoat when all this goes belly up.

Outside the air is fresh. Autumn air, faint breath, wafting up into the backstreet. Mono smokes beside me. It’s dark. The long evenings have slunk away behind the smog. The cobblestones shine in the weak orange light.

‘So what ye think he’ll think?’ Mono says, exhaling through the last of his words, his eyes closed.

I shrug, ‘Does it matter? You know what I think.’