Clay (9 page)

sixteen

“She’ll chuck you,” said Frances.

She walked into me in the corridor. We were on our way to Prat’s class. It was Friday, last lesson of the day.

“Who will?”

“Marilyn Monroe. Who do you think? You saw us, didn’t you?”

I shrugged.

“You saw us and took not a bit of bliddy notice,” she said. “Why should she want a lad that ignores her, then walks round in a dream all day?”

“Dunno.”

“Dunno. That says it all.”

She poked me in the ribs.

“What’s wrong with you? Can you not see how lovely she is? What’s going on in that stupid skull of yours?”

I was going to say dunno but I didn’t.

She clicked her fingers in front of my face.

“Hello,” she said. “Hello-o. Is anybody there?”

I shrugged.

She shook her head.

“That’s it,” she said. “I’ll tell her today. Chuck him, I’ll say.”

“Let her chuck me!”

“She will. You’re a waste of bliddy time.”

She hurried on. Maria was already in the class. By the time I got in, Frances was hissing in Maria’s ear and waggling her hands about. They both started giggling. They looked straight at me, then turned away and made faces and hooted. I sat down beside Geordie. He slid his chair away from me.

Prat held up a little sphere of clay between his fingers.

“The basest thing of all,” he said. “A lump of muck. Soft, oozy, slimy, slithery, formless stuff. Are we drawn to it because it reminds us of ourselves—of our own human formlessness and muckiness?”

He looked around the room.

“Muckiness,” he said. “Can we use such a word about ourselves?”

Nobody answered.

Frances turned her eyes to me. She nodded.

“You’re saying yes?” said Prat.

“Oh, yes, sir,” said Frances.

“And yet there are some,” continued Prat, “who say that we are the opposite of muck, that we are blessed spirits. Is that true? Who thinks that? Who thinks”—he lowered his voice—“that we are like angels?”

Geordie raised his hand.

“Me, sir,” he said.

“Thank you, George,” said Prat. “I’ve often thought that about you myself.
But…”
He widened his eyes. He raised a finger, like he always did when he thought he was getting dead profound. “Isn’t the truth somewhere in between? Isn’t it true that we are both? We are muck
and
we are spirit! Who agrees with that?”

“Me, sir,” muttered several kids.

“Excellent! Then let’s move on. Could it be that we love to work with clay because it shows how the creative act can…”

Prat blathered on. He strode back and forward in front of us, closing his eyes, tapping his temples, gazing at the sky outside.

Geordie scribbled on a piece of paper and slid it across to me.

What was Mouldy on about? Kissing stuff.

“Eh?” I breathed.

He wrote again.

Kissing. Lovey-dovey stuff.

There was a grin playing about his face. He rolled his eyes and puckered his mouth as if to kiss. I started to write something on the note but I didn’t know what to write.

Nick off,
I scribbled at last.

He pretended to be shocked.

“Are you all right, George?” said Prat in midstream.

“Aye, sir.”

“Excellent. For a second I believed that you were in the process of reacting to my words.”

“Oh, no, sir.”

“Excellent.”

Prat flicked his hand up and caught a jelly baby that was flying through the air. He popped it into his mouth.

“Sometimes,” he said, “I wonder to myself, ‘Why do I tell them such things? Why do I bother?’”

“Cos you’re a prat,” muttered Geordie.

“But I refuse to be downcast. I tell myself, ‘But there are those who do listen, Peter Patrick Parker, as there always have been and always will be.’ So…! Whose are the jelly babies, by the way?”

“Mine, sir,” said Jimmy Kay.

“Then I will have another, James, to feed the stream of words. A red one, please.” Jimmy lobbed one to him; Prat caught it, chewed it, plunged on again. “Could it be,” he said, “that in a lump of this clay we see a body without a soul, and it inspires us to…”

Kissing,
Geordie wrote.
Davie and Stephen Rose are…

He scribbled another note, rolled it up, lobbed it towards Frances and Maria. Frances opened it. She goggled. She giggled.

“Eeee!” she said, and she passed the note on to Maria.

Maria looked across at me. Frances nudged her and whispered in her ear again and Maria started giggling as well.

Prat blathered on.

“Eeeee!” said Frances.

“Yes, Miss Malone?” said Prat.

“Well, sir,” said Frances. “It’s very…er…”

“Disturbing?” said Prat.

“Aye, sir,” said Frances.

“Terrifying, even.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Indeed. The thought that we might be doomed simply to return to earth? The thought that we may be dense, solid, heavy, the playthings of our creator…”

“It’s shocking, sir,” said Frances.

“Indeed,” said Prat.

“Appalling,” said Frances.

She giggled.

“Disgraceful, degrading, disgusting,” she said. “Maria thinks so as well.”

“Does she?” said Prat.

Frances nudged her.

“Oh, yes, sir,” said Maria.

Prat beamed.

“It is just a notion,” he said. “An idea.”

He put his hands onto the girls’ desk and leaned over them.

“I am so glad that I have made you
think
.”

“Oh, we’re certainly thinking, sir,” said Maria.

“Eeee!” said Frances. She rolled her eyes at me. “Eeee! Eeeeeee!”

Afterwards, in the corridor, I just tried to get away. But the girls giggled behind me. Geordie egged them on. I turned back and glared. Geordie gasped, and pretended to be scared.

“Get stuffed,” I said.

I tried to catch Maria’s eye. I wanted to say to her: Look how we were together in the quarry. I wanted to say to Geordie: But you’ve always been my best mate. But Maria grinned and wouldn’t meet my eye. Geordie simpered. I clenched my fists.

“Howay, then,” Geordie said. “Try it, Davie.”

I hesitated.

“Howay,” he said. “What’s up? You scared?”

So I went for him and we battled and loads of kids gathered round us and yelled and chanted:

“Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight!”

Geordie thumped me in the gut and winded me but I stood up to it. I swung my fist and caught him in the nose and blood burst out. He squealed and jumped at me. I went for his throat. We sprawled on the ground and we grunted and cried and cursed.

“You bastard!” we kept yelling. “You bliddy snake!”

Then Prat was running and yelling for it to stop. I got free and stood up. I leaned down over Geordie.

“I hate you!” I snarled.

Then I ran.

seventeen

I spat on the ground as I left the school. I cursed them all. Mouldy was sitting on a bench outside the graveyard near the Swan. He was drunk, half asleep, a useless lump. I went closer. He looked at me through glassy eyes. No recognition in them.

“Fishface,” I hissed. I clenched my fists. “Think I’m scared of you?”

He growled. I leaned towards him.

“Fishface. Fishface.”

He hauled himself forward, tried to stand up, dropped back to the bench again.

“Fishface fatso slob,” I said.

I grinned and walked on. I passed right in front of him. I smelt him and hated him.

“Pig,” I told him. “Think I’m scared of you?”

I picked a stone up, weighed it in my hand, caught an image of it crashing onto Mouldy’s temple, heard him groan, saw him slump and twitch, saw the blood spurt. I couldn’t do it, of course. The temptation passed. I gently dropped the stone again.

I knocked on Crazy Mary’s door. Stephen let me in.

“I got the stuff,” I said.

“Good lad. Show it to me.”

“I’ve not got it with me, man.”

He took me to the kitchen. Crazy Mary was at the table with a cup of tea in front of her.

“Hello, Miss Doonan,” I said.

No reply. Stephen sniggered.

“Hello, stupid crazy bint,” he said.

No reply. Mary sat dead still.

“We’ll do it this weekend,” said Stephen.

He grinned.

“We’ll make a monster this weekend, Davie,” he said. “Tomorrow night. Right?”

He held my face in his hands.

“Right?” he said.

“Right!”

I glanced at Mary. What would she be making of our words?

Stephen giggled.

“Watch!” he said.

He dropped his jeans. He stuck his bare backside towards Mary. She did nothing. He pulled his jeans up.

“Have a go!” he said. “Go on! Drop your trousers and do it as well.”

He laughed in my face.

“It’s just a trick, man. Watch.”

He stretched his hand to Mary’s face. He clicked his fingers.

“Five, four, three, two, one,” he said. “Wake up, Mary.”

Crazy Mary blinked and twitched.

“Look,” said Stephen. “Somebody’s come calling on us, Aunty Mary.”

Mary smiled.

“It’s the good altar boy,” she said. “The lad with the lovely mam. Would you like some jam and bread, pet?” She shook her head. “Didn’t hear nobody come in, though.”

“You dropped off, Aunty Mary,” said Stephen.

“Aye,” she said. “I must have.”

She stared at her nephew, then at me.

“D’you think God protects us when we’re fast asleep?” she said.

“Course he does,” said Stephen. “He looks down on each and every one of us and keeps us safe. That’s his job.”

“My boy’s such a comfort to me,” said Mary.

She got a knife and started sawing at a loaf of bread. She cut a couple of slices. She held them up to Heaven.

“Everything on this earth is thine,” she said.

Stephen groaned.

“Ballocks,” he said. “Time to put her down again. Aunty Mary.” She turned. He passed his hand before her eyes.

“Put the bread down,” he said.

She put it down.

“Sit down.”

She sat down.

“You will sleep now, Mary,” he said. “You will wake only when I tell you to.”

Her eyes stayed open, but the light disappeared from them.

Stephen grinned.

“Just a trick,” he said. “Some’s much more susceptible than others. She’s a piece of cake.”

He watched me.

“I could teach you if you wanted me to,” he said. He stepped close, waved his hands, spoke in a put-on spooky voice.

“Sleeeeep,” he said. “Sleeeeeeep.”

He laughed. He flicked Mary’s nose.

“Go on,” he said. “Do it, man.”

“Leave her alone,” I said.

“Leave her alone,” he echoed in a little childish voice. He came closer. “I could do it to you as well,” he said. “I could put you under just like that. I could make you think anything I wanted you to think.”

We stared at each other. I clenched my fists, ready to battle again.

“Mebbe I’ve already done it,” he said, “and you don’t know. Mebbe you’re sitting on a chair like Crazy is and you’re in a dream and you’re like putty in my hands. Sleeep. Sleeeeep.”

I grabbed his collar.

“Try it and I’ll kill you,” I said.

He smiled.

“Kill?” he said. “You think you’re the kind of kid that could kill, Davie?”

“Aye,” I said. “Are you? What happened to your mam and dad?”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Dunno. Lots.”

He spat on the floor.

“I killed my dad, then I drove my mother mad,” he said. “Is that what you want to hear?”

“Dunno.”

“Dunno, dunno. Listen to you. Is that the way a killer talks?”

I let him go. I started to turn away, but he caught my arm.

“Don’t go, Davie,” he said.

I tugged free.

“I need you,” he said.

I turned back, and we looked into each other’s eyes.

“When I’m with you,” he said, “I know that I can be different. I know that I can be more than I am by myself.”

I sighed. Maybe that was true. And maybe it was true for me as well. I felt that something had drawn us together, that somehow we were meant to be together. There was no going back to the life I’d had before. Not until I’d gone through what I had to go through with Stephen Rose.

“So we’ll do it on Saturday,” he said. “We’ll make a creature out of clay and out of the strength of the Lord and out of the strength of Davie and Stephen Rose. Aye?”

“Aye. Saturday. Now wake Mary up.”

He woke her up. She smiled, touched by confusion and wonder.

“Don’t do it again,” I said. “She’s not a toy.”

“I won’t, Davie,” he said.

“Tomorrow,” I said.

“In the cave. After dark. I’ll be there.”

“I’ll be there. Goodbye, Miss Doonan.”

I headed back through the house to the door.

“But your jam and bread!” called poor Crazy Mary.

THREE

one

Saturday night. Lie on my bed, wait in the dark. No moon. The TV rumbles in the room below. I hear Dad’s barks of laughter. Hell is on my mind, its searing flames, its savage devils, its prodding, poking, sniggering imps. I hear the howls and sobs of the sinners. I imagine an eternity in Hell, time going on forever and forever without an end, with no chance of release or relief. “Let me believe in nowt,” I whisper. “Let there be life and nowt but life. Let the body be nowt but clay. Let God be gone. Let the soul be nowt but an illusion. Let death be nowt but rotting flesh and crumbling bones.” I touch the locket. “Let this be nowt but stains and dust and Sellotape and shreds of cloth.” Dad’s laughter rises from below again. “Let nowt matter,” I say. “Let it all be nowt but a bliddy joke. God, world, soul, flesh. Jokes, nowt but bliddy stupid jokes. Nowt but nowt, bliddy nowt.”

Soon they come upstairs. Mam puts her head round the door.

“Night night, son,” she whispers. “Night night.”

I pretend to sleep. I don’t say good night back until she’s gone again and closed the door again and then I want to cry and call out,

“Mammy! Come back, Mammy!”

But I go on lying there. I try to empty my head of everything, try to enter a place where there’s nothing: no world, no house, no room, no Davie. But it’s Davie, of course, who rises from the bed an hour later, Davie who quietly puts on his clothes, who picks up the locket, who steps from his room, creeps downstairs, hesitates at the front door, Davie who opens the door and holds it open and lets the cold night air into the house, Davie who wants his mam to call, “What you doing, Davie?”, Davie who wants his dad to stamp downstairs and stop him and haul him back, Davie who closes the door behind him when none of this happens, Davie who steps out alone into the night.