Boy Who Made It Rain (12 page)

I was warned in advance by a few good souls in the school. People who obviously knew what they were capable of. I listened. I understood.

‘See those NEDs, man?' Conor Duffy said.

‘NEDs?' I asked.

‘The mad squad, the wans wey the trackies oan an the greasy napper.'

‘You mean funny mad, or mad mad?'

‘Listen, Clem, me old son, the mad squad ir the only wans in this school tae watch oot fur.'

‘Really?'

‘A'm tellin ye.'

‘So NEDs would be like chavs where I come from?'

‘Dae these chavs carry?'

‘Excuse me?'

‘Knives, chibs, screwdrivers…dae they carry?'

‘I suppose some of them do. My last school didn't really have a problem with chavs or NEDs.'

‘Thir the same hing, then.'

‘Like I said, we didn't have a problem with them.'

‘Well this wan diz. We hiv a major problem wey NEDs,' Conor said. I sensed the anger in his voice as well as a little seduction. Or maybe it was the way his dialect, put on or not, danced around and escaped from the side of his mouth. There was a perceptible pride to it as well. Like the pride of attending a school that so happened to house the maddest guys in mad town. My feeling was that Conor would be dining out for many years to come on his stories of surviving a school riddled with a NEDs plague. Tales would be fabricated and stories of fraternising embellished. Who knows, perhaps he could put together some sort of survival manual in the future.

‘Well, I'll stay clear of them,' I said.

‘Dae that, ma man.'

‘To be honest, I doubt I'll have any dealings with them, Conor.'

‘Make sure ye don't coz these mental bastards would hiv nae qualms aboot chibbin an English guy like yersel.' Then came a theatrical pause. ‘Nae qualms at aw.' He did a mock stabbing motion with an imaginary knife. (He was in the exam class for drama). That's how I learnt what chibbing was. The verb ‘to chib.' I liked it. But I couldn't foresee a context of when I could, or would, use it.

‘Okay. I'll keep that in mind.'

‘Aw it takes is a wrang word or lookin at sumbudy the wrang way.'

‘Thanks.'

‘Seriously, man, tread carefully aroon those psychos.' Then Conor's little friend entered the conversation. A feeble-looking guy, who had a ton of goodness about him, and not much else by the state of his dishevelled clothes; he was affectionately referred to as Wee Sean.

‘They need nae excuse, dude.' I sniggered at the use of the word dude, which triggered Wee Sean's I'm-as-serious-as-cancer persona into action. ‘I'd advise you tae keep yer trap shut aroon those mental loons.'

‘I intend to.'

‘We're nae tryin to frighten ye ir anythin like that, it jist thit they might take exception tae yer accent.'

‘Cheers.'

‘Nae bother, dude,' Wee Sean said, evidently content with his role as security consultant. My face must have contorted into a symbol of worry.

‘Don't panic, Clem, me old son,' Conor said, with an air of reassurance.

‘No, I'm okay. Seriously.'

‘Look, thir in the remdems anyway so ye won't hiv much tae dae wey them.'

‘Remdems?' I asked.

‘It means remedial.'

‘What, all of them?'

‘Ivry last wan, dude,' Wee Sean said.

‘Listen, forget that, dae ye play fitbaw?' Conor asked me.

‘I'm afraid I don't. Rugby was what we played at our last school.'

‘Nae luck,' Wee Sean said.

My negative response hammered the death nail into the conversation. That was me firmly out of the gang. Not that I wished to join it in the first place, but if I had any aspirations to be a part of it there was no chance. Above all else they probably thought I was gay. Not liking football has that effect on other males. It seems to be the main contributing factor to being homosexual. A prerequisite for entry into the gay set.

Rosie was fluctuating between being pissed off and making a half-arsed attempt at blanking me. She was fluctuating between talking and not talking. Her best friend, Cora, was giving me some serious intense looks as well. The evils as they say up here. At first I put it down to teenage girl things and then to girl things in general, and then, as it continued, I put it down to a Glasgow thing. The cold shoulder troubled me. Cora, I couldn't have cared less about, but Rosie troubled me. We had been getting on brilliantly. I was spending loads of time at her house teaching her the guitar, listening to tunes and generally chilling out. She had a cool room. I loved just doing nothing with her, hanging out. I had never really experienced it like that before. We took our relationship to the next level in that room. We had become a damn good partnership. Solid. Both of us had almost mentioned the L word. That's why it was so confusing that she was demonstrating this kind of behaviour. By the Tuesday afternoon it had gone on too long. I raised the issue in our Italian class. Was there a chink that had somehow alluded me? A caveat?

‘Have I done something?'

‘What?'

‘Have I done something wrong?'

‘I dunno, have you?'

‘That's what I'm asking, Rosie.'

‘Well if you don't know, don't expect me to tell you.'

‘Tell you what?'

‘It's nothing.'

‘It's obviously something, Rosie. You haven't broken breath to me for almost two days.'

‘What are you going on about? Course I have.'

‘Trust me, you haven't.'

‘What are we doing now?' Rosie asked.

‘You know what I mean.'

‘Do I?'

‘Look, stop being so mental, if you have something to say to me then spit it out. I can't be doing with all this evasive shit.'

‘Don't start throwing your fancy words in my direction.'

‘Jesus, never mind.'

‘Rosie! Clem! Any problems?' Mrs Lenihan interrupted.

‘No, Miss.'

‘No, Miss.'

‘Okay, good. Get on with it then.' And we did get on with it. Copying verb conjugations into our notebooks as if our lives depended on it. We were playing that game where the action engaged in was intensified while the mind was pin balling around a completely different subject matter.

‘I wasn't not talking to you, by the way,' Rosie whispered.

‘Well, what is it then?'

‘Have you not heard the rumours?'

‘What rumours?'

‘What rumours? The rumours of you and that slapper Croal.'

‘What?'

‘You heard.'

‘What's Cora been saying now?'

‘Cora didn't say anything. She didn't need to,' Rosie barked.

‘GET ON WITH IT YOU TWO!' Lenihan said.

‘I'll speak to you after class,' I whispered.

If it wasn't cowering away from the school's nutters it was shielding myself from the rumour rousers and gossip-mongers. Not that I wish to go on and on about my old school, but in my old school it was perfectly natural, and somewhat encouraged, to establish and build relationships with teachers. If you applied a similar belief system in this environment it obviously meant you were either sucking someone's cock or trying to shag them. What sadness. What a fantasy world. Did these people exist in the vacuum of television soaps and juvenile junk mags? How utterly preposterous. I despised each and everyone of them for this slur. For trying to separate Rosie and me. A shambolic shower if ever there was one; I hated the way they all purported to be free of their adolescence, I loathed the way they flaunted their pathetic adult demeanour and I detested the way they presented their sordid zeitgeist philosophies to whoever would listen. This odious spawn of
Big Brother
and
X Factor
could be exposed with the click of a finger, yet here they were collectively spreading their vile lies about me. It's a bad place to be when the mind allows you to empathise with those mad bastards who shoot up their school somewhere in the US…or Germany. It's the daily humiliation they undoubtedly suffer at the hands of their victims, along with the isolation, that sends them over the edge. In some macabre sense, they themselves have been killed way before those who soon will be. That was as far as my empathy took me.

I left school early that day, directly after Italian class. I had no appetite for them. No stomach for any discussion with Rosie. In any case it would only have uprooted the anger I had of seeing her hunched behind a car outside the school's main entrance a few weeks previously. Spying. Badly. What happened was Miss Croal and I were chatting after the study class. A nondescript student-teacher chat
‒
something about the future and what I wanted to do, where I saw myself in years to come; the same chat most teachers have with their senior students. I think it made them feel empowered and worldly by passing on their words of wisdom to us fledglings
‒
pretty dreary really.

Here's the thing, halfway through the conversation I caught a glimpse of Rosie out the corner of my eye, wedged between two car bumpers. She was just staring at us, screwing her face up like people do when they are trying hard to hear. As if it makes a difference. Bonkers behaviour. My initial thought was to shield her from Miss Croal's gaze for fear that she would cause everyone concerned unnecessary embarrassment. Least of all me. I didn't want the conflict with Rosie so I let it go. I wrapped up the conversation and rebuffed Miss Croal's offer of a lift. It was in everyone's best interests.

The biggest disappointment with our conversation in the Italian class and the car bumper incident was that I believed Rosie to be above all the bullshit and innuendo that went on at the school. It was one of her more attractive qualities. I was angry with her for sinking to the same level as her peers. For actually allowing herself to be complicit in the tittle-tattle, for questioning my integrity, for being utterly ridiculous.

After that untruthful bile spread like an Australian bush fire, I cut myself off from the others at school, which wasn't that difficult as friends could be counted on a hand with one finger, acquaintances on the other. Behind their looks a new narrative was being constructed, one beyond that of simple query and conjecture. In their minds each and every one of them had me sussed and, thus, tailored their chat, their stare, their silence accordingly. That was okay, for me what was worse was the laughter behind the hands. I couldn't seem to get to grips with that. Or the exaggerated sniggers when I passed them by. Usually it took about five paces for it to begin. The sound of it pierced through me. And it wasn't all about the cancerous lies either, it could have been about my hairstyle, my clothes, my shoes, the badges on my bag, the music I listened to (not that any of them would have known what I was listening to). The style of my headphones came under their scrutiny and chagrin also. Anything that took their fancy really.

Did I mention the ritual piss taking of my accent? I had to laugh myself at the poor imitation that some of them attempted to make. They couldn't quite master the pronunciation of my southern English accent, especially
ing
words. Some particular elevated dimwits screeched out Scouse and Cockney accents. I tried to baffle them by refusing to talk or participate in class. I basically shut up. It didn't work.

Warm hearted with a plentiful blend of black humour
was what the book said about Glasgow. Obviously its researchers never ventured close to this place.

‘I don't care what any of they dickheads say, Clem. It's just me and you against they bastards.' Rosie said.

‘What about Cora?' I said.

‘She's just a jealous wee bitch at times, don't mind her.'

‘I don't, it's you I'm worried about.'

‘I'm not the one getting pure pelters at school all the time.'

‘I can handle it.'

‘They're evil bastards,' she said.

‘Don't worry. It'll be over soon.'

‘If any of them say anything to my face, I'm telling you, I'll have them.'

‘I wouldn't get too upset about it, if I were you.'

‘Wee fuckin NED numpties. Especially that Fran McEvoy, I hate that prick.' Rosie said. I found this funny. A few months ago I wouldn't have had a clue what an expression like
‘
NED numpties
'
meant. But I did agree with her about McEvoy.

‘Just leave it, Rosie.'

‘Well, it affects me an all, you know.'

‘I know, but let's just leave it.' We cuddled. ‘Let's continue, shall we?' We kissed.

‘But I'm pure shite at guitar.'

‘It's okay, I'm a good teacher.'

They came out of nowhere, and I mean nowhere. It wasn't as if there was an abundance of snow on the ground. You'd have been hard pushed to form a proper snowball from the stuff that remained.

I filled up my iPod with some winter music and skipped off to school. Usually I met Rosie on the way, but this morning she was off to an art gallery with the rest of her advanced higher art class. I was flying solo. Or so I thought.

Twenty yards from the school gate.

Swoosh!

These things were frozen solid like ice. As I said, I didn't see them.

Bang!

Back of the head, just behind the ear. Surge of pain. Hand goes to the hit zone, head turns to the direction of the thrower, my oppressor.

Swoosh!

Another missile in full flow, slow mo. Too late to duck.

Smack!

Direct hit in the eye socket.

Both hits demonstrating an accuracy and skill of a master marksman.

Compliments.

Bent double holding the eye, thinking the most horrid thoughts. Snot escaping from my nose, something seeping out of my eye. Hopefully just the water from the ice ball. It feels neither hot nor cold, which leads me to believe it's blood. Or worse, a pus-like liquid. Danger juice. Don't take the hand away. Leave it on there, press tight on it, keep the eye in place, don't let the little bugger fall out. If you let it fall out you're done for.