Wee Danny (2 page)

A tubby supervisor tries to take the lead. His bald head is ridged with stress. He doesn't want to be here any more than the rest of us. "What's going on here?"

Miss drops her voice a few hundred octaves. "I think Adrian was going to start a fight with Danny. Conan broke it up."

Good for you, Miss. Perfectly put.

"I was just talking to him." Adrian's words are filtered through snuffled breath. He's snorting back tears.

"That's bullshit, Miss," I say. "He was calling my ma a hoor and everything."

"Watch your language, Danny."

"Sorry, Miss."

Adrian is on his hands and knees. The busted seams of his heavy-metal T-shirt gape open. I can see some budding rolls of fat in there. He's soft as shite under those printed skulls.

"Conan grabbed me for no reason." Adrian finds his feet. "That retard shouldn't even be in our class."

Now Conan looks angry. Miss is on a whole other level. She tries to hide it with a deep breath and a pause before she speaks, but even the supervisors are tensed up. "Get this little liar out of my sight."

For a second I think she's talking about me because Adrian is a good bit taller than her. But the death glare is placed squarely where it should be. The supervisors snap into action and grab the prick by his oxters. His head hangs. He doesn't struggle. I have no sympathy for him.

"I'm not a retard, Miss."

Miss reaches up and lays a hand on Conan's shoulder. "It was a horrible thing to say. Just try to put it out of your mind, Conan."

I notice that she didn't actually say he isn't a retard. It doesn't look like Conan has picked up on that, though. He's grinning like a … well, he just looks really happy. And it strikes me; Conan loves Miss too. I'm going to have to have a word with this big lad.

I'm uncomfortable with the noise Conan makes when he nails the table tennis ball. It's somewhere between a giggle and a grunt, which is fine, we all have funny wee habits. But it's just so bloody loud. The rec room is mad echoey too. That doesn't really help.

Look, it's not as if I give a flying fuck about the kids at the pool table that keep looking over. I'm not going to see any of these losers again when I get out of here. It's just that I think life could be easier for Conan if he changed a few things about himself. But I'm not going to be the one to try and explain that to him. As far as I'm concerned, inviting him to play table tennis with me is enough of a payback for his help with Adrian.

I serve up a cracker. Good spin. The ball shoots over the net. Conan returns it with a back-hander. He holds his bat like the Chinese players do in the Olympics. Must have seen how good they were and decided to copy them or something. I think you should have to hold the handle properly as part of the rules. But I don't argue with Conan about it. I concentrate on this high-speed rally instead.

Back, forth, back, forth, back, forth.

Whack. I've got him.

Shite.

The barbarian's faster than he looks. I'd changed direction with the last return and thought I had him. But he turned like a jack-knifing lorry and blasted me right back. I might actually lose this game.

Conan waits patiently for me to retrieve the ball. I move slowly, taking the time to eyeball the pool players until they get back to their own game. Neither of them breathes a word to me, but I can tell what they're thinking. Bastards are lucky I'm on my best behaviour these days. What I'd really like to do is wrap their pool cues around their heads.

I return to the table but I'm reluctant to start the game up just yet. Need a few minutes to catch my breath. I swear to God, I think I struggle more for breath since I had to give up the fags. Fuck, I could murder a Regal King Size right now. Maybe follow that up with a spliff of the finest green Belfast has to offer. That old familiar flutter in my lungs teases me a little. I can't wait to get back to Beechmount, my old stomping ground. That first night of freedom is going to be bonkers.

"Here, Conan. You're pretty good at this. Haven't seen you about here much, like."

"I usually go swimming."

The memory of chlorine's stink makes my upper thighs tingle.

"Not allowed to swim anymore."

"Why?"

"Because I put my hands on Adrian."

I still feel a bit bad that he had to lose some of his privileges that day.

"The pool here's shite anyway, big man. I can't stand it."

"Swimming's my favourite thing."

He looks a bit annoyed and I'm not comfortable talking about the swimming pool. I've never been because my ma still hasn't sent in shorts long enough to cover me up properly.

"How long are you going to be here for, big man?"

The barbarian shrugs.

"You don't know? Jesus, I'm counting the months. Down to one hand now."

Conan looks at me like I've just shit on the table. I wave my left hand at him.

"I mean, less than five months to go. Like, I can count it on one hand?"

The big lad nods at me but I'm still not convinced he's got it.

"How come you don't talk much?" I ask.

"I don't like it when people make fun of me."

"I'm not, mate. I'm just wondering."

"No."

"No, what?"

"No … I mean … sometimes I say things and people think it's funny. But it's not meant to be funny, you know?"

I chop the air with my table-tennis bat. "Honestly, Conan? I like it when people laugh. With me, at me, whatever. It's all good."

The barbarian tilts his head to one side. "How can it be good?"

"When they laugh with me, I'm the funny fucker, right? That makes me feel good. When they laugh at me, I kick the fuck out of them. That makes me feel good too."

Conan's eyes get big and he claps a meaty hand across his lips.

"You okay, mate?"

He nods and breathes heavily through his nose. I replay what I've just said, try to figure out what got to him.

"Do you not like it when people curse around you?"

The barbarian shrugs.

"What's with the face, then?" I point at his widened and now watering eyes. "Why do you look so … so …" I pull from my GCSE English vocabulary, "indignant?"

Conan takes the hand from his mouth and rubs at one of his eyes for so long I'm worried it might pop.

He takes a deep breath. "You're funny. I nearly laughed at you, there."

I look this kid up and down. Paint him green and he'd pass for the Incredible Hulk's wee brother. "So why didn't you?"

"I thought you might kick the fuck out of me."

I wish they'd get one of them couches in this room. The kind you see on TV when some hot, blonde American chick is spilling her guts to the psychiatrist or psychologist or therapist or whatever. I'm still not sure what the difference is with all those shades of shrink. Mine's an educational psychologist, I know that much at least. He tells me to call him Alan. If I had it my way I wouldn't call the fucker at all.

"Anything strange or startling, Danny?"

I shift on the shitty plastic school chair. These things are a nightmare when it gets hot. Sweat just streams down your
sheugh
, like. But it's mild enough today and I'm in good form. I decide to go easy on Alan, the ball-bag.

"There's not much in the way of strange and startling around here,
mo chara
." I'm pretty sure Alan's a protestant so I tend to slip in wee Irish words here and there when we talk, make sure he's constantly aware I'm from the other side of the fence. Nothing fancy – I failed the fuck out of Irish at Corpus Christi – just stuff like
mo chara
,
slainté
and
slan
(my friend, cheers and bye). "It's the same shit … stuff, I mean. Different colours."

Alan nods and flicks through a file. I notice he's got a nice chair. A spinny one with wheels and a cushion.

"I can see you've been behaving yourself, lately."

"Aye, that's probably why I'm bored."

Alan frowns at me.

"That was just a wee joke."

"Right." He flicks a few more pages. "It's not written down here but I thought I'd heard something about a recent scuffle?"

"Me? Fighting? You shouldn't believe everything you hear."

"Well, since it's not written down, I have to assume that you weren't to blame in the situation."

There's a good wee saying about the word, 'assume'. But I've used it on Alan before and I decide to leave it.

"And if you weren't to blame, Danny, that's great." He looks at me like he knows I was to blame. "Because there's something coming along that you might be interested in."

I flick my chin up.
Go on, then.

"I've been in touch with a few contacts in the National Trust. We've put our heads together and come up with a constructive scheme that'll benefit everybody involved. And I'd like to get you involved."

"So what's the scheme?"

"It's a kind of community service. You ever been to Castle Ward?"

I shake my head.

"It's out by Strangford, in County Down."

"Is that near Newcastle?"

My brother Paul took me to Newcastle one time when he first got a car. It's a cracking wee town with a beach and some decent parks. Spent a tenner in the amusements and got some great ice cream down there. Always wanted to go again and win that tenner back.

"No, Strangford isn't a stone's throw from Newcastle or anything, but I suppose it's the same neck of the woods."

I push out my lower lip and huff a bit of air. Try to get the message across that I'm getting bored now. "So what about this castle, or whatever?"

"Castle Ward. It's a great spot. Lovely big grounds, a sunken garden, tours of the mansion."

It sounds like a load of shite.

"So Castle Ward isn't actually a castle? It's just a big house?"

"It's a little more than a big house."

"Yeah, but you can see houses anywhere. What's so special about this one?"

I instantly regret the question. Alan slabbers on about mixed architecture and aristocrats or architecture and mixed aristocrats and I tune out for a bit. I think about slot machines and mint ice cream to pass the time. Alan taps the table like he always does when he wants to say something he thinks is important. I tune back in.

"Oh, and if you're interested in castles, there's Aubrey's Castle too. It's on the grounds overlooking the Lough. Very interesting story behind that."

I'm sick of all the chatter.

"Yeah, great. But instead of the history lesson, could you just tell me what the scheme is?"

Alan's shoulders sag slightly. He's good at acting patient, though. I'd like to play a hand of poker with him some time. It's a sure thing I'd clean him out, but I imagine it'd be a bit of a challenge at least.

"Basically," Alan says, "Castle Ward has a few rough edges. If you keep your nose clean for another few weeks, you could be part of a team of young people who'll be tasked to help out with reparations on the grounds."

"Like fixing stuff?"

"Yes."

"Outside?"

"That's right."

"For a whole day, like?"

"Three days, Danny."

I put aside the wee remarks about child labour and the like and give Alan one of my best smiles. The one I usually save for Miss.

"Sign me up,
mo chara
.
Slainté
and
slan
."

My head's still spinning with the thought of this trip to Castle Ward. So it's not Newcastle. It's some aul fancy house in the middle of nowhere. Fine. The important thing is I'll be
outside
. Not the kind of outside like we get here for Unit Activities, with marked out boundaries, cameras and supervisors checking our every move. Proper outside where a wee doggie might trot up to me for a bit of attention. A place where the bastards can't control every single thing about me.

There's a chance I'll even be able to get a fag off somebody. It'll taste like shit, no doubt, but I want to find out for sure myself. All the substance abuse crap that gets drilled into us, it just reminds me of the fun I'm missing out on.

I head for the living room. There'll be nothing good on the TV but I want to sit in a comfy seat after spending so long in that crappy plastic one chatting to Alan. Maybe even get a little time to myself since most of the others will be in the rec room or the sports hall until
The Simpsons
comes on.

But no. There's somebody here. I recognise Adrian's slumped shoulders before I realise the guy with him is Conan. The barbarian has his head on the arm of one of the sofas. I can't see his face from this angle but he looks as if he could be asleep. Adrian stands in front of him and roots about in the front pocket of his jeans.