2007 - A tale etched in blood and hard black pencel (17 page)

Joanne’s response to this rebuff, however, is simply a renewed effort to consolidate her successes on the girls’ side. This one is too good to be allowed to slip away, and she looks fiercely determined—desperate, even—to capitalise fully. Everybody has heard Scot’s remark, which threatens to shift the focus, so she needs to act quickly, and she does. With the teachers still not back to take in the lines, she skips a few places along the queue and touches Eleanor on the shoulder. “Bugsy touch!” she whispers as she skips away, waving her right hand in the air.

Bugsy touch is kind of like tig, where you have to touch somebody else to get rid of it, but whereas tig is just a harmless game, there is something nasty about bugsy touch, because it’s supposed to be Eleanor’s bugs that you’ve got. The spiteful element of it doesn’t stop there, either. Unlike tig, it tends not to take place in the wider range of the playground, but during the lines, where there is limited scope for movement, and with the added suspense that the teachers may appear at any second, at which point everyone must stand still, leaving someone with the bugs. That person then gets treated by the others as if they were truly smelly, and it’s an excuse to come out with things even the worst of them wouldn’t say directly to Eleanor, though she is likely to be in earshot.

Joanne knows well that Karen is one of the girls who won’t join in. This sometimes leaves Karen with the bugsy touch because she refuses to pass it on, but other times someone else will touch her in order to get the game going again among those who want to be involved. There is a cluster of such refuseniks towards the front of the line, causing the game to restrict itself to Joanne’s immediate vicinity and greatly reducing the chances that it will be Karen who ends up tainted. However, the very fact that Joanne does not seem frustrated by this is what really has Karen worried, something not eased by Joanne contriving to end up with the bugs when the teachers appear.

It’s Mrs Cook and Mrs Henderson, who teach the Primary Fours. The Fives will therefore get sent in first, as the teachers will send their own classes in last and accompany them to their respective rooms. This means that there is no adult escort as they make their way inside and up the stairs to Miss O’Connor’s class. Consequently, Karen is able to continue chatting to Helen and Michelle, and has forgotten about the threat from Joanne by the time she reaches the classroom, already turning her worries to whether she’ll remember her Catechism answers that she tried to memorise last night.

The Catechism is a wee green book full of things that are like prayers, in that they are all about God and Jesus and all that, except they come in the form of questions and answers, whereas prayers are a bit more like poems. Miss O’Connor assigns them three or four Catechism answers a week, to be tested on Thursday afternoon. The problem with this is that if you memorise them too early in the week, you can have forgotten them by Thursday, and if you leave it until later, you can forget to do it altogether. This has happened to Karen a couple of times, and it is an utterly horrible sensation when you realise as you walk in after lunchtime; but sometimes even though she has learnt the answers, she forgets bits when it comes to reciting them, because Miss O’Connor is quite scary and makes her nervous. Miss O’Connor asks at random, so you can be lucky and get asked after a few other people, which refreshes your memory. But if you get the answers wrong, you have to copy them all out ten times for the next day. This itself is not a particularly arduous sanction, but the tongue-lashing that comes with it is far worse. What’s on Karen’s mind as she approaches their class is that Miss O’Connor has been in a horrible mood all day, and that’s without anybody doing anything to make her angry.

Karen is rehearsing her answers in her head when Joanne suddenly appears at her side, taps her on the shoulder and declares: “Eeeew! That’s Karen got Eleanor’s smelly bugs
and
her own. Double bugsy touch! Eeeew!”

Karen goes to her desk, trying to shrug it off, but some of the girls filing past are holding their noses or doing wafting gestures in front of their faces. She glances at Joanne as she sits down two rows along, and sees her grimace like she’s about to be sick, though all the while her eyes are indicating how much she’s loving it.

Karen feels this exasperated rage thrill through her. It’s not a hurt, not a recoil from being singled out, but an offended certainty that she just shouldn’t have to be putting up with this. She can hear Helen once again advise that she ‘just ignore her’, but while she finds Joanne’s antics pathetic, she really grudges her the pleasure she’s taking, and wants very much to stop it. She looks to the open door and listens carefully above the low-level chatter of the class taking their seats, searching for the sound of Miss O’Connor’s approach. You can always hear her coming because she wears these high heels that go clack-clack against the stairs as she comes up them. Karen hears no such sound, so there is time to act. She doesn’t want to lower herself to the level of the bugsy touch game, but equally she doesn’t want Joanne to have the satisfaction of sitting there mugging at her all afternoon.

Karen gets up and runs not to Joanne, but to Geraldine, who has just squeezed herself into the otherwise ample space between her desk and the connected bench. She brushes the top of Geraldine’s head and then makes her way quickly to Joanne.

“Well, if I’ve got the double bugsy touch,” she says, “you can have the double tubby touch,” and slaps her on the upper arm.

Joanne grabs where Karen has just hit her and cowers her head into her chest, shrieking and moaning in a manner massively disproportionate to the force Karen used. It seems a ridiculous—even potentially embarrassing—reaction, until a voice sounds shrilly behind Karen and turns her insides to ice: “Karen Gillespie! Get away from there and go to my desk,
at oncel
”

Karen turns to see Miss O’Connor standing just outside in the corridor, next to the other Primary Five teacher Mrs Robertson, from whose class she has apparently just emerged.

Karen barely breathes as she makes her way to the desk. Miss O’Connor closes the door with a room-silencing slam and then redundantly calls the class to order. Then she walks slowly to her desk and sits down, waiting a few seconds before looking at Karen, who can feel herself physically trembling.

“I won’t tolerate violence in my classroom,” she says. “Go directly to Mrs Harris and tell her I need to borrow her belt.”

§

It takes ages for Karen to return. Feels like ages to Martin, anyway, and must feel much longer for Karen. They’re doing the Catechism Inquisition, as Scotty calls it. O’Connor makes out she picks folk in random order, but Martin knows that’s pish. He never gets picked until near the end because he never forgets to learn the answers, and the more folk who come out with the right responses early on, the easier it is for those who are called later to pick them up. This just proves she’s more interested in catching folk out than in them learning the Catechism, because otherwise what would it matter if a few kids picked up the answers from hearing their classmates? The end result would still be that they knew their stuff.

Everybody hates O’Connor. Folk think you must like the teacher if you’re clever or if you never get into trouble, but they’re wrong. Martin thinks it’s the other way round: that he hates her more than most because he’s giving his best and still gets met with a sour-faced scowl from a woman who seems to be in an eternal bad mood. It’s not because she’s strict; Clarke was strict, and he didn’t hate her. Teachers ought to be strict if they’re doing their job properly (Mrs Ford is known as a push-over, and any time Martin’s seen her class when on an errand, it has looked pure murder). But O’Connor’s nasty streak belongs more among the weans than the staff.

Sending Karen to fetch the belt herself, for instance. That’s just sick. And she always does it, too, though it wouldn’t surprise him if she had her own belt and sent folk anyway. Scotty got it a few weeks back. He said going to Harris’s office and bringing it back was far worse than the belting itself. This was something she was undoubtedly aware of, seeing as she went on enough about the Romans’ cruelty in making Jesus carry his own cross.

Well seeing O’Connor never asked Joanne if she was all right. She knew fine Joanne was acting it, but O’Connor’s been in a horrible mood—even by her standards—all day, and was just looking for someone to take it out on.

It’s a disgrace. If anybody deserves the belt, never mind a wee slap on the arm, it’s that cow Joanne, and he’s not just saying that because she’s nasty to him and calls him Professor Brainbox. Martin knows you’re not supposed to be cruel about people’s appearances, but he can’t help thinking Fat Joanne has never looked so ugly as she does right then when Karen finally walks back in carrying the belt. Her face is a truly unflattering mixture of delight, satisfaction and cruelly eager anticipation.

Poor Karen. You can tell she’s suffering and has spent all of her gloomy errand trying with all her might not to cry. She’s not blubbing, but her eyes are moist and Martin can see streaks on her cheeks. He hasn’t really paid her any particular attention before. The boys don’t talk much to the girls, so you usually notice only the ones that for whatever reason stand out or make themselves the centre of attention. Karen isn’t super-brainy, like Helen, or thick like Margaret-Mary. Nor is she dead pretty, like Michelle, or pure horrible like Eleanor. But standing there, helpless as she hands over the instrument of her imminent punishment, she’s suddenly got Martin feeling all funny inside and wishing he could come to her rescue. He’s daydreaming there’s some way he could lie to take the blame, and all that would come with it. Wouldn’t that be amazing? And then she’d want to kiss him.

§

There is a reverent hush as Karen is directed to a spot in front of the blackboard and reluctantly puts up her hands, but Colin suspects he’s not the only one who is secretly delighted, as he is any time O’Connor decides somebody is for the belt. You feel a bit guilty when it’s one of your pals, but it’s still an exciting spectacle. The teachers like it, too. Otherwise they would do it out in the corridor, wouldn’t they, like he’s heard one teacher does at Braeside Primary. Like it?
Love
it. That’s why they make the whole thing into an exhibition, with O’Connor even giving it the maximum build-up by sending the victim to Harris for the hardware.

This is the first time it’s ever been a girl, though, and it’s making him feel a little weird. Good weird, though. O’Connor is the worst teacher they’ve ever had, and everybody hates her, but there’s something about those long black boots she wears that makes him think of the ladies in pantomimes. She’s got long black hair, too, like the Wicked Queen in
Snow White
.

Seeing O’Connor—or any of the women teachers—using the belt gives him a feeling he never gets when it’s Momo (even though he is the scariest and hits the hardest), and now the prospect of O’Connor giving it to a girl seems to be multiplying whatever it is.

He feels a tightening between his legs and realises he has a stauner.

Robbie hopes she greets. He loves seeing folk get the belt; loves it more when it’s someone who’s never had it before. He’d fucking love to see a fucking snob like Helen get it. She’d greet, definitely. Or Martin. He’d greet as well. Or Colin. Robbie battered him in Primary Three. Poof. Fucking snobs.

O’Connor brings it down. Hear the swish, hear the crack. Robbie’s been told it used to be fours and sixes, and sometimes they’d insist it was the same hand. That would be fuckin
yes
. Just when they’re in pure agony, they’ve got to stick their mitt back up for some more, until it’s red-fucking raw. But the most you ever see now is two, and usually on different hands. Karen’s getting two. Clarke only ever gave one, but O’Connor always gives two. She hasn’t cried at the first one, but O’Connor’s making her wait a wee minute between strokes, giving her time to think about the next one coming, and that might set her off. He really hopes she greets. Come on, greet.

Crack, it comes down again.

Karen doesn’t greet, though. Her eyes are all filled up and her throat’s pure swollen, but she keeps her face straight as she walks back to her seat.

Then
she greets.

Fuckin yes.

§

Martin turns over in the bed and sees his clothes scattered on the floor, the jacket and trousers he worries so much about getting crushed when he pulls on a seatbelt just lying abandoned on the carpet. He instinctively puts a hand to his head, but there’s no hangover, and thus no inebriation to mitigate what has happened.

Christ
.

He hung up that same jacket, that shirt too, in his wardrobe, the first time he went to bed with Becky Soleno, whose rocketing public profile occasioned that inescapable bloody photo in
Heat
. Two nights ago, he’d at least taken the time to drape his clothes delicately over a chair as he and Kara undressed one another. Last night, however, there had been no room in his thoughts for anything beyond the extremely immediate.

Jesus Christ
.

He’s had grudge fucks before. Or rather, he thought he had. That floor manager Maria at Carlton, with whom he had all those run-ins; that acid-tongued harpy Emelia on the Sky News legal team. Rechannelled tension, a physical catharsis of selfish, angry sex. There was something almost healthy about that.

Last night, though:
that
was a grudge fuck, thirty years in the making.

How was it possible to have such a good time with someone you hated so much? How was it possible that the mutual dislike and resentment itself should be what made it incomparable?

God almighty
. It had been animal. It had been ugly. It had been the absolute antithesis of ‘making love’.
Jesus
, even the way they talked to each other was still full of spite and mistrust.

He remembers pulling her bra off, her kneeling back from him for a second as he looked at her tits.

“Droopy enough?” she asked accusingly. “Aye, I bet Becky Soleno’s don’t look like this, though they might do a dozen years and two weans doon the line.”