Colm Brady

The Messenger

Mick got off the bus followed by Gubmund. They turned and walked through wrought iron gates and onto a tree-lined avenue leading to the school buildings.
“Did you see that Spitting Image on last night?”
“No, was it on RTE?”
“Oh I forgot ye haven’t got into the 1980s yet. Would ye not put up an aerial like everyone else?”
“It’s the transmitter up the road.”
“Oh yeah, the transmitter.”
“We can get RTE even when the coat-hanger falls out but nothing else. One of the neighbours put up a thirty foot aerial then it collapsed and killed his dog. The ould fellah says we should learn from his mistakes.”
“But you don’t have a dog.”
“I didn’t bother mentioning that. I reckon he would have us living up a tree using ogham stones to communicate if he had his way.”
Mick glared at the tarmac as they crossed the threshold of the grounds proper.
“What the fuck are you wearing on your feet?”
“They got them at the weekend. The ould lass says they are loafers.”
“But they are brown, and they have heels.”
“They are tan and that’s what loafers look like.”
“One of them is tan and the other one is dark tan. Where did they get them?”
“They just sort of appeared. I thought they might have got them on the markets in the North. Are they that bad?”
“If anyone sees them you are fuckin’ dead. What colour are everyone else’s shoes?”
Gubmund glanced around and looked deflated.
“They are grey and a few black pairs. I’m in trouble amn’t I?”
“They will eat you alive. If the boarders spot them you don’t want to know what they will do. Remember when Clams came in all proud of the sheepskin coat that his Mammy bought him?”
“Yeah Fucus and the boarders brought it into the urinals and … Jesus, me shoes! I can’t go home wearing a pair of piss containers!”
“I am afraid it’s worse than that captain. I don’t reckon those heels belong on a pair of men’s shoes. I think you are swanning into this kip in a pair of brown women’s shoes that don’t match. The only reason they will piss on them is if they set them on fire first.”
“You know the smokies called at our house in a Hiace on Saturday; you don’t think the shoes came from them do you? That would be instant death in this place. They hate poor people but they hate smokies even more.”
“That’s cos the smokes don’t give a fuck about them and would beat seven colours of shite out of them given any excuse.”
“Jesus, women’s shoes; this is gonna get nasty. Yer man Ethics got declared bent just for saying that word in English.”
“What word?”
“Ethics. He only said it once. He doesn’t seem to mind being a bender but I’m fucked if …”
“You will be if the boarders get you. You need protection, someone hard. Someone like Mongo.”
“What have I got that that lunatic needs? He hits priests for fuck sake! He doesn’t give a shite about a couple of farmers with no money.”
“Well I hear his last messenger is suspended. Mongo is doing a nice trade in selling loose Rothmans, chocolate and erm, other stuff for the boarders. If we take a detour by the smoking shed we might just catch him.”
Smoking was prohibited in the whole school with one exception. Students who had permission from their parents could use a shelter beside the soccer pitches. With the literal-mindedness that all adolescent boys possess it became known as ‘the smoking shed’. It was understood that no priest was going to raid the shed seeking parental notes and Mongo was there to ensure there was no glue-sniffing or homosexuality on the premises.
The etiquette was that when a cigarette was lit up boys would clamour for first drag. In a base three system, as complicated as anything the Babylonians came up with, a drag consisted of three pulls. A pull in turn consisted of three blasts, which was the lowest graduation of nicotine available. Mongo was the exception to this convention; he just took whatever he wanted.
He was surprised to see the two farmers stick their heads into the shed. He was deep in conversation with his deputy, a gangly boarder known universally as ‘Fucus’ on a matter of some import. A fourth year had the temerity to strike back at a Leaving Cert. bully and apparently had given the guy a fairly comprehensive beating. The Leaving Certs. wanted to put manners on the junior year who in turn wanted to end years of oppression. If they went down the brawling route there would be a discipline issue for the priests and people would get suspended. More importantly the petty scams that Mongo ran would be disrupted by a war. He and Fucus quickly decided that a prizefight between the two parties would be arranged for the following Wednesday.
Mick and Gubmund walked over to his bench as Mongo lit a cigarette.
“Smoke, gentlemen?” Gubmund had recently got over the bouts of nausea and dizziness that cigarettes caused but had yet to get to the stage where he actually enjoyed them.
“I will take first drag.”
Fucus wandered off to accost some younger boarders, glancing at the ground looking for butts. As he passed Gubmund, he stopped to get another look.
“Nice shoes man.”
Once the sentence hit the cold concrete it shattered and spread. People were in shock that anyone would have the gall to sport such footwear in the shed. Mongo liked to think he was broadminded, he despised everyone equally and if they decided one day to wear two-tone ladies’ shoes, then that was their business. They would, of course, die but that was of no interest to him. Mick nudged Gubmund who cleared his throat to speak.
“I hear you need someone to run messages.”
Mongo mulled this over and looked down at his expensive Adidas basketball boots. The closest he had come to playing basketball this year was hanging a first year on a fence by his underpants. The unfortunate basketball player had been left with the dilemma of whether to bear the discomfort until he was discovered or risk the complete destruction of his waistband in an attempt to release himself. Mongo was the sort of a guy who gauged the success of such an action by how many laughs he got. He didn’t do these things because he enjoyed them; he was not a sadist. He did them because he could, and that to him was reason enough.
“Right, you get to wear the shoes if you get a few things for me in town.”
Mongo produced money and a list torn from a notebook and looked Gubmund in the eye.
“Anyone stops you, and you tell them you are collecting stuff for me, anyone…”
Gubmund headed off to class and opened the list as he walked:

1 Packet of American hard gums.
1 Packet of Sugar Puffs.
Ten Major.
Ten Silk Cut Purple.
Two packets of green Rizla.
1 packet of Mates from chemist.
1 Packet of Juicy Fruit chewing gum.
1 Wham Bar.
1 Handball (Dunlop).

He sat through a priest trying to impart the joy of geography. As the teacher pointed out the main cities of Brazil the class became aware of the telltale shoes.
“Recife on de north East Coast is a major centre of commerce for de hinterland with a sugar cane processing industry…”
“ Check out the funky mammy brogues man!” said Minto who had appointed himself the fashion arbiter of the class.
“Belo Horizonte is noted for its…are you lads listening to me at all?” said the priest reaching for his metre stick.
“Are there a lot of shoe shops in Brazil sir?”
“Well de leatherworking industry would be centred in de south. Why do you ask?”
“Well I heard we are importing some mad looking shoes from the third world.”
The class erupted and the priest knew he had lost them again. Minto gave Gubmund the cut-throat gesture but was instantly corrected by a punch to the right kidney from Fucus. This outlined the fact that Gubmund now had the equivalent of diplomatic immunity; he was untouchable.
He walked out the gates at lunchtime going through the list. He picked up the sweets and fags at the newsagents where the convent girls hung out. They wore gabardine skirts accessorised with bubble gum and menthol cigarettes. He was keeping an eye out for the girl with the red hair who usually occupied this spot. She wasn’t around but two girls from home were. They looked at the bag in his hand.
“Where are you off to with all that stuff?”
“Food run for the boarders. It’s my new job.”
“Why are you bothering with that shower?”
Gubmund pointed at the tan loafers.
“Oh right, if they were a bit smaller my mother would wear them.”
He would have waited around if he didn’t have such a heavy schedule from Mongo. He bought the handball in the sports shop then casually wandered into the chemist. He busied himself at the counter and picked up the condoms. The girl behind the counter showed no reaction and took the offered note. She opened the till but was short of change so she opened the cash register at the other end of the counter. The door swung open and a couple of convent girls came in. He knew without turning around that the red haired girl was one of them. He crept his hand over the packet on the counter but was too late.
“Good man Gubmund, it looks like you have a good weekend planned.”
“They aren’t mine, I am picking them up for lads at school.”
“That’s what they all say…what exactly are you going to do with the handball or do I want to know?”
“It’s the shoes, it all started with the shoes.”
“I’d say you will be describing this to a psychiatrist in a few years.” The girl smiled, it was a pitying smile, but a smile nonetheless. Gubmund walked back up the town towards the school. There were none of the usual crowds around the gate. He was late.
He tried to speed up but the tan shoes were cutting into his ankles so he proceeded at a slow grimacing canter up the avenue. In a puff of Major smoke a priest with wispy grey hair appeared from behind the statue of the school’s founder. The statue was of some bishop from the previous century in a soutane and was universally known as ‘Stoneskirt’. The priest in front of the statue was the dean and he was not shy about administering discipline when he saw fit. He usually went for a ringing slap to the ear but often used an uppercut for variety. He looked at the bag in Gubmund’s hand curiously. The student paled, the last thing he wanted was a conversation about bringing prophylactics into the school grounds.
“You are late, have you got a reason?”
“I had to collect stuff for one of the boarders.”
“Really, we will have to see about that now won’t we?”
“It’s for Mongo, Mongo McPartland.”
The priest stepped back as if stung and gestured that Gubmund should be on his way. He went to his locker through the quiet corridors. As he opened the door Mongo materialised beside him. He had a key in his hand.
“Anymore just leave the stuff in there and I will collect it.”
“How did you get a key for my locker?”
Mongo held up a ring of locker keys and touched his nose.
“The only problem is keeping track of which one is which. Did you get the handball?”
Gubmund nodded and handed it to Mongo who hopped it off the floor a few times.
“There is a money game going on tonight and some fuckin’ eejit put all the handballs on the roof.” Mongo scowled to indicate the culprit would be dealt with severely.
“I sent Fucus up to collect some but he is kind of useless. I bought this one as insurance, supply and demand you see.”
There was an elongated scream from the direction of the handball alleys followed swiftly by a thud. It looked like Mongo was going to have staff out on sick leave for a while. Gubmund went into his class and sat down at the back. People moved out of his way. In this place if you didn’t fit in you needed to carry a big stick. Sticks didn’t come much bigger than Mongo.
On the way out towards the bus Minto asked Gubmund where he could get a pair of the shoes. “The point is not moot, I must have the boots.” Mick laughed as Gubmund promised to have a look for a pair in a size eight.
“You will be doing well to find another pair of those yokes.”
“The mother specialises in this stuff, there shouldn’t be a problem.”
“We are gonna be rich, rich I tells ya!”
“Once Mongo doesn’t go straight to the source on the wholesale market…”
Gubmund lit one of Mongo’s cigarettes as he got on the bus. He was too cool for school, much too cool.

posted by Colm Brady @ 9:25 PM