Lamb (6 page)

Owen came out of the cubicle carrying his old clothes in the new carrier bag. On the street outside they laughed and stuffed it into the black mouth of a waste bin.

‘You look very grown up,' said Michael. Owen smiled and exaggerated his swagger so that it looked almost deformed.

‘Are the shoes too tight?'

‘No.'

‘Then walk properly,' said Michael. ‘Cowboys are out of fashion.' Owen laughed and punched him hard on the side. Michael put on an American accent.

‘Man, I could use a beef-steak. What about you, son?'

‘With chips?'

‘Yeah, man. With chips.'

During the meal there was silence between them, apart from Michael interpreting the menu for the boy as best he could. It was something that Michael had not quite got used to yet, this silence. Owen seemed to control it, to clam up whenever he wanted to. It was as if talk was irksome to him and he would let it be known in a few grunted replies of ‘I dunno' or ‘I don't care'. Michael would then be quiet with him. He felt embarrassed when it was like this. The duty of keeping the conversation going rested entirely on him and when there was a void between them he thought it was his fault. He remembered the silences between his mother and father, warm full silences filled with the tick of the clock, but it was anything but that between Owen and himself. He blamed the age gap between them. He couldn't help but talk down to him. When there was silence he wanted to manufacture something to say, no matter how silly it was.

But Owen could take the lead any time he wanted. When he was in the mood he could prattle on and on. He could joke and make up stories and talk drivel, mostly when they were alone or out of earshot of others. In silence he couldn't be shifted.

Round the corner from the restaurant they found what looked like a good hotel. Owen went round in the swing doors twice and Michael hissed a warning at him before going up to the reception desk.

‘Could I have a room for the night, please?'

‘I'm sorry, sir, we're fully booked.'

They got this answer at three more hotels and Michael was beginning to feel tired and angry when they finally got a place.

‘A double room, sir?' asked the young receptionist.

‘There's just the boy and myself,' said Michael.

‘Would you sign here?' she said, pushing a black register across the counter to him and picking up her magazine. He panicked when she handed him the pen. Why hadn't he thought of it before? He should have had something prepared. Owen was taking giant steps from one unit of pattern in the plush carpet to another. He twitched the pen between his fingers. Smith was ludicrous. He stalled for time.

‘What's the date?'

‘The same as the entry above,' said the girl without looking up from her magazine. The title page of the story she was reading faced him. ‘An Act of Love' by Garth Abrahams. He wrote in the register ‘M. Abraham' and then after a moment's hesitation ‘and son'. He gave the first Dublin address that came to his mind.

The girl showed them to their room and opened the door with a key attached to a large perspex tear-drop. Alone inside, they gazed at the room. It was beautifully furnished.

‘All the colours match,' said Owen incredulously. He jumped on the bed nearest the window.

‘Bagsy this one,' he said bouncing up and down. Then he stood up and trampolined.

There were two single beds with gold-coloured coverlets; the carpet and curtains were gold and similarly patterned; there was a desk and two Chippendale-type chairs upholstered in gold. Michael whistled and squatted, looking closely at the chairs. They had a bathroom off the bedroom, which Owen explored.

‘Somebody's left their soap behind – and their towels,' he shouted out to Michael. Michael laughed.

‘Idiot,' he said. ‘C'mere.'

Owen appeared at the bathroom door. From his pocket Michael produced a packet of cigarettes and offered him one.

‘If you want one now you can have it. But I still think you should stop.'

Owen took a cigarette and Michael struck the match and held the light for him. He smoked like a veteran, inhaling deeply. He lay down on the bed and watched the smoke drift up to the ceiling.

‘All hotels leave soap and clean towels,' said Michael.

‘Do they not always be nicked?'

‘Everybody's not like you, Owen.'

Michael stood at the window, looking down at the grey roofs in the twilight. There were some remnants of red in the grey clouds. This had been their second full day together but it had all been spent travelling, and in a way did not count. A weariness came over him and all of a sudden he felt very tired. He hadn't realized the tension he had been under since they had left. Now that they were safe in a hotel under a different name he relaxed. He lay down on the bed and kicked his shoes off.

‘It's bed-time for you, lad. You're bound to be knackered.'

‘No I'm not.'

‘We forgot to get you pyjamas, dammit.'

‘Never use them outside the Home. I sleep in my vest.'

‘Bully for you.'

Owen was going through the drawers in the desk and slamming them shut when he found them empty.

‘Right enough, what are we going to do tonight?' he asked.

‘We're going to bed. That's what. At least you are. At your age you need a full night's sleep . . . '

‘But it's not even dark yet. At home I don't go till twelve.'

‘You're not at home now,' said Michael, his voice quiet and threatening. ‘If we're going to make this work, you're going to have to obey some rules.'

‘Fuck the rules, Brother,' said Owen. He stubbed his cigarette out in the ash tray beside the bed.

‘That's rule number one. There is no need for language like that. Rule number two is that you go to bed when I say. In an emergency the captain of the ship has the power of life and death over his crew. This is an emergency. I am the captain. I say beddybyes. Do I make myself clear?'

Grudgingly Owen stripped off. As he was getting into bed, Michael looked over at him.

‘Jesus, look at the feet,' he said. ‘How long is it since you had a bath? Don't get into those sheets like that. Do you mean to tell me you put new clothes on over that lot? Let me see.'

Michael inspected his feet, which were black with ingrained dirt at the heels and between the toes. He looked him all over. There was a watermark of dirt about his collar bone and the back of his neck was filthy.

‘Into the bath,' said Michael. ‘How long is it since you had one?'

‘I don't swim every day like the rest of them. Anyway, the water won't be hot.'

‘In hotels the water is always hot. This is not the Home.'

The boy was offended and Michael was sorry he had spoken so harshly. He knew from experience that the one thing that hurt the boys was to be called dirty or to be accused of having a walking head. They could take pride in worn and dirty denims just so long as they themselves were not seen to be dirty.

Michael ran the bath for him, making sure it was not too hot. Naked, the boy looked fragile, his shoulder blades jutting like wings, his ankles, elbows and wrists nodules of bone. Across the back of his legs, as if in a continuous line, was the shining skin of his scars. His body seemed blue-white, not flesh-coloured, a plucked fowl colour.

‘If you turned sideways you'd disappear,' laughed Michael.

Prudishly the boy sheltered himself by bending over and holding his elbows. He ran for the bathroom. His bum like two pale eggs disappeared round the corner. Michael yodelled,

‘
TAAAARRRZZZAAAAAN
.'

While Owen bathed, Michael unpacked. He listened to the boy's voice imitating an engine and the gurgle and swish of the water. The sound of a diving plane was interrupted by a yawn, then continued to rise in pitch. Michael lifted the clothes that Owen had strewn about the floor and folded them. His trousers and new jacket he hung in the wardrobe. As he closed the door the metal coat-hangers clashed softly together in the emptiness like the slow tolling of thin bells.

He had met Owen for the first time about three years ago. He had just finished a lesson when word came through from Brother Benedict that he was wanted in his office. He hung his apron in the cupboard, brushed the sawdust from his soutane with the palm of his hand and walked to the Superior's office. Reception was the only part of the place which had carpet. The hypocrisy of it annoyed Michael every time he walked on it. Outside Brother Benedict's door there was a small traffic light divided into three sections: Enter – Engaged – Wait. Michael knocked and after a long moment heard Brother Benedict call ‘Come in' in his posh voice. Benedict was behind his desk, looking over his half-glasses; to the right was a woman slanted sideways in an armchair; to the left, standing by a wooden upright chair, was a small boy. A Guard, his hands behind his back, was leaning against the bookcase.

‘Brother Sebastian,' said Benedict, ‘this is Mrs Kane and this . . . ' he waved his hand slightly in the boy's direction, ‘is her son, Owen. In the special circumstances of the boy's age the powers-that-be have thought it best that Mrs Kane be here at his inception, as it were. You may sit, Brother Sebastian.'

Michael took the hard chair beside the boy. The woman was too heavily made up. She gave the impression of having put make-up on her face without washing it first. Her mouth was small and red and pinched, pulled tight as if by purse strings. She looked old enough to be Owen's grandmother. Her hair was dull and combed for the day.

‘Mrs Kane has been filling us in on some background information on Owen.' The woman nodded, drumming her nicotined fingers. ‘And I have been assuring her that the boys who arrive here thimbleriggers and termagants are the least of our worries. But we do not send them out that way. Do we, Brother?'

Michael nodded agreement.

‘Kill and cure is my method, Mrs Kane. You can rest assured that if anything can be done to put this young man on the right path then it is we who will do it. There may be pain in the process, Mrs Kane, but I'm sure that we have your backing – and for that matter, the State's.'

Mrs Kane nodded vigorously, snapped open her handbag and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. She tentatively offered the packet in the direction of Brother Benedict. He refused with the palms of his hands and his face slightly averted.

‘No thank you, Mrs Kane.'

‘Is it all right if I . . . '

‘Feel free.'

Mrs Kane lit a cigarette with a small bronze lighter, pulling hard on it with her tight mouth and taking it between her knuckled fingers. She crossed her legs and Michael noticed that her thighs were scuffed with psoriasis, blotches of crusty skin, obvious through her tights.

‘You've no idea what a trial that boy has been to me,' she said. ‘He was my last hope – after the way the others have gone. I've done everything for him and this is the thanks I get. I let him get away with far too much. If I'd been like some mothers I know t'would have been a different story. He has me nearly driven mad. I can't take it any more . . . '

Her mouth puckered and she began to cry silently, the tears brimming over on to her cheeks.

‘Don't worry yourself, Mrs Kane. He's not worth it,' said Brother Benedict. He turned to the boy. ‘You see what you have done, boy? Reduced your mother to tears.'

‘It's not the first time either,' said Mrs Kane snuffling into a used ball of a lilac tissue she produced from the bottom of her bag.

‘I hope you're proud of yourself,' went on Brother Benedict. ‘Your mother has sacrificed herself for you totally. She has struggled to rear you and you repay her by starting your life as a criminal. Do not worry, Mrs Kane, we will return you a different boy. The guttersnipe you bring us will not be the boy you get back. Brother Sebastian, will you show Master Kane to his quarters?'

Throughout the boy had been standing with his hands behind his back, looking down at his toes. He seemed glad to be walking out of the door. In the corridor his shoulders drooped with relief and his hands slipped into his pockets. Michael warned him about the hands in the pockets.

Later, when Michael went back to the office, Brother Benedict was doing half twirls in his office chair, smoking. He tapped the ash off his cigarette and said,

‘What a revolting woman. A despicable piece of goods.'

Michael turned to go out. Brother Benedict called after him,

‘Oh, I should warn you – the boy takes fits.'

‘Fits?'

‘Yes, Brother Sebastian, fits. Epilepsy. You know?'

The worst and most damaging attack that Owen had had was in the gym one January day. Everyone had gathered to watch the Home play a posh grammar school at basketball. Brother Benedict and all the staff sat in a nook on the sidelines, protected behind a table. The boys were lined along the tops of the wall-bars. Everyone had been warned beforehand that there was to be no barracking of the visiting school. Brother Benedict made it seem almost an act of charity for them to come and play at the Home. The boys, in their turn, should treat them, if not with politeness because they had not got that in them, then at least with respect. The school had turned out in a smart strip – green vests with the school emblem on the chest, green satin shorts and green socks. The Home had unironed regulation white. The sniggers, raised eyebrows and limp-wrist gestures of the boys on the wall-bars were soon stopped when the grammar school began to play. They quickly went 25–3 in the lead. The umpire's whistle shrilled; then it happened in the silence of the first time-out.