The Dead School Read Free Page A

completely mad shouting ‘Oh Jesus!
Oh, fuck! Oh, no! Oh, please, God, no!’ But he just kept on going, shouting out through every window in the town until he got hoarse. Malachy’s father loved that – the sound of
Michael O’Hehir’s voice on a Sunday morning. ‘You always know it’s a Sunday morning when you hear Michael,’ he said and smiled warmly as he squeezed Malachy’s
hand.
    They always met plenty of people on the way up to the chapel. There was always someone to shout, ‘There you are, Packie!’ or ‘Good man, young Malachy!’ or
‘That’s a grand day now, thank God!’ Packie always made a point of acknowledging every greeting saying, ‘There you are now, Matt!’ and ‘A lovely day surely,
Francie, thank God!’ tipping his cap or touching his forehead with his index finger.
    Whether or not his father was the holiest man in the town, Malachy couldn’t have said for sure, but one thing was certain, what with the way his lips were fluttering like the wings of a
mad butterfly and the huge gleaming beads of sweat that were appearing on his forehead as he prayed to Mary the Mother of God and St Joseph and St Patrick and St Michael and every saint who had
ever lived to do something for him, if he wasn’t Holy Man number one, he was certainly trying hard.
    When the praying was all over, off they went back down the town again and into the shop to get the papers. Packie was a great man for the papers. ‘Man, but I love the papers!’
he’d say. ‘There’s great reading in them altogether!’ Then it was across the road and into the hotel where up onto the counter the bottle of Guinness would appear and
someone would say, ‘Well, Packie – who do you think will win the match?’ Then Packie would scratch his chin for a while. ‘Do you know what it is – I’d say
Cork!’ ‘Now you’re talking, Packie!’ they’d say. ‘And of course you’re the man’d know!’
    They’d smile when they said that and ask him did he want another drink. It was good sitting there with him. For a long time they’d sit there together and Malachy would try his best
not to think about what was behind his father’s eyes. But somehow he always seemed to see that day, when the sun was splitting the stones and there were flowers and confetti and the organ was
playing glorious, holy music and Malachy’s mother was saying to his father ‘I love you’ instead of ‘I used to love Packie Dudgeon but I don’t any more. I don’t
any more and I don’t know why. If only there was some way I could stop this happening but I can’t. I’m going to hurt you, Packie. I’m going to hurt you and there’s
nothing I can do. Oh, Packie – where have they gone? Where have they gone, those days? When you held my hand along the seafront, when you took me in the boat out to the island where we
thought we’d live for ever. I don’t want to do it, Packie! I don’t want it to happen! Why can’t I love you the way I used to? Tell me, Packie – please tell
me!’
    There wouldn’t have been much point in asking Malachy’s father that question for how was he supposed to know? All he could do was sit there nursing his Guinness and stare at
something far away and try to stop the shine that was coming into his eye. Which even Sunday morning couldn’t stop, no matter how good it was. It probably would have done Packie no harm at
all if Malachy had gently tugged his sleeve and whispered, ‘I love you,’ or something like that. But, with all his thinking about love in the grave, it had got to the stage now that he
wouldn’t have been able to say so if he tried. He was too afraid that the minute he opened his mouth the words would wither up and die there on the spot. And he wasn’t going to let that
happen – oh, no. It might have happened to Packie but it wasn’t going to happen to him. Not to Malachy Dudgeon. No, sir. Not in a million years.
    And so, after three nice tasty bottles of Guinness, it was time