At Swim, Two Boys - Jamie O'Neill [67]
—I see you have taken to rape now.
—Is it rape? asked MacMurrough.
—Do you need to ask? Or do you need to be told?
As though from on high, MacMurrough viewed his work. He had tugged the boy sideways again and was fetching him off by hand. Clumsy motion that counter-rhymed with the mounting thrusts behind. The boy too had found an action of sorts and he was bumping his bottom pudently along—more hindermate than help, for Dick went at it like a beast of the wild. At one point, his childlike hand reached behind and pressed the thigh he found. The touch shot a pang through MacMurrough. As though the boy would share what Dick knew might only be taken.
In boyish throes he spurted. MacMurrough would follow, but just as he did he leant over and kissed the boy’s lips. It surprised that they parted and his unready tongue was met by another.
He slipped off the boy and collapsed on his back. His head fell on the pillow and, sinking through the down, he heard the pounding of his heart; and every pound was a footstep, as down the iron-railed hall the warder clanged, calling out the numbers of the cells and the cell doors slammed as he called them rebounding, and the bawling and banging and hounding steps came closer till his door was resoundingly next.
—C.3.4, called the warder.
Slam. This cannot be. Prison. But it is.
Songbirds released him. Ballygihen, smell of lawns and the sea. He forced his eyes to open. His breath returned and the pounding ceased. Sandycovely safe.
He needed a cigarette then, and he got up to find his carton. He drew on the darkly fragrant Abdulla. At the open window he watched the sea and he saw himself a snail at its shore who carries not his home but his prison with him. They only let you out: they never let you go.
“Who’s Scrotes?” said the boy, watching him.
“Scrotes?”
“You was calling him out.”
“When?”
“Just then, while you was . . .”
“Really?” You hear that, Scrotes? I call out your name. In the throes of my passion I call for you.
“Friend, is it?”
MacMurrough flicked the match with his nail on its tip, flipped it in the grate. “Someone I used to know. Dead now.” Hear that, Scrotes? You’re dead.
Distantly he heard the rustle of sere pages.
He pulled on his drawers, sat down on the bed. “Are you recovered?”
“I won’t be sitting cosy for a while.”
“Rather a rude awakening, I suppose.” Though he looked comfortable enough. Hands behind his head, showing mohairs under the arms. Less boyish now, as if a dick up the arse really could make a man of you. Rather pleased with himself, actually. Suppose it is a hurdle to be over. Accomplished without need of decision. Put like that, I’ve done him a favor. Your honor, I was asleep at the time. Something else too. When you use them for pleasure they’re more at home in the big house. Breaks the ice, so to speak.
He touched the depression of the boy’s chest, running his finger through half a dozen fledgling hairs to a leather string where clung a cheap tin medal.
“Stay the night, says you. Promise I won’t jump you.”
“Hard to resist when you turn your back like that.”
The boy shifted his legs. “’S all right anyway. Don’t be sitting much in my line of work.”
A bitter tone which reminded MacMurrough of their first meeting at the Forty Foot. He came from the latrine with his dress unadjusted. In a casual way MacMurrough said, “Do you need any help with that?” The boy shrugged. “They works me like a horse. Might as well hang out like one.” At the time, he’d taken it for no more than a chase-me. Not so sure now. Chip on his shoulder. My proud Hibernian boy.
“Seems early yet. What time is it at all?”
MacMurrough leant over for his wrist-watch.
—He will have that item, warned the chaplain. If we are not vigilant, he will.
—Ah no, said Nanny Tremble, and he looks such a nice young man.
—He is not nice nor honest, the chaplain retorted, who will permit what that vulgarian has submitted to.
“Four,” said MacMurrough. “Twenty after. Rotten bind, I know, but I’m afraid . . .”
Moments later the boy was at the