The Brothers' Lot - Kevin Holohan [32]
Finbar watched as a bulky third year took stock of the line, stepped back, and then took a run at the hatch. He launched himself, rugby style, up and over the knot of bodies and grabbed on to the uppermost horizontal bar. Using that purchase he hauled himself through the knot to the counter’s edge and began to shout: “Trigger bar and a packidge of salt ’n’ vinegar, Brother! Trigger bar and a packidge of salt ’n’ vinegar, Brother! Trigger bar and a packidge of salt ’n’ vinegar, Brother!”
Finbar took a run and launched himself into the crowd. He grabbed the middle bar and pulled himself to the counter at the expense of three smaller boys, one of whom lost his tentative grip on the bar and fell backward on to the ground.
“Trigger bar and a packet of cheese ’n’ onion, please, Brother! Trigger bar and a packet of cheese ’n’ onion, please, Brother!” Finbar chanted, forcing his voice as much as he could into a resemblance of the Dublin accents around him. “Trigger bar and a packet of cheese ’n’ onion, please, Brother! Trigger bar and a packet of cheese ’n’ onion, please, Brother!” he shouted with increased vigor as he sensed his turn was coming.
Brother Boland acknowledged his order, turned, and grabbed the Trigger bar. Just as he was about to hand it over, he stopped suddenly and looked at his watch. He released the bar in the general direction of the box from which he had taken it, rang his handbell in the boys’ faces, and then lurched forward with sinewy speed, his leather already magically in his other hand. He smacked the countertop and the bars rapidly to drive off the boys’ hands and reached up. Finbar just got his hand away before the heavy wooden shutter slammed down. Instantly the knot of boys around the shop undid itself and drifted back toward the school.
Well that was just fecking great, thought Finbar bitterly, and sulked back to the yard.
Brother Boland fumbled in the darkness of the shop and switched on the light. Carefully he counted the takings, subtracted the float, and jotted the closing balance in the little black notebook that lived in the lid of the cash box. He locked it with the small key on his key ring and listened carefully at the door. When he was satisfied that the silence outside reflected an acceptable lack of menace, he carefully inserted the big key in the door and turned it as stealthily as he could.
He opened the door a crack and peered out. The yard was deserted. He turned off the light, poked his head out to give him a wider view, then slid through the door. He clutched the cash box under his arm while he locked the door again.
Glancing around him warily as he scurried across the big yard, he noticed a big truck parked at the side of the hall. As he stopped and watched, three men in overalls jumped out of the cab and looked around them in what struck Brother Boland as a very sinister, almost proprietary way. He tightened his grip on the cash box and increased his pace, finally breaking into the closest thing to a run he had achieved in almost twenty years.
Brother Mulligan, Brother Cox, and Brother Tobin were sitting at the big table in the refectory when Brother Boland burst in clutching the cash box as if someone had just tried to wrest it from him with unspeakable force.
“Men! Big truck! Lower yard! They’re here already! Beginning of the end!” he croaked at them through his labored breathing.
“What are you babbling about?” asked Brother Tobin sternly.
Brother Boland staggered to a chair and caught his breath in frantic gulps. “There are men in a big truck in the lower yard. Look like builders. It’s them! They’re here to start building the warehouse!”
Brother Tobin looked at Brother Cox who looked at Brother Mulligan who looked at Brother Boland who in turn continued to stare into Brother Tobin’s face. A tiny web of tension wove itself around the four of them and the more they struggled against it, the more inextricably they became enmeshed in Brother Boland’s contagious panic.
“Show us where!” the panic said as it forced its