The Brothers' Lot - Kevin Holohan [40]
“Come on, boy! Get it out!”
He stood over Ferrara menacingly while the boy rummaged in his bag.
“Well, boy?”
“I can’t find—”
Brother Kennedy grabbed him by the ear: “Out to the line!” He moved on down the row of desks, picked up Farrelly’s copy, and scrutinized it. He could see that there was nothing wrong with it but he enjoyed seeing the little pup sweat.
Brother Loughlin tripped up the stairs with all the lightness that extreme self-satisfaction could possibly lend to his sinister bulk. Making the little brats wash the car had been a brainwave. After his leather had had such a strenuous morning, he’d decided to give it a good rub of the mink oil he kept in his cell.
“Easy! Easy! You’ll kill me!”
“Who took me sandals?”
“The young lad here says there’s trouble!”
“I’ll trouble you!”
“Remember The Siege of Augh Na Breeeeeeeeeeeeee!”
What in God’s name … ? wondered Brother Loughlin, but got no further before his thoughts were driven out by a crashing and bumping and then the appearance of some ancient figure in a bath chair bouncing down the stairs at him. In a bright green flash of pain, he found himself back at the bottom of the staircase with his left arm wedged between the spokes of one of the chair’s wheels.
“What in the name of God is this?” shouted Brother Loughlin at the supine shape that lay motionless in the hallway after being flung from its chair.
Brother Loughlin wrested his arm out of the spokes and with great effort rose to his feet. The hem of his cassock was torn but otherwise he seemed to have escaped unscathed.
“It was young McGovern! I saw him. Deliberately let go of me chair!” murmured the shape on the ground.
“What are you talking about? What happened to you?”
The figure turned its face toward Brother Loughlin and gave him the full benefit of its ancientness. Brother Loughlin staggered back as though shoved by some spectral arm. A cadaverous skull loosely draped in a yellow parchment of skin stared at him with its one bloodshot eye. The toothless mouth opened slowly with no result other than the stretching of tiny lines of spittle between lips that seemed to be the only threads of life holding the head together.
“Who are you?” Brother Loughlin asked from the back of his suddenly dry throat.
“Brother Galvin. I think. And who the feck are you?”
Before Brother Loughlin could gather his wits, he heard a noise behind him on the stairs. He turned around to see Boland in front of a ragtag of more ancient wrecks.
“Brother Boland! What on earth do you think you are doing? Who are these people?”
“The, the, the elder Brothers, from the attic, Head Brother,” stammered Boland.
“And what, might I ask, are they doing wandering about the monastery?”
“I was showing them.”
“Showing them what?”
“Showing them the sabotage.”
“Sabotage? Sabotage? What are you talking about? Have you completely lost your mind, Brother Boland?”
“They saw it! I showed them! I showed them the burntout bulbs. I showed them Venerable Saorseach O’Rahilly looking afraid on the stairs. I was going to show them the periodic table. I told them about the slates falling off the roof and the fear in the bell tower! I wanted them to hear the weeping in the walls. I told them! The young ones wouldn’t listen!”
“You did, did you?” roared Brother Loughlin. “God give me strength! Fear in the bell tower? Weeping in the walls? What sort of raving is this? What do you think you are doing, disturbing these revered senior Brothers with your unhinged fantasies? Have you no respect for them or is it that you yourself have already slipped over the edge? Is that it? Are you ready for the top floor already? Eh?”
Brother Boland cowered and shook his head in denial. He was not gone yet. He was not ready to be banished to the world of bedsores, chamber pots, and yesterday’s cold food. Not that. Not so soon.
“Well then, go get some help and get these Brothers back to