The Brothers' Lot - Kevin Holohan [66]
Jesus! If that’s acid … thought Finbar, and would have stopped in his tracks had it not been for Scully right behind him who pushed him gently along.
“Into the custard,” said Scully.
Not knowing what else to do, Finbar deftly turned his hand over and watched the silvery globules of mercury sink into the bowl of cooling custard.
With a strange sense of exhilaration he walked on into the yard and was surprised when he stopped and found Scully was still beside him.
“Stupid bastards always have custard on Mondays,” said Scully without further preamble, “and they always leave it sitting out on the windowsill to cool. Don’t know how they’re not all dead with the shite that goes into it.”
“What did Egan put in?”
“Don’t know. Looked like acid. Wouldn’t be surprised what Egan would do these days. Gone in the head he is now. Coming for a smoke?”
Finbar gave a passably casual why not? shrug to disguise the soaring he felt, and he and Scully walked out of the small yard toward the smoking hideaway behind the hall.
Oh God! Oh God! Let me die now! thought Finbar as he retched once more into the toilet bowl. Nothing came up except vile acidic spittle. His determination to persist with the task at hand—that of making himself sick again so he’d eventually get used to smoking cigarettes—would have been admirable had it been applied to something that wouldn’t leave him in an emphysema ward later in life. As women forget the pains of childbirth to ensure the continuance of mankind, so did schoolboys forget the misery of being sick from cigarettes to ensure the continuance of retailers of loose cigarettes such as the IRA shop.
Finbar blew some more burning snot out of his nose, spat again, and leaned back against the wall of the cubicle. He felt better now. He glanced up at the cistern above him in relief, greatly comforted by the cold-sounding gurgle of water inside it. It was the next best thing to a fresh breeze. As he looked at the wall above the cistern, it let out a creak and surrendered a chunk of plaster, which fell into the toilet bowl with a crack and a plop. Finbar stared at it, feeling, in his post-vomiting relief, a sense of heightened lucidity and appreciation of the smaller things. He looked on as little crumbs broke from the main piece settling in the bottom of the toilet bowl. Slowly the big chunk started to absorb the water and changed its color from institutional green to a slightly warmer olive shade, before finally sinking. Finbar watched in wonder as the reverse fresco of decay enacted itself in the toilet among his bile and spit.
“Hey, Bogman, the bell is gone. Better move or you’ll get a hiding,” called Scully from outside the cubicle.
“You all right now?” he asked when Finbar emerged.
“Yeah. Thanks.”
“It’s no big deal.” Scully turned to walk away.
“How do you do it?” called Finbar after him.
“Do what?”
“Smoke and drink and all that. Don’t you get sick?”
“Oh yeah, the first few times. After that you get used to it. Most of the time. So? You okay now?”
“Yeah, I think so, but come here to me,” said Finbar.
“What?”
“I think there’s something weird about this place.”
“So? What do you want, a rubber medal?”
“No, I mean something creepy. Like when I was sent over to the monastery that day to get the spare leather. I saw Boland on the stairs. It was like he was listening to the walls and whispering to them. He was touching the walls like you’d pet a dog or something.”
Scully looked hard at Finbar. “You know they’re all gone in the head, don’t you?”
“Yeah, but this was different. I can’t explain. If you saw it you’d know what I mean. He was talking to the walls, humming to them. He was nearly crying.”
“So? Everyone knows he’s completely mental. They’re all mental. Welcome to Werburgh Street!”
Finbar couldn’t help but smile. This felt like something. It was a thawing feeling inside, a feeling that at least Scully was starting to see him.
“What the fuck are you laughing at?”
“Nothing.”
“Come on before we get snared for being late.”
24
Finbar stood in