Thirty

Day 2

12.45 p.m. Monday, 26th October 1965

With his back to the wall, the boy stood in the corridor near the sixth form common room door. Head down, he watched the black, polished shoes and swishing grey-trousered legs of students walk past. Voices filled the corridor and his ears: deep voices, talking, calling to one another; they seemed older than his father’s or other men’s voices; wiser, terrifying voices; voices that could look in his eyes and see his shame. The bell for period three sounded. There were too many shoes to count now, too many to see correctly, black blurs against the bare floorboards, too many voices, none speaking discernible words, instead making a hum and clatter like an engine. The engine followed the shoes down the corridor and out the door. He knew he wouldn’t move until … he wondered how long.

A pair of black brogues stopped in front of him, the punched-leather holes winking at him. Settling on the shoes were grey-cuffed suit trousers. When all was perfectly still and silent, his name was spoken. He wondered if he would ever be a boy who could wear brogues. Would he ever be old enough? He doubted he would, he doubted he would be allowed to get older. Somehow, he knew that if he could ever wear brogues, he’d be safe. His name again and this time he was told to look up. He slowly moved his head. It had to be slow because the gears in his neck wanted to go the other way. It was a three-buttoned suit, the bottom button undone. His eyes froze on the second button, his head wouldn’t go any further, the gears locked, his eyes blinked rapidly but they too were locked.

‘Did you pick something up from Captain Edmund’s room?’

His eyes shut and the gears moved his head up and down.

‘I want you to hide it. You must never mention it to anyone. Do you understand?’

The gears moved, his eyes shut.

‘No one is going to hurt you again. You’re a good boy, never think any different. Do you understand?’ The gears worked quickly, thankfully. ‘Now run to class. If anyone says anything tell them you were speaking to me.’

The boy ran, his face aching with a wide smile, eyes streaming. He couldn’t wipe them quickly enough. The sleeve of his jacket was sodden but his eyes were clear when he entered the classroom. He was told he was late. He apologised and said the boy’s name, and that he was speaking to him. The teacher told him to run faster next time and hoped that Carmody was able to talk some sense into him. When the boy replied that he had done, the teacher said in that case then he didn’t mind the boy being late. This was met with a murmur of approval from the class. The boy sat, feeling inquisitive eyes on him. Carmody was a king and he’d said he would never be hurt again. This caused rapid breathing that pushed the smile back to his face. He fought it. He was a good boy. Thank you, dear God. He knew Carmody would speak to him again one day, and he’d spend every second up to that meeting proving that Carmody was correct. He was a good boy.

The jumping of his heart told him: you can start again.