Rain poured down outside and a strong wind whirled around the school, dashing the rain against the windowpanes. Adam watched the raindrops rolling down the smooth glass. He chose one raindrop, high up, and followed its progress all the way down. It didn’t roll smoothly; it would lose speed and travel sideways, or pause, until it drifted into another bead of water; then it would be heavy enough to roll a little further. He was glad he’d chosen that particular drop to follow, though. Some drops were too tiny even to enter the race. They just landed on the windowpane and stayed there. His little drop meandered along its own route, stopping and starting, until finally it reached the rain-drenched windowsill. All the while, heavier drops lashed and splashed their more direct routes down.
There was a knock at the classroom door. Adam jumped.
‘Come in!’ called Miss Clarke in her shrill voice.
‘Um, excuse me, Miss Hi – I mean Teacher,’ said a sixth-class boy, Ronan.
‘What is it? And my name is not “Teacher”, it’s Miss Clarke.’
Ronan tried again. ‘Sorry, Miss Clarke. Shane and Rory Brennan are wanted in the principal’s office. And PJ Murtagh, too.’
‘Now?’ enquired Miss Clarke, already fixing the three boys with her narrow-eyed gaze.
‘Um, now,’ replied Ronan.
Rory was already up out of his place, glancing shiftily at Shane and PJ. They filed past across the silent classroom. Rory gave a sly hiss on his way past Adam’s desk: ‘You’re dead.’ Adam felt his stomach lurch.
They were gone for ages. Miss Clarke had just told the class to get out their lunches when the three boys returned. PJ came in first, red-eyed and hangdog; he muttered, ‘Sorry, Miss,’ and shuffled to his place. Shane appeared next, bottom lip quivering, head down. Finally Rory came in, surly and furious, elbowing the door closed behind him and striding over to his desk. Even Miss Clarke decided not to tackle him in that humour.
At break, Conor – who always knew everything that was going on – told Adam. Rory and Shane and PJ had been seen down at the back of the shopping centre, on Saturday setting fire to rubbish and throwing it into a skip. There’d been a small fire there later and the guards had been called. Someone had told the gardaí which school the boys were from, and the school had been contacted. The principal had hauled the boys over the coals for forty minutes, phoned their parents, and put them on report for two weeks.
Adam’s first reaction was relief – if you were on report, you had to stand outside the principal’s office at break-time and before school, and you had a report card to be signed daily at home and at school. You were also automatically in detention on Fridays. At least for a while he’d have a bit more peace and quiet at break-time.
Niamh ran over to Adam and Conor. ‘So?’ she said, gasping for breath. ‘Where’s your pet bird, your magpie or whatever?’ She gave Adam a playful elbow in the ribs.
Adam sighed and scanned the playground. There was no sign of the starling. ‘I dunno. Maybe I imagined it,’ he muttered. ‘I’m just going in to get my jacket. Back in a minute, lads.’
He ran up to the back door of the school. One part of him was convinced that he’d been fooling himself all along about the bird; the other part of him was planning to leave some more crumbs on his windowsill, just in case, while no one was in the classroom.
The classroom always looked like a shambles when they weren’t in it – half-eaten lunches still on the desks, chairs pushed out at awkward angles, pencils and markers on the floor; even the teacher’s desk looked abandoned, with open textbooks and uncapped pens. Adam quickly crumbled up a few crisps, opened his window and placed them on the sill outside.
Just as he was closing the window, he heard footsteps. Quickly, thinking it was a teacher, he knelt on the floor beside his desk and pretended to be looking for something in his schoolbag.
He didn’t look up as the footsteps approached. Suddenly – wham! – the desk was sent slamming into the side of his face, whacking against his left ear. Adam’s hands flew up to hold his throbbing face, and he whirled around.
Rory stood there, white-faced with rage, his pinched features and thin lips making him look far older than ten. ‘You are so dead, you little …’ He aimed another kick at the desk, sending Adam’s books and pens crashing to the floor. Adam had stood up and was edging back towards the door of the adjoining classroom.
‘I knew you’d tell, you little sneak.’
‘I – I –’ began Adam.
‘I – I – I –’ mimicked Rory. ‘Told on us, yeah, and we didn’t even take your money. We weren’t the ones that put you in there. It was Niall.’ Rory was livid. ‘Too scared to rat on him, though,’ he sneered, his lips drawn back over ratty little teeth.
‘I didn’t tell!’ stammered Adam. Why was he defending himself? This wasn’t the plan!
Rory followed Adam as he backed up towards the door. ‘Nah – you thought you’d be really clever – not tell about the wheelie bin. Then we wouldn’t know it was you.’
‘But it really wasn’t me! And anyway, you …’ Adam began to find a tiny shred of courage. ‘Anyway, you –’
Suddenly the bell rang, and the two of them were jerked back into the reality of the classroom. Rory was the first to react.
‘Yeah, well, I should have got you when I had the chance, you sneak. And I will. You are dead!’ He jabbed Adam’s chest with his finger in time with the words. ‘You’ – jab – ‘are’ – jab – ‘dead!’ Hard jab. Then he turned and walked out.
Adam went back to his desk, picked his stuff up off the floor, and sat down with his head in his hands. He was furious with himself and his ear hurt terribly. So much for the plan.
He didn’t even notice the starling pecking the crumbs off the windowsill, right beside him.
* * *
Adam sat beside Grandad in the day ward, enjoying the warm stillness of the room. His ear still throbbed and pulsed, but the worst of the pain had faded. They were leafing through the evening paper together, Grandad’s large fingers tracing the print in a slow, smudging trawl across the crackly pages.
When they reached an article about Elvis, the old man suddenly became animated.
‘The King!’ he cried, pointing at the familiar rock star in his white sequined suit.
‘Oh, yeah?’ said Adam, leaning across for a better view.
‘He’s great, he is. He’s been in loads of films. We’ve seen them all, your mam and me.’
Adam nodded. So today I must be Gary again.
‘Maybe there’s another one coming out soon. Or maybe he’s coming over to do a concert … Let’s see …’ Grandad began reading aloud in a hesitant voice:
‘A quiet, sleepy town in midwestern America has become the latest hot spot for Elvis fans after a sighting of the great star there last week. Since his death in 1977, literally hundreds of similar sightings have been reported …’
Grandad stopped and looked at Adam. ‘His death?’
Adam nodded uncertainly.
‘When did he die?’ continued Grandad, confusion creeping across his features like a cloud covering the sun. ‘I never heard anything about it. Why did nobody tell me? Eileen will be so upset. She loves Elvis …’ Grandad was becoming more and more agitated.
Adam reached over and took the paper from his trembling hands. ‘It was a long time ago, Grandad. I think Nana knows already.’ Grandad still looked worried. ‘But we won’t talk to her about it, because you’re right, it’ll only upset her. Let’s find something else to read.’ Adam quickly shuffled a few pages. ‘Here!’ he said enthusiastically. ‘Look here, Grandad. Here’s something about the football. Let’s see how your team did the other day.’
But the old man had lost interest completely. Adam closed the paper and got up to put it on the central table. As he down again, his ear throbbed and he put his hand up to it.
‘What’s wrong with you, son?’ said Grandad.
Adam shook his head and instantly regretted it. ‘Ow! Sorry. Nothing. It’s okay.’
But Grandad was concerned; he shifted forwards in his seat for a closer look. ‘Show me.’
Reluctantly, Adam took his hand away. The ear was swollen and red, and an angry, purple bruise had already appeared at his hairline.
‘In the name of … What happened you?’
Adam sighed. He had thought Grandad wouldn’t notice. ‘It was a fella at school. I’m okay, Grandad. Honest.’
Granddad reached over and gently placed his huge, gnarled hand over Adam’s ear. He gazed out the window and seemed, once more, to move away from the present. ‘I got a thick ear once, from James Hennessy. Last week.’ He rubbed his own ear thoughtfully at the memory. ‘Billy told me that Hennessy’s out to get me again. He’s going to do it after school.’
‘Why?’ asked Adam softly.
The old man shrugged. ‘Huh! He doesn’t need a reason! He does it to everyone. But’ – his voice hardened and he gripped the sides of the chair – ‘he’s not going to hit me again. I’m not taking it any more. I’ve had enough of him.’
Adam found himself nodding in agreement. I know what that feels like, he thought. ‘What will you do, Gra – Joe?’
Grandad turned to Adam and grinned. ‘I’m going to look him in the eyes, in his piggy little eyes, and I’m going to tell him: I’m not scared of you! Billy said that’s what he did, and James legged it faster than a jackrabbit!’
The two of them smiled at the thought of James Hennessy pelting along like a frightened rabbit. In Adam’s mind, James Hennessy looked suspiciously like Rory Brennan.
Maybe I need a new plan, thought Adam. Or maybe – maybe I could use Grandad’s …