Being Born by Oisín Fagan – an extract

Fergus arrived in the social area, breathing heavily, nervous, a rap-sheet of school books cradled in his elbow’s crook, his sore shoulder sagging. Vice-Principal Sims and Principal Kennedy stood in the centre of the social area, and when they saw him they motioned for him to sit down on the floor as they continued talking quietly between themselves. Fergus sat down and crossed his legs Indian-style; he slipped his books underneath himself to be comfortable on the cold lino floor. The halls buzzed as students changed class and in five minutes the forty-odd transition years had assembled and were sat on the floor of the social area, mumbling, making white noise with their laughs. Then Sharon Fitzgerald walked in, keying numbers into her phone, Brian Moran holding her books for her. She sat down, not looking at Brian, and Brian sat behind her, his eyes wide and livid, like a dog brought to heel, aware of everything, nervous. Everyone was nervous; Fergus could feel it pulsing out of their small bodies. He glanced around, looking for Darragh, but he wasn’t there.

’Is this about the soup?’ Sharon called out, but Ms Sims just clapped her hands for silence.

Mr Kennedy paced backwards and forwards, moving his hands to find the words he wanted to say as he hummed to himself.

‘Well, well, well,’ he said eventually. ‘A few brief words. I didn’t think it would come to this, but it has. Bullying, bullying, bullying. The bomb thrown at mutual respect. Worse than that, it means that respect is lacking. Should punishment for bullying be collective or individual? Is bullying the problem or the symptom? Well?’

This question seemed to be addressed to the fourth years, but the only reaction was Ms Sims’s flurried nodding.

‘The procedures for reporting bullying mean that the victim –’

He turned to Ms Sims.

‘Are we allowed to say victim?’

Ms Sims nodded.

‘The victim must remain anonymous so we can begin to heal as a unit, as a body, as a class, as a year, and as a school. In the past I would have said that the person being bullied was a weak link, a cancer to be cut from the body, a diseased, infectious animal in the herd; that which must be left behind for the health of the group, but according to the parent-teacher board, this is, supposedly, not the done thing. And, when all is said and done, their arguments do have some merits. Who am I to say they’re wrong? Bullying distorts the proper channels through which healthy competitiveness functions, giving an unhealthy advantage to an inefficient collective at the expense of the individual, and individual competitiveness is the lifeblood of every healthy system.’

‘What are you on about?’ Sharon laughed.

‘So, this is about Brian,’ Fergus called out, hands cupped over his mouth.

Mr Kennedy raised a silencing hand.

‘The procedures must remain anonymous.’

He looked around and took a deep breath.

‘Does anybody know what I’m speaking about?

‘We know it’s Brian,’ Fergus shouted. ‘Just let Steo go, and we’ll let him be.’

Steo, a well-liked third year, had been taken away a week ago by child services for dealing yokes outside Browne’s at big break. Apparently, the report had come from Brian. The forensics came back later stating that they were only aspirins with Joe Dolan’s face etched into them, but, nevertheless, Steo paid the price and students had taken to spray-painting Free Steo wherever there was free wall space. In the first year social area, in the matter of one morning, every single locker had been tagged with an inventive Free Steo design. The several students who had the ill judgement to protest against the ubiquitous graffiti on their lockers were pinned down and Free Steo was written on their foreheads; and afterwards they walked around the corridors, ostracised, sporting fading symbols for all to see, as if some strange contortion of Ash Wednesday had fallen on the school. Brian, who had taken issue with the severity of his own ostracism, had said the previous morning in Home Economics that he would report the whole school for bullying.

‘Well, alright. If everyone knows it, I can say it, can’t I?’ Mr Kennedy said, turning to Ms Sims. ‘It is Brian Moran.’

Everybody turned their heads to watch Brian, who buried his face in his hands and started crying.

‘It is inexcusable in the Year of our Lord 2006,’ Mr Kennedy shouted, ‘to bully someone because of their sexuality.’

‘Faggotry has nothing to do with this, and ye know it,’ Harry Brennan called out.

‘I’m not gay,’ Brian shouted out from the back of the social area.

‘Don’t interrupt,’ Ms Sims barked.

‘It can’t happen, Mr Kennedy continued. ‘It’s antisocial. It’s a bomb thrown into the proper order of the natural system. You see, systems are precious – ’

At the second mention of systems, the transition years groaned in frustration.

‘– so, so precious. They emerge effortlessly, beautifully. Like tendrils almost. But a threat to the system is not only a threat to the inherent order of the universe; I also take it as a personal insult. Without the system there is only the hive mind; we all turn into bees: incoherent, blind and fuzzy, buzzing our way around what we take to be the universe, but in fact we are merely hopping around a garden path, engaged in gross fornication with flowers that we are attracted to because of shiny colours, all the while growing fat and inefficient on nectar. Think of all the delicate flowers and the hardworking, silent majority tendrils who want to live in peace, holding on to the nectar they earn without living in the dark shadow of a constant fear that at any moment, without any reprisals or any accountability, a bee could violate them and rob their precious nectar. That,’ he raised up both his arms and looked to the ceiling, ‘is the only fruit the hive mind can offer us.’

Ms Sims cleared her throat and Mr Kennedy turned his head to stare at her blankly as she shook her head.

‘Not now,’ she said.

‘Oh yes, anyway,’ Mr Kennedy said, raising his finger to the ceiling. ‘Because of Brian’s repeated reports and that damned parent-teacher board we have no choice but to issue immediate three-day suspensions for anybody who is found to verbally or physically abuse fellow students on the grounds of race, religion or sexuality.’

‘I’m not gay,’ Brian said again, weakly this time.

‘Detention, Moran. You were warned,’ Ms Sims said, pointing at him.

‘Never mind that.’ James Monaghan shouted from the back of the social area. ‘Where’s our fucking soup?’

‘Ye’re the bullies,’ Sharon shouted.

‘Yeah,’ Harry Brennan shouted, and everyone started shuffling and yelling, rocking back and forth on their crossed legs.

Three students stood up, but once they were on their feet they didn’t know what to do. They shouted and pointed at Mr Kennedy and Ms Sims, every now and again turning around in small circles. The shouting became louder and louder, and then a noise ratcheted down the hall and Darragh appeared in the social area, bandy-eyed, breathing heavily through his nose; everything went quiet.

‘Did anyone rat?’ he yelled.

All eyes looked up at him.

‘Good stuff. Now, where’s that posh Nolan cunt?’ he shouted.

The transition years turned their heads away from him and back to the teachers.

‘I have a bone to pick with you, Mr Madden,’ Ms Sims said. ‘My office. Five minutes.’

Darragh threw his hands in the air.

‘Fuck this. I’m a free man,’ he screamed as he ran out of the room. Ms Sims walked quickly after him, arms crossed, notepad across her chest, dignity intact.

‘Did we not do a roll call?’ Mr Kennedy asked, but Ms Sims wasn’t there anymore. He glanced around twice, lost without her, a lonely look mutating his face. ‘That’s it, I suppose. Go on back to class.’

The students stood up and walked in different directions, none of them going back to their classrooms. They’d go to the basketball courts or the social area when Mr Kennedy had left, maybe they’d even go home, but wherever they go I can feel an uneasy frisson crackle in the air; air that hangs like an unfulfilled promise, moist and pregnant with a lurid, sick anxiety.

They waited until Mr Kennedy had left and then Fergus, James Monaghan and Harry Brennan carried Brian Moran into the nearest toilet. By the sinks, they water boarded him, holding him over the sink and under the tap, a hand towel draped across his face. James and Harry held his legs while Fergus pressed the hand towel over Brian’s face and pushed the tap every now and again to make sure the water was flowing properly. Fergus looked up once Brian had ceased squirming underneath him. A cluster of small mushrooms ran upwards in single file along a lightning-shaped crack in the wall that dragged its way to the ceiling. The line of inverted mushrooms, like a failed pilgrimage, ended above the only operational toilet in the bathroom. The urinals’ water gurgled and ran freely over a zigzag of blue bleach that stuck high up against the wall like plasma from a space gun.

‘Can you take over?’ Fergus asked Harry.

‘I can,’ Harry nodded.

James took both of Brian’s legs and Harry held the hand towel over Brian’s face with one hand and worked the tap with the other.

Fergus took off his jumper and shirt and washed down his bloody shoulder. He stood over the sink and watched himself in the liver-spottedmirror and shuddered. Torso bare, thin-bodied, shoulder-bones showing, hands like shovels, all overgrown and underdeveloped.

‘What’s up, Fergalicious?’ James smiled.

‘Nothing. Just Darragh’s gonna kill me is all.’

James nodded, grasping Brian’s legs tightly, which shivered intermittently.

‘You know I had a look in his bag yesterday and there were no books,’ James said.

‘What? Whose?’

’Darragh’s. There were just hundreds of packets of soup. Nothing else.’

‘Janey Mac.’

Fergus glanced at James Monaghan. He was a quiet, swarthy boy; good with his hands, He floated like a swan amongst groups; becoming someone’s friend for a week, charming and enamouring them, before promptly and mysteriously disappearing for a day or two until he would pop up again, already fully-integrated in a new social circle. With his neutral accent, he was very clearly a product of cosmopolitan Maynooth, where he had lived until the beginning of third year before transferring schools. He seemed completely foreign and unknowable to Fergus, and according to Harry Brennan, he had gotten a hand job off every single one of the 476 female students in Scoil Dara, from first year all the way up to sixth.

‘Is yourself and Sharon still going out?’ Fergus asked.

‘We were meeting for two weeks there. That’s been over for a year or so now. She’s sound out, though. Why? Do you fancy her? Unreal hand jobs, lad. Recommended.’

‘Here, lads,’ Fergus said, nodding towards Brian, ‘you can only do that for a couple of minutes, or he’ll die or something I think. Read it on Wikipedia.’

‘Can we do it in the jacks?’ Harry said.

‘I’d leave it now, in all honesty.’

‘What was he thinking, squealing on a decent, gentle sort like Steo?’ Harry asked.

‘Out of his mind,’ James said. ‘If we can keep our mouths closed about a complete and utter yoke like Darragh, he can do the same for a stellar, sound out head like Steo.’

They pulled Brian away from the sink and lay him gently on the floor as Fergus continued washing the blood that had crusted over his shoulders and chest, wincing.

When Fergus was done they carried Brian, prostrate and unconscious, out of the bathroom and lay him spread-eagled on one of the tables for all to see. They sat down in the corner and began chatting amongst themselves. Little break would start in five minutes. Fergus stared at Brian, laid out flat, his small chest rising and falling, all the while stacking up the orange Fruit Pastilles in a round tower on the corner of the table. Fergus started dismantling his little tower by flicking them at Brian, aiming for his open mouth. He kept missing, hitting Brian’s throat instead.

The social area was filling up with students flocking in, chatting. They all filed past the unconscious Brian, staring at him out of the corner of their eyes before they moved on. One or two students leant over him with markers, decorating his face with Free Steo symbols.

Once his tower was gone Fergus went over to James and asked him which locker belonged to Darragh.

‘Eh, 139 or 136. Don’t remember. Actually, definitely 139.’

Fergus opened his own locker and went through his bag. He brought out a book-flattened ham sandwich, which he held between his teeth. He pulled out his pencil case and took a compass out of it, which he then put in his pocket.

‘Darragh’s locker is 139? You’re sure?’ he called out, munching on his thin sandwich.

James nodded across the social area.

Fergus walked to locker 139, put the whole sandwich in his mouth and worked the lock with both hands on the compass.

The locker door swung open. On the inside of the locker door was a green rucksack, a magazine cut-out of Metallica and a large creased poster of Nas.

Fergus sighed and pulled the green rucksack out of the locker and glanced inside it.

‘I thought you said Darragh’s bag had soup in it?’ he called to James.

James shrugged, and then Fergus shrugged in reply, slung the rucksack over his shoulder and went into the bathroom. He stared at the pale smears of blood he had left on the sink before going into the one functioning cubicle.

He emerged from the cubicle and into the social area five minutes later, placed the rucksack back in its locker and jammed the door closed. Then he saw Darragh rustling through locker 136, massaging his testicles intently as he stared at two photos he had tacked to the inside of his locker, one of Sharon Fitzgerald in her P.E. uniform, leaning against a prefab, the other of a topless Pamela Anderson; his eyes darting between them crazily like a dog following a fly’s movements with its nose. Confusion washed over Fergus, and he edged over to James until he was sat next to him.

Then Neil Jennings came in, followed by three midgets, and walked over to locker 139, took his keys out of his pocket and opened it.

‘Oh,’ Fergus said.

Neil swung open locker 139, looked at it, swung the broken door again twice, puzzled now, opened the zip on his rucksack, dropped it, jumped back and stood still. He ran to the table where Brian lay, pushed Brian off it so that his insensate body slumped to the floor, and then stood on the table with his hands up. Everybody looked up.

‘Who shit in my bag?’ he shouted. ‘What fucker done this?’

‘Darragh Madden,’ James shouted, his hands cupped around his mouth.

Darragh was still hunched over his own locker, still massaging his testicles, but now with both hands. At the sound of his name, he turned and grinned.

‘What’s the story?’ he said.

‘Leg it,’ James yelled.

Neil jumped down off the table and approached Darragh, the three first years shadowing him. Darragh turned and fled as laughter broke out in the social area. He bobbed and weaved through the crowd until he crashed through the swing doors, the four boys close after him. There was pandemonium in the social area; a humming ruckus that lessened slightly as a few people filed out to see if the chase would turn into a beating, but amidst all the hullaballoo, Fergus saw Neil double back, before looking around and slinking to Darragh’s locker. Neil took the rucksack out of it and walked into the toilets.

Fergus covered his hands and sighed in relief.

‘You saved my life,’ he said to James.

‘Ah well, you know the way. It was me own fault. Also I have a bit of an agenda myself.’

‘You have a what?’

‘An agenda. It’s like a to-do list, or a shopping list.’

‘What’s on your shopping list?’

James made two circles out of his thumbs and forefingers, his knuckles showing white, and lay them on top of one another so they looked like one fat circle. Fergus looked down at the shape James’s fingers made and then James stretched his palms and fingers out, breaking the circle. He raised his hands in the air.

‘Chaos,’ he said.

‘Sound,’ Fergus replied.

Then James stood up, pushed over a plastic chair with two books laying on it, and the riot began.

This is an extract from Being Born, the first story in the debut collection Hostages by Oisín Fagan, published by New Island Books. Read Sarah Gilmartin's Irish Times review