She’s late. No surprises there. Late for her own funeral if she got the bleedin chance. Never remember her bein on time, for anythin. Amount of times I’ve had to walk the ninety minutes home after school football trainin in the bleedin dark cause she forgot to collect me. And they wonder why I don’t play it any more?

- I can’t believe you’re in that chair again, son.

Oul Conroy still has his head in one of those ancient books of his. His right finger twirls the bit of curly blackgray hair he has left on his egg head. No stranger in his office. Always stare at that photo of the Book of Kells in the background

when he’s tellin me how important an education is and me tinkin about what it’s gonna be like to direct a film or about the ancestors or how long he’s gonna talk this time. He tinks I’m lookin at him but I’m lookin right through him tinkin about this massive film I’m gonna make about the Tuatha de Danaan and the Fir Bolg and the Nemedh and the Partholan and the Milesians and the sons of the Milesians. How they came and went.

Shite. Why are me hands sweatin so much? Suppose it’s cause he has no choice but to kick me out now. Knew it was comin but now that it’s about to happen I kinda don’t want it to cause I’ll miss oul Conroy and Kevin and I don’t want Dad stressin about me.

- I hate to see such a smart young man ruin himself like this, son.

Head of him and the price of cabbage. Why’s he lookin at me as if I’ve shat on his massive desk?

- I just don’t understand, son. All these incidents with other young gentlemen, son, and you after receiving fifth place in the country in the Inter Cert. Why?

- I don’t know, Father.

Not what he wanted to hear that but what the hell am I supposed to say?

- You’ve been thrown out of Art, Geography, Maths, Biology? Well, what do you have to say for yourself, son?

Wouldav been thrown outta PE too but that bastard Farrelly never kicks anyone out. He just makes ya suffer by doin extra circuit trainin. All except for Eoin. He always escaped the sadistic oul bastard. Why they ever made a bleedin geriatric a PE teaher goes beyond me. Older than Jesus so he is. Shovel hands and a head like a used leather football.

Silence.

Jesus, what do I say? Wish he wouldn’t ask such shite questions. Wish he’d talk about the Book of Kells or somethin interestin. Anythin but these fuckin questions.

- I just don’t understand it, son. And you with a good mind. I’m sorry about your father, but this is just unacceptable behaviour. I can’t understand it, son.

Ahno. Here comes the attendance book. This should be a right laugh. Oul Hayes the vice principal mustav shoved that in his face. Hayes hates me. Told him maths was for people with no imagination and he threw the maths book at me and kicked me out of his class. Never let me back into it either. I’d say there’s days in there where Hayes has me marked absent when I was bleedin here. Couldn’t give a shite at this stage. I’m goin and that’s it. Oul Conroy has no choice this time.

- This doesn’t look good at all, son. Not at all. Would you agree, son?

- Yes, Father.

- Oh, come on Devine son. You’re a bright fella. Out with it.

Don’t know why but me brain just goes blank when people ask me questions about me own life. That time in the confessional was a fluke. Can talk about anythin else except me own life. Films, the weather, even tractors or maths or stuff that drives me mental, but I just can’t get the words together or somethin when it’s about me. Always seems as if I tink too much about what I’m gonna say and then I run outta time to say it.

- What is it that has you interfering with these other boys, son?

They’re interferin with bleedin me! Why doesn’t anyone ever see the way things really are? Interferin. Wish I could talk to him about the words he uses, where he gets them from.

- Son, are you listening to me?

- I don’t know, Father.

- You don’t know what, son?

- I don’t know why, Father?

- Now you don’t have to act a part around me, son. In no uncertain terms I’m worried about you. I hate to see you waste your life away for nothing. Anything you say to me inside these four walls will stay inside these four walls, son.

- Yes, Father.

Can’t tell him. Me hands are sweatin bleedin buckets. Trouser knees are saturated. Where the hell is the Mother?

- You can trust me, son. I’ve nothing to gain by hurting you and everything to gain by getting a great student back. You know I don’t want to have to do this, son?

- Yes, Father.

Nothin else’ll come out. Bolloxs! Haven’t the balls to just tell him.

- Is it because of your father, son?

- I don’t know, Father.

- Perhaps his illness led to your involvement in all these fights, son?

Wish he’d stop with the bleedin son stuff right now. I’m not his son.

- I don’t know, Father.

- You don’t know? Son, I’m trying to help you here. You’re pushing me into a corner, you know that? The last two incidents I allowed for on account of your academic ability. In my thirty years of teaching I may never have come across a young man so curious about our heritage. It saddens me, son, saddens me no end, to see you throw that gift away by allowing yourself to turn into a base gurrier.

- Yes, Father.

- Yes what, son? Are you agreeing with me or are you choosing not to hear what I’m saying?

Hearin and listenin. Had about enough of that. Where the hell is she?

- I don’t know, Father.

- Ah, son, you’re sabotaging your own situation. You know your Mother seems to think you’re dyslexic?

Bleedin typical. She’s dyin for me to be a disaster so that she can have somethin to bitch about. Wish oul Conroy’d use some bleedin BO spray now and again. He doesn’t half stink or anythin. And his breath smells like old meat or somethin. He could do with a few Polo mints. Knock you out with that smell.

- What do you think about that, son?

- What do you tink, Father?

- Don’t play games with me, son. You know right well what I think. Amn’t I after applauding  your abilities?

There’s no flies on oul Conroy. Knows there’s somethin up with the Mother.

- I want to know your opinion on the matter, son.

- Well… I don’t know, Father.

- Well, this sounds like this is it then son. I’ve tried my best. I’ve a school of headers and base characters who wouldn’t know the moon from the sun and here I have a young man with an amazing future ahead of him just throwing it away. It’s a tragedy, son, a downright bloomin tragedy.

Bloomin. Who says that anymore? Maybe Granddad and Dad. Wish he’d stop shakin his bleedin head like that. Makin me feel guilty with all this talk.

- You know, I can’t keep you, son, if you don’t help me.

- Yes, Father.

- How many schools have you been expelled from, son?

- This’ll be the third, Father.

Wish he’d stop starin at me with those serious eyes.

- Why did you hit him, son?

- He hit me first, Father.

- Don’t you know that it takes a better man not to retaliate, son? Have you ever heard of a Mr. Mahatma Gandhi, son?

- Yes, Father, but after he hit me the fifth time I couldn’t stop meself from retaliatin, Father.

Wish he’d stop shakin his bleedin head like that. What’s he expect from me? Not gonna let some arsehole like Murtagh beat the shite outta me over nothin like that.

- I know, everyone knows, son, that young Murtagh is a base individual, but he doesn’t deserve to be in a hospital. You could have come to me. I could have helped you, son.

- It wasn’t me intention, Father.

- Well, Holy Mother Mary of God, son, what was your intention?

- To stop him from hittin me anymore, Father.

There he goes with the shakin of his head ableedingain. Jesus! Won’t even look at me now. Starin at that fuckin attendance book again.

- This is just awful, son, just awful.

Got to say somethin to him now. Jesus, he has me feelin terrible.

- You know, Father, you don’t have to worry about me. I’m gonna be fine. I’m probably just goin through this whole teenage rebellious stage, ya know. Doesn’t everybody go through stages in their lives?

- I don’t know, son.

Jesus. He’s makin me feel even worse now. Flingin me own answer back at me.

- Seriously though, Father, don’t worry about me. I’ll be alright. I learnt so much from ya and you know, that meant a lot to me, even though I was only here for a few months and all.

Knock. Knock.

- That must be your mother. Come in please!

Jesus Christ! Never saw that suit on her before. She mustav bought it today. Where’d she get the money for that? Mustav won money at the poker last night. Jesus. You’d swear she was nearly normal to look at her. Even has her hair cut. This takes the bleedin biscuit. Talk about a fuckin hypocrite.

- Please sit down, Missus Devine.

- Thank you, Father.

And the D4 accent too. She puts on the same fake voice when she’s on the phone. Drives me crazy all that ladeeda pretentious puke. Her and her airs and graces. Eiri in aire. Talk about bein fullashite. She’ll make me puke me ring yet.

- Lorcan, please wait outside so your mother and I can have a conversation.

- Yes, Father.

Ah, Jesus, the state of her with that awful bleedin fake smile plastered all over her face as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. How fullashite can ya get? Jesus.

- I’ll be with you soon, darling.

Whathefuck? Darling? First time I ever heard that. Can only imagine the shite she’s gonna fill him with. What a hard graft it is raisin a child on her own with her husband dyin in the hospital and after raisin five children already. Got to at least try and cheer oul Conroy up before I go.

- I… eh, tanks for everythin, Father… Well… I better go. Ya haveta talk to the Mother…

Jesus. Can’t believe I’m not goin to see him again. Makes me sad to tink of it. Bolloxs to this. Too sad so it is. He was always so nice to me too.

- Tanks again for everythin, Father. You were really eh… tanks.

- You’re welcome, son.

He gives a good handshake too. Solid. Not one of those limp sweaty palm ones.

- I’ll see ya again, Father.

- Goodbye, son.

- Yes, Father.

Close the door as fast as I can. Can’t believe I said Yes, Father. Any time he tinks of me now he’ll tink I’m the fella that said Yes, Father when I was sayin goodbye to him, which is so fuckin fullashite.