The Art of Breathing Underwater

Chapter 4

Roley shook his head. "I swear, that class had of gone on any longer, I'd of stuck this compass in me eyeball."

"What's the point of it all?" I said. "When am I ever gonna use a Pythagorean triangle?"

"Pythagorean triangles, me arse."

"That's the Greeks for ya," Keith said. "When they're not messing with each other's arses, they're—"

"Nevermind the Greeks, what about that prick, mister Walsh?" Robbie said. "Kicked me out. Again. So, I forgot my book. We don't use—"

"I don't even have a book."

"There you go—"

"I'm failing, a waster. He's long past giving a shite about me."

"Bastard's been on my case since day one. You know what he said to me, my first day, You're trouble, I'm gonna sit on you. First day. You believe that."

Roley kicked a doc-marten against the radiator pipe out of boredom. "This place is wrecking my head. C'mon boys, let's hit the chipper."

Robbie and Keith nodded enthusiastically. All eyes turned to me.

It was strictly forbidden to leave school property, even during lunch hour. Punishment ranged from detention to suspension, which held little appeal. Yet, sitting here staring at the decrepit yellow walls reading the inane etchings of past pupils, wondering what fun the guys might be having, held even less. "I'm in."

Our gang of four slunk shiftily through the draughty corridors, despite, as yet, not having done anything illegal. We entered the principal building, eyes darting in every direction, on the lookout for teachers. Not a sinner in sight, we sprinted for the open door and freedom, didn't stop until we were halfway down the street, breathless and smiling daftly.

The sense of liberation, the thrill of breaking the rules, and the clear blue sky above our heads, sent a rush of pure euphoria shooting through my system.

Keith whipped off his denim jacket and slung it over his shoulder. "This is some weather we're having, wha'?"

Robbie glanced skyward at the bright sun. "That'll be the Greenhouse Effect kicking in. They reckon in thirty years we'll be getting summers as they have in Spain."

"Bleedin' deadly."

"Papers say it's all the deodorants and hairspray we're using," I said.

"My arse," Roley said. "How's deodorant gonna make a shites side of difference to our climate?"

Robbie's eyebrows rose. "Since when has a dedicated soap-dodger like you become an expert on the harmful effects of hygiene products?"

As he flung his empty soft-drink plastic bottle over the wrought-iron railings, Roley said: "Don't believe all you read. Most of what they put in the papers is pure horse-shit."

"Scientists reckon—" I said.

"What do they know?"

"...in twenty-five years, we'll—"

"Twenty-five years—that last class felt longer. Double-geography after lunch. Don't know how I'm gonna make it through this day."

Keith's eyes widened. "Good Jesus, would ya cop a load of this, boys." We turned in the direction his finger pointed. Adjacent to the entrance to the Hugh Lane Gallery, like some post-modern statement on society, a vagrant lay curled up in the foetal position between two parked cars. "Dirty knacker shat himself."