The Art of Breathing Underwater

Chapter 24

I sensed an atmosphere the moment I walked into the classroom. All eyes trained on me, as alert to my movements as the much-vaunted new CCTV cameras introduced on O'Connell street.

Fanning made a show of shifting to the edge of the wooden bench the second I sat down. Then he glanced around, playing to his audience. I heard multiple knowing sniggers and tried to ignore them, and the low muttered asides.

Roley looked a shade embarrassed when I tapped him on the shoulder to see if I could borrow his ruler.

When we broke for lunch, things became clear. Robbie had left his film for development at my local pharmacy, the one close to the bus stop. The cashier that particular evening was Roley's mother. She recognised Robbie from the television, and, once they developed the photographs, the model, as the kid who attended her son's school. She told her son. Roley told Keith. Fanning overheard their conversation and informed the rest of the class. And, now, aggressively shoulder-barged me as he passed, leading his sycophantic schoolmates like a pugnacious Pied Piper.

Somewhere deep inside, a switch flicked. "Watch it yeh scurvy bastard." Idiot move.

"Wha'?" He spun around, stood inches from my face. "I never liked you, Murphy."

"Aw, I really love you." That drew grins from the ten-strong mob flanking Fanning. This could get real dumb real quick.

Buttons pushed, Fanning's face contorted with anger."You trying to say something?" Two palms upward like the buffers of a train engine, he shunted me back against the wall.

"Nothing you'd understand." Delivered with laconic detachment, allowing this nightmare to play out with numb acceptance. A re-run of what had happened in my previous school. Cycle continuing. Never-ending.

Bodies swarmed around us, encircling, closing in.

"Smack him," a voice from the pressing gang shouted. And like dogs, once one barks, the rest of the pack follows suit. It was hyena season, and the baying pack demanded their piece of flesh.

Fanning was under pressure to react. Roles we are forced to play. No escaping the inevitability of violence.

"You filthy faggot bastard," he said, spittle spraying from his lips. By venting his vitriol before taking his swing, he granted me that valuable extra second to anticipate what would happen. I shifted stance in time, so his knuckles scraped my chin.

What ensued was a mad blur. My body's natural response to a threat. Animal instinct. No thought, only action.

When the red mist dissipated, Fanning was on the ground pushing himself crab-like away. Drops of blood dripped from his nose onto his school jumper. Between gritted teeth, I urged him to get up for more, to receive a punishment for every ignorant dope I'd ever come across. He squinted up, called me a 'psycho.' Wiped a hand over his cut lip.

Arms locked around my chest and dragged me away. "Easy, Rocky." Keith's voice in my ear, "Let's get going before—ah shite..." I clocked a furious teacher pushing through the crowd.

Fanning and I were dispatched to the principal's office, teacher marching between us, like a weary referee.

My head hung down like a condemned man, tired body involuntarily twitching from the earlier violent release. Each step down the corridor was a step nearer my fate. My parents were sure to be called into the school for a private meeting to discuss my behaviour. The thinly constructed walls shielding my reality would come crashing down the moment Fanning opened his mouth. It already felt as though I were wading through the debris.

"I caught these idiots punching the daylights out of each other," the teacher said.

"So, what has ye fighting like a pair of wild dogs?" The principal put the question to Fanning.