Free The Brothers' Lot by Kevin Holohan Page A

narrow hall, wiping her hands on her apron as she came. She yanked the door open bursting with: “So? How did you get on? How many slaps did you get, pet?”
    “Two,” answered Finbar sullenly as he hung his blazer on the hallstand. He knew two was a good answer: neither low enough to arouse the suspicion of lying nor high enough to prompt further investigation.
    “Sure, that’s not bad. Were you talking? I know you’re a terrible talker though I don’t know where you get it from at all. You can’t get a word out of your father and Declan is the same. Mind you, your Uncle Francie could talk the hind leg off a donkey. That must be where you get it from. Were the masters nice? That Brother Loughlin seems like a very holy man. I’m sure he’ll look out for you. Was your uniform all right? I’m not certain those trousers are the right gray. Did anyone say anything to you about the trousers?”
    Finbar drifted away through the flood of words. None of her questions really required answers. If she really wanted to know anything she would ask him again and again until he answered.
    The bus stop incident had really pissed him off. Maybe it was the class with Spud Murphy that had made things worse. It had made him feel there was some warmth there. The way the others behaved with Spud showed they weren’t all bad. When they saw him at the bus stop there was no need for them to throw his bag onto that passing bus. Why did they do that? He’d had to run after it for nearly a hundred yards before it hit a red light, and then he missed his own bus. What was the point of that? Why did they have to do that? He hated them. He really, really hated them.

10
    A fter the evening rosary and the communal ice bath, Brother Tobin retired to his cell and his prayers to Saint Dearbhla of Armagh, to whom he felt a particular devotion. He pulled the book out from under his mattress. It had become harder since they took his public library card away and banned him from even entering the building. This one had taken a lot of work to get in. He had bribed one of the sixth years to bring it to him from England. It was still banned in the Republic as far as he knew. Invoking Saint Dearbhla, he set to work on Where the Trade Winds Call Love .
    He had fallen behind lately so he was determined to do a bit at lunchtime every day this week. He removed the Saint Dearbhla bookmark and opened to page fifty-four. He read carefully and attentively, evaluating every nuance and innuendo he could capture. “Aha! There’s one!”
    Carefully he lifted his ruler from the table. He took the naked razor blade and deftly removed the word corset , leaving behind an inoffensive and uncorrupting empty rectangle on the page.
    He picked up the sliver of vileness and, with another heartfelt invocation of Saint Dearbhla, popped it in his mouth and chewed it energetically. His eyes teared with pride as he caught sight of Saint Dearbhla on her little altar of already expurgated and purified books. She seemed to glow with approval of his labors.
    * * *
    Brother Loughlin sat back in his office chair and puffed nervously on a thin cigar. He picked up the phone and dialed.
    “Noel? How in God’s name are ye? How’s the big fella? How’s the County Council treating you? … Oh, it’s Eamon, Eamon Loughlin at Little Werburgh Street … No, no, Greater Little Werburgh Street, NORTH … Yes, yes, fine, fine. I’m sorry to be disturbing you at home … Well, funny you should ask because, come here to me now, but I have a little favor to ask you. There’s been some mix-up about a planning application that has the Brothers here in a bit of an uproar. You didn’t see it in The Way Forward , did you? …
    “Well, some go-boys by the names of Fionn and Patrick Sweeney put a planning application in the newspaper to build a warehouse on the site of the school here … Yes, yes, I know it sounds mad, but I have the paper here in front of me. I’m sure it’s some mistake but I