14 February 1988 [Continued]
Mrs Lynch was herding the children down from the viewing seats, along with the other students from the other schools, with their other lives, where boys didn't drown in swimming championships. Everyone was staring bleakly ahead, not really seeing what was in front of them. Down on the side of the swimming pool, the instructor had swum down to Carl and grabbed him with ease. He didn't fight back this time. Dragging him to the surface, the instructor had laid him on his back and pumped his chest rapidly. One, two; one, two.
The paramedics arrived as the students gathered in the reception, running past them with boxes and light blue uniforms and professionalism: surely people whose job it was to save lives would save Carl, the students thought. After all, they had those big paddles that you shock people with and boxes with big red crosses on. They had to save him.
Jim stood away from the groups. Mrs Lynch didn't stop anyone talking, or call for order, or do much of anything. She just stood with the other students and lit a cigarette with a shaking hand. Her eyes were glazed over. Everyone was whispering and jostling, unsettled, and every now and then they would shoot a glance at the entrance to the swimming pool. But nobody dared to go into the changing room to get Carl's stuff, because that would mean he was dead and that couldn't be true.
After a short while of standing alone, Jim walked over to Mrs Lynch's side and folded his arms. She noticed that he didn't seem in the same state of shock as the other children, but rather his face was a passive mask. His eyes glinted and his mouth was a straight line, but he didn't seem upset at all. When he spoke, his voice was quiet and revered, like he was talking in church.
"Mrs Lynch?" The question had an air of rhetoric, like he was simply phrasing it as a question to appear nervous, when in fact he knew she would reply – he was going to talk at her, and she would listen. There was something in his tone that echoed authority. For goodness sake, this child was eleven years old. And yet he exuded the same confidence of a businessman who had just completed a difficult task – oily, arrogant and confident.
"Yes James?" She asked, tapping her cigarette and focusing on him. Even in her state of shock, something about him pierced the reptilian section of her brain: run, it whispered, run.
"Will Carl be okay?" His voice was nervous now, and whatever she'd seen in his small stance was gone. Suddenly, Mrs Lynch saw Jim for what he was: a young, skinny boy with unusually dark eyes. He'd been a victim for years and now the main perpetrator of the crimes against him was in a fatal condition and he was only concerned for him. Mrs Lynch looked into his unnatural eyes, wide with worry, and smiled sadly.
"I'm sure he will," she lied in a patronizing tone, holding the smile. She'd seen the way Carl had been too still on the poolside, the way his sparrow-small chest hadn't moved despite the instructor's desperate pumping. The images were burned onto the back of her eyelids, and she could hear the hollowness in her own words. But why worry a child with the knowledge that one of his peers was dead?
An expression flickered across Jim's face for a moment, too quick to comprehend – annoyance? Disbelief? But it was gone as soon as it appeared, and he nodded rapidly. "I sure hope so," He replied with a strange Texan twang that implied sarcasm and mixed with his Irish accent to create a frankly ridiculous tone. Mrs Lynch opened her mouth to respond but she felt a hand on her shoulder and turned.
The paramedic's face was stony and he didn't let go of her shoulder as he led her across the reception to a more secluded area. His voice was low but the seriousness of his expression spoke louder than his words could: Carl was dead. His body would be laying there on the swimming pool side, stiller than he'd ever been in life, his lips sticky with bile and his skin slick with water.
Jim was frozen on the spot and he started to quiver all over. He clenched his hands into fists and unclenched them, gritting his teeth. Some of the other children started cry and hug one another – they hadn't heard the news, but they weren't idiots – but Jim just shook and jutted his jaw out. His eyes were closed tightly and he looked like he was in pain.
One of the other teachers walked over to him and gently put a hand on his shoulder. "Are you alright?" He asked, concern heavy in his voice.
Jim's eyes flew open and he darted forwards. Before he knew it he was shoving the door to the changing rooms open and running across the slippery floor, tripping on the dampness and stumbling over his own satchel. His knees slammed onto the tiled floor hard. There was a constant screaming sound, keening and high-pitched, going on and on. He couldn't see – he was blind. His eyes were shuttered by tears, but he could just about make out a pair of laced-up trainers sitting next to one another, neatly, still waiting for their owner who would never come.
The screaming stopped and Jim's chest heaving in greedy gulps of air as he struggled to a sitting position. He looked at the trainers and knew that he had less than a minute before someone came in after him. In one quick movement he reached over to the shoes and stuffed them into his bag just as the door behind him swung open. He threw himself face forward, letting his bag fall to the floor at his side, and sobbed loudly. "No, no, no, no."
"James, calm down." It was Mrs Lynch and, though she didn't make a move to physically comfort him, her voice was soft and lilting. "It's alright; it's okay."
"My name's not James, it's never been James, I'm not James." He ranted hysterically, gasping, hoping that this was believable: would they honestly think he'd had a panic attack because of a dead student? Then again, they had no reason not to believe it. And they were stupid enough. His trophy was nestled in his bag; safe.
Someone put their hands on his back lightly and Jim looked up, sniffing, to see the paramedic. He carefully pulled Jim up so that he was sitting on his knees. "There we go, son. Deep breaths. There we go." Jim breathed in for a count of five, then back out again, following the instructions. He had what he needed now – there was no need to take it too far.
"I know it can be difficult when someone close to you passes away." The paramedic said, quietly, fixing his eyes on Jim's. "But would you friend want you to be upset?" He paused and it was all Jim could do to keep from grinning – his friend – and shake his head instead. "There you go then." The paramedic smiled slightly and straightened up, pulling Jim with him.
Mrs Lynch watched Jim carefully as the paramedic left the changing rooms and heard him calling to the children outside: nothing to see here, kids, go back to your coach. There was only one reason he would want them all to leave, she reasoned: they needed to get rid of the body. Whatever that was out there, being lifted from the tiled floor, it was no longer Carl Powers. The cocky boy with a strange fascination with the military was gone, leaving Mrs Lynch with that aged old question of where.
They stood opposite one another in the otherwise empty room. Jim's black eyes were unreadable, his mouth twitching slightly in what seemed to be – but couldn't possibly be – a suppressed smile. He bent down to pick up the ridiculous satchel and hung it off one shoulder, shoving his hands into his pockets and rocking on the balls of his feet.
He didn't say a word, and neither did she, because there was nothing to say: it had all been spoken in her rants at him about "being a bully" and his "yes Miss's" that had a ring of sarcasm to them.
Anything which either of them could say carried an air of triviality: no words could counter the tragedy that had occurred; nothing could stop what had happened simply being something that had happened. Like the swimming pool – it didn't matter that a boy had died there, that right now the paramedics were wheeling out a corpse; nothing would stop it being anything more than a was no way to speak it out of existence, and Mrs Lynch knew that this odd boy didn't need empty words of comfort. One thing that could be said for James Moriarty was that he only ever said things which needed to be said.
His Irish lilt broke the vacuum of space between them, and he looked straight into her eyes when he said clearly: "He never paralysed before. Maybe, if he'd told someone he had something wrong, this never would have happened." He paused and a pondering expression crossed his face. "Shame."
Mrs Lynch felt herself go cold as Jim walked past her and out of the room, the tiny hairs on her arms standing straight up. Because, to the casual observer, it seemed like Carl had simply had a fit. In fact, she didn't remember the paramedic telling anyone besides her that Carl had actually paralysed.
The coaches had left without them, but the receptionist informed them both that a taxi was on its way shortly. "They felt it better to get the kids back home, you know." She said, quietly, like she was sharing a secret with them. Her eyes were slightly hooded and Mrs Lynch couldn't help but feel she was eating this up – a gossip. "After what happened."
"Yes," she replied, curtly. "Thank you. We'll wait in the car park. Come along, James."
Only the receptionist saw Jim's sullen expression as he followed his teacher outside, and she thought it was such a shame, to have lost a friend the way he had. They both walked into the car park and stood side by side, leaving a distinct gap between them, and stared straight ahead. Anyone watching would have thought they didn't know one another at all, and anyone listening to their conversation wouldn't have assumed they'd both just witnessed a child die.
"I hate waiting." Jim said, kicking the ground.
"Some things take time, James," Mrs Lynch replied stiffly, pulling out another cigarette and lighting up. "The taxi will be here in a minute."
He snorted in the back of his throat, as if disgusted by the concept of hanging around for transport, and he said, shrewdly: "Some things can be sped up, if you know how to."
She paused. "That's true. But there are some things you need to wait for, because that's how life is. More often than not, there's a good reason to wait for things."
"Yeah?" He sounded disbelieving. "Like what?"
She shrugged. "So you can have time to do everything you want to do." She took a long drag from her cigarette until the tip glowed and exhaled slowly.
Jim watched her with mild intrigue and his tone was argumentative. "But there are some people who don't deserve the time to do other stuff."
"Everyone deserves time, James." A second passed. "Everyone."
"Nah, I don't think so. Not everyone. Not always."
The taxi pulled into the car park and slowed to a halt in front of them. The driver gestured to the back and Jim got in, silently. Mrs Lynch sat in the front, partially out of courtesy, but mostly because she didn't want to sit next to Jim. They spent the rest of the ride back to Jim's house in silence, save the quiet hum of the radio.
When they pulled up outside Jim's house, Eva was already waiting on the pavement. She rushed over the moment Jim got out of the car, and enveloped him with her stick-thin arms, sobbing. She was wearing a threadbare blouse and Jim could feel her bones through it, as if she was starving. No wonder he was so awkwardly thin, he thought, with a mother like that. God – did she know what a cliché she was? Did she thrive on being the caring-mother figure when it suited her, as he drank deep of the revenge-driven psychopathic role? Perhaps she was playing up to her audience, thinking that Mrs Lynch could be fooled by a crying parent into thinking that he was normal. There was nothing dysfunctional in the family, but rather the issue lay with Jim.
"My boy, my baby, you're okay." She murmured into his shirt, and he couldn't help but think she was laying it on a bit thick: did she really care that much? He hadn't even been in the water for goodness sake. Or maybe she was just compensating for her sideways glances of disdain, her ignorance to his glaringly obvious problems, and her apparent lack of interest in anything out of the ordinary in his life.
"Mum," Jim struggled out of the hug and glared at her, at which point her face fell a little. "I'm fine. Jesus, I'm okay. Would you get off?" He felt a flicker of pleasure at her widening eyes – a tiny spark in comparison to the fact that was sitting in the back of his mind that Carl was dead – and smiled flatly.
He was facing away from Mrs Lynch and the taxi driver, though he could feel their gazes on the back of his head, so they never saw him raise his hand and place a single finger to his lips. It could have easily been mistaken as him simply scratching his face, as opposed to the universal sign for be quiet. He flashed her a wolfish smile and then he whirled away, dismissively, to address Mrs Lynch and the driver.
"Thanks so much for bringing me back, Miss. I'm ever so grateful, Miss." This time his smile was broad and toothy, more for the benefit of the driver than his teacher.
"Come along then, Jim." His mum said, softly. She reached out to put a hand on his shoulder but paused, hesitating. Her hand hung there awkwardly for a few seconds, not quite touching her son, and she eventually let it drop limply to her side. She looked so lost that Mrs Lynch felt sorry for her and stared past Jim, completely ignoring his charade. Out of the corner of her eye she saw his look of fury, but reasoned that it was more important to help the other woman than it was to entertain the whims of an eleven year old.
"Are you alright, Mrs Moriarty?" Eva didn't reply, so Mrs Lynch continued. "If you'd like, I can take James to see the school councillor for the afternoon: she's going to be running sessions for the students who witnessed the… accident." The request was almost laughable: it was clear to both of them that Jim wasn't bothered by what he'd seen, but she wanted to do something to relieve Eva of that terrible expression.
The glance that Eva gave towards Jim was hardly noticeable, but it was there all the same: she was asking his permission. He leaped into the role of the good student not wanting to burden his teacher in one breath. "Oh no, thank you Miss. I'll be okay. I'd really rather just go and lie down actually." He smiled at her gratefully. "Thank you though. It's very nice of you."
"Yes, thank you." Eva parroted quietly.
With that he began to turn away to go into his house, swinging his arms, and Mrs Lynch shot Eva a pitying look. How lonely it must be to be her, Mrs Lynch thought as they drove away, and to be stuck on her own little island with her loveless child. The poor woman looked exhausted from just this short exchange. She wanted to comfort Mrs Moriarty more than she wanted to comfort Jim, who had just witnessed the death of one his classmates but who also, to the entire world, seemed entirely unbothered by it. And there was a lot to be seen in that.