Stick to the Story

‘If we stick to the story, both of us, she can’t prove anything. Keep it simple: we were there to say a prayer for our exams, and it moved all on its own. She’ll try to trip us up, she might separate us, divide and conquer, talk one-on-one to pick holes, and if she does, keep tight to what I’ve told you. No hesitation. No fancy bits added. No getting clever with the detail and thinking you’re Hieronymus Bosch – remember? – we did him in art last year, all that tiny detail he draws in the background – don’t do that. And don’t be Proust with a pen, deciding that it’s clever to dwell on every little thing. Keep your counsel, button your lip, stick to the story. Got it? We can do this. It’s going to be fine.’

All through her soliloquy, he sat immobile staring at the same patch of highly polished parquet flooring.

‘Well?’ She said, nudging him in the ribs when nothing came by way of response. ‘Are you with me?’

His eyes stayed fixed on the floor, but this time he nodded long, slow, solemn nods, and, as if to underline just how on board he was, he said nothing.

In contrast to his almost sedated approach, she was super-charged. Her legs were crossed, her top leg was bouncing like it was attached to a string and whoever was holding the string had the tremors. In her hand was a biro which she flicked nervously until she lost control of it and it flew from her hand, bounced and rolled down the corridor, sending echoes louder than any pen should be able to produce.

She made to move from her chair to retrieve it, but he put his hand firmly on her leg.

‘Leave it,’ he said. ‘You’re such a klutz. Your clumsiness is about to get me expelled.’

That was the moment Sister Hildegard chose to open the office door and usher them in. The placement of his hand was not going to help their hearing.

‘Debbie, Liam. Come through.’

She walked ahead of them, past the two chairs that sat before her large desk, an expanse of pale wood glazed to honey by the late afternoon light. The desk was bare, but for two items from which both pupils averted their eyes.

Debbie sat down first and straight away resumed the flicking motion, now with just her fingers.

Liam waited until the principal was seated, and, with a deferential nod, he then sat. He placed his feet parallel on the ground, palm of each hand on each leg and he looked squarely at the nun.

‘Our beloved Saint Gregory,’ she reached up to her tunic, touched the cross that hung around her neck, and leaned forward. ‘Venerated Gregory, our dear patron saint of teachers, has lost his head.’

At that moment, the gardener passed by a window on a ride-on mower, a shower of green confetti spraying up behind him, the sound of the engine applauding him for his fine work. Sister waited for the noise to die away before she resumed her refrain.

‘Our beloved Saint Gregory has been part of this community for ninety-seven years. For almost a century he has avoided all injury, accident, misfortune, but today, calamity has befallen him.’

Silence.

‘Our beloved Saint Gregory saw what happened, he knows the truth, and if you do not tell me how this happened…’

Here she paused. She reached for the head that was placed on the right of the table, resting on its cheek and looking across to the limbed, headless torso standing upright to the left. She stroked his forehead, ran her fingers tenderly over his eyes as an undertaker might tend to the deceased, then took Gregory’s head in her hands and turned the face so that it looked straight at them.

‘Know that Saint Gregory was you witness.’ She raised a calculating eyebrow.

‘Debbie, I shall hear your account first. How exactly did this act of terror come to pass?’