> You hit Ferdia
I had a friend once. A real friend, not a parasite like Ferdia. Someone with whom I could be myself, someone with whom I could relax, someone with whom I could share my hopes and dreams.
His name was Daniel Maguire. I first met him when I was ten years old, before I went to St. Enda's, when I was going to the local primary school out in the country. He was the new boy in class, and for no apparent reason he was very nice to me. We became friendly, and pretty soon we became inseparable. Whenever we were together, it was so special! I remember the summers we had...
I can honestly say that the only times I felt free, the only times I felt liberated from all my inhibitions, were the times I spent with Daniel. We didn't have any secrets from each other. I didn't have to feign interest in anything just to please him, I didn't feel the need to impress him with long words and insincere feelings, I didn't have to be anything other than myself.
But I know my parents weren't too fond of him. They were always trying to get me to play with some ghastly yacht-club children, and I don't think they liked some of the language I picked up from Daniel, either. Somehow I began to see him less and less. Then, when I was thirteen, disaster struck. I was packed off to St. Enda's, and Daniel went to some other secondary school. And after that, I didn't get to see him at all.
. . .
Shortly after that, Daniel sent me a letter. It was a very funny letter, describing some events and people at his new school. It was like a flash of the old Daniel, the one who used to tell funny stories in a hay-barn. It cheered me up no end during the misery of St. Enda's, let me tell you. I knew I had to reply, and it had to be a really well-written and funny letter, too.
God, I tried so often to write that letter. Practically every night I would stare at a page that was blank except for the words "Dear Daniel" at the top. I just couldn't think of anything to say. "Just be yourself," I kept thinking, "And write down whatever comes into your head." But nothing came into my head.
A few weeks passed, and I still hadn't written a reply. And then I couldn't think of any excuses for my lateness. The longer it went on, the more ashamed I became about the delay, and the harder it was to write. I must have read and re-read Daniel's letter fifty times, looking for inspiration. I still have that letter. I still haven't replied.
. . .
I often dream of a reunion with Daniel. I think about how it would happen - whether it would be in our old school out in the country, or in the hay-barn where we used to go, or maybe just passing on the street.
But if I ever do meet Daniel again, I hope I'll be standing on the platform of a railway station - a miserable, damp railway station, where all the seats are taken by stuck-up grannies and biddies and ghastly yacht-clubbers. And while waiting for the train, which is taking ages, I'll peer over to the opposite platform, and notice a familiar figure. Daniel! Barely able to conceal the joy in my voice, I'll step over to the edge of the platform and shout "Daniel Maguire! What the FUCK are you doing here?" And he'll notice me and shout "Alex Moran, would you ever shut the FUCK up, you cross-eyed WANKER!" And I'll reply "Go FUCK yourself, ASSHOLE!" and he'll reply "Suck me off, you BENT BASTARD!". And the two of us will run up and down the platforms, joyously shouting abuse at each other across three lines of track. And all the stuck-up grannies and biddies and ghastly yacht-clubbers waiting at the station will stare at us as if we are mad, but we'll carry on, running up and down, screaming profanities, and let the rest of the world GO FUCK ITSELF!
. . .
Well, another crap day in school. Ferdia has been pissing me off all day. He kept on droning on and on about his science project and all his 'theories' and 'breakthroughs'. And then of course there was a fucking orgy of showing-off during English class. And now I have to come back up here and get ready for tonight. Tonight - now there's another thing that's pissing me off.
The dormitory is a small, frequently claustrophobic room that somehow fits four bunkbeds, which are stacked up on opposite walls. There is a sink in one corner and an old wardrobe in another. The doorway leads east. The early evening light comes through the window.
On Paddy's bunkbed is Paddy.