But talk of the devil . . . wasn’t that Keogh there now, sitting on an old slab in the shade of a tree, his back to the mossy headstone? Yes, it was Keogh; the sun, glinting off his specs where it struck through the hanging foliage, had given him away. He sat there, a book open in his lap, sucking on the chewed stem of a pencil, his head back, lost in thought. And Jimmy Collins nowhere in sight; he’d be at football practice with the rest of the team, up in the recreation ground. But Keogh – he wasn’t a member of any sort of team.
Suddenly Hannant felt sorry for him. Sorry, or … guilty? Hell, no! Keogh had got away with it for far too long. One of these days he’d go off like that – out of himself – and never make it back again! And yet Hannant sighed, let his feet wend him around the plots and between the rows of headstones, along ill-defined paths to where the boy sat. And as he got closer he could see that Harry was once again lost in his own thoughts, daydreaming away in the cool shade of the tree. For some probably irrational reason this made Hannant feel angry – until he saw that the book in Keogh’s lap was his maths homework book, which made it seem that he was at least attempting to work out his punishment.
‘Keogh? How’s it going?’ Hannant said, seating himself on the same slab. This corner of the cemetery wasn’t unknown to the maths teacher; he’d walked here and sat here himself on many, many occasions. In fact it wasn’t that he was the intruder, rather that Keogh was the odd-man-out here. But he doubted if the boy knew or would even understand that.
Harry took the pencil out of his mouth, looked at Hannant, unexpectedly smiled. ‘Hello, sir … Er, sorry?’ Er, sorry! Hannant had been right, the kid just hadn’t been there. King of the daydreamers. The Secret Life of Harry Keogh! ‘I asked you,’ Hannant tried not to growl, ‘how it was going?’ ‘Oh, it’s all right, sir.’
‘Drop the “sir”, Harry. Save that for the classroom. Out here it makes conversation difficult. What about the problems I gave you? They’re what I meant by how’s it
going.’
‘The homework questions? I’ve done them.’
‘What, here?’ Hannant was surprised; and yet thinking about it, it seemed entirely fitting.
‘It’s quiet here,’ Harry answered.
‘Would you like to show me?’
Harry shrugged. ‘If you like.’ He passed over the workbook.
Hannant checked it, was doubly surprised. The work was very neat, almost immaculate. There were two answers, both correct if his memory served him right. Of course the working would be equally important, but he didn’t check that just yet.’ Where’s the third question?’
Harry frowned. ‘Is that the one with the grease-gun, where – ?’ he began.
But Hannant impatiently cut him off: ‘Let’s not piss about, Harry Keogh. There are only three questions .out of the ten which could possibly qualify. The rest concern themselves with boxes, not circles, not cylinders. Or am I being unjust? The book’s a new one to me, too. Give it here.’
Harry lowered his head a little, bit his lip, passed the book over. Hannant flipped pages. ‘The grease-gun,’ he said. ‘Yes, this one,’ and he stabbed at the page with a forefinger. It showed this diagram:
the measurements were internal; barrel and nozzle were cylindrical, full of grease; squeezed dry, how long would the line of grease be?
‘ Harry looked at it. ‘Didn’t think it qualified,’ he said. ” Hannant felt angry. Two out of three wasn’t good Enough. Three wrong answers would almost be better than this crap. ‘Why don’t you just say it was too difficult?’ he tried not to bark. ‘I’ve had all I can take of bluff for one day. Why not simply admit you can’t do it?’ ; Suddenly the boy looked sick. His face shone with sweat and his eyes seemed a little glazed through the lenses of his spectacles. ‘I can do it,’ he slowly answered; then, more quickly, with acid precision: ‘An idiot could do it! I didn’t think it qualified, that’s all.’