Paddy Clarke, Ha Ha Ha

– Francis, I said, -d’you want me to put milk in your mug?

I wanted Ma to see.

– Yes, he said.

I didn’t do anything, I’d been so sure he was going to say nothing or No.

– Yes, thank you, said Ma.

– Yes, thank you, said Sinbad.

I put the groove of the top of the bottle right on the rim of his mug and poured, the same amount as I’d given myself. There wasn’t much left in the bottle.

– Thank you, Patrick, said Sinbad.

I didn’t know what to say back. Then I remembered.

– You’re welcome.

I got back from the fridge. Ma sat down. Da was at work.

– Have you two been fighting again? she said.

– No, I said.

– Are you sure?

– No, I said. -Yeah. Sure we haven’t?

– No, said Sinbad.

– I hope you haven’t been, she said.

– We haven’t, I said.

Then I got her to laugh.

– I assure you.

And she laughed.

I looked over at Sinbad. He looked at Ma laughing. He smiled. He tried to laugh but she stopped before he could get going.

– I appreciate this dinner very much, I said. But she didn’t laugh much more.

I looked at him for a long time, trying to see what was different. There was something. He’d just come home, late, just before my bedtime. He was supposed to check my homework, to test my spellings. His face was different, browner, shinier. He picked up his knife slowly and then looked as if he’d just discovered the fork on the other side of the plate, and he picked it up like he wasn’t sure what it was. He followed the steam coming off his plate.

He was drunk. It hit me. I sat down at the table with my spelling notebook for an excuse, English at the front, Irish at the back. I was fascinated. He was drunk. It was new. I’d never seen it before. Liam and Aidan’s da howled at the moon, and here was mine. He was telling himself to do everything he did, I could see that, concentrating. His face was tight on one side and loose on the other. He was nice. He grinned when he had time to notice me.

– There y’are, he said.

He never said that.

– Have you spellings for me?

And he made me test him. He got eight out of ten. He couldn’t spell Aggravate or Rhythm.

But that wasn’t it. They weren’t falling apart because my da was getting drunk. There was only a bottle of sherry in the house. I checked it. It was always the same. I knew nothing about it, how you got drunk, how much it took, what was supposed to happen. But I knew that that wasn’t it. I looked for lipstick on his collar; I’d seen it in The Man From Uncle. There wasn’t any. I wondered, anyway, why there’d be lipstick on the collar. Maybe the women were bad shots in the dark. I didn’t really know why I was looking at my da’s collar.

I couldn’t prove it. I sometimes didn’t believe it; I’d really think that there was nothing wrong – the way they were chatting and drinking their tea, the way we all looked at the television – but I’d swing back again before happiness could trap me. She was lovely. He was nice.

She looked thinner. He looked older. He looked mean, like he was making himself look mean. She looked at him all the time. When he wasn’t looking; like she was searching for something or trying to recognise him; like he’d said he was someone whose name she recognised but she wasn’t sure that she’d like him when she remembered properly. Sometimes her mouth opened and stayed there when she was looking. She waited for him to look at her. She cried a lot. She thought I wasn’t looking. She wiped her eyes with her sleeve and made herself smile and even giggled, as if the crying had been a mistake and she’d only found out.

There was no proof.

Mister O’Driscoll from the house at the top of the old road didn’t live there any more. He wasn’t dead either; I’d seen him. Richard Shiels’s da sometimes didn’t live in their house. Richard Shiels said he had to go to a job somewhere -

– Africa.

but I didn’t believe him. His ma had a black eye once. Edward Swanwick’s ma ran away with a pilot from Aer Lingus. He used to fly low over their house. One of their chimneys was cracked. She never came back. The Swanwicks -

– The ones that are left, said Kevin’s ma.

moved away, to Sutton.

We were next. We never saw Edward Swanwick again. We were next. I knew it, and I was going to be ready.

We watched them. Charles Leavy was in goal, the gate closed behind him. Seán Whelan whacked the ball into the gate. It was his turn in goal. Charles Leavy got the ball, hit the gate. They swapped again. Charles Leavy’s head was twitching. The ball made the gate bounce.

– He’s not trying to stop it, said Kevin.

– He doesn’t want to be in goal, I said.

Only spas went in goal.

There was just the two of them. Most of the new houses still had no one in them but their road looked more finished because the cement went all the way to Barrytown Road now; the gap had been filled. My name was in the cement. It was my last autograph; I was sick of it. The road had a name now as well, Chestnut Avenue, nailed to the Simpsons’ wall cos theirs was the corner house. It was in Irish as well, Ascal na gCastán. When the ball skidded on the road you could hear the stones and gravel. The dust was everywhere even though it was nearly the winter now. The turns off Chestnut Avenue didn’t make any sense yet. You couldn’t tell what shape it was all going to be when it was finished.

Charles Leavy was back in goal. He saved a shot because he couldn’t help it, it went straight into his leg. Seán Whelan blemmed in the rebound. He was able to keep it low. The gate clattered.

We made our move.

– Three-and-in, said Kevin.

They ignored us.

– Hey, said Kevin. -Three-and-in.

Charles Leavy waited for Seán Whelan to get the gate properly closed again. His shot hit the pillar, the corner of it, and flew past us all. I ran after it. I was doing it for Charles Leavy. I kicked to him, careful that it went straight to him. He waited till it stopped, as if that meant that he didn’t have to admit that I’d got it for him, because he didn’t even look at me.

Kevin had another go.

– D’you not want to play three-and-in?

Charles Leavy looked at Seán Whelan. Seán Whelan shook his head, and Charles Leavy turned to us.

– Fuck off, he said.

I wanted to go; I’d never heard it like that before, like he meant it. It was an order. There was no choice. He’d kill us if we didn’t. Kevin knew this as well. I could see him loosening to go. I didn’t say anything else till Charles Leavy could see that we were going.

– We’ll go in goal, I said. -Me and him.

We kept going.

– You can be out all the time.

Charles Leavy smacked the ball into the gate and Seán Whelan came out. Seán Whelan scored before Charles Leavy had even got to the gate and they swapped again. This time Seán Whelan shrugged and Charles Leavy tapped the ball to me, to me, not to Kevin.

I let him win the ball off me. I let him win all the tackles. I put the ball too far ahead of me so he wouldn’t have to tackle me. I nearly passed the ball to him. I wanted him to win. I needed him to like me. I went in hard on Seán Whelan. I was in my good clothes – my ma made us wear our clothes all day Sunday. I didn’t have to go in goal even once, because I didn’t win. I let Charles Leavy get past me when he was out, and Kevin when Charles Leavy was in. One of them was out all the time so I never won. I didn’t mind. I was playing football with Charles Leavy. I was getting up close to him. I was pretending to try and get the ball off him. He was playing with me.

He was useless. Seán Whelan was absolutely brilliant. The ball stuck to his foot unless he didn’t want it to. With the four of us playing, he was much better than when there’d only been two of them. He put it between our legs; he rolled the ball along under his foot, leaning out to stop you from getting at it; he tapped the ball against the kerb, it jumped, and he volleyed it into the net – the gate. He did that seven times. He took the ball off Charles Leavy, he elbowed him and pushed himself between Charles Leavy and the ball.

– Foul, I said.

But they ignored me. They were laughing, pushing each other, trying to trip each other up. The next time Kevin got the ball I pretended I was trying to trip him, and he kicked me.

Charles Leavy was bringing his foot back to shoot; Seán Whelan tapped it first, past Kevin in goal, and Charles Leavy kicked air and shouted from the fright. He fell over slowly – he didn’t have to – and started laughing.

– Yeh fuckin’ fucker, he said to Seán Whelan.

I hated Seán Whelan. He did the kerb trick again. Kevin got out of the way of the ball. The gate jumped. Missis Whelan came out.

– Get the hell out of it! she said. -Go on; break someone else’s gate. And you, Seán Whelan, you mind them trousers.

She went back in.

I thought we’d go somewhere else but Seán Whelan didn’t move, or Charles Leavy. They waited for Missis Whelan to close the door and then they started again. I looked at the gate every time the ball thumped it. Nothing happened.

The game died. We sat on the wall. There was a gap in the path where they were going to put something when the rest of the building was finished; you couldn’t tell what. Whelan’s garden had been dug; it was brown chunks of muck like the countryside.

– Why isn’t there grass? I said.

– Don’t know, said Seán Whelan.

He didn’t want to answer; I could tell from his face. I looked to see what Kevin’s face was like, what he was thinking.

– It has to grow, said Charles Leavy.

Kevin was looking around at the muck, like he was waiting for the grass to come up. I wanted Charles Leavy to keep talking.

– How long does it take? I asked.

– Wha’? I don’t fuckin’ know. Years.

– Yeah, I agreed.

Sitting beside Charles Leavy, on a wall. And Kevin.

– Will we go to the barn, said Kevin, -will we?

– Why? said Charles Leavy.

I agreed with him. There was nothing there any more, not even the barn properly since the fire. It was boring. The rats had gone off. They’d got into the gardens of some of the new houses. I’d seen a little girl with a rat bite; she was showing it to everyone. All you could do was throw stones at the corrugated iron walls that were left and watch the flakes jump off. The noise of it was good for a while.

Kevin didn’t answer Charles Leavy. I felt good: he’d said it, not me. It was usually me. I felt even better.

– The barn’s boring, I said.

Kevin said nothing. Neither did Charles Leavy. But it wasn’t boring like this; I loved it, sitting there doing nothing. There wasn’t even anything to look at except the houses across the road. Charles Leavy lived in one of them. I didn’t know which one. I wondered was it the one with the big hill of broken bricks in the garden, bricks and muck and hard cement and bits of cardboard box sticking out of it. And huge weeds growing by themselves out of it with stalks like rhubarb. The one with the cracked window in the hall door. I decided it was. It seemed to fit. It scared me, just looking at the house, and thrilled me. It was wild, poor, crazy; brand new and ancient. The artificial hill would stay there for years. The weeds would creak, lean over, turn grey and become more permanent. I knew what the smell of the house was: nappies and steam. I wanted to go in there and be liked.

Charles Leavy was sitting beside me. He headed his imaginary ball, three times – boom boom boom, no noise – then his head settled. He was wearing runners. There was a split where the rubber joined the canvas. The canvas was grey and frayed. His socks were orange. On a Sunday. He said Fuck like – I wanted to say it exactly like him. It had to sound like no other word sounded, quick and sharp and fearless. I was going to say it without looking over my shoulder. The way Charles Leavy said it. His head shot forward like it was going to keep going into your face. The word hit you after his head went back. The Off was like a jet going overhead; it lasted forever. The Fuck was the punch; the Off was you gasping.

Fuck awfffffff.

I wanted to hear it.

– Did you do your eccer yet? I asked.

– Fuck off.

– Fuck off, I said across the dark to Sinbad.

I could hear him hearing it. It became more silent; he’d stopped breathing. He’d been shuffling around in his bed.

– Fuck off, I said.

I was rehearsing.

He didn’t budge.

I watched Charles Leavy. I studied him. I did his twitch. I did his shoulder. I made my eyes go small. When my da left, or even my ma, I was going to head the imaginary ball. I was going to go out and play. I was going to go into school the next day with all my homework done. I wanted to be like Charles Leavy. I wanted to be hard. I wanted to wear plastic sandals, smack them off the ground and dare anyone to look at me. Charles Leavy didn’t dare anyone; he’d gone further than that: he didn’t know they were there. I wanted to get that far. I wanted to look at my ma and da and not feel anything. I wanted to be ready.

– Fuck off, I said to Sinbad.

He was asleep now.

– Fuck off.

He shouted downstairs, my da did, a roar.

– Fuck off, I said.

I heard tears being swallowed down in the hall.

– Fuck off.

A door slammed, the kitchen one; I could tell it by the whoosh of air.

I was crying now too, but I’d be ready when the time came.

He leaned against the pillar in the yard, in a bit so he wouldn’t be seen when a teacher drove or walked in. He wasn’t hiding though. He was smoking. By himself.

I’d smoked; a gang of us all round a butt, pretending to inhale more than we did and holding onto the smoke for ages. We made sure that everyone saw that the smoke coming out of us was straight and thin, smoke that had the cigarette stuff sucked out of it. I was good at it.

Charles Leavy was smoking alone. We never did that. Cigarettes was very dear and they were too hard to rob from the shops, even Tootsie’s, so you had to smoke them in front of someone; that was the whole idea. Not Charles Leavy though. He was smoking by himself.

He terrified me. He was there, all by himself. Always by himself. He never smiled; it wasn’t a real smile. His laugh was a noise he started and stopped like a machine. He was close to no one. He hung around with Seán Whelan but that was all. He had no friends. We liked gangs, the numbers, the rush, being in. He could have had his own gang, a real gang like an army; he didn’t know. We pushed each other to get beside him in the line in the mornings in the yard; he didn’t know that either. There were mills going on around him, fights that never touched him.

I was on my own. The steam came out of my mouth like cigarette smoke. I sometimes put my fingers to my mouth like I was holding a cigarette, and breathed out. Not now though, not ever again. That was just messing.

This was great. The two of us alone. The excitement made my stomach smaller; it hurt.

I spoke.

– Give us a puff.

He did.

He handed the cigarette to me. I couldn’t believe it, it had been so easy. My hand was shaking but he didn’t see because he wasn’t really looking at me. He was concentrating on exhaling. It was a Major, the cigarette; the strongest. I hoped I wouldn’t get sick. I made sure my lips were dry so I wouldn’t put a duck’s arse on it. I took a small drag and gave the fag back to him quick; it was all going to explode out of my mouth, it had hit my throat too fast, the way it did sometimes. But I saved it. I killed the cough and grabbed the smoke and sucked. It was horrible. I’d never smoked a Major before. It scorched my throat and my stomach turned over. My forehead went wet, only my forehead, and cold. I lifted my face, made a tube of my mouth and got rid of the smoke. It looked good coming out, the way it should have, rising into the roof of the shed. I’d made it.

I had to sit down; my legs weren’t there. There was a bench in the back, the length of the shed. I got to it. I’d be fine in a minute. I knew the feeling.

– That was fuckin’ lovely, I said.

Voices sounded great in under the shed, deep and hollow.

– I love smoking, I said. -It’s fuckin’ great, isn’t it?

I was talking too much, I knew it.

He spoke.

– I’m tryin’ to give the fuckin’ things up, he said.

– Yeah, I said.

It wasn’t enough.

– So am I, I said.

I wanted to say more, I was dying to, to keep talking, to make it last longer, up to the bell. I was thinking fast, something, anything not stupid. There was nothing. Kevin had come into the yard. He was looking around. He couldn’t see us yet. He’d ruin it. I hated him.

Something formed in my head; the relief came before it was a proper thought.

– There’s that fuckin’ eejit, I said.

Charles Leavy looked.

– Conway, I said. -Kevin, I said to make sure.

Charles Leavy said nothing. He killed his Major and put it in his box and put it in his pocket. I could see the shape of the box through his trousers.

I felt good. I’d started. I looked across at Kevin. I didn’t miss him. I was afraid though. I’d no one now. The way I’d wanted it.

Charles Leavy walked away, out of the yard, out of the school. He didn’t have his school bag with him. He was mitching. He didn’t care. I couldn’t follow him. I couldn’t even start and change my mind. There’d be teachers coming in, parents outside, it was cold. I couldn’t do it. Anyway, I’d all my eccer done and I didn’t want to waste it.

I got up and went out a bit from under the shed so Kevin could see me. I’d pretend I still liked him. I was going to mitch though. On my own; soon. I’d last the day. I’d tell no one about it. I’d wait till they asked. I wouldn’t tell them much. I’d do it on my own.

I made a list.

Money and food and clothes. They were the things I’d need. I had no money. My communion money was in the post office but my ma had the book. It was for when I was older. It was a waste; you only bought clothes and school books when you were older. I’d only seen the book once.

– Will I put it away for safe-keeping?

– Yes.

It had three pages of stamps and each stamp was worth a shilling. One of the pages wasn’t full. I couldn’t remember how much they were all worth. Enough. I’d got money from all the relations and some of the neighbours. Even Uncle Eddie had given me threepence. My mission was to get the book.

Food was easy; cans. They lasted longer because they were packed in a vacuum and that kept them fresh. They were only bad if there was a big dent in the can; it had to be a big one. We’d eaten stuff out of cans with small dents and nothing had ever happened to us. I’d waited to be poisoned once – I’d wanted to be, to prove it to my da – but I didn’t even have to go to the toilet until the day after. Beans would be best; they were very nutritious and I liked them. I’d have to get a can opener. The one we had was one of those ones that was stuck to the wall. I’d rob one out of Tootsie’s. We’d robbed one before, but not to use. We’d buried it. I’d never opened a can with one of them before. Cans were heavy.

There’d been another big fight, a loud one. They’d both run out of the house, him the front, her the back. He’d gone all the way; she’d come back in. She’d shouted this time as well. The smell on his breath, something about it. I didn’t even see him when he came home, except out of the window. He came home, they shouted, he left. He was late. We were in bed. The door rattled. The air downstairs settled back to normal.

– Did you hear that?

Sinbad didn’t answer. Maybe he hadn’t heard it. Maybe he could decide to hear and not hear things. I’d heard it. I waited for him to come back. I wanted to go down to her. She’d hurt him this time though; that was what it had sounded like.

I’d only bring a few cans and I’d buy more when I needed them. I’d bring apples as well but not oranges. They were too messy. Fruit was good for you. I wouldn’t bring anything that I’d have to cook. I’d make sandwiches and wrap them up in tinfoil. I’d never eaten beans cold. I’d pick them out of the sauce.

I didn’t like it that she’d shouted. It didn’t fit.

I’d eat a good dinner before I left.

Clothes was last. I’d be wearing some and I’d need some others; two of everything and my anorak. I’d remember to zip the hood back onto it. Most fellas that ran away forgot about underpants and socks. They were on my list. I didn’t know where my ma kept them. In the hot press, but I wasn’t sure. There were clean ones of each on our beds every Sunday when we woke up, nearly like Santy’d put them there. On Saturday night in the bath we put the old underpants in front of our eyes to stop the suds from getting in when our hair was getting washed.

He came back a good bit later. I heard his echoes around the side and then the slide of the back door. The television was on. Ma was in the living room. He stayed in the kitchen for a while, making tea or waiting for her to notice him; because he dropped something – it rolled. She stayed in the living room. He went out into the hall. He didn’t move for a bit. Then I heard one of the creaky stairs; he always stepped on them. Then I heard the same creak: he’d turned back. The lino along the edge hung on to the living room door as he pushed it. I waited. I listened hard.

I made a belch. My back had lifted up off the bed, like I was trying to stop someone from pinning me down. Another belch got out. It hurt my throat. I wanted a drink of water. I listened for their voices; I tried to hear them behind the television noises. I couldn’t get up and go nearer; I had to hear them from the bed, exactly here. I couldn’t. The television was up louder than it had been before; I thought it was.

I waited, and then I couldn’t remember.

They were both to blame. It took two to tango. It didn’t take three; there was no room for me. I couldn’t do anything. Because I didn’t know how to stop it from starting. I could pray and cry and stay up all night, and that way make sure that it ended but I couldn’t stop it from starting. I didn’t understand. I never would. No amount of listening and being there would give it to me. I just didn’t know. I was stupid.

It wasn’t lots of little fights. It was one big one, rounds of the same fight. And it wouldn’t stop after fifteen rounds like in boxing. It was like one of the matches from the olden days where they wore no gloves and they kept punching till one of them was knocked out or killed. Ma and Da had gone way past Round Fifteen; they’d been fighting for years – it made sense now – but the breaks between the rounds were getting shorter, that was the big difference. One of them would soon fall over.

My ma. I wanted it to be my da. He was bigger. I didn’t want it to be him either.

I could do nothing. Sometimes, when you were thinking about something, trying to understand it, it opened up in your head without you expecting it to, like it was a soft spongy light unfolding, and you understood, it made sense forever. They said it was brains but it wasn’t; it was luck, like catching a fish or finding a shilling on the road. Sometimes you gave up and suddenly the sponge opened. It was brilliant, it was like growing taller. It wouldn’t happen this time though, never. I could think and think and concentrate and nothing would ever happen.

I was the ref.

I was the ref they didn’t know about. Deaf and dumb. Invisible as well.

– Seconds away -

I wanted no one to win. I wanted the fight to go on forever, to never end. I could control it so that it lasted and lasted.

– Break -

In between them.

– Burr-rreak!

Bouncing; my hands on their chests.

Ding ding ding.

Why did people not like each other?

I hated Sinbad.

But I didn’t. When I asked myself why I hated him the only reason was that he was my little brother and that was all; I didn’t really hate him at all. Big brothers hated their little brothers. They had to. It was the rule. But they could like them as well. I liked Sinbad. I liked his size and his shape, the way his hair at the back went the wrong way; I liked the way we all called him Sinbad and at home he was Francis. Sinbad was a secret.

Sinbad died.

I cried.

Sinbad died.

There’d have been nothing good about it; I couldn’t think of any advantage. Nothing. I’d have had no one left to hate, to pretend to hate. The bedroom, the way I liked it, needed his noises and his smell, and his shape. I really started crying now. It was nice, missing Sinbad. I knew I’d see him in a while. I kept crying. There was no one else. I’d see him and I’d probably hit him, maybe give him a dead leg for himself.

I loved Sinbad.

The tears on the left were going faster than the ones on the right.

Why didn’t Da like Ma? She liked him; it was him didn’t like her. What was wrong with her?

Nothing. She was lovely looking, though it was hard to tell for sure. She made lovely dinners. The house was clean, the grass cut and straight and she always left some daisies in the middle because Catherine liked them. She didn’t shout like some of the other mas. She didn’t wear trousers with no fly. She wasn’t fat. She never lost her temper for long. I thought about it: she was the best ma around here. She really was; I didn’t just reach that conclusion because she was mine. She was. Ian McEvoy’s was nice but she smoked; there was a smell of it off her. Kevin’s one frightened me. Liam and Aidan didn’t have any. I thought about Missis Kiernan a lot but she wasn’t a ma because she didn’t have any children. She was only Missis because she was married to Mister Kiernan. My ma was best of them and all the others as well. Charles Leavy’s ma was colossal, her face was all nearly purple. She wore a girl’s raincoat all the time when she was out and she tied the strap in a knot instead of using the buckle. I couldn’t even imagine getting a kiss from her when I was going to bed; trying to make it look like I was kissing her so I wouldn’t hurt her feelings or get into trouble, getting my lips close enough without touching. She smoked as well.

Charles Leavy could kiss her.

My da had more wrong with him than my ma. There was nothing wrong with my ma except sometimes she was too busy. My da sometimes lost his temper and he liked it. He had black things across the top of his back, like black insects clinging onto him. I’d seen them; about five of them in a bendy row. I’d seen them when I was watching him shaving. His vest didn’t cover up two of them. He was useless at lots of things. He never finished games. He read the newspapers. He coughed. He sat too much.

He didn’t fart. I’d never caught him.

If you put a match to your hole when you were going to fart it came out like a flame; Kevin’s da told him that – but you had to be older for it to work, at least in your twenties.

It was all him against her.

But it took two to tango. He must have had his reasons. Sometimes Da didn’t need reasons; he had his mood already. But not all the time. Usually he was fair, and he listened when we were in trouble. He listened to me more than to Sinbad. There must have been a reason why he hated Ma. There must have been something wrong with her, at least one thing. I couldn’t see it. I wanted to. I wanted to understand. I wanted to be on both sides. He was my da.

I went up to bed just after Sinbad, before I had to. I kissed my ma goodnight, and my da. There’d been no words so far; they were both reading; the television was on with the sound down waiting for The News. My lips hardly touched my da. I didn’t want to disturb him. I wanted him to stay the way he was. I was tired. I wanted to sleep. I hoped it was a brilliant book.

I listened on the landing. It was silent. I brushed my teeth before I went into our room. I hadn’t brushed them the proper way in a while. I looked at my da’s razor but I didn’t take the blade out. The bed was cold but the blankets were heavy on me; I liked that.

I listened.

Sinbad wasn’t asleep; there wasn’t a big enough gap between the in and the out breathing. I didn’t say anything. I checked again, listened: he definitely wasn’t sleeping. I listened further – I’d left the door a bit open. There was still no talking from downstairs. If there was none before we heard The News music there’d be no fighting at all. I still said nothing. Somewhere in the minute I’d been in bed, while I’d been listening, my eyes had learned how to see in the dark; the curtains, the corners, George Best, Sinbad’s bed, Sinbad.

– Francis?

– Leave me alone.

– They’re not fighting tonight.

Nothing.

– Francis?

– Patrick.

He was jeering me, the way he’d said it.

– Pah-trick.

I couldn’t think of anything.

– Pahh-twick.

I felt like he’d caught me doing something, like I was falling into trouble, but I didn’t know what. I wanted to go to the toilet. I couldn’t get out of the bed.

– Pahhh -

It was like he’d become me and I was him. I was going to wet the bed.

– twick.

I didn’t.

I got the blankets off.

He’d found out; he’d found out. I’d wanted him to talk because I was scared. Pretending to be protecting him, I’d wanted him close to me, to share, to listen together; to stop it or run away. He knew: I was frightened and lonely, more than he was.

Not for long though.

There was a small hole in the top sheet just at where my big toe usually was; I liked searching my toe in it, the rough feel of the blanket, and taking my toe away. Now, the sheet ripped there when I pulled it off. I knew why: he didn’t. He’d heard it. I’d scared him. The ripping sheet.

– Sinbad.

I stood up out of the bed. I was in charge again.

– Sinbad.

I was going to the toilet but I didn’t have to hurry now.

– I’m going to strangle you, I said.

I went to the door.

– But first I’m going to the toilet. There’s no escape.

I wiped the seat. The bathroom light was off but I’d heard the wee smashing on the plastic. I wiped all around and threw the paper into the toilet. Then I flushed it. I got back into the bedroom without touching the door. I crept to his bed but I made one step heavier.

– Francis.

I was giving him one more chance.

– Move over.

It was even: we’d scared each other. There was no noise; he wasn’t moving. I got right up to his bed.

– Move over.

It wasn’t an order; I said it nice.

He was asleep. I could hear it. I hadn’t scared him enough to make him keep awake. I sat on the bed and lifted my feet.

– Francis -

There wasn’t room. I didn’t push him. He was much heavier when he was asleep. I didn’t want to wake him. I went over to my own bed. There was still some warm left. The sheet hole was bigger, too big. My foot got caught in it. I was afraid I’d rip it more.

I was going to sleep. I knew I’d be able to. In the morning I’d tell Sinbad that I hadn’t woken him up.

I listened.

Nothing, then they were talking. Her, him, her, him for longer, her, him long again, her for a bit, him. It was only talking, normal talk. Him talking to her. Man and wife. Mister and Missis Clarke. My eyes had closed by themselves. I stopped listening. I practised my breathing.

– I didn’t wake you up, I told him.

He was ahead of me. It was going all wrong.

– I could have, I told him.

He didn’t care; he’d been asleep. He didn’t believe me.

– But I didn’t.

We’d be at the school soon and we couldn’t be together there. I made myself get up beside him, and then in front. He didn’t look at me. I got in his way. I spoke when he was going around me.

– He hates her.

He kept going, wide enough for me not to grab him, the same speed.

– He does.

We were into the field in front of the school. The grass was long where there were no foundations yet but there were paths worn through the grass and they all joined one path at the end of the field right opposite the school. It was all hay grass in the middle, and nettles and devil’s bread and stickybacks where the ditches were left.

– You don’t have to believe me if you don’t want to, I said. -It’s true though.

That was all. There were piles of boys coming through the field, joining up on the big path. Three fellas from the scholarship class were sitting having a smoke in the wet long grass. One of them was pulling the hay off the grass and spilling it into his lunch box. I went slower. Sinbad got past some fellas and I couldn’t see him any more. I waited for James O’Keefe to catch up.

– Did you do the eccer? he said.

It was a stupid question; we all did the eccer.

– Yeah, I said.

– All of it?

– Yeah.

– I didn’t, he said.

He always said that.

– I didn’t do some of the learning, I said.

– That’s nothing, he said.

The eccer was always corrected, all of it. We could never get away with anything. We had to swap copies; Henno walked around giving the answers and looking over our shoulders. He spot-checked.

– I’m analysing your writing, Patrick Clarke. Tell me why.

– So I won’t write in any of the answers for him, Sir.

– Correct, he said. -And he won’t write in any for you.

He thumped me hard on the shoulder, probably because he’d been nice to me a few days before. It hurt but I didn’t rub it.

– I went to school once myself, he said. -I know all the tricks. Next one: eleven times ten divided by five. First step, Mister O’Keefe.

– Twenty-two, Sir. -First step.

He got James O’Keefe in the shoulder.

– Multiply eleven and ten, Sir.

– Correct. And?

– That’s all, Sir.

He got another whack.

– The answer, you amadán. [21]

– One hundred and ten, Sir.

– One hundred and ten. Is he correct, Mister Cassidy?

– Yes, Sir.

– For once, yes. Second step?

Miss Watkins had been much easier. We always did some of the homework but it was easy to fill in the answers when we were supposed to be correcting the ones we’d already done. Henno made us do the corrections with a red colouring pencil. You got three biffs if the point wasn’t sharp. Twice a week, on Tuesdays and Thursdays, we were allowed, two by two, to go up to the bin beside his desk and sharpen them. He had a parer screwed to the side of the desk – you put the pencil in the hole and turned the handle – but he wouldn’t let us use it. We had to have our own. Two biffs if you forgot to bring it in, and it couldn’t be a Hector Grey’s one, Mickey Mouse or one of the Seven Dwarfs or any of them; it had to be an ordinary one. Miss Watkins always used to write the answers on the board before nine o’clock and then she’d sit behind her desk and knit.

– Hands up who got it right? Go maith. [22] Next one, read it for me, em -

Without looking up from her knitting.

– Patrick Clarke.

I read it off the board and wrote it down in the space I’d left for it. Once, she stood up and came around the desks and stopped and looked at my page; the ink was still wet and she didn’t notice.

– Nine out of ten, she said. -Go maith.

I always made one of them wrong, sometimes two. We all did, except Kevin. He always got ten out of ten, in everything. A great little Irishman, she called him. Kevin did Ian McEvoy in the yard when Ian McEvoy called him that; he gave him a loaf in the nose.

She’d thought she was nice but we’d hated her.

– Still awake, Mister Clarke?

They all laughed. They were supposed to.

– Yes, Sir.

I smiled. They laughed again, not as much as the first time.

– Good, said Henno. -What time is it, Mister McEvoy?

– Don’t know, Sir.

– Can’t afford a watch.

We laughed.

– Mister Whelan.

Seán Whelan lifted the sleeve of his jumper and looked under.

– Half-ten, Sir.

– Exactly?

– Nearly.

– Exactly, please.

– Twenty-nine past ten, Sir.

– What day is it, Mister O’Connell?

– Thursday, Sir.

– Are you sure?

– Yes, Sir.

We laughed.

– It is Wednesday, I’m told, said Henno. And it is half past ten. What book will we now take out of our málas [23], Mister – Mister – Mister O’Keefe?

We laughed. We had to.

I went to bed. He hadn’t come home. I kissed my ma.

– Night night, she said.

– Good night, I said.

There was a hair growing out of a small thing on her face. Just between her eye and her ear. I’d never seen it before, the hair. It was straight and strong.

I woke up. It was just before she’d come up to get us out of bed. I could tell from the downstairs noises. Sinbad was still asleep. I didn’t wait. I got up. I was wide awake. I dashed into my clothes. It was good; the curtain square was bright.

– I was just coming up, she said when I got into the kitchen.

She was feeding the girls, feeding one and making sure that the other one fed herself properly. Catherine often missed her mouth with the spoon. Her bowl was always empty but she never ate that much.

– I’m up, I said.

– So I see, she said.

I was looking at her feeding Deirdre. She never got bored with it.

– Francis is still asleep, I said.

– No harm, she said.

– He’s snoring, I said.

– He isn’t, she said.

She was right; he wasn’t snoring. I’d just said it; not to get him into trouble. I’d just wanted to say something funny.

I wasn’t hungry but I wanted to eat.

– Your dad’s gone to work already, she said.

I looked at her. She was bent down, behind Catherine, helping her get the last bit onto her spoon, touching her arm, not holding it, aiming the spoon at the porridge.

– Good girl -

I went back upstairs. I waited, listened; she was safe downstairs. I went into their room. The bed was made, the eiderdown up over the pillows and tucked behind them. I pulled it back. I listened. I looked at the pillows first. I pulled it back more, and the blankets. She hadn’t done the bottom sheet. Only her side had the mark of a body, the right creases; they matched the pillows. The other side was flat, the pillows full. I put my hand on the sheet; it felt warm on her side, I thought it did. I didn’t touch his.

I didn’t tuck the eiderdown back in; to let her know.

I listened. I looked in the wardrobe. His shoes and ties were there, three pairs of shoes, too many ties, tangles of them.

I changed my mind; I tucked in the eiderdown and flattened it.

I looked at her. She was cleaning the baby chair. She looked the same. Except for the hair, and I couldn’t see that now. I tried hard, I looked at her, I tried to see what her face meant.

She looked just the same.

– Will I get Francis?

She threw the cloth and it landed hanging over the sink.

She never threw things.

– We both will, she said.

She got the baby up and fitted her into her hip. Then she put her hand out, for me. Her hand was wet. We crept up the stairs. We laughed when they creaked. She squeezed my hand.

The funeral would be colossal. And a flag on his coffin. The saved person’s family would give me and Sinbad money. My ma would have one of those veils on, right over her face. She’d look lovely behind it. She’d cry quietly. I wouldn’t cry at all. I’d put my arm around her when we were walking out of the church with everyone looking at us. Sinbad wouldn’t be able to reach up to her shoulders. Kevin and them would want to stand near me outside the church and beside the grave but they wouldn’t be able to because there’d be so many people, not just the relations. I’d have a suit with long trousers and a good pocket on the inside of the jacket. The saved boy’s family would get a plaque put up on our wall beside the front door. My da had died saving a little boy’s life. It wasn’t going to happen like that though; that was only stupid. Dreaming was only nice while it lasted. Nothing was going to happen to my da. Anyway, I didn’t really want him to die or anything else; he was my da. I preferred to imagine my own funeral; it was a much better dream.

I saw Charles Leavy going out the school gate. I looked around – I didn’t want anyone else – and followed him. I waited for a shout; we weren’t allowed out of the yard for little break. I kept going at the same speed. I put my hands in my pockets.

He’d gone into the field. I kicked a stone when I was crossing the road. I looked back. The shed blocked most of the yard. There was no one looking. I ran. He’d dropped into the high grass. I kept my eyes on the place. I slowed down and walked into the grass. It was still wet. I whistled. I thought I was going right for him.

– It’s me.

I saw a gap in the grass, a hole.

– It’s me.

He was there. I had to sit down but I didn’t want to. My trousers were already dark from the wet. He was sitting on a soggy cardboard box. There was no room for me. I kneeled on the edge of it.

– I saw you, I said.

– So wha’.

– Nothing.

He took a drag from his Major. He must have got it lit in the time it had taken me to catch up with him. He didn’t pass it on to me. I was glad but I’d been hoping he would.

– Are you mitching?

– Would I leave me bag in the room if I was mitching? he said.

– No, I said.

– Then.

– That’d be thick.

He took another drag. We were the only people in the field. The only noise was from the yard, the shouting and a teacher’s whistle, and a cement mixer or something far away. I watched the smoke coming out. He didn’t. He was looking at the sky. I was wet. I was listening for the bell. How would we get back in? The quiet was like a pain in my stomach. He wasn’t going to say anything.

– How many do you smoke a day?

– Twenty about.

– Where do you get the money?

I didn’t mean it to sound like I didn’t believe him. He looked at me.

– I rob it, he said.

I believed him.

– Yeah, I said, like I did too.

Now I looked at the sky too. There wasn’t much time left.

– Did you ever run away? I said.

– Fuck off, would yeh.

I was surprised. Then it made sense: why would he have?

– Did you ever want to?

– I’d have done it if I’d wanted to, he said.

Then he asked a question.

– Thinkin’ o’ doin’ it yourself, are yeh?

– No.

– Why were you askin’ then?

– I was only asking.

– Yeah, maybe.

I was going to ask him if I could go with him the next time. That was why I’d followed him. It was stupid. I was stranded, away from the yard. I was with him but he didn’t care. If Charles Leavy ever ran away from home he’d never have come back. He’d have stayed away. I didn’t want to do that.

I didn’t want to get caught. I stood up.

– See yeh later.

He didn’t answer.

I crept to the edge of the field but it was no fun.

I wanted to run away to frighten them and make them feel guilty, to push them into each other. She’d cry and he’d put his arm around her. And his arm would stay there when I came home in the back of the police car. I’d be sent to Artane for wasting the police’s time and money but they’d come to see me every Sunday while I was in there, not for long. They’d think it was their fault, Sinbad as well, but I’d tell them that it wasn’t. Then I’d get out.

That had been my plan.

I stood up out of the grass. I looked around as if I was searching for something, looking worried.

– I lost a pound note, Sir. I was minding it for my ma for messages.

I shrugged, gave up. The money had blown away. I crossed the road. The worst bit, around the shed, back into the yard. No one waiting. Mister Finnucane coming out the door with the bell. I got beside Aidan and Liam.

– Where were you?

– Having a smoke.

They looked at me.

– With Charlo, I said.

I couldn’t help saying more.

– D’you want to smell my breath?

Mister Finnucane lifted the bell with his other hand holding the donger inside it. He always did it that way. He held it over his shoulders, then freed the donger and dropped the bell, and lifted it, and dropped it, ten times. His lips moved, counting. We had to be in our lines by the tenth one. Charles Leavy was in front of me, five places. Kevin was behind me. He kneed my knee.

– Lay off messing!

– Make me.

– I will.

– Go on.

I did nothing. I wanted to do something to him.

– Go on.

I kicked him backwards in the shin. It hurt him; I could feel it. He jumped and fell out of the line.

– What’s going on there?

– Nothing, Sir.

– What happened you?

It was Mister Arnold, not Henno. He’d been counting the boys in his row. He didn’t care too much what had happened. He was only looking over boys’ heads. He hadn’t bothered breaking a way through them.

– I fell, Sir, said Kevin.

– Well, don’t fall again.

– Yes, Sir.

Kevin was behind me again.

– I’m going to get you, Clarke.

I didn’t even look around.

– I’m going to get you. D’you hear me?

– No talking back there.

Henno had come out to get us. He marched down one side of us, counting, and up the other side. He passed me the second time. I waited for Kevin to hit. He thumped me in the back. That was all he had time for.

– That was only the start.

I didn’t care. He hadn’t hurt me bad. Anyway, I could get him back. He wasn’t my friend any more. He was a sap, a spoofer and a liar. He hadn’t a clue.

– Anois, [24] Henno shouted at the front. -Clé deas, [25] clé deas -

We marched into the main school, around to our room. Henno was at the door.

– Wipe your feet.

He only had to say it once. The fellas at the front did it and everybody copied them. Last in had to close the door quietly. Not a peep going through the school. Henno always kept us till last so our noises wouldn’t mix in with the other classes. He made us stand for half an hour if he heard as much as a whisper. We had to wait till the two ahead of us were in the room before we were allowed to go in.

I was still going to run away, even without Sinbad or Charles Leavy. I’d wanted Sinbad most, like in Flight of the Doves, me in charge, carrying my little brother on my back when he was too tired, through the ditches and the bogs, over rivers. Looking after him.

– Next two boys.

I’d go on my own.

– Next two.

Somewhere not too far. Somewhere I could walk to, and back.

– Next two.

Kevin was waiting. He’d told some of the fellas. They were waiting. I didn’t care. I wasn’t scared. He’d beaten me every other time. They were different; I hadn’t wanted to win. Now I didn’t care. If he hurt me I’d hurt him. It didn’t matter who won. I didn’t try to get around him, pretend he wasn’t there or I’d forgotten. I walked right up to him. I knew what was going to happen.

He pushed me on the chest. The space between us and the crowd got smaller. It had to be quick; the teachers would soon be coming out. I went back a step. He had to follow me.

– Come on.

He pushed me harder, harder – an open-handed punch – to get me to do something.

I said it loud enough.

– I saw the gick marks on your underpants.

I saw it, the hurt, pain, the rage charge through his face in a second. He went red; his eyes got smaller and wet.

The crowd got closer.

He came at me with both fists up and tight; he just wanted to get at me. He didn’t care; he didn’t look. He hit against me. One of his fists opened; he was going to scrape me. He was groaning. I got around him. I punched the side of his face; it hurt me. He turned and was into me again; his finger in my nose. I kneed him – missed; kneed him – got him, over his knee. I held him to me. He tried to escape out of his clothes. I got my hand up to his hair; my hand was wet – his snot and tears. He couldn’t let us separate: they’d see him crying. I tried to get his hands off and jump back – I couldn’t. I kneed him – missed. He was squealing now, inside his mouth. I had his hair; I pulled his head back.

– Cheating!

Someone yelled that. I didn’t care. It was stupid. This was the most important thing that had ever happened to me; I knew it.

His head came into my face, mostly my mouth. There was blood – I could taste it. The pain was nice. It wasn’t bad. It didn’t matter. He did it again, not as good. He was pushing me back. If I fell it would be different. I went back – I was going. I fell back against someone. He got out of the way – jumped back – but it was too late; I’d got my feet steady again. This was great.

He was pushing my jumper and my shirt and vest up into my chin, trying to knock me over. He must have looked stupid. I couldn’t kick him; I needed my legs. I got my two fists and I thumped both sides of his head, once, twice, then I grabbed his arms to stop him from getting his hands closer to my face. He seemed to be much smaller than I was. His face was right in my chest, boring in, biting the bottom of my jumper. I grabbed the back of his hair and pushed. His head slipped to my tummy and he thought he had me, could push me back fast enough to get me down. I held onto his hair. He was getting set to heave – I got my knee up clean, bang in the face – harder than anything. There was shock in his groan, pain and defeat. He was gone. The crowd was quiet. They’d never seen this before. They wanted to see Kevin’s face and were scared to.

It would never go back to the same again.

My knee had got bigger. I could feel it. I still had his head down. He was still hanging on to me, pushing, but he was finished. I tried to do it again, knee him, but I’d thought too much about it this time; it slowed my leg. It just reached his face. I couldn’t let go till he did. I got one of his ears and twisted it. He screamed till he stopped himself. I didn’t want to end it the way we were supposed to; this was different. It was over but he couldn’t admit it, so I said it.

– Give up?

– No.

He had to say that. I had to hurt him now. I got his ear again, twisted it, got my nails into it.

– Give up.

I didn’t stop twisting to let him speak. He couldn’t answer. I knew that. I turned his ear back to normal.

– Give up?

He said nothing.

And I didn’t want to do any more. So I let go. I got my hands to his shoulders and pushed him back enough for me to walk away. I didn’t even look at his face.

I walked across the road. I had a limp. He could come after me; I hadn’t won; he hadn’t surrendered. He could come after me and jump. I didn’t look back. Someone threw a stone. I didn’t care. I didn’t look back. I had my limp and I was hungry. I had Kevin’s blood on my trousers. I was on my own.

– I never gave up, he said.

After dinner, in the yard.

– You’re dead, he said.

His nose was red, his chin was grazed, five thin cuts in a curving line. The skin beside his right eye was purpley red. There was dry blood on his jumper, not much of it. He was wearing a clean shirt.

– You didn’t win.

I stopped and looked straight into him. I could see his eyes dying to look around, to make sure he could get away. I didn’t say anything. I started walking again.

He waited.

– Chicken.

My ma had run towards me when she saw my trousers, the blood on them. Then she stopped and looked over my face and down.

– What happened you?

– I was in a fight.

– Oh.

She’d made me change them but she said nothing else about it.

– Where did you leave the dirty ones?

I went back upstairs and got them. I put them in the plastic basket in the corner between the fridge and the wall.

– They’ll have to soak, she said.

She took them out. Sinbad saw them. It was hard to tell that there was blood. It wasn’t red in the material.

Another voice.

– Chicken.

Ian McEvoy’s.

– Hey, chicken!

There was a hole inside me for a bit; getting used to it.

– Pulling hair.

– Buwahh! Bu-ock-buock-buock!

That was James O’Keefe, doing a chicken. He was good at it. I went into the shed and sat down, by myself in there. They all stood out in the sun and looked in, searching because it was dark and the sun was behind the shed roof. It was cool. I could hear a fly or something dying.

– Boycott!

Kevin’s voice.

– Boycott!

Them all.

– Boycott boycott boycott!

The bell rang and I stood up.

Captain Boycott had been boycotted by the tenants because he was always robbing them and evicting them. They wouldn’t talk to him or anything and he went mad and went back to England where he’d come from.

I went to the line. I stood behind Seán Whelan. I put my bag on the ground. No one stood beside me. Henno came.

– Straighten up; come on.

He started walking, counting. David Geraghty was beside me. He had a way of leaning on one stick. He twisted his head to look like he was watching Henno passing.

– There he goes.

He straightened up.

– Great job that; counting children.

I watched David Geraghty’s lips. I couldn’t see them moving. They were a little bit open.

Fluke Cassidy had to sit beside me. He didn’t look at me. The only one who looked was Kevin. His mouth moved.

Boycott.

That suited me. I wanted to be left alone. Only, I didn’t want all of them to spend all their time leaving me alone. Everywhere I looked the faces looked away. It got boring. I looked over to Seán Whelan and Charles Leavy; they weren’t in on it. At David Geraghty; he blew me a kiss.

Everyone else.

I stopped looking. They could only boycott me if I didn’t want to be boycotted.

– Did you win? she said.

I knew.

– What? I said.

– The fight.

– Yes.

She didn’t say Good, but she looked it.

– Who was it? she said.

I looked at her shoulder.

– Not telling?

– No.

– Alright.

I got into the hot press. I had to climb up, over the tank. It was hot. I made sure my legs didn’t touch it. I used a chair to get up into the first shelf; towels and tea-towels. I leaned out and kicked the chair away from the door. Then the tricky bit: I leaned further out and grabbed the door and pulled it in, closed. There wasn’t a handle on the inside. I had to get my fingers into the slats of wood that made the door. The air whoofed out; click.

Pitch black dark. No light at all, none inside or through the wood. I was testing myself. I wasn’t scared. I closed my eyes, held them, opened them. Pitch dark still and I still wasn’t scared.

I knew it wasn’t real. I knew that the dark outside wouldn’t be as dark as this but it would be scarier. I knew that. But I was still happy. The dark itself was nothing; there was nothing in it to frighten me. It was nice in the hot press, especially on the towels; it was better than under the table. I stayed there.

He came home from work like normal. He had his dinner. He talked to my ma; a woman had got sick on the train.

– Poor thing, said my ma.

Nothing different. His suit, shirt, tie, shoes. I looked at the shoes; I dropped my fork. They were clean, like they always were. I got my fork back. His face wasn’t as black as it usually was when he came home, the part that he had to shave. There were usually bristles where he’d shaved them off in the morning. He used to tickle us with them.

– Here comes Dada’s scratchy face -!

We’d run but we loved it.

They weren’t there. His face was smooth; the hair was in under his skin. He hadn’t shaved in the morning.

It felt good: I’d caught him out. I ate all the carrots.

I stayed in the hot press and listened to my ma downstairs and the girls. The back door was open. Catherine kept climbing in and out. I listened for Sinbad; he wasn’t there. My da wasn’t moving. It stayed dark, just a tiny chink at the edge of the door. It would be different out in the open. There’d be wind and weather and animals, people and cold. But the dark was the thing to beat. I could dress to stay warm and bring my torch to keep away animals. Nocturnal creatures. My anorak – remember the hood – would keep me dry. The dark was the only thing to beat, and I’d beaten it. It didn’t scare me a bit. I liked it. It was a sign of growing up, when the dark made no more difference to you than the day.

I was ready, nearly. I’d robbed the can opener. It had been easy. I didn’t even put it in my pocket. I took the price off it and held it like I’d brought it into the shop, and walked out with it. I had two cans so far, beans and pineapple chunks. I didn’t want to take too many at once; my ma would notice them missing. The pineapple chunks had been in the press for years. I’d found out where my ma kept the underpants, the socks, the jumpers and that; on the shelf above me in the hot press. I could get them any time I wanted to. All I needed was a chair. The only thing I didn’t have was money. I had two and threepence saved up but that wasn’t nearly enough. I just had to find the post office savings book, then I’d be completely ready. Then I was going.

The only bit I missed was the talking, not having anyone to talk to. I liked talking. I didn’t try to get any of them to talk to me. They all followed Kevin, especially James O’Keefe. He always roared it.

– Boycott!

Aidan and Liam weren’t as bad. They looked at me; they’d have answered back if I’d said anything. They looked nervous, and sad. They knew what it was like. Ian McEvoy had a way of looking that I hadn’t seen before. He sneered, with only half his mouth. He walked away in a loop when I was near, as if he was coming towards me, then changed his mind. I didn’t care. He’d never been anything. Charles Leavy was the same as always. None of them talked to me, none of them.

Except David Geraghty. He wouldn’t stop. We were beside each other on different sides of the first aisle. He leaned out, hanging onto the desk, right under Henno.

– Howdy.

Trying to get me to laugh.

– Howdy doody.

He was mad. I nearly wondered if he was crippled on purpose; he didn’t want to have legs like the rest of us. He wasn’t doing it to make me feel any better; he was just doing it. He was absolutely mad, completely on his own; much better than Charles Leavy: he didn’t have to smoke or make us see him going off to mitch.

– Mighty fine day.

He clicked his tongue.

– Yessi-ir, Trampas.

He clicked his tongue again.

– Shit shit gick gick fuck fuck.

I laughed.

– Ad-a-boy.

It was little break. I stood on my own, away from everyone so we wouldn’t have to bother boycotting each other. I was looking for Sinbad, just to see.

I heard it before I felt it, the zip of the air, then the thump on my back. It pushed me forward and I decided to fall. It was real pain. I rolled, and looked. It was David Geraghty. He’d whipped me with one of his crutches. I could feel the line on my back. The noise of it was still around me.

He was crying. He couldn’t get his hand into the arm hole. He was really crying. He looked at me when he said it.

– Kevin said to give you that.

I stayed on the ground. He got his crutches right, and rode them across to the shed.

I never got the chance to run away. I was too late. He left first. The way he shut the door; he didn’t slam it. Something; I just knew: he wasn’t coming back. He just closed it, like he was going down to the shops, except it was the front door and we only used the front door when people came. He didn’t slam it. He closed it behind him – I saw him in the glass. He waited for a few seconds, then went. He didn’t have a suitcase or even a jacket, but I knew.

My mouth opened and a roar started but it never came. And a pain in my chest, and I could hear my heart pumping the blood to the rest of me. I was supposed to cry; I thought I was. I sobbed once and that was all.

He’d hit her again and I saw him, and he saw me. He thumped her on the shoulder.

– D’you hear me!?

In the kitchen. I walked in for a drink of water; I saw her falling back. He looked at me. He unmade his fist. He went red. He looked like he was in trouble. He was going to say something to me, I thought he was. He didn’t. He looked at her; his hands moved. I thought he was going to put her back to where she’d been before he hit her.

– What do you want, love?

It was my ma. She wasn’t holding her shoulder or anything.

– A drink of water.

It was daylight out still, too early for fighting. I wanted to say Sorry, for being there. My ma filled my mug at the sink. It was Sunday.

My da spoke.

– How’s the match going?

– They’re winning, I said.

The Big Match was on and Liverpool were beating Arsenal. I was up for Liverpool.

– Great, he said.

I’d been coming in to tell him, as well as getting the drink of water.

I took the mug from my ma.

– Thank you very much.

And I went back in and watched Liverpool winning. I cheered when the final whistle got blown but no one came in to look.

He didn’t slam the door even a bit. I saw him in the glass, waiting; then he was gone.

I knew something: tomorrow or the day after my ma was going to call me over to her and, just the two of us, she was going to say, -You’re the man of the house now, Patrick.

That was the way it always happened.

– Paddy Clarke -

Paddy Clarke -

Has no da.

Ha ha ha!

I didn’t listen to them. They were only kids.

He came home the day before Christmas Eve, for a visit. I saw him through the glass door again. He was wearing his black coat. I remembered the smell of it when I saw it, when it was wet. I opened the door. Ma stayed in the kitchen; she was busy.

He saw me.

– Patrick, he said.

He moved the parcels he had with him under one arm and put his hand out.

– How are you? he said.

He put his hand out for me to shake it.

– How are you?

His hand felt cold and big, dry and hard.

– Very well, thank you.