Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha (31 page)

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 sticky-backs 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.