Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha (33 page)

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 comer 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.