Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha (23 page)

I couldn’t pretend any more. I wished I hadn’t kicked Seán Whelan. I couldn’t kick Charles Leavy back. I couldn’t do anything. I had to do nothing; it was the only way.

He kicked me.

—Here! None o’ that!

It was one of the workmen. He was up on a wall. He was building it. Some of them ran when they heard him and stopped to see what was going to happen.

—No kicking, said the workman.—That’s not the way to fight.

He had a huge belly. I remembered now: we’d shouted things at him and he’d chased us earlier in the summer.

—No kicking, he said again.

Kevin was further away from him than me.

—Mind your own business, Fatso.

We ran. It was brilliant. I was nearly crying. I could hear my books and copies shaking in my school bag, a noise like galloping horse feet. I’d escaped. The pain of the laughing was great. We stopped when we got to the new road.

No one had jumped in for me when Charles Leavy had been going to kill me; it took me a while to get used to that, to make it make sense. To make it alright. The quiet, the waiting. All of them looking. Kevin standing beside Seán Whelan. Looking.

 

There was a huge brown suitcase under our parents’ bed. It was like leather but it made a noise like wood. There were creases on it. When I rubbed it hard a brown stain came off on my hand. There was nothing in it. Sinbad got in. He lay down like he did in bed. I closed it over.

—What’s it like?

—Nice.

I got the clasp on one side and shoved it in; it made a big click. I waited for Sinbad to do something. I did the other one as well.

—What’s it like now?

—Still nice.

I went away. I stamped my feet on the floor, bang bang on the lino, and I got the door and I swung it so there’d be a whoosh and closed it with just less than a slam. My da went mad when we slammed doors. I waited. I wanted to hear Sinbad kicking, crying, scratching his hands on the lid. Then I’d let him out.

I waited.

I sang as I went down the stairs.

—SON YOU ARE A BACHELOR BOY -
AND THAT’S THE WAY TO STAY-EE-AY -

I crept back up; I got over the creaks. I slid to the door. It was brilliant. But suddenly I was up on my feet, through the door; I was scared.

—Sinbad?

I pushed down the lock thing to release the clasp. It sprang out and hurt my hand.

—Francis.

The other one wouldn’t come up, the lock thing. I pulled up a corner of the lid but it only came up a small bit; I couldn’t see anything. I got about two fingers in but I couldn’t feel anything and I scraped the skin. I kept the fingers there so air would get in, but then I felt teeth on them, I thought I did.

I heard a whimper. It was me.

I closed the door after me, so nothing could follow. I held onto the banister all the way. It was dark in the hall. My da was in the living room but the television wasn’t on.

I told him.

He just got up; he didn’t say anything. I didn’t tell him I’d locked it, just that I couldn’t unlock it. When he got into the hall he waited for me.

—Show me, he said.

He followed me up the stairs. He could have easily gone quicker than me but he didn’t. Sinbad would be alright.

—Alright in there, Francis?

—He might be asleep, I said.

My da pushed and the lock clicked out. He lifted the lid back and Sinbad was still in there, wide awake; his eyes were open. He turned on his stomach, pushed up, stood up and stepped out. He didn’t say anything. He stood there. He didn’t look at us or anything.

Da thought he was great because he could sit in the same room as the television and never look at it. He only looked at The News, that was all. He read the paper or a book or he dozed. I watched the cigarette burning nearer and nearer to his fingers but he always woke up on time. He had a chair of his own. We had to get out of it when he came home from work. Me and Sinbad and our ma with the babies on her lap could fit into it. There was one day it was raining out, lashing; we all sat in the chair for ages just listening to the rain. The room got darker. There was a nice smell off my ma, food and soap.

When I called Sinbad Sinbad he wouldn’t answer. Me and Kevin got him and gave him a dead leg on each side for not doing what we told him. He was crying but he didn’t make any noises. I had to look at his face to see that he was crying.

—Sinbad.

He closed his eyes.

—Sinbad.

I had to stop calling him Sinbad. He didn’t look like Sinbad the Sailor now any more; his cheeks were flatter. I was still way bigger than him but it didn’t matter as much. I could kill him in fights but the way he went scared me. He let me give him a hiding and then he just went away.

He didn’t want the night-light on any more. When my ma turned it on before she turned off the main light he got up and turned it off. The light had been for him. He’d picked it. It was a rabbit that went red when the bulb inside him was on. The room was completely dark now. I wanted to turn the night-light back on but I couldn’t; it was Sinbad’s. I’d never needed it. I’d said it was stupid. I’d given out about it, said I couldn’t sleep with it on. For a week my ma turned on the light and Sinbad turned it off. He turned off the light and I was trapped in the full dark.

 

Da had Sinbad. He was holding one of his arms, standing way over him. He hadn’t hit him yet. Sinbad’s head was down. He wasn’t pushing or pulling to get away.

—Christ almighty, said my da.

Sinbad had put sugar in Mister Hanley’s petrol tank.

—Why do you do these things? Why are you doing them?

Sinbad answered him.

—The devil tempts me.

I saw da’s fingers open their grip on Sinbad’s arm. He held Sinbad’s face.

—Stop crying now; come on. There’s no need for tears.

I started singing.

—I’LL TELL MY MA WHEN I GO HOME -
THE BOYS WON’T LEAVE THE GIRLS ALONE -

Da joined in. He picked up Sinbad and spun him. Then it was my turn.

 

The first time I heard it I recognised it but I didn’t know what it was. I knew the sound. It came from the kitchen. I was in the hall by myself. I was lying on my stomach. I was charging a Rolls-Royce into the skirting board. There was a chip in the paint and it was getting bigger every time. It made a great thump. My ma and da were talking.

Then I heard the smack. The talking stopped. I grabbed the Rolls-Royce away from the skirting board. The kitchen door whooshed open. Ma came out. She turned quick at the stairs so I didn’t have to get out of her way, and went upstairs, going quicker towards the top.

I recognised it now. I knew what the smack had been, and the bedroom door closed.

Da was alone in the kitchen. He didn’t come out. Deirdre was crying in the pram; she’d woken up. The back door opened and closed. I heard Da’s steps on the path. I heard him going from the back to the front. I saw his shape through the mountainy glass of the front door. The shape broke into just colours before he got to the gate and the colours disappeared. I couldn’t tell which way he’d gone. I stayed where I was. Ma would come back down. Deirdre was crying.

 

He’d hit her. Across the face; smack. I tried to imagine it. It didn’t make sense. I’d heard it; he’d hit her. She’d come out of the kitchen, straight up to their bedroom.

 

Across the face.

I watched. I listened. I stayed in. I guarded her.

Nothing happened.

I didn’t know what I’d do. If I was there he wouldn’t do it again, that was all. I stayed awake. I listened. I went to the bathroom and put cold water on my pyjamas. To keep myself awake. To stop me from getting cozy and warm and slipping asleep. I left the door a bit open. I listened. Nothing happened. I spent ages doing my homework so I could stay up longer. I wrote out pages from my English book and pretended I had to do it. I learnt spellings I hadn’t been given. I got her to check me on them, never him.

—S.u.b.m.a.r.i.n.e.

—Good boy. Substandard?

—S.u.b.s.t.a.n.d.a.r.d.

—Good boy. Great. Have you more to do?

-Yes.

—What? Show me.

—Writing out.

She looked at the pages in the book I showed her, two pages with no pictures on them, and at the pages I’d done already.

—Why are you doing all these?

—Handwriting.

—Oh good.

I did it at the kitchen table, then followed her into the living room. When she was putting the girls to bed he was in the room with me, so it was alright. I enjoyed the writing out; I liked doing it.

He smiled at me.

I loved him. He was my da. It didn’t make sense. She was my ma.

I went into the kitchen. I was alone. The noises were all upstairs. I slapped the table. Not too loud. I slapped it again. It was the right type of sound. It was duller though, hollow. Maybe it would be different from outside. In the hall where I’d been. Maybe he’d done that, smacked the table. When he was in a temper. That was alright. I did it again. I couldn’t make my mind up. I was tempted. I used the side of my hand. She’d come out of the kitchen, straight up to their bedroom. She’d said nothing. She hadn’t let me see her face. She’d started going faster before she got to the landing. Not because he’d slapped the table. I did it again. I tried to lose my temper and then do it. Maybe because he’d lost his temper. Maybe that was why she’d gone past me up the stairs, hiding. Maybe.

I didn’t know.

I went back into the living room. He wanted to check my spellings. I let him. I got one wrong, deliberately. I didn’t know why I did it. I just did it when I was doing it; I left out the r in Submarine.

I listened. I watched. I did my homework.

I came home at Friday lunchtime.

—I’m in the best desk.

It was true. I’d made no mistakes all week. All my sums had been right. I’d got through the twelve-times table inside thirty seconds. My handwriting was

—Much improved.

I’d put my stuff in my bag and walked up to the front of the room and across to the top desk. Henno shook my hand.

—See how long you can stay there now, he said.—Good man, Mister Clarke.

I was beside David Geraghty.

—Howdy-doody.

—I’m in the best desk, I told my da later.

—Is that right? he said.—That’s terrific.

He shook my hand.

—Put it there. Submarine?

-S.u.b.m.a.r.i.n.e.

—Good man.

The grass was wet though it hadn’t been raining. The day was too short to dry it. School was over; it was going to be dark soon. There was a new trench. It was really huge, really deep. The bottom was gooey, no crumbly muck; everything was wet.

—Quicksand.

—No, it isn’t.

—Why isn’t it?

—It’s only muck.

Aidan was in it.

Liam and Aidan sometimes didn’t go to school. Their da let them stay at home sometimes if they were good. We saw the new white sticks sticking up over the grass. We knew they were markers and we went over to see what they were marking, and Aidan was in the trench. And he couldn’t get out. He had nothing to cling to.

—He’s sinking.

I watched.

One of his boots was under the goo, up to his knee. I looked at that leg; I counted to twenty. It didn’t go down any further. Liam had gone for a ladder or a rope. I hoped it would be a rope.

—How did he get down?

That was a stupid question. It had happened to us all. Getting down was never a problem. It was too easy, always. You never thought about getting back up.

I checked Aidan’s leg. His knee was covered now. He was sinking. He was trying to hold onto the side, trying not to fall, trying not to cry. He’d been crying earlier; you could tell from his face. I thought about throwing stones at him, but there was no need.