—Which of the tropics is north of the equator?
I knew. I put my hand up. I used my other hand to hold it up.
—Sir Sir.
—Patrick Clarke.
—The Tropic of Cancer, Sir.
-Good.
The bell went.
—Stay seated - ! Stand - First row ...
They were waiting for me outside, not in a gang or a circle. They were pretending they weren’t. They wanted to be with me.
I didn’t like it much.
—Mister Clarke?
Henno was standing at the door.
—Yes, Sir?
—Come here.
I went. I wasn’t nervous.
—Go home, the rest of you.
He moved back and let me in. He didn’t shut the door. He stepped back and sat on the top of one of the desks.
He tried to smile and look serious.
—How are you feeling now?
I didn’t know how to answer.
—Feeling better?
—Yes, Sir.
—What happened you?
—I fell asleep, Sir; I don’t know.
—Tired?
—Yes, Sir.
—No sleep last night?
—Some, Sir. I woke up early.
He put his hands on his knees and leaned towards me a bit.
—Is everything alright?
—Yes, Sir.
—At home?
—Yes, Sir.
-Good. Go on.
—Yes, Sir. Thanks, Sir.
—Find out the homework you missed and do it for tomorrow.
—Yes, Sir. Will I close the door?
—Yes. Good man.
The door was bigger than the space for it. The damp had expanded it. I pulled the handle and the door scraped into its place.
They were outside the gate, pretending they weren’t waiting for me. They all wanted to be with me; I knew. It didn’t make me feel good. It should have. But it didn’t. They didn’t want to leave me alone, and I knew why: they didn’t want to miss anything - they wanted to be the ones to run for help. They all wanted to save my life. They hadn’t a clue.
—What eccer did I miss?
There was a race to get their school bags off their backs the first.
They were saps. Charles Leavy wasn’t there. David Geraghty wasn’t there either. He’d probably had to go straight home for tablets for his legs or something. All the rest of them had their homework diaries out. I got mine out and sat down against the wall. I let the railing touch my head. I let Kevin give me his diary.
Charles Leavy didn’t care. He was the only one that knew what had happened: I’d fallen asleep. He stayed up all night all the time. Listening to his ma and da. Not caring. Saying cunt and fuck. Heading his ball.
They watched me filling in the day. I let my hand wobble a little bit, then gave up. I wasn’t enjoying it. They were all there, and I didn’t like them. I was alone.
We hadn’t got that much eccer.
I realised something funny; I wanted to be with Sinbad.
—Francis. D’you want this?
It was a biscuit, only a biscuit. I wanted it as well but I wanted him to take it. I was giving it to him. He wouldn’t even look at it.
I grabbed him.
—Open your mouth!
His lips vanished as he closed down his mouth. He got ready to be pulled around, stiff and dead.
—Open your mouth!
I held it in front of his eyes.
—See.
He shut them, crammed shut. I got the biscuit and I got his head and I pushed the biscuit at his mouth, and I pushed until it fell apart and I couldn’t hold it. It was a fig roll.
—See! It was only a biscuit! A biscuit.
His face was still shut.
—A fig roll.
I got bits off the ground.
—I’m eating it; look.
I loved the fig bit, soft with little stones that broke. The biscuity outsides had all got crumbled. There were none left big enough to pick up.
His mouth and eyes stayed shut. He hadn’t put his hands up to cover his ears but they were closed as well, I could tell.
—I’m finished, I said.—And I’m not poisoned, look.
I held my arms up in front of him.
—Look.
I danced.
—Look.
I stopped.
—I’m still alive, Francis.
I wasn’t sure if he was breathing. Parts of his face were very pink and others, under his eyes were white. He wouldn’t come out for me. I thought about giving him a dead leg - he deserved it - but I didn’t bother; I just kicked him. Bang on the shin. My foot bounced back. He caught the noise; I saw his mouth bulge. I went to get him again, but I didn’t.
He frightened me.
He could stop everything happening, and I couldn’t.
—Francis -
Still, stiff.
—Francis.
I touched the top of his head, brushed his hair with my fingers. He didn’t feel anything.
—I’m sorry for kicking you.
Nothing.
I went out and closed the door. I shut it hard enough for him to hear the click; I didn’t slam it. I waited. I got down and looked through the keyhole. I couldn’t see the space where he was. Keyholes were never any good. I counted to ten. I opened the door, the ordinary way.
He was still there, the same. The exact same.
I wanted to kill him. I was going to; it wasn’t fair. All I wanted to do was help him and he wouldn’t let me. He wouldn’t even let me be in the room, and I was. And he was going to find out.
I closed his nose. I shut his nostrils with my fingers, not to hurt, not hard.
Now.
His nose was dry. It made it easier, holding on. The only air he had was the stuff already in him.
Now.
He’d have to die or do something.
—Francis.
He’d have to inhale oxygen and exhale the carbon dioxide, sooner or later. I watched the two colours on his face shifting. Something was happening.
His mouth opened - nothing else - real quick with a pop, and shut again, quick as a goldfish. He couldn’t have breathed, not enough. He was bluffing.
—Francis, you’re dying.
His nose still wasn’t sweating.
—You’ll die unless you inhale oxygen, I said.—Within a matter of minutes. Francis. It’s for your own good.
He did it again. Open, pop, shut again.
Something happened: I started crying. I went to thump him and before I had a fist made I was crying. I hung on to his nose for a while longer, just to be holding him. I didn’t know why I was crying; it shocked me. I let go of his nose. I put my arms around him. My hands touched around the back. He stayed hard and closed. I thought my arms would soften him. They’d have to.
I was hugging a statue. I couldn’t even smell him because my nose was full of snot and I couldn’t get rid of it. I stayed that way because I didn’t want to give up. My arms got sore. My crying turned into a hum; no tears. I wondered did Sinbad - Francis - know that I’d been crying? Because of him, mostly.
I couldn’t stop myself from crying these days.
I let go of him.
—Francis?
I wiped my face but most of the wet had gone. It had evaporated.
—I won’t hit you again, okay; ever.
I didn’t expect an answer or anything. I waited a bit. Then I kicked him. And I thumped him. Twice. Then I felt my back go freezing: someone was looking. I turned. No one. I couldn’t hit him again though.
I left the door open.
I wanted to help him. He had to know; he had to get ready like me. I wanted to be able to stand beside him. He was warm. I wanted to get him ready. I was ahead of him; I knew more than he did. I wanted to get into bed beside him so we could listen together. I couldn’t help it. When he wouldn’t do what I wanted him to I couldn’t help going back to annoying him, frightening him, hitting him. Hating him. It was easier. He wouldn’t listen to me. He wouldn’t let me do anything.
He ate his dinner like nothing had happened. So did I. Shepherd’s pie. The Christmas cake potato top was perfect; the peaks were brown and crispy, the cover was like a skin. Ma’s dinners nearly made me think that there was nothing wrong; they never got any worse. I ate it all. It was lovely.
I went over to the fridge.
K.E.L.V.I.N.A.T.O.R.
She’d taught me those letters. I remembered it.
I liked the way the handle tried to stop me from opening it and I always won. There were four pints, one opened. I carried the opened one, two handed - glass made me nervous - to the table. I filled my mug to an inch before the top. I hated spilling.
—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.