Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha

  —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.

&nb
sp; 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.