Brilliant

  As Gloria and her uncle got nearer to the red lighthouse at the end of the wall—okay, it was a wall—she saw why the gulls were going mad, swooping and dive-bombing. There were loads of men fishing there, pulling fish out of the water, and throwing the little ones back in.

  “They’re like kids in a sweetshop,” said Uncle Ben.

  “Deadly,” said Gloria. “Chocolate-coated mackerel.”

  “That’s not a bad idea,” said Uncle Ben.

  There was a ship, one of the ferries, coming into Dublin Bay. It seemed so close, Gloria only had to lean out a bit to touch its side as it glided past.

  “Oh my God!”

  The Dog was there, in front of them. He was at the corner of Smithfield. Gloria knew the name of the place because she’d been there loads of times with her dad. The Dog was right in front of them. “No more daydreaming,” she said to herself. “Concentrate.”

  It was like the Dog had been in front of them all along, but the glare of the morning’s early sunshine had made him impossible to see. But now he was back. And he wasn’t running away this time. He was coming toward them.

  “Uh-oh!”

  The Dog’s head lifted slowly to stare right at them. It was colossal, the head, as big as the whole Dog had been when they’d chased him out of Phoenix Park. He started to open his mouth.

  His teeth were dripping, his tongue looked hard and horrible.

  Gloria knew what was happening. She knew what they had to do.

  “Quick!” she yelled. “Shout before he does! Brilliant!”

  Nothing happened. Brilliant wasn’t working. It was proper daylight now, so brilliant didn’t explode into light, the way it had in the night. It was just a word.

  Some of the kids slowed down, and the seagulls scattered all over the sky. Other kids stopped, too frightened to go any further. But Gloria kept running at the Dog. So did Raymond and Ernie. And Damien. And others too—Paddy, Alice, Sunday, Suzie, Precious.

  Gloria knew now that the Black Dog wasn’t afraid of the light. The air was bright and kind of lovely, but the Dog had never looked fiercer. His eyes were huge; the light wasn’t making him squint or cringe. He didn’t care about the light. He never had. Their weapon—brilliant—was no good to them.

  But Gloria wasn’t going to give up.

  Brilliant!

  It had worked before. Something in the word—maybe not the light—had sent the Dog running away. So she kept running at him and she kept shouting.

  “Brilliant!”

  There was nothing else to do.

  The Dog still came at them. His eyes were dark caves. There was no shine in them, no twinkle.

  Gloria didn’t look at the Dog’s eyes. She kept running—they all kept running—straight for the mouth, which seemed to be growing bigger and deeper. And lower. The Dog was bringing its head down, nearer to the street. The kids were more and more frightened, but the fear seemed to pull them closer to the thing that frightened them. They were so close now, they could smell his breath. It wasn’t dog breath—it wasn’t normal dog breath. It was—

  “Socks!” shouted Precious.

  They couldn’t help laughing, even though they were scared.

  “Brilliant!”

  Just for a second, it had made the Dog seem silly, the smell of old socks coming out of his huge, angry mouth.

  “Feet!” shouted Suzie.

  “Brilliant!”

  The Black Dog’s mouth had stopped growing. He was standing still.

  They charged straight at him.

  “Brilliant!!”

  The word was working—something about it. Gloria quickly looked up at the Dog’s eyes and saw him blink, just once. He was turning sideways, to get away.

  From what—what was he trying to escape from? It wasn’t the kids. It couldn’t have been—they were only kids. Raymond looked around. There were hundreds of them, and there were even more coming, to join the ones who’d been running all night. But the kids alone weren’t disturbing the Dog. And it wasn’t the light. What was it?

  Gloria had been thinking too as she ran.

  “It’s the word he hates!” she shouted. “Not the light.”

  The Black Dog was up on his hind legs. Then he fell backwards and landed on his front paws and charged away, down Arran Quay. The kids saw what was happening and kept running, faster now, because the Dog was running away.

  “BRILLIANT!”

  Alice had an idea.

  “Maybe it’s not just the word,” she said. “It’s what the word means.”

  “Yeah,” said Gloria, although she was a bit annoyed; she’d been going to say that. “The Black Dog hates anything brilliant.”

  “The Black Dog hates everything brilliant,” said Alice.

  Paddy made sure he was running right beside Alice.

  “That was cool,” he said.

  Alice thought she’d start to fly. She’d never felt so happy, so light, so full of joy. Even though she was sweating and the label on her knickers was itching her as she ran.

  “Thanks,” she said—or she meant to say. But “Label” was what she actually said. She couldn’t believe it!

  But Paddy didn’t seem to mind, or hear. He smiled at her. And she smiled at him. They couldn’t stop smiling at each other. Neither of them wanted to be the first to stop.

  The Black Dog’s paws smashed down on the street. They could feel the weight, the vibration in their feet as they ran. And he was getting even bigger. He was so wide now he filled most of the street.

  “Not so brilliant,” said Ernie. “What d’you think, bud?” he asked Raymond.

  “Not sure,” said Raymond.

  The Dog was definitely expanding. But—

  “He’s still running away,” said Damien.

  “Good point,” said Ernie. And he shouted as he ran.

  “Chicken!”

  Most of the kids started laughing. It was mad, calling a dog a chicken. A lot of them joined in.

  “Chicken!!”

  Gloria wasn’t too sure that calling the Dog a chicken was such a good idea.

  “He might feel insulted,” said Gloria.

  “That’s the idea,” said Ernie.

  “He might get angrier,” said Gloria.

  “That’s the idea,” said Ernie.

  “He might turn around and charge at us,” said Gloria.

  “That’s not the idea,” said Ernie.

  “Chicken!!”

  “Shut up!” said Ernie.

  “Brilliant!” Gloria shouted, and all the kids joined in.

  The Dog’s fur rubbed the sides of buildings as he ran. The kids heard a strange sound, a bit like an animal crying out in pain or protest. But it wasn’t an animal. It was the iron railings in front of the Four Courts. By the time the kids ran past, they could see that the Dog, the weight and the size of him, had bent and twisted the railings as he’d gone past.

  That scared the kids. They were silent now as they ran.

  Ernie had an idea.

  “Okay,” he shouted, and flapped his cape. “Yis listenin’? Shout if these things are brilliant. Ice cream is—”

  “Brilliant!”

  “Chips are—”

  “Brilliant!”

  They were laughing again. Happy and terrified—it was a great combination. They were full of new energy, bursting with the stuff.

  “Christmas is—”

  “Brilliant!”

  “School is—”

  “Crap!”

  “Oh yeah,” said Ernie. “I forgot. Movin’ on. Chasin’ after dogs is—”

  “Brilliant!”

  “I can’t hear yis!”

  “BRILL-iant!”

  “Wha’?!”

  “Brill-IANT!!”

  “Still I can’t hear yis!”

  “BRILLIANT!”

  The seagulls were back in action, flying all around and above them.

  “Go on,” they squawked. “Go on, go on, go on!”

  Gloria loved their fac
es, the way they managed to look bored and excited at the exact same time. The seagulls looked intelligent, like they probably read books when they weren’t catching fish or rooting in bins. And she thought now that they might be able to answer a question that had been nudging her all night.

  “Why us?” she shouted at one of them.

  Before the seagull could answer, Gloria saw another amazing thing. A fish—she thought it was a salmon, but she wasn’t sure. She didn’t know much about fish, except she didn’t like the taste of them. Anyway, the fish had just jumped out of the water, high enough for Gloria to see him shining in the sun. She saw his mouth. She heard the words.

  “Good luck!”

  “A talking fish,” said Gloria.

  “Big deal,” said the seagull.

  “Why us?” Gloria asked again.

  The seagull swooped away and held herself in the wind for a while, her wings still. Then she swooped back down to Gloria.

  “That was nice,” she said. “I was getting sweaty under my wings. Why what?”

  “Why kids?” said Gloria. “You’re kind of supporting us, aren’t you? All of you seagulls. And the animals in the zoo. And now the fish. Why?”

  “Is it not obvious?” said the seagull.

  “No.”

  “The Black Dog of Depression hates kids.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re the future,” said the seagull, and she swooped away.

  “Hear that, Ernie?” said Gloria.

  “Wha’?”

  “We’re the future,” said Gloria.

  “Groovy,” said Ernie.

  Gloria liked the word future. She often lay in bed and planned her future. Or she baked with her mam and smelled her future—she’d be a baker, or a chef, a celebrity chef who smiled and never shouted. Things she did now—now—would make her future. And not just her future, the future—everyone’s. And not just Gloria, all the kids here—the seagull had said it. They were making the future by chasing the Black Dog.

  But what if they couldn’t catch him? What would the future be like then?

  The seagull had swooped back down.

  “Look out!” she said. “He’s trying to get away.”

  Gloria could see the Dog turning. He’d grown too big to do it quickly. They all saw him turn left onto Capel Street. They heard his fur scraping corner bricks. They heard window glass breaking. The sound of the glass hitting the street was frightening, but the noise of the Dog’s hair on the corner bricks was worse. It was high-pitched, like nails on a blackboard, something they could feel as well as hear. It was like a warning, like they were running into an earthquake just before it started. But the kids kept running.

  They ran over the broken window glass as they turned the corner. There was heat in the air, kind of wet and horrible, and the hair the Dog had left behind seemed to surround them, stroke them, scratch them. The kids with asthma felt as if a huge wet hand had grabbed their lungs. Other kids were coughing and wheezing.

  “Keep going!” Raymond shouted.

  They’d to be able to run through the hair, he thought—he hoped. They’d escape to fresh air on the other side. If they just kept going.

  But the kids were struggling. The breath was being pulled from their lungs by the wet hand—that was what it felt like. Some of the kids had to stop; they’d no breath left. They’d never get through. They just couldn’t breathe.

  But the seagulls rescued them. They were suddenly everywhere around the kids. They flapped their wings and scattered the dog hair. It was like someone had turned on an enormous fan. The kids could feel the air on their faces. They could safely open their mouths and breathe. They could open their eyes and see one of the most amazing things they’d ever see. (But not the most amazing thing. That would come later.) The street, the sky, the whole world was full of flapping seagulls—and every other bird in Dublin. That was what it looked like. Every magpie, robin, every cormorant and oystercatcher, crow and heron was flying around them, making the air fresh and cool. There were thousands of birds, huge to tiny, an army of squawks and peeps. There was even a ladybird.

  “I’m a bird, not a bug!”

  But none of them collided. They swooped and climbed and dived. One of the seagulls flew past Paddy, backwards.

  “Here’s one for YouTube!” the seagull squawked.

  The kids were going again. Their lungs were full of the best of air. They were ready to run and shout.

  “Brilliant!”

  “Thanks,” said Gloria.

  “You’re welcome,” said a seagull. “But you’re on your own now, love. This is as far as we can go.”

  The other birds dropped back or flew up and away. The kids were alone again, an army of them, running after the Dog.

  “Come on!”

  Raymond was at the front, with Damien beside him, and Ernie.

  “God, I’m starvin’,” said Ernie.

  “Hey, Rayzer,” Gloria shouted. “Ernie’s staring at your neck.”

  Raymond put his hands up, to save his neck from Ernie’s fangs. “Stay away from me!”

  “I was only messing,” said Gloria.

  They started laughing as they ran.

  There was a rat standing on the corner of Mary Street.

  “See?” said the rat. “That’s why the Black Dog hates you.”

  “Why?” said Alice.

  She’d never really spoken to a rat before.

  “Because you’re laughing when you should be crying,” said the rat.

  The rat pointed.

  “He went that way, by the way.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome,” said the rat. “We’re quite nice, us rats. Don’t listen to the media.”

  “Okay.”

  The Dog had turned onto Mary Street. The kids heard the crunch of corner bricks again. They charged around the corner, over the rubble and glass. The Dog’s paws on the street, the hundreds of kids’ shoes, the shouting, hundreds and hundreds of children’s voices—the noise was unbelievable.

  The Black Dog was on Henry Street by now, heading straight for the Spire, the huge steel needle-shaped sculpture in the middle of the street. Then he lifted. He took off, exactly like a plane. He rose slowly, a colossal dog-shaped cloud, too dark for rain or anything normal. He sailed over O’Connell Street, over the Spire. He sailed over the statue of Big Jim Larkin, whose colossal hands seemed to reach up to grab the Dog.

  But the Dog was too high up.

  The kids stopped at the Spire. They were exhausted, and thirsty.

  “Do we have to keep going?” one of them asked. “He’s floating away, sure.”

  “Yeah,” said Gloria. “We do. He has Dublin’s funny bone, remember.”

  “Oh yeah. I forgot.”

  They all remembered now. The Black Dog might have been floating away—and a lot of them hoped he was. But he still had the funny bone. The city’s supply of laughter was in the bone—all of the city’s future happy times, Gloria thought—and they had to get it back.

  But it was hard to tell which way to go. The Black Dog seemed to be spreading out. The cloud was getting wider and thicker.

  “How do we follow that?” said Damien. “He’s all over the place.”

  Damien was worried. He’d had a toothache earlier that he’d thought had gone away. But it hadn’t.

  Raymond wanted to start running again. So did Gloria and Ernie, and most of the others. But the Dog was covering more and more of the city. The kids could feel his weight on top of them. They began to understand what being depressed might feel like. They could see grown-up people along O’Connell Street, sitting on the ground, holding their heads.

  The cloud had made the city center very dark. Raymond didn’t like that.

  “Here!” he roared. “Shout Brilliant!”

  There were more kids now than ever before.

  “BRILLIANT!”

  The light from the word was explosive. It lit up the street and the sky above it. It was great t
o see what the word could do again.

  “BRILLIANT!”

  And it worked. The cloud started to shift, to move away, north, over Talbot Street and Connolly Station, over the Five Lamps, East Wall, and Fairview.

  “He’s trying to get away from the light!” Raymond shouted. “Come on!”

  They were stiff, tired, thirsty. But they pushed the pains and aches away. The more they moved, the quicker they got. They charged down Talbot Street.

  Years later, when they thought back to that night and morning, they would never really understand how they’d been able to run so far and for so long. Now, though, they just kept running. More kids joined in, kids who’d been running all night as well, coming from other parts of the city, maybe even the rest of Ireland. Thousands of kids ran down Amiens Street, along the North Strand, through Fairview, and under the railway bridge. They could see the sea now, Dublin Bay, right in front of them, and the wind suddenly bashed them, whacked them, as if it had been hiding behind the railway bridge.

  They laughed.

  “Cool!”

  It wasn’t all that funny, but they remembered what the rat had told them, how the Dog hated it when kids laughed. So they spread out their arms and ran straight at the wind.

  “Ha-ha!”

  They pretended they were the seagulls. They felt the wind push against their chests. They leaned forward a bit and let the wind hold them up. Most of them knew where they were—Clontarf. They could see the Hill of Howth miles ahead, and the docks were to the right, not that far away. They saw the two big chimneys of the Poolbeg power station. And Gloria saw it, tiny in the distance, the red lighthouse she’d walked to with Uncle Ben, the day they’d watched the seagulls playing football in the sky. It reminded her of why she was there.

  “Come on!” she shouted.

  “This way!” Raymond shouted as the exact same time. They laughed at that, and ran. They stopped being seagulls and became kids again. This was serious. They could see the Dog. There was no way they couldn’t have seen him. He was covering all of Dublin Bay, the darkest cloud they’d ever seen.

  “Come on!”

  They ran after Raymond.