–How?
–Just find out, said Kevin.—That’s your mission.
James O’Keefe looked panicky.
–Ask her, I said.
–Don’t give him hints, said Kevin.—You’d better know by after dinner, he told James O’Keefe.
But then we forgot all about it.
Missis O’Keefe wasn’t that bad.
–George Best elbows Alan Gilzean in the face.
–I didn’t touch him, I said.
I kicked the ball away to stop the game.
–I didn’t touch him. He ran into me.
It was only Edward Swanwick. He was holding his nose so we wouldn’t see that he wasn’t bleeding. His eyes were wet.
–He’s crying, said Ian McEvoy.—Look it.
I wouldn’t have done it if it had been any of the others. They knew that, they didn’t care; it was only Edward Swanwick.
–And, really, said the commentator.—Alan Gilzean seems to be making a bit of a meal of his little knock.
The funny thing was, Aidan was never like that—that funny—when he was just himself, when he wasn’t commentating. Fortytwo, thirtyeight to Northern Ireland. Kevin’s neck was getting red; he was going to lose. It was great. It was getting dark. Missis O’Keefe was the final whistle. Any minute now.
–Barrytown United.
–Barrytown Rovers.
We were thinking of names.
–Barrytown Celtic.
–Barrytown United’s best.
I said that. It had to be United. We were sitting in O’Keefe’s back garden. Mister O’Keefe was sitting on a brick. He was smoking a cigarette.
–Barrytown Forest, said Liam.
Mister O’Keefe laughed but none of us did.
–United.
–Never.
–Let’s have a vote for it, said Ian McEvoy.
Mister O’Keefe rubbed his hands.
–That sounds the best way alright, he said.
–It’ll be United.
–No, it won’t!
–Shhhh, said Mister O’Keefe.—Shhhh, now. Right, okay; hands up who wants Barrytown Forest.
Liam lifted his hand a little bit, then put it back. No hands. We cheered.
–Barrytown Rovers?
No hands.
–Barrytown—United.
The Manchester United and Leeds United fellas put all their hands up. There was no one left, except Sinbad.
–Barrytown United it is, said Mister O’Keefe.—By a handsome majority. Which one did you want? he asked Sinbad.
–Liverpool, said Sinbad.
It was so brilliant being in a team called United that we didn’t bother getting Sinbad for saying that.
–Uneeyeted!
Uneeyeted!
I’d hold my arms out straight till they ached and I’d spin. I could feel the air against my arms, trying to stop them from going so fast, like dragging them through water. I kept going. Eyes open, little steps in a circle; my heels cut into the grass, made it juicy; really fast—the house, the kitchen, the hedge, the back, the other hedge, the apple tree, the house, the kitchen, the hedge, the back—waiting to stop my feet. I never warned myself. It just happened—the other hedge, the apple tree, the house, the kitchen—stop—onto the ground, on my back, sweating, gasping, everything still spinning. The sky—round and round—nearly wanting to get sick. Wet from sweating, cold and hot. Belch. I had to lie there till it was over. Round and round; it was better with my eyes open, trying to get my eyes to hang onto one thing and stop it from turning. Snot, sweat, round, round and round. I didn’t know why I did it; it was terrible—maybe that was why. It was good getting there—spinning. Stopping was the bad bit, and after. It had to come; I couldn’t spin forever. Recovering. Stuck to the ground. I could feel the world turning. Gravity sticking me down, holding me, my shoulders; my shins sore. The world was round and Ireland was stuck on the side; I knew that when I was spinning—falling off the world. The worst was when there was nothing in the sky, nothing to grab, blue blue blue.
I only ever got sick once.
It was dangerous to do things straight after your dinner. You could drown if you went swimming. I went up to my belly button to see if anything would happen—I wasn’t going to go any further—just to check. Nothing did. The water was the same; the suck wasn’t any stronger. That didn’t mean much though. Standing in a bit of water wasn’t the same as swimming. You weren’t swimming until your feet weren’t touching the sand for at least five seconds. That was swimming; that was when you drowned if you were full of your dinner. Your belly was too full and too heavy. Your legs and arms couldn’t hold you up. You swallowed water. It got into your lungs. It took ages for you to die. Spinning was the same, only you didn’t die, unless you were lying on your back when you were getting sick and you didn’t turn over on your side because you’d fainted or something, or you’d walloped your head and you were unconscious with your mouth full of vomit. Then you suffocated, unless someone saw you in time and saved you; they turned you over and thumped your back to make room in your throat for some air to get through. You gasped and coughed; then they gave you the kiss of life to be on the safe side. Their lips would be touching your lips and your lips would be covered in vomit. They might get sick themselves on you. They might be a man, a man kissing me—or a woman.
Kissing was stupid. It was alright for kissing your ma when you were going to school or something, but kissing someone because you liked them—you thought they were lovely—that was just stupid. It didn’t make sense. The man on top of the woman when they were on the ground or in a bed.
–Bed. Pass it on.
We snuck into Kevin’s ma’s and da’s bedroom and looked at their bed. We laughed. Kevin pushed me onto the bed and he wouldn’t let me out; he held the handle on the other side.
When I got sick from spinning I didn’t faint or anything. I just knew I was going to get sick when I was lying on the grass after I’d stopped—the grass was warm and stiff—so I tried to stand up but I fell back on one knee and then the sick came; not real vomit—food from the top of the heap in my stomach. My ma said that you should chew the food well before you swallowed it. I never did; it was a waste of time and boring. Sometimes my throat hurt after I’d swallowed something big; I knew it was going to be sore but it was too late to stop, it was too far down, there was nothing I could do. Boiled potatoes, big bits of bacon with fat on it, cabbage—that was what came out. Angel Delight, strawberry. Milk. I could name every bit of it. I felt better, sturdier. I stood up. It was in the back garden. My head moved a little bit—house, kitchen—but then it stopped. I looked at my clothes. They hadn’t been hit. My runners were clean too. And my legs. It was all on the ground. Like stew off a plate. Did I have to clean it up? It wasn’t on a floor or a path. But it was in the garden, not a field or someoneelsewedidn’tknow’s garden. I wasn’t sure. I walked down to the kitchen door. I turned and looked. I couldn’t make up my mind if I could see it there or not. I was looking there because I knew it was there. I could see it, but I knew it was there. I went around to the front and messed with the flowers. Then I went back down the side again and came around the kitchen and looked and I couldn’t really make out anything. I left it there. I looked at it every day. It got harder and darker. I threw the bacon into the garden that backed onto ours, Corrigan’s. I let it drop over the fence so they wouldn’t see anything flying in the air if they were looking out. I waited for shouts. Nothing. I washed my hands. The rest of the sick disappeared. It was slimy and real looking after rain. Then it was gone. It took about two weeks.
–Is it morning not to get up?
–Yes, it is.
–Go back to bed, lads.
The table was still dirty. The dishes were still on it, from dinner the night before. Ma put my cornflakes bowl on top of a dirty plate.
I didn’t like it. The table should have been clean in the morning. With nothing on it except the salt and pepper in the middle, and the ketchup bottle with not too much dried ketchup up at the lid—I hated that—and the place mats, with a spoon on mine and Sinbad’s. That was the way it always was.