Charles Leavy had kicked me.
There was no cheering now. This was serious. I wanted to go to the toilet. My fingers stung like freezing cold. Seán Whelan was in the crowd now, looking in. I tried to pretend that I was still fighting him.
The same place. Charles Leavy kicked me again.
No one jumped in. No one said anything. No one moved. They knew. They were going to see fighting they’d never seen before. Blood and teeth, torn clothes. Things broken. No rules.
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 STAYEEAY—
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 nightlight 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 nightlight 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 RollsRoyce 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 RollsRoyce 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.