Across the face.
I watched. I listened. I stayed in. I guarded her.
Nothing happened.
I didn’t know what I’d do. If I was there he wouldn’t do it again, that was all. I stayed awake. I listened. I went to the bathroom and put cold water on my pyjamas. To keep myself awake. To stop me from getting cozy and warm and slipping asleep. I left the door a bit open. I listened. Nothing happened. I spent ages doing my homework so I could stay up longer. I wrote out pages from my English book and pretended I had to do it. I learnt spellings I hadn’t been given. I got her to check me on them, never him.
–S.u.b.m.a.r.i.n.e.
–Good boy. Substandard?
–S.u.b.s.t.a.n.d.a.r.d.
–Good boy. Great. Have you more to do?
–Yes.
–What? Show me.
–Writing out.
She looked at the pages in the book I showed her, two pages with no pictures on them, and at the pages I’d done already.
–Why are you doing all these?
–Handwriting.
–Oh good.
I did it at the kitchen table, then followed her into the living room. When she was putting the girls to bed he was in the room with me, so it was alright. I enjoyed the writing out; I liked doing it.
He smiled at me.
I loved him. He was my da. It didn’t make sense. She was my ma.
I went into the kitchen. I was alone. The noises were all upstairs. I slapped the table. Not too loud. I slapped it again. It was the right type of sound. It was duller though, hollow. Maybe it would be different from outside. In the hall where I’d been. Maybe he’d done that, smacked the table. When he was in a temper. That was alright. I did it again. I couldn’t make my mind up. I was tempted. I used the side of my hand. She’d come out of the kitchen, straight up to their bedroom. She’d said nothing. She hadn’t let me see her face. She’d started going faster before she got to the landing. Not because he’d slapped the table. I did it again. I tried to lose my temper and then do it. Maybe because he’d lost his temper. Maybe that was why she’d gone past me up the stairs, hiding. Maybe.
I didn’t know.
I went back into the living room. He wanted to check my spellings. I let him. I got one wrong, deliberately. I didn’t know why I did it. I just did it when I was doing it; I left out the r in Submarine.
I listened. I watched. I did my homework.
I came home at Friday lunchtime.
–I’m in the best desk.
It was true. I’d made no mistakes all week. All my sums had been right. I’d got through the twelvetimes table inside thirty seconds. My handwriting was
–Much improved.
I’d put my stuff in my bag and walked up to the front of the room and across to the top desk. Henno shook my hand.
–See how long you can stay there now, he said.—Good man, Mister Clarke.
I was beside David Geraghty.
–Howdydoody.
–I’m in the best desk, I told my da later.
–Is that right? he said.—That’s terrific.
He shook my hand.
–Put it there. Submarine?
–S.u.b.m.a.r.i.n.e.
–Good man.
The grass was wet though it hadn’t been raining. The day was too short to dry it. School was over; it was going to be dark soon. There was a new trench. It was really huge, really deep. The bottom was gooey, no crumbly muck; everything was wet.
–Quicksand.
–No, it isn’t.
–Why isn’t it?
–It’s only muck.
Aidan was in it.
Liam and Aidan sometimes didn’t go to school. Their da let them stay at home sometimes if they were good. We saw the new white sticks sticking up over the grass. We knew they were markers and we went over to see what they were marking, and Aidan was in the trench. And he couldn’t get out. He had nothing to cling to.
–He’s sinking.
I watched.
One of his boots was under the goo, up to his knee. I looked at that leg; I counted to twenty. It didn’t go down any further. Liam had gone for a ladder or a rope. I hoped it would be a rope.
–How did he get down?
That was a stupid question. It had happened to us all. Getting down was never a problem. It was too easy, always. You never thought about getting back up.
I checked Aidan’s leg. His knee was covered now. He was sinking. He was trying to hold onto the side, trying not to fall, trying not to cry. He’d been crying earlier; you could tell from his face. I thought about throwing stones at him, but there was no need.
We sat on our school bags.
–Can you drown in mud? Ian McEvoy asked.
–Yeah.
–No.
–Say it louder, I whispered.—So he can hear.
Ian McEvoy thought about it.
–Can you drown in mud?
–Sometimes.
–If your boots are full and you can’t get up.
We pretended Aidan wasn’t there to listen. He was trying to lift a leg and keep the boot on it. We could hear the suck. Kevin made the noise with his mouth. We all did. Aidan slipped but he didn’t go down.
Then I started worrying. He really could drown. We’d watch him; we’d have to. Suddenly the grass felt very wet. It would be like in my dream, the one I sometimes had, when my mouth was full of muck, dry summer muck; I couldn’t wet it and swallow it. I couldn’t close my mouth round it. It took over my mouth, deeper and deeper. My jaws really hurt, fighting it, and knowing I was losing and my mouth was going to get fuller, and I couldn’t swallow. I couldn’t shout, I couldn’t breathe. Liam brought a ladder and his da and they saved him. Liam’s da complained to the builders but he wouldn’t let us come with him.
Keith Simpson didn’t drown in the trench. He drowned in a pond. The pond was way across six or seven fields where the building hadn’t started yet. It was great for frogspawn and ice. It wasn’t deep but it was slimy; you’d never have put your bare feet into it. The ice growled when you leaned on it. It was too small for a lake.
Keith Simpson was found in it. He was just found. Nobody knew how he got there.
My ma cried. She didn’t know Keith Simpson. Neither did I. He was from the Corporation houses. I knew what he’d looked like. Small and freckles. She snuffled and I knew she was crying. The whole of Barrytown went quiet, like the news had spread without anyone telling it. He’d slipped in facefirst and his coat and jumper and his trousers got so wet and heavy he couldn’t get up; that was what they said. The water soaked his clothes. I could see it. I put my sock in the sink, hanging into the water. The water crept up the sock. Half the water went into the sock.
I looked at the house. I knew which one. It was a corner one. I’d once seen a man—it must have been Keith Simpson’s father—up on the roof putting up the aerial. The curtains were closed. I went closer. I touched the gate.
Da hugged Ma when he came home. He went up and shook hands with Keith Simpson’s ma and da at the funeral. I saw him. I was with the school; everyone in the school was there, in our good clothes. Henno made each of us say the first half of the Hail Mary and the rest joined in for the second half, and that took up the time before we were brought to the church. Ma stayed in her seat. There was a huge queue for shaking hands, down the side and around the back of the church, along the stations of the cross. The coffin was white. Some of the mass cards fell off during the Offertory. They slapped the floor. The sound was huge. The only other sounds were someone at the front sobbing and the priest’s stiff clothes, then the altar boy’s bell. And there was more sobbing.
We weren’t let go to the graveyard.
–You can go and say a prayer by yourselves some other time, said Miss Watkins.—Next Sunday. That would be better.
She’d been crying.
–They just don’t want us to see the coffin going in, said Kevin.
There was no more school. We sat on a flattened cardboard box in the field behind the shops to stop our clothes from getting dirty and to stop us from being killed by our mas. There was only room for three on the box and there were five of us. Aidan had to stand and Ian McEvoy went home.