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.