–Next two boys.
I’d go on my own.
–Next two.
Somewhere not too far. Somewhere I could walk to, and back.
–Next two.
Kevin was waiting. He’d told some of the fellas. They were waiting. I didn’t care. I wasn’t scared. He’d beaten me every other time. They were different; I hadn’t wanted to win. Now I didn’t care. If he hurt me I’d hurt him. It didn’t matter who won. I didn’t try to get around him, pretend he wasn’t there or I’d forgotten. I walked right up to him. I knew what was going to happen.
He pushed me on the chest. The space between us and the crowd got smaller. It had to be quick; the teachers would soon be coming out. I went back a step. He had to follow me.
–Come on.
He pushed me harder, harder—an openhanded punch—to get me to do something.
I said it loud enough.
–I saw the gick marks on your underpants.
I saw it, the hurt, pain, the rage charge through his face in a second. He went red; his eyes got smaller and wet.
The crowd got closer.
He came at me with both fists up and tight; he just wanted to get at me. He didn’t care; he didn’t look. He hit against me. One of his fists opened; he was going to scrape me. He was groaning. I got around him. I punched the side of his face; it hurt me. He turned and was into me again; his finger in my nose. I kneed him—missed; kneed him—got him, over his knee. I held him to me. He tried to escape out of his clothes. I got my hand up to his hair; my hand was wet—his snot and tears. He couldn’t let us separate: they’d see him crying. I tried to get his hands off and jump back—I couldn’t. I kneed him—missed. He was squealing now, inside his mouth. I had his hair; I pulled his head back.
–Cheating!
Someone yelled that. I didn’t care. It was stupid. This was the most important thing that had ever happened to me; I knew it.
His head came into my face, mostly my mouth. There was blood—I could taste it. The pain was nice. It wasn’t bad. It didn’t matter. He did it again, not as good. He was pushing me back. If I fell it would be different. I went back—I was going. I fell back against someone. He got out of the way—jumped back—but it was too late; I’d got my feet steady again. This was great.
He was pushing my jumper and my shirt and vest up into my chin, trying to knock me over. He must have looked stupid. I couldn’t kick him; I needed my legs. I got my two fists and I thumped both sides of his head, once, twice, then I grabbed his arms to stop him from getting his hands closer to my face. He seemed to be much smaller than I was. His face was right in my chest, boring in, biting the bottom of my jumper. I grabbed the back of his hair and pushed. His head slipped to my tummy and he thought he had me, could push me back fast enough to get me down. I held onto his hair. He was getting set to heave—I got my knee up clean, bang in the face—harder than anything. There was shock in his groan, pain and defeat. He was gone. The crowd was quiet. They’d never seen this before. They wanted to see Kevin’s face and were scared to.
It would never go back to the same again.
My knee had got bigger. I could feel it. I still had his head down. He was still hanging on to me, pushing, but he was finished. I tried to do it again, knee him, but I’d thought too much about it this time; it slowed my leg. It just reached his face. I couldn’t let go till he did. I got one of his ears and twisted it. He screamed till he stopped himself. I didn’t want to end it the way we were supposed to; this was different. It was over but he couldn’t admit it, so I said it.
–Give up?
–No.
He had to say that. I had to hurt him now. I got his ear again, twisted it, got my nails into it.
–Give up.
I didn’t stop twisting to let him speak. He couldn’t answer. I knew that. I turned his ear back to normal.
–Give up?
He said nothing.
And I didn’t want to do any more. So I let go. I got my hands to his shoulders and pushed him back enough for me to walk away. I didn’t even look at his face.
I walked across the road. I had a limp. He could come after me; I hadn’t won; he hadn’t surrendered. He could come after me and jump. I didn’t look back. Someone threw a stone. I didn’t care. I didn’t look back. I had my limp and I was hungry. I had Kevin’s blood on my trousers. I was on my own.
–I never gave up, he said.
After dinner, in the yard.
–You’re dead, he said.
His nose was red, his chin was grazed, five thin cuts in a curving line. The skin beside his right eye was purpley red. There was dry blood on his jumper, not much of it. He was wearing a clean shirt.
–You didn’t win.
I stopped and looked straight into him. I could see his eyes dying to look around, to make sure he could get away. I didn’t say anything. I started walking again.
He waited.
–Chicken.
My ma had run towards me when she saw my trousers, the blood on them. Then she stopped and looked over my face and down.
–What happened you?
–I was in a fight.
–Oh.
She’d made me change them but she said nothing else about it.
–Where did you leave the dirty ones?
I went back upstairs and got them. I put them in the plastic basket in the corner between the fridge and the wall.
–They’ll have to soak, she said.
She took them out. Sinbad saw them. It was hard to tell that there was blood. It wasn’t red in the material.
Another voice.
–Chicken.
Ian McEvoy’s.
–Hey, chicken!
There was a hole inside me for a bit; getting used to it.
–Pulling hair.
–Buwahh! Buockbuockbuock!
That was James O’Keefe, doing a chicken. He was good at it. I went into the shed and sat down, by myself in there. They all stood out in the sun and looked in, searching because it was dark and the sun was behind the shed roof. It was cool. I could hear a fly or something dying.
–Boycott!
Kevin’s voice.
–Boycott!
Them all.
–Boycott boycott boycott!
The bell rang and I stood up.
Captain Boycott had been boycotted by the tenants because he was always robbing them and evicting them. They wouldn’t talk to him or anything and he went mad and went back to England where he’d come from.
I went to the line. I stood behind Seán Whelan. I put my bag on the ground. No one stood beside me. Henno came.
–Straighten up; come on.
He started walking, counting. David Geraghty was beside me. He had a way of leaning on one stick. He twisted his head to look like he was watching Henno passing.
–There he goes.
He straightened up.
–Great job that; counting children.
I watched David Geraghty’s lips. I couldn’t see them moving. They were a little bit open.
Fluke Cassidy had to sit beside me. He didn’t look at me. The only one who looked was Kevin. His mouth moved.
Boycott.
That suited me. I wanted to be left alone. Only, I didn’t want all of them to spend all their time leaving me alone. Everywhere I looked the faces looked away. It got boring. I looked over to Seán Whelan and Charles Leavy; they weren’t in on it. At David Geraghty; he blew me a kiss.
Everyone else.
I stopped looking. They could only boycott me if I didn’t want to be boycotted.
–Did you win? she said.
I knew.
–What? I said.
–The fight.
–Yes.
She didn’t say Good, but she looked it.
–Who was it? she said.
I looked at her shoulder.
–Not telling?
–No.
–Alright.
I got into the hot press. I had to climb up, over the tank. It was hot. I made sure my legs didn’t touch it. I used a chair to get up into the first shelf; towels and teatowels. I leaned out and kicked the chair away from the door. Then the tricky bit: I leaned further out and grabbed the door and pulled it in, closed. There wasn’t a handle on the inside. I had to get my fingers into the slats of wood that made the door. The air whoofed out; click.