Pitch black dark. No light at all, none inside or through the wood. I was testing myself. I wasn’t scared. I closed my eyes, held them, opened them. Pitch dark still and I still wasn’t scared.
I knew it wasn’t real. I knew that the dark outside wouldn’t be as dark as this but it would be scarier. I knew that. But I was still happy. The dark itself was nothing; there was nothing in it to frighten me. It was nice in the hot press, especially on the towels; it was better than under the table. I stayed there.
He came home from work like normal. He had his dinner. He talked to my ma; a woman had got sick on the train.
–Poor thing, said my ma.
Nothing different. His suit, shirt, tie, shoes. I looked at the shoes; I dropped my fork. They were clean, like they always were. I got my fork back. His face wasn’t as black as it usually was when he came home, the part that he had to shave. There were usually bristles where he’d shaved them off in the morning. He used to tickle us with them.
–Here comes Dada’s scratchy face—!
We’d run but we loved it.
They weren’t there. His face was smooth; the hair was in under his skin. He hadn’t shaved in the morning.
It felt good: I’d caught him out. I ate all the carrots.
I stayed in the hot press and listened to my ma downstairs and the girls. The back door was open. Catherine kept climbing in and out. I listened for Sinbad; he wasn’t there. My da wasn’t moving. It stayed dark, just a tiny chink at the edge of the door. It would be different out in the open. There’d be wind and weather and animals, people and cold. But the dark was the thing to beat. I could dress to stay warm and bring my torch to keep away animals. Nocturnal creatures. My anorak—remember the hood—would keep me dry. The dark was the only thing to beat, and I’d beaten it. It didn’t scare me a bit. I liked it. It was a sign of growing up, when the dark made no more difference to you than the day.
I was ready, nearly. I’d robbed the can opener. It had been easy. I didn’t even put it in my pocket. I took the price off it and held it like I’d brought it into the shop, and walked out with it. I had two cans so far, beans and pineapple chunks. I didn’t want to take too many at once; my ma would notice them missing. The pineapple chunks had been in the press for years. I’d found out where my ma kept the underpants, the socks, the jumpers and that; on the shelf above me in the hot press. I could get them any time I wanted to. All I needed was a chair. The only thing I didn’t have was money. I had two and threepence saved up but that wasn’t nearly enough. I just had to find the post office savings book, then I’d be completely ready. Then I was going.
The only bit I missed was the talking, not having anyone to talk to. I liked talking. I didn’t try to get any of them to talk to me. They all followed Kevin, especially James O’Keefe. He always roared it.
–Boycott!
Aidan and Liam weren’t as bad. They looked at me; they’d have answered back if I’d said anything. They looked nervous, and sad. They knew what it was like. Ian McEvoy had a way of looking that I hadn’t seen before. He sneered, with only half his mouth. He walked away in a loop when I was near, as if he was coming towards me, then changed his mind. I didn’t care. He’d never been anything. Charles Leavy was the same as always. None of them talked to me, none of them.
Except David Geraghty. He wouldn’t stop. We were beside each other on different sides of the first aisle. He leaned out, hanging onto the desk, right under Henno.
–Howdy.
Trying to get me to laugh.
–Howdy doody.
He was mad. I nearly wondered if he was crippled on purpose; he didn’t want to have legs like the rest of us. He wasn’t doing it to make me feel any better; he was just doing it. He was absolutely mad, completely on his own; much better than Charles Leavy: he didn’t have to smoke or make us see him going off to mitch.
–Mighty fine day.
He clicked his tongue.
–Yessiir, Trampas.
He clicked his tongue again.
–Shit shit gick gick fuck fuck.
I laughed.
–Adaboy.
It was little break. I stood on my own, away from everyone so we wouldn’t have to bother boycotting each other. I was looking for Sinbad, just to see.
I heard it before I felt it, the zip of the air, then the thump on my back. It pushed me forward and I decided to fall. It was real pain. I rolled, and looked. It was David Geraghty. He’d whipped me with one of his crutches. I could feel the line on my back. The noise of it was still around me.
He was crying. He couldn’t get his hand into the arm hole. He was really crying. He looked at me when he said it.
–Kevin said to give you that.
I stayed on the ground. He got his crutches right, and rode them across to the shed.
I never got the chance to run away. I was too late. He left first. The way he shut the door; he didn’t slam it. Something; I just knew: he wasn’t coming back. He just closed it, like he was going down to the shops, except it was the front door and we only used the front door when people came. He didn’t slam it. He closed it behind him—I saw him in the glass. He waited for a few seconds, then went. He didn’t have a suitcase or even a jacket, but I knew.
My mouth opened and a roar started but it never came. And a pain in my chest, and I could hear my heart pumping the blood to the rest of me. I was supposed to cry; I thought I was. I sobbed once and that was all.
He’d hit her again and I saw him, and he saw me. He thumped her on the shoulder.
–D’you hear me!?
In the kitchen. I walked in for a drink of water; I saw her falling back. He looked at me. He unmade his fist. He went red. He looked like he was in trouble. He was going to say something to me, I thought he was. He didn’t. He looked at her; his hands moved. I thought he was going to put her back to where she’d been before he hit her.
–What do you want, love?
It was my ma. She wasn’t holding her shoulder or anything.
–A drink of water.
It was daylight out still, too early for fighting. I wanted to say Sorry, for being there. My ma filled my mug at the sink. It was Sunday.
My da spoke.
–How’s the match going?
–They’re winning, I said.
The Big Match was on and Liverpool were beating Arsenal. I was up for Liverpool.
–Great, he said.
I’d been coming in to tell him, as well as getting the drink of water.
I took the mug from my ma.
–Thank you very much.
And I went back in and watched Liverpool winning. I cheered when the final whistle got blown but no one came in to look.
He didn’t slam the door even a bit. I saw him in the glass, waiting; then he was gone.
I knew something: tomorrow or the day after my ma was going to call me over to her and, just the two of us, she was going to say,—You’re the man of the house now, Patrick.
That was the way it always happened.
–Paddy Clarke—
Paddy Clarke—
Has no da.
Ha ha ha!
I didn’t listen to them. They were only kids.
He came home the day before Christmas Eve, for a visit. I saw him through the glass door again. He was wearing his black coat. I remembered the smell of it when I saw it, when it was wet. I opened the door. Ma stayed in the kitchen; she was busy.
He saw me.
–Patrick, he said.
He moved the parcels he had with him under one arm and put his hand out.
–How are you? he said.
He put his hand out for me to shake it.
–How are you?
His hand felt cold and big, dry and hard.
–Very well, thank you.