Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha (16 page)

 

There was tar in my trousers, the knees.

—Not again.

That was what my ma was going to say. It was what she always said.

She did say it.

—Ah, Patrick, not again; for God’s sake.

She made me take them off. She made me take them off in the kitchen. She wouldn’t let me go upstairs. She pointed at my legs and clicked her fingers. I took them off.

—Your shoes first, she said.—Hang on a minute.

She checked that there was no tar on the soles.

—There isn’t any, I told her.—I checked them.

She made me lift my other foot. My trousers were halfway down. She slapped the side of my leg and opened and closed and opened her hand. I put my foot into it. She looked at the sole.

—I told you, I said.

She let go of my leg. She always said nothing when she was being annoyed. She clicked and pointed.

 

Confucius he say, go to bed with itchy hole, wake up in morning with smelly finger.

 

He made his hand open and close like a beak, the fingers stiff, right into her face.

—Nag nag nag.

She looked around and then at him.

—Paddy, she said.

—The minute I get in the door.

—Paddy -

I knew what Paddy meant, what she meant the way she’d said Paddy. So did Sinbad. So did Catherine, the way she stared up at my ma and then, sometimes, my da.

He stopped. He took two deep breaths. He sat down. He looked at us, like he used to know us, then properly.

—How was school?

Sinbad laughed, and made himself laugh more.

I knew why.

—Great, said Sinbad.

I knew why Sinbad had laughed but he was too late. He thought it was over. Da sitting down, asking us how school was—that meant the fight was over.

He’d learn.

—Why was it great? said Da.

That wasn’t a fair question. He’d said it to catch out Sinbad, like he was in the fight as well.

—It just was, I said.

—Well? Da said to Sinbad.

—A fella got sick in his class, I said.

Sinbad looked at me.

—Is that right? said Da.

—Yeah, I said.

Da looked at Sinbad.

Sinbad stopped looking at me.

—Yeah, he said.

Da changed. It had worked. His foot was bouncing at the end of his crossed leg; that was the sign. I’d won. I’d saved Sinbad.

—What fella?

I’d beaten Da. It had been easy.

—Fergus Sweeney, I said.

Sinbad looked at me again. Fergus Sweeney wasn’t in his class.

Da loved these kind of stories.

—Poor Fergus, said Da.—How did he get sick?

Sinbad was ready.

—It came out of his mouth, he said.

—Is that right? said Da.—Janey mack.

He thought he was smart, making a mock of us: we were doing it to him.

—Lumps, said Sinbad

—Lumps, said Da.

—Yellow bits, I said.

—All over his copy, said Da.

—Yeah, said Sinbad.

—All over his eccer, said Da.

—Yeah, said Sinbad.

—And the fella’s beside him, I said.

—Yeah, said Sinbad.

 

We were all in a circle. Kevin was the only one outside it. We had a fire. We had to look into the fire. It wasn’t dark yet. We had to hold hands. That meant that we had to lean forward nearly into the fire. My eyes were burning. It was forbidden to rub them. This was the third time we’d done it.

It was my turn.

—Banjaxed.

—Banjaxed! we all went; no laughing.

—Banjaxed banjaxed banjaxed!

We’d started this bit the second time, the chanting. It was better, more organised than what we’d had before, just shouting and Indian calls. Especially when it wasn’t even dark.

Liam was next to me, on my left. The ground was damp. Kevin tapped Liam’s shoulder with his poker. It was Liam’s turn.

 

—Trellis.

—Trellis!

—Trellis trellis trellis!

We were in the field behind the shops, in away from the road. We hadn’t as many places any more. Our territory was getting smaller. In the story Henno had read to us that afternoon, a stupid mystery one, there’d been a woman at the trellis pruning her roses. Then she died and the story was about finding out who did it. We didn’t care though. We just waited for Henno to say Pruning again. He didn’t, but Trellis was in every second sentence. None of us knew what Trellis was.

 

—Bucko.

—Bucko!

—Bucko bucko bucko!

—Ignoramus.

—Ignoramus!

—Ignoramus ignoramus ignoramus!

I could never guess what word was going to be next. I always tried; I looked at all the faces in the class when a new word or a good one got said. Liam and Kevin and Ian McEvoy were the same, doing what I was doing, storing the words.

It was my turn again.

—Substandard.

—Substandard!

—Substandard substandard substandard!

That part was over now. My eyes were killing me. The wind was blowing it all my way, the smoke, last week’s ashes as well. It would be good later though; I loved picking dry stuff out of my hair.

The names part was next. The real ceremony. Kevin walked around behind us. We weren’t allowed to look. I could only go by his voice and his feet in the grass if he stepped off the muck fire circle. I heard a swish from near. It was the poker. It was great and terrible, not knowing. The excitement was brilliant when we remembered it later.

—I am Zentoga, said Kevin.

Swish.

Behind me.

—I am Zentoga, the high priest of the great god, Ciúnas.
¹²
Swish.

Over the other side. I had to keep my eyes shut. I hoped I’d be first but I was glad that Kevin was over there.

—Ciúnas the Great gives all his people names! The word was made flesh.

Swish.

—Aaah!

He’d got Aidan, right across the back.

—Shite! said Aidan.

—From henceforth thou will be called Shite, said Kevin.

—Ciúnas the Mighty has spoken.

—Shite! we shouted.

We were a safe bit away from the shops.

—The word made flesh!

Swish.

Close.

Ian McEvoy.

—Tits!

Beside me; I felt the pain through him to me.

—From henceforth thou will be called Tits. Ciúnas the Mighty has spoken.

—Tits!

It had to be a bad word. That was the rule. If it wasn’t bad enough you got another belt of the poker.

—The word was made flesh!

—Diddies!

My turn was coming up. My head was in my lap. My hands were wet and kept slipping out of Liam and Ian McEvoy’s grips. Someone was crying. More than one.

His voice was behind me.

—The word was made flesh!

—Aaah!

Liam.

Again. Swish. The second thump sounded worse; it sounded unfair and shocking.

—That wasn’t a word, said Liam, out of a gasp.

Kevin had hit him again because he hadn’t said a bad word the first time. Liam’s agony and protest made his voice shimmer.

—The followers of Ciúnas feel no pain, said Kevin.

Liam was crying.

—The followers of Ciúnas do not cry! said Kevin.

He was going to hit him again. I could feel it, the poker going back. But Liam’s hand slid out of mine. He was standing up.

—I don’t care, he said.—It’s stupid.

Kevin was going to hit him anyway. But Liam got in too close. I watched. We all watched. I rubbed my face. It felt stretched and raw.

—A curse on your family, Kevin said to Liam, but he let Liam get past him.

Smiffy O‘Rourke had walked out the week before after Kevin had hit his back five times because Bloody wasn’t a bad enough word and Smiffy O’Rourke wouldn’t say anything worse. Missis O’Rourke had gone to the Guards about it—that was what Kevin’d said - but she’d had no evidence, only Smiffy’s back. We’d laughed then, when we’d watched Smiffy running away like he was ducking bullets because he couldn’t straighten his back. No one laughed now though. Liam walked away towards the gap in the new wire fence. It was getting dark now. Liam walked carefully. We could hear him snuffling. I wanted to go with him.

—Ciúnas the Mighty killed your mother!

Kevin had both arms stretched up. I looked over at Aidan; she was his mother as well. He stayed where he was. He was looking at the fire. I watched. He stayed that way. I’d take my punishment now, for the same reason that Aidan was staying. It was good being in the circle, better than where Liam was going.

I was next. There were two others left but I’d be next. I knew it: Kevin was going to take it out on me. We joined the circle again. It was even tighter now without Liam. If I’d pulled quickly someone would have been tipped into the fire. We nudged in closer on our bums.

It took him ages. I heard him over the other side. It was dark now. I could hear the wind. I had to close my eyes again. My legs were hot, too close to the fire. He’d gone; I couldn’t place him. I listened. He was nowhere.

—The word was made flesh!

My back was ripped. The bones exploded.

——Fuck!

—From henceforth thou will be called Fuck.

It was over.

—Ciúnas the Mighty has spoken!

I’d done it.

—Fuck!

The best word. It wasn’t as loud as it should have been. They were afraid. They pillowed the shout. I didn’t though. I’d paid for it. He’d hit me right on one of the knobs of my spine. I couldn’t straighten. I couldn’t relax yet. It was over though. I’d made it. I unclenched my eyes.

—The word was made flesh!

I enjoyed the crunch of someone else’s pain.

Fuck was the best word. The most dangerous word. You couldn’t whisper it.

—Gee!

Fuck was always too loud, too late to stop it, it burst in the air above you and fell slowly right over your head. There was total silence, nothing but Fuck floating down. For a few seconds you were dead, waiting for Henno to look up and see Fuck landing on top of you. They were thrilling seconds—when he didn’t look up. It was the word you couldn’t say anywhere. It wouldn’t come out unless you pushed it. It made you feel caught and grabbed the minute you said it. When it escaped it was like an electric laugh, a soundless gasp followed by the kind of laughing that only forbidden things could make, an inside tickle that became a brilliant pain, bashing at your mouth to be let out. It was agony. We didn’t waste it.

—The word was made flesh!

Swish.

The forbidden word. I’d shouted it.

—From henceforth thou will be called Mickey.

The last one.

—Ciúnas the Mighty has spoken!

—Mickey!

It was all over now, we could get up from the fire; till next week. I straightened my back. It had been worth it. I was the real hero, not Liam.

—Ciúnas the Mighty will give you all new names next Friday, said Kevin.

But no one was really listening. He was just Kevin again. I was hungry. Fish on a Friday. We were supposed to use our names all week but we could never remember who was Gee and who was Shite. I was Fuck though. They all remembered that.

 

There wasn’t another Friday. We were all sick of being hit on the back with a poker by Kevin. He wouldn’t take his turn. He had to be the high priest all the time. Ciúnas had said, he said. It would have gone on longer if we’d all had a go with the poker, probably forever. But Kevin wouldn’t allow it and it was his poker. I still called him Zentoga after the others had stopped but even I was happy when it didn’t happen the next Friday. Kevin went off by himself and I went with him and pretended that I’d been up for him. We went to the seafront. We threw stones at the sea.

 

I ran out into the garden. The house wasn’t big enough. I couldn’t stay still. I did two laps; I must have gone real fast because I was back in the living room in time to see the action replay. I had to stay standing up.

George Best—

George Best—

George Best had just scored in the European Cup Final. I watched him running away, back to the centre circle; he was grinning but he didn’t look that surprised.

My da put his arm around my shoulders. He’d stood up to do it.

—Wonderful, he said.

He supported United as well, not as much as me though.

—Bloody wonderful.

 

Pat Crerand, Frank McLintock and George Best were up in the air. The ball was nearly on top of Frank McLintock’s head but it was hard to say who’d headed it. Probably George Best, because his fringe was flying out like he’d just swung his head to meet the ball and the ball looked like it was going away from him, not towards him. Frank McLintock looked like he was smiling and Pat Crerand looked like he was bawling crying but George Best looked just right, like he’d headed the ball and he was watching it going towards the net. He was ready to land.

There were hundreds of pictures in the book but I kept going back to this one, the first one. Crerand and McLintock looked like they were jumping in the air but George Best looked like he was standing, except for his hair. His legs were straight and a bit apart, like at ease in the army. It was as if they’d cut out a photograph of George Best and stuck it onto another one of McLintock and Crerand and the thousands of little heads and black coats in the stand behind them. There was no effort on his face. His mouth was only a little bit open. His hands were closed but not clenched. His neck looked relaxed, not like Frank McLintock’s; it looked like there were pieces of rope growing under the skin.