by Kit de Waal
After a year or two, I began to get used to school. In time, my sister was also made to go there, so it was seemingly the fate of all children and the only way out of it was to grow up, so I decided to do that as quickly as I could. Pretty soon, adults started to praise me for being ‘very grown up’ so maybe you could get to be grown up quicker if you tried hard enough.
The Comrades still came round, but not too often. A dog-eared booklet with a sheet of red paper as a cover appeared and seemed to tell of something very bad. Grown-ups discussed it in a serious way, no raised voices, no speeches, no songs, no more gin and orange and beer. Then there were mutterings about the mysterious OGPU, which was more dreadful than any of the other bad people.
One day I came back from school and by the back door was Stalin. Someone had taken him off the mantelpiece and smashed him to bits on the concrete path. I ran to Dad to tell him. He was sitting with his head in his hands, weeping. His face was red and crumpled and he shouted at me angrily in unfamiliar, ugly words. I was frightened but I knew what to do by then – I would have to figure out what had happened to Stalin on my own – yes, that would be more grown up.
What do people do when Superman turns out to be Lex Luthor? My father, to his credit, did not turn to drink – not at that time, anyway, but there was no more singing for a while, no more ‘Bandiera Rossa’. Trotsky kept his place on the mantelpiece for a few months, and then began to move about the prefab, eventually ending up on the floor with a big chip out of where the inkwell should have been. Dad bought a typewriter and began writing, and miraculously got money for what he wrote. Mum got some booklets from the Rapid Results College and bought new clothes. Dad’s brother got famous by writing and teachers started being extra-nice to me. And best of all, one glorious and wonderful day Dad said we were going to get a dog.
Night of the Hunchback
Paul McVeigh
We’re on the landing. Looking down the stairs. It’s far too early for us to be in bed, but Alex is minding us and he always puts us to bed as soon as the door closes on Mammy going to work.
‘Go on, Dolores,’ says Our Gerard.
‘No,’ says she, ‘I’ll get shouted at.’
‘Ach, go on,’ says me, and I scrunch my face like a sponge as if I might wring out some water. ‘Just say you’re getting a drink, right, and then on the way back from the kitchen say, “Alex, can we can come down and watch the fillim?” But say it like you’re about to cry if he says “no”.’ Alex can’t bear it when Wee Dolores cries. When other people do, he looks really disappointed in them or completely disgusted.
I feel sort of guilty because Wee Dolores is about five, my wee sister, and my best friend, and we’re as close as is morally possible between siblings. She also knows how much I don’t get on with Gerard, so I wouldn’t be coaxing her if it wasn’t all about me and her, right? Except this is about him. I’ll be honest and say I’m seeking approval because he’s older, a boy and can’t stand me.
‘I’ll give you some sweets,’ says me.
‘You haven’t got any sweets,’ says she, because she knows every single thing about my entire life.
‘I have,’ says me.
‘Show me.’ Her arms cross, due to this dramatic plot twist in today’s episode of The Life of Paul and Wee Dolores, a show we’ve been making since the day she joined me in consciousness.
I run into our bedroom and recover the 10p-mix-up-sized white paper bag from my pillowcase and return holding it tight in my hand in case Gerard grabs it off me.
‘You kept that one quiet, sleekit arse,’ says Our Gerard – like I would ever tell him anything.
Wee Dolores is still unsure, doubting me as a punishment for keeping a mixed-up secret from her. In my defence, I didn’t tell her as it was part of a non-disclosure agreement when I received the mix-up from a pensioner I think might fancy me and who I kissed on the lips by accident after helping her down some steps.
‘OK, look,’ I say, opening the bag and putting it under Wee Dolores’s nose.
‘You’d better give me at least three of those,’ says she, ‘or I’ll start murder.’ She walks to the top of the stairs and looks down.
Gerard looks at me like She’s mad, I can’t believe she fell for it. We share a laugh. We’ve laughed at the same thing about twice in our actual lives, so my laugh doesn’t sound like me because I don’t know who I am with him.
A hand grabs mine and, before I know it, the bag has gone and so has he. Our bedroom door slams. I run after him but he’s holding the door closed from the inside. I can hear him laughing. I knew not to trust him.
‘Alex!’ I scream at the top of my voice. ‘Alex!’
Our bedroom door opens.
‘Ye wee yap, ye,’ says Gerard. ‘I wasn’t gonna eat them, I was only jokin’.’
He’s shitting himself because Alex might hit him. Me too and probably steal my sweets, but it will have been worth it to get Gerard hit.
‘What’s goin’ on up there?’ Alex shouts up the stairs.
‘Nothin’,’ Our Gerard shouts and gives me back my sweets and looks Don’t say anything.
‘Who’s doin’ the shoutin’?’ Our Alex shouts, which is funny because, now, it’s actually him.
‘Paul,’ Our Gerard says, looking at me Now you’re in trouble.
‘Alex, Our Gerard wants to know if we’re allowed down to watch the TV?’ I say, looking at Gerard like Up your hole with a big jam roll.
‘No, I don’t, he’s only sayin’ that to get me shouted at,’ he says, punching me in the arm.
‘Alex, Our Gerard just hit me,’ I cry, rubbing my arm. ‘I hate you, you wee fucker.’
‘Alex, Our Paul’s cursin’,’ says he.
‘That’s cuz you hit him!’ says Wee Dolores.
‘Right, that’s it!’ Our Alex comes thumping up the stairs. We run like shite, knocking each other out of the way, dive at the bed and crawl under the covers. The irony being, it’s actually Alex’s bed because the only other bed at dive level is the bottom bunk, which is blocked by a little ladder.
The covers are being pulled from us but we’re holding on to them tight as tight. ‘No, Alex!’ we scream, so he beats us through the blankets instead.
Our Gerard got the worst of it. He’ll hate me now.
‘I was going to let yous come down, but not after this,’ says Alex.
We hear him walkin’ away.
‘No Alex, we’ll be good,’ Our Gerard says, uncovering us.
‘Ach,’ I whinge, ‘It’s not fair. Bernie lets us stay up.’
‘And since yous want to be in bed, yous can get into your own for the rest of the night,’ Alex says, the pleasure dripping from his mouth.
‘Sure, it’s still early,’ I say.
‘Get up and get into bed, nigh, I’m tellin’ yous,’ Alex shouts.
Gerard pushes the wee ladder to the end of the bunk beds and gets in the bottom. I let Wee Dolores climb up first and she crawls to the bottom end of the top bunk nearest the bedroom door. I follow her up and get under the covers at the end that hides in the darkest corner of the room.
Alex lets down the blinds; you have to keep them closed at night so that the gunmen can’t see in to shoot you. Our blinds are special Venetian ones. Venice is where they have no streets, just rivers. And nice blinds. You have to get special boat-taxis everywhere. We can’t afford taxis, so if we lived in Venice, we’d have to swim everywhere.
Alex switches off the big light and closes the door so it goes completely dark.
‘Alex?’ Our Gerard shouts from below.
The door opens again.
‘Wha’?’ Alex shouts, even worse than m’Ma does.
‘Will you leave the door open and leave the landin’ light on?’ says Our Gerard, sounding like Bambi.
‘No! Go to sleep, nigh,’ says Alex.
‘But he doesn’t like the dark,’ Wee Dolores says. ‘Mammy allows him to have the light on.’
‘Tough shit – Mammy isn’t here
,’ says Alex, ‘And no talking either. Straight to sleep or yous’ll get beat.’ He closes the door. There’s a pause and a little strip of light pings under the door as the landing light goes on. We listen to him go downstairs.
Jesus, he’s scary. Didn’t even thaw at Wee Dolores.
Silence.
The older ones take turns to mind us while Ma goes to work at night. We like it when the girls mind us, as they let us stay up later and watch movies with us on the sofa. Sometimes they buy us wee parties, which consist of a packet of crisps and a juice and, if we’re lucky, sweets! And, in return, we let them go out and mind ourselves.
The three older girls live in the room next to us and when Wee Dolores gets bigger she’ll have to move in there with them. Older girls do the cleaning, cooking and bring us wee ones up – the usual sort of things daughters do. They’re basically other mammies, except they don’t hit us. Alex never has to do anything, yet he’s the grumpiest. And he does hit us. Funny that. Also Da doesn’t work. Must be a boy thing.
This is the new improved McVeigh family residence since the Housing Executive came and built extensions on all the houses on our street, giving us an extra bedroom (fancy!) and an indoor toilet (smell us! – well, not literally because that would be disgusting). Before that, in here, me, Dolores and Da shared a double bed while Alex and Gerard had the bunks, and next door had all the big girls plus Ma, two to a bunk bed. I won’t ask you to imagine what it was like when Uncle Martin and Aunt Elizabeth moved in for a while and there was eleven of us in a two-bedroom house.
How did Ma and Da manage to have so many babies when they didn’t even share a bedroom?
Meanwhile back at the ranch…
There’s screaming from the alley at the back of the house where someone is getting a ‘community beating’ by the IRA for being ‘anti-social’.
‘I know, let’s play I Spy,’ says me, to distract Wee Dolores.
‘But it’s dark,’ says she.
‘Well, see, what you’ve got to do is remember what’s in the room – it’s an even harder game that way. It’s called I Spy in the Dark. Or I Can’t I Spy.’
I hear her sucking her bottle. She still sucks a bottle even though she’s far too old.
‘OK,’ I say. ‘I CAN’T spy with my little eye because it’s dark…’
She giggles.
‘… something beginning with B.’
‘Bed,’ says she.
‘Yes! Brilliant. Your go,’ says me.
There’s thumping coming up the stairs.
‘You’ve got us into trouble,’ says Gerard.
‘But he couldn’t have heard me,’ says me.
Wee Dolores flies up my end, in beside me, and we pull the covers over our heads.
Slow thumping, one step at a time. Angry, but in no hurry. This is not you’re going to get beat thumping, which normally takes a good run-up.
The windows in the other bedrooms slam, one at a time, and the screaming from out the back sounds like it’s in a land far, far away.
We lie still and wait. And wait. Heavy breathing sounds coming from outside the door.
‘You can hear it, can’t you?’ I whisper.
Wee Dolores nods.
Louder moaning.
‘Did you hear that?’ says Gerard, muffled by the sheets.
I peek my head out of the sheets down the gap between my bunk and the wall. He looks like he’s going to throw up.
‘It’s only Alex messin’ about,’ I say. ‘Alex, is that you?’
A long, loud growl.
Wee Dolores grabs my arm and I grab hers.
‘Alex stop messin’, you’re scarin’ Dolores,’ says Gerard.
‘Let me in!’ The voice is deep and growly and scary.
Banging on the door. Thumping on the landing floor.
The strip of light coming under the door pings off.
Wee Dolores screams and near deafens me. We dive back under the covers. A bony avalanche falls on us and it’s Gerard, who pokes his way in beside us. I’m squashed right up to the wall while he’s squashed against the bars on the other side of Dolores. We grab on to each other and squeeze tight.
‘Let me in!’ louder this time.
‘Go away! Alex, stop messing,’ I say.
‘I’m comin’ in. And I’m goin’ to kill yous. And I’m goin’ to rip you up. Tear off your skin with my teeth.’
We all scream. We are grabbing, trying to get our legs to grab as well. Like we’re all running lying down. We hear the door open and the growling is louder and non-stop. We all scream. Whoever’s holding on to my arm is digging their nails into me and it really hurts.
The growling stops, so we go quiet. I open my eyes and slowly, slowly peek out of the covers. Someone or something has opened the blinds a little. In the stripy light, standing at the bottom of the bed, I see a man in a black jumper with a massive hump on his back. I can’t see his face.
‘I am Quasimodo,’ Humpy screams.
The older girls do this. Never Alex.
Gerard and Wee Dolores come out from under the blankets as the hunchback opens his arms and we see his sleeves just hang at the bottom where hands should be. He brings his arm up to his chest and then a light comes out from his stump and shines up onto a face that is all twisted and has massive warts all over it.
The monster jumps at us, climbing the ladder. Wee Dolores screams and keeps on screaming. Gerard joins in. Then so do I. I can’t help it.
‘It’s Night of the Hunchback,’ Alex growls.
We got it from a movie we watched with m’Da when he came home drunk one night and got us all out of bed to watch. Then we made up our own scarier version when the girls were minding us. Alex is doing an X-rated version.
The covers are being pulled off.
‘Stop it, Alex, you’re scarin’ Dolores,’ says Gerard.
But he just won’t stop.
I can feel the covers slipping from my fingers even though I’m holding on hard. I panic as the covers come off and then there he is, right there, face to face. He growls. We scream. He puts his hand on his face and pulls at it. His face comes right off and he screams and we scream.
He pisses himself and slaps the light switch, which is right next to my bunk. Why didn’t we think of that?
‘Mammy!’ Wee Dolores starts crying.
‘Stop cryin’, wee scaredy cat,’ says Gerard, when everybody knows there was no one more scared than him.
‘Do it again, Alex, do it again,’ I say. He’s a million times better than the girls.
Alex takes the pillow out of his back.
‘I’m tellin’ m’Mammy on you,’ Wee Dolores says.
‘Ach, you weren’t scared, were you?’ He jumps up and lies on top of us when there’s no room at all. We’re laughing but it hurts.
That’s about the nicest I’ve ever seen Our Alex be to anybody in his life. He must be drinking. When people have only had a couple they can be dead friendly, like they’ve drunk some happy potion or are possessed by someone who hasn’t grown up in Belfast.
‘I’m tellin’ me Mammy on you!’ This is Wee Dolores’s favourite line, being the youngest, and she can get you into serious trouble with Ma. Even Alex runs from Ma’s wrath.
‘Ach, come on now, Wee Doll.’ Alex is trying to coax her but she’s huffing. ‘That’s the last time I’m playing with yous,’ he says, like a wee kid, like her. He gets up, goes to the door and stands with his hand on the light switch. ‘That’s definitely it now. No more playin’. Not with that wee yap.’
‘She doesn’t mean it, Alex,’ says me. ‘Do you Dolores?’
‘Tell him you don’t, do you?’ says Gerard.
I laugh and make faces to show her everything’s OK. And give her the C’mon, we have a laugh look.
‘Right, not a word out of yous.’ Alex fixes the blinds again, turns off the light and closes the door.
‘Alex!’ Wee Dolores calls after.
‘What?’ says he, opening the door.
‘Will you do it again, Alex?’ says she, in the cutest wee voice you’ve ever heard.
He sort of smiles. I think it was a smile; I’m not sure because it’s never happened before. He turns the light off again and heads.
‘Ach, go on Alex,’ says me.
Alex turns and, as he closes the door, sticks his head through the last gap. He doesn’t say anything, just looks. Behind him the landing light shines.
‘Who’s that? Who’s that coming up the stairs?’ Alex whispers deep, looking scared. We look at each other then back at him.
‘Please, don’t!’ Alex screams for his life. ‘Leave me alone, please… no!’
A hand comes over his face and pulls him out the door that closes behind him, leaving us in the dark. We scream getting under the covers.
Out on the landing, screaming, growling, limbs banging against the door.
‘It’s The Werewolf,’ I shout. That’s an even scarier film we act out. What will he do with this one?
We hear Alex getting eaten alive.
We’re next!
Exploding happy scaredness.
Passengers
Shaun Wilson
I’m fifteen and it’s five years till the millennium, and some say the end of the world. It’s a mild night in October. Above the turning sycamore across the road pile the corrugations and grid work of the cellophane factory, peaking in a long chimney from which underlit, eggy smoke bulges and wisps away like apparitions failing to materialise. I can hear pissheads shouting across the town centre, and I wish I’d had more to drink. It’s twenty past nine. Another car coasts by and its driver glances across. I look down, in case it’s someone who’ll grass me up to my mam, saying I was alone on the streets of Wigton and not at a friend’s sleepover. I’ve been waiting half an hour under the powdery glow of the street lamp, hoping every dazzle of headlights is my brother.