Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha

by Roddy Doyle

  I could tell: he didn’t know whether to go away or stay. He didn’t want to turn his back; he was afraid something would happen him if he did. And he couldn’t go; I’d pushed him and he’d be a coward.

  —This is our field, I said again.

  I kicked him.

  My ma warned us about the mangle, to stay away from it, not to mess with it. The rolls were hard but only rubber. I scratched a mark on the bottom one with the breadknife. I loved it in the kitchen - the steam and the heat - when my ma was putting the sheets through the mangle, and my da’s shirts. The sheets were shiny with huge wet bubbles and my ma put a corner up to the mangle and turned the handle and the sheet rose out of the water like a whale being caught. The water ran down the sheet and the bubbles were crushed as the sheet was pulled through the rolls and came out flat, looking like material again, the shininess all gone. Another sheet, the rubber creaked and groaned, then the rest slid through easily. She wouldn’t let me help. She only let me stand behind the washing machine and guide the sheet into the red basin. The sheet was warm and kind of solid and hard. My fingers were safe on that side. The smaller clothes came through and I caught them and put them on top of the sheets. The basin was full. She had to empty the machine now and fill it again for the nappies. The steam in the kitchen was what I really liked, and the wet on the walls.

  We needed ice-pop sticks for it; the tar in the road was bubbling. It was the first time this year, so we’d no sticks ready. There was me and Kevin, and Liam and Aidan - just the four of us because Ian McEvoy wasn’t coming out. He had pains in his legs. Great spurts of growing pain, his ma said when we’d called for him, around the back. We never went to the front doors, unless it was for knick-knacking at night. The front porches on my side of the road were always nice and cool, especially on hot days. The sun never got in there. Our porch had great corners of dust: Dinkies bounced over the grit and sometimes crashed. There were three small round holes under the door, for air for under the floorboards, to stop them from rotting. If one of your soldiers fell in one of the holes you could never get him back and the mice got in that way. The ice-pop sticks were for bursting the bubbles; they were definitely the best. You could manage the bubble with an ice-pop stick, flatten it, get all the air in one part, that kind of thing.

  Great spurts of growing pain. Ian McEvoy was strapped to the bed. He had a bit of leather in his mouth to stop him from screaming, like John Wayne getting a bullet out of his leg. They poured whiskey over the hole in his leg. I poured whiskey on Sinbad’s scab, just a tiny drop. He was squirming before I even did it so I couldn’t tell if it was really sore or not, as sore as John Wayne made it look, or if it cured it.

  Kevin and me took one side, Liam and Aidan the other one. We had the shops side; there’d be loads more sticks. Sinbad wasn’t with us either. He was sick again. If he wasn’t better by the night my ma was going to get the doctor. She always believed we were sick when the holidays were on. It was the Easter holidays. The sky was all blue. It was Good Friday.

  The roads were cement, all the roads round our way, the parts that hadn’t been dug up. The roads were cement and the tar went between the slabs of cement. It was hard and you didn’t notice it for most of the time but when it softened and bubbled it was great. The top was old and grey looking, like an elephant’s skin around its eyes, but under that, when you got your ice-pop stick in, there was new tar, black and soft, a bit like toffee that had been in your mouth. You burst the bubble and the clean soft tar was under there; the top was gone off the bubble - it was a volcano. Pebbles went in; they died screaming.

  —No no, please - ! - don’t - ! Aaaaaaaahaaah—

  Bees if we could get them. We shook the jar to make sure that the bee was stunned, nearly dead, then turned it over before it could wake up. We aimed for it to fall on the new tar hole. We pushed it closer with the ice-pop stick. We shoved it down a bit so it stuck to the tar. We watched. It was hard to tell the pain. The bee made no noise, no buzz or anything. We broke it in half and buried it in the tar. I always left a bit showing, as an example to others. Sometimes the bee got away. It wasn’t dopey enough when we turned over the jar. It flew off before it hit the ground properly. It didn’t matter. We didn’t try to stop it. Bees could kill you; they didn’t want to, only if they had no choice. Not like wasps. Wasps got you on purpose. A fella in Raheny swallowed a bee by accident and it stung him in the throat and he died. He choked. He was running with his mouth open and the bee flew in. When he was dying he opened his mouth to say his last words and the bee flew out. That was how they knew. We put flowers and leaves in the jars to make the bees feel more at home. We had nothing against them. They made honey.

  I had seven sticks now and Kevin had six. Liam and Aidan were way ahead of us because they didn’t have the shops and we wouldn’t let them cross the road to our side. We’d batter them if they tried. Chinese torture. Whoever ended up with the smallest number of sticks was going to have to eat a lump of tar. It was going to be Aidan. We’d make sure he swallowed it. We’d let him eat a clean bit. I got another stick, a real clean one. Kevin ran to the next one, and I saw one and ran and grabbed it before he did and he got two while I was getting that one. It was a race now. Next it would be a fight. A mess one. I bent over to pick one out of the gutter - we were past the shops - and Kevin shoved me. I went flying but I had the stick; I laughed. Out onto the road.

  —Stop messing.

  He went for a stick; it was my turn. I didn’t shove him too hard. I let him get a hold of the stick first. We both saw one, and ran. I was faster; he tripped me. I hadn’t planned for it. I was going to fall. I couldn’t control it, I was too fast. My knees, my palms, chin. The skin was off them. My knuckles where I’d been holding the sticks. I still held them. I sat up. There was dirt in the redness of my palm. Spots of blood were getting bigger. Becoming drops.

  I put the sticks in my pocket. The pain was starting.

  An earwig flew into my mouth once. I was charging, it was in front of me—then gone. There was a taste, that was all. I swallowed. It was far back, too far to cough out. My eyes went watery but it wasn’t crying. It was in the school yard. There was still a horrible taste. Like petrol. I went to the toilet and got my head under the tap. I drank for ages. I wanted the taste to go and I wanted to drown the earwig. It had gone down whole. Straight down.

  I didn’t tell anyone.

  This fella went to Africa on his holidays—

  —You don’t go to Africa on your holidays.

  —Shut up.

  When he was in Africa he had a salad for his tea and when he came back from his holidays he started getting pains in his stomach and they brought him into Jervis Street because he was screaming in agony - they brought him in in a taxi - and the doctor couldn’t tell what was wrong with him and the boy couldn’t say anything because he couldn’t stop screaming because of the pain, so they did an operation on him and they found lizards inside him, in his stomach, twenty of them; they’d made a nest. They were eating the stomach out of him.

  —You’re still to eat your lettuce, said my ma.

  —He died, I told her.—The boy did.

  —Eat it up; go on. It’s washed.

  —So was the stuff he ate.

  —That’s just rubbish someone told you, she said.—You shouldn’t listen to it.

  I hoped I’d die. I hoped I’d just last till my da got home, then I’d tell him what had happened and I’d die.

  The lizards were in a jar in Jervis Street, in a fridge, for them all to look at when they were training to be doctors. They were all in one jar. Floating in liquid for keeping them fresh.

  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. S
he 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.