“Treat me worse than a dog?” I muttered. “Well, here’s what you get—a real animal of a kid who doesn’t give a shit.” I galloped to the farm next door, hoping no one saw me.
Headmaster Crowe was guaranteed to go completely psycho because he’d have to explain to the parish priest why the boxes of money had gone missing while in his care. But where the hell was I going to hide them? No place at home. Besides, that’d be the first place they’d look. My eyes drifted over the rock wall in front of me. Who’d think of looking for the money out here in the middle of a field?
“Try finding them here, Mr. ‘Clever’ Crowe,” I said, pulling some rocks out of the wall and stashing the boxes inside the natural cavity.
Grinning, I leaned forward and kissed the hiding place. My stash was safe. Even better, I’d finally had my revenge on that hated school. “Well, teachers, do your worst. I’ll never tell you where I’ve hidden the money.”
I took a deep breath and walked back to the headmaster’s office, my head held high, a defiant glint in my eye. I knew what was coming but didn’t care.
The teachers were enraged. But whenever they screamed, “Where’s the Pope’s money?!” I just looked at them blankly.
The beatings that followed were terrible. I was threatened with Hell and eternal damnation, and even an interview with the Pope himself. The Gardaí were called. But there was nothing they could do because there was no evidence to prove I took the money.
That was my real revenge on the teachers: showing them that all the physical violence in the world wouldn’t beat me.
My brothers tried to talk me into giving up. “You better tell them where you hid the money,” said John, “or those teachers are going to make your life hell.” We were lying on our bed up in our bedroom talking.
I shrugged. “I’m not scared of the teachers.”
Andrew shook his head. “Dad’ll flog it out of you sooner or later,” he warned.
“I’m not afraid of Dad either.” But then I heard the sound of his boots on the stairs. “Quick!” I said. “Let’s escape out the window.”
“We haven’t done anything wrong,” said Andrew sulkily. “Why should we go anywhere?”
“Fine. Stay,” I snapped. “You can both continue the discussion with his belt on your own.”
Cursing me, they followed me out the window and down the drain pipe, ducking around the side of the house while Dad’s yelling exploded upstairs.
“Let’s take Major and Rex with us,” I suggested.
“Okay, I’ll slip out the back and get the leashes from the shed,” offered John.
“I’ll get the dogs from the backyard,” said Andrew. I felt relieved the dogs were coming. Although I was no longer afraid of my father or the teachers, there were men in Garryowen who genuinely scared me. Hard men, bad men like those from the O’Brien Clan.
My brothers and I met the O’Brien’s that afternoon for the first time. As we walked Major and Rex across the fields, we found ourselves in a small stand of trees. “What the hell’s that?” asked Andrew, hearing a strange noise.
We listened hard. Major and Rex started whining and pulling on their leashes, eager to be released.
“Sounds like dogs fighting,” said John. “Quick! We’d better break them up!”
We started running towards the noise, and Major and Rex were hauling so hard on their leashes, they nearly pulled John and Andrew over. We broke through the trees and came upon something much worse than a dog fight. It took a while for me to understand what was happening.
Badger baiting.
There were three men—one older, two younger—standing around a pile of freshly dug dirt. It was a large badger burrow. One of the young men was leaning on a long iron digging bar. The other young man held the captive badger by the neck with giant, metal tongs specially designed for the evil purpose. The badger, a large, beautiful creature with that distinctive white stripe running from its nose down its body, was screaming terribly.
The noise made my blood curdle. The badger was turning and twisting as it fought frantically with its long claws. No matter how hard it tried, it couldn’t escape the vise-like hold of the tongs around its neck.
“Hold it steady,” said the older man. “That’s it.” He stood still, his feet braced wide apart, holding a pair of fawn-colored dogs on leashes. These sleek, beautiful dogs were taking turns savaging the completely helpless badger.
We stared in horror. We’d heard of badger baiting but this was the first time we’d seen it in action. It was an illegal practice being stamped out by Irish authorities, but some farmers kept doing it because they believed badgers brought disease to their cattle. They also thought that the giant burrows—called sets—risked snapping the legs of their stock if they stepped in them. What shocked me most was the placid way the three men watched as the two dogs assaulted the badger.
“Oh, my God,” breathed John in horror.
One dog had the badger by the throat; the other was trying to find a way of ripping open its belly.
“Hey!” Andrew yelled in fury.
The three men turned and stared at us in surprise.
“Leave that badger alone!” screamed John.
“Or we’re going to report you!” shouted Andrew.
I was too paralyzed to move and could only stare at the poor creature, unable to say anything like my mouth was wired shut. The unnecessary brutality of it, the complete unfairness of the fight, sickened me so much I thought I was going to vomit. I shook myself.
“Stop doing that, you bastards!” I yelled.
The three men simply tipped their heads back and laughed lazily.
“Let that badger go,” I yelled. “Now!”
“Get lost or we’ll set the dogs on ye,” snapped the older man.
A red mist came over me. “I might not be able to escape my own floggings but that badger fucking well is,” I said grimly to Andrew and John. What would Cuchulainn, the warrior boy, have done in this situation? I looked around for a weapon, reached down, and picked up a good-sized rock. Roaring my head off, I ran at the men, and threw the rock at the closest sneering O’Brien head.
“Fuck!” The man dropped the bar and grabbed his nose as blood spurted out. He looked at his hands in shock and saw how much blood there was. “Cheeky little bastard! I’ll kill you for that!” He ran straight for me.
I bent down, grabbed another rock, and threw it at him. It bounced right off his forehead.
“Ugh!” He stumbled, his eyes wide with shock.
I might have been skinny, but I could draw blood the same as any grown man.
Wrapping the leashes hard around their forearms, Andrew and John joined me, and side by side, we launched a steady barrage at the three men.
The young man holding the heavy pincers dropped them to protect his head, which allowed the badger to shake itself free. It waddled swiftly into the bushes. We cheered.
The old man shook his fist at us. He could barely restrain his own dogs from fleeing. They were confused about what was happening and just wanted to get out of there, poor things. Major and Rex were going wild on the end of their leashes.
“I’ll get you, you little fuckers!” the old man screamed. “I know who you are! You’re those bloody Faul freaks.”
The two younger men spat on the ground. “And when Dad’s finished with you, we’ll take our turns,” shouted one of them. “What you three little freaks need is a good lesson in manners.”
“Yeah? Better get in and make it quick because we’ll be reporting you for badger baiting, you cowardly scum!” Andrew yelled back.
They jeered but we walked off, our heads held high. The three of us had saved the badger, and Major and Rex had saved us. It was one of our best battles yet.
“Good dogs,” praised John and Andrew, rubbing Major and Rex on the shoulders in gratitude.
However, as we walked back through the trees, I shivered. The O’Briens were adult men and, to be honest, they scared me. Sometimes I wi
shed we weren’t so reckless, but what else could we have done? Let the badger be ripped apart while we watched and said nothing?
I bit my lip nervously. We had so many enemies now, they’d have to form a long line and wait their turn if they wanted revenge. The O’Briens, however, were the sort of enemies we could have done without.
“Don’t worry. As long as the three of us are together and we’ve got the dogs, we’re safe,” I muttered under my breath to myself. “With Major and Rex at our side, we’re invincible.”
“What’s that?” asked Andrew.
I hesitated, not wanting to sound like a coward. “Nothing.”
But I still felt uneasy. Was it possible to make too many enemies standing up for your beliefs?
CHAPTER 12
My Patch
AFTER I RAN AWAY, I FOUND I WAS STILL MAKING ENEMIES. As the weather turned colder, I became much more territorial of my patch. Other kids in the area were robbing food from farms, so farmers had zero tolerance to any strays lurking about. “What are you doing around here?” I yelled at any kid wandering past on the track. They’d see me and my six dogs and run for their lives. One boy even shouted, “Fuck off, freak! Don’t eat me!” I guess I must have looked more feral than usual.
The area around Padraig’s barn was my patch, and there was only room for one kid—me. My territory covered about twenty farms. I also considered the wealthy Castletroy Estate mine. I had to share the Garryowen Estate with other kids, but secretly I thought of that as mine, too.
I knew if more boys moved into my patch, the farmers would start calling the Gardaí to come catch us. Living rough as I did, the courts would call me uncontrollable. They’d have me dragged off to Borstal’s Boys Reform Home. Rumored to be Hell on earth, it was the one place I was absolutely terrified of. If you were sent to Borstal’s, you were locked up behind a high, razor-topped fence. There was no way of escaping from the inevitable bullying. Worse yet, everyone knew what went on in places like that.
Several times I was caught stealing food red-handed by farmers. Some farmers, like old psycho Gallagher, were so crazy I’d rather they called the Gardaí than deal with me themselves. One day, happy as a lark, I slipped into Gallagher’s henhouse for dinner. I thought he’d gone out for the day but he’d become suspicious and parked his car down the lane so he could sneak up on me.
It was dusty in the henhouse. Downy feathers floated dreamily through the air. Hens looked at me curiously from their nesting boxes and clucked in protest as my fingers reached under them and drew out their toasty warm eggs. I took five eggs from five hens and slipped them in my pocket. Excellent. That’s dinner sorted. I was about to reach for just one more when I felt something metal-hard prodding my spine. I froze.
Old Gallagher had a voice like bent nails. “Put ’em back.” I heard the safety of his double-barrel shotgun click off. “Put ’em back. Or I’ll blow a hole in yer so big a cow could walk through it.”
I slowly put the egg in my hand back in the nest.
“And the others.”
I carefully pulled the eggs from my pockets and placed them under the same hen. She clucked gently at the touch of my fingers. I felt gut-churning ashamed to be treated as less than an animal. Less than a chicken.
He prodded me in the spine. “Get going. If I see yer back here, I’ll shoot yer.”
I didn’t believe every farmer who made that threat, but I believed old Gallagher. As I walked past him, I couldn’t stop the tears from coming.
I never returned to old psycho Gallagher’s farm. Civilization didn’t exist in that place.
My run-in with Gallagher got me thinking later that night. As I curled up in the warm hay in Padraig’s barn, I stared up at the tin ceiling. For the first time I fully realized how lucky I was to have the run of this lovely, peaceful farm.
Padraig now knew I lived here. Being an old bachelor and kind, he left me alone as long as I stayed out of sight and kept my dogs under control. Often I caught myself thinking, Thanks, Padraig. I’ll never forget how kind you are. Now I’d have to be especially careful not to annoy him. A place as good as this would be hard to find if I got kicked out.
A few days later I was walking back to Padraig’s along the raised railway line when I unexpectedly came across a local gang of kids. They were crawling out of a hole in the farm hedge, sucking raw eggs and laughing.
I stared, enraged. That was my farm! Those were my eggs! I glanced behind me. Where the hell were my dogs?
I knew these boys. They were the McDonaghs—seven tough kids from a tough family. Their dad was a brutal man and a real hard drinker. Both parents were rumored to be laid out flat on their backs unconscious with drink by ten in the morning almost every day. As a result some of the younger kids had formed a gang and were now running pretty feral.
Warily, I walked towards them and found myself facing Anky, Decky, Fonan, Boyd, Grub, Seamus, and String.
Bloody hell. They looked even wilder than me. Their clothes were ragged, their hair was wild, and their eyes flickered over me and everything else. All of them were carrying big blackthorn sticks with razor-sharp barbs. They moved in closer until they were shoulder to shoulder.
Their head boy, Anky, flipped his chin at me. “Come ’ere, I want ya, sham,” he yelled. His accent was real working-class Limerick. It meant, Come here, I want you, person. It was rude the way he said it.
I stayed where I was. “This is all my territory,” I yelled back. “You’d better leave.”
Anky raised his chin again. “Fuck ya. Yer one of them Faullies. The freaky moron one. Hangs with the dogs. Well, I don’t see na dogs.”
I ignored him. “Listen. This is my patch. From the Grudie swimming holes to Rhebogue gypsy camp and all the farms in between. Castletroy Estate’s mine too.”
“Yeah?” he said with a laugh. “Well, there’s only one of ye and seven of us, and we all have sticks.” He spat on the ground at his feet. “So ye listen to me, yer little skinny fucker. Whatever we McDonaghs want, we take.” The brothers looked at each other and smiled. Then with blood-curdling screams, all seven ran straight at me.
Shit. Should I stay or run? If I wanted to keep my territory, I had to stand and fight. What was my fight strategy? Grab a blackthorn stick off one of them. String looks the weakest.
I started hollering at the top of my voice as I ran at String. His mouth went round with shock when I tackled him to the ground. I sat astride his skinny stomach and grabbed at the blackthorn stick. My palms and fingers instantly burst out in pain. Wide-eyed with panic, String clutched the smooth handle of the stick to his chest for dear life.
The rest of the gang descended on me. Blackthorn sticks rained down on my head vicious and fast. Razor stripes of pain ripped across my bare skin, across the back of my head and face, and especially my hands and back. The barbs of a blackthorn stick were hideous bastard things. They snagged at my skin and ripped clean through each time the sticks were yanked away.
One thing I had in my favor was that I was so used to getting beaten by my teachers and by my dad. I was also used to getting whacked hard in hurling matches, which meant I wasn’t scared of pain. It was just a matter of seeing how much I could endure before I gave up. Triumphantly, I yanked the stick free from String’s fingers. Yes! Now I had a weapon! The fight was about to get a little more interesting.
I climbed to my feet and faced them. Blood dripped down my face and I wiped it away with the back of my wrist.
We all went a bit crazy then, the seven McDonaghs and me going at it hammer and tong with our blackthorn sticks, half trying to kill each other. It was probably a lot of pent up anger needing to find release. We were just kids trying to survive, a lost generation affected by our fathers’ alcoholism.
There were too many boys to fight, and I soon sank to my haunches, my chest heaving.
Anky lifted his head. He was bent over, panting hard too. He rubbed away blood dripping into his eye and nodded his chin at me. “Git ’im now while he�
�s down, boys. Come on!”
I knew they’d beaten me raw this time around because I could feel a sugar crash coming on. I was too exhausted to care if I lost or not.
Suddenly I heard barking. My dogs were running towards us, all six of them, galloping hard, heads low, hackles up, teeth on display. They obviously didn’t like the look of so many boys with sticks around me.
“Fuckin’ mongrels!” screamed Anky. He held up his stick and backed away a few steps, swiping at them with big, wild swings.
Blackie took an instant dislike to him. He lowered his huge, shaggy lion’s head at the boy’s legs, trying to bite the back of his calves. Anky shrieked for his brothers to help then yelled at me. “Call off yer fuckin’ dog, Faul!”
“Blackie,” I croaked. I was too exhausted to do anything.
Meanwhile Fergus darted at String. “Bugger this for a joke! I’m fuckin’ outta here,” the boy yelled and bolted off like a skinny hare, with Fergus yapping hard at his ankles.
The other brothers glanced wildly at Anky. He was swinging his stick as the big black monster of a Newfoundland was stalking him. The boys looked at my other dogs advancing on them.
“You can keep yer stupid barn!” Fonan yelled over his shoulder. “And yer fucking eggs!” He picked up his stick and bolted. His brothers—all but Anky—followed.
Anky was still being pursued by Blackie. The boy backed away, every now and again swinging wildly at the huge dog who was still circling him. “Fuck yer, Faullie! I swear I’ll git yer for this!” Dodging around Blackie, he ran after his brothers down the railway line.
The dogs chased him a bit, just for fun. Then they trotted back to me with their tails high in the air like victory flags. I rolled on my back in agony and groaned while they licked and sniffed me all over, fascinated by so much blood. “Thanks dogs, but what on earth took you so long?”
Later, after I got some food in me, I took the dogs down to the Grudie. This was the secluded swimming hole just off the Shannon River. We celebrated our triumph with a swim. Even Blackie jumped in. We really felt like the Dirty Dog Gang now after trouncing the McDonagh Gang.
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