I held up the ball. We were on Barrytown Grove. It had good high kerbs for hopping the ball. The ball was a burst one.

–The object, I said,—is to score goals, i.e. force the ball into the opponents’ goal which is—is formed by two upright posts upon which is mounted a crossbar.

They were bursting out laughing.

–Say it again.

I did. I put on a posh accent. They laughed again.

–GeronIMO!

He was the last of the renegade Apaches. The last of the renegades.

–You’re a renegade, Mister Clarke.

Hennessey sometimes called us renegades before he hit us.

–What are you?

–A renegade, Sir.

–Correct.

–Renegade!

–Renegade renegade renegade!

I had a picture of Geronimo. He was kneeling on one knee. His left elbow was resting on his left knee. He had a rifle. He had a scarf around his neck and a shirt with spots on it that I didn’t notice for ages until I was sticking the picture on my wall. He had a bracelet that looked like a watch on his right wrist. Maybe he’d robbed it. Maybe he’d cut someone’s arm off to get it. The rifle looked homemade. The best part was his face. He was looking straight into the camera, straight through it. He wasn’t frightened of it; he didn’t think it would take his soul, like some of them did. His hair was black, parted in the middle, straight down to his shoulders; no feathers or messing. He looked very old, his face, but the rest of him was young.

–Da?

–What?

–What age are you?

–Thirtythree.

–Geronimo was fiftyfour, I told him.

–What? he said.—Always?

He was fiftyfour when the photograph was taken. He might have been older. He looked fierce and sad. His mouth was upsidedown, like a cartoon sad face. His eyes were watery and black. His nose was big. I wondered why he was sad. Maybe he knew what was going to happen to him. The part of his leg in the photograph was like a girl’s, no hair or bumps. He was wearing boots. There were bushes around him. I put my fingers on the hair to cover it. His face was like an old woman’s. A sad old woman. I lifted my fingers. He was Geronimo again. It was only a blackandwhite photograph. I coloured in his shirt; blue. It took ages.

I saw another picture in a book. Of Geronimo with his warriors. They were in a big field. Geronimo was in the middle, in a jacket and a stripey scarf. He still looked old and young. His shoulders looked old. His legs looked young.

None of the pictures in books were like the Indians in the films. There was one of the Snake and Sioux Indians on the warpath. The main fella in the picture had a pony tail and the rest of his head was bald, and shiny like an apple. He was riding hunched down sideways on his horse so that the others couldn’t fire their arrows at him. The horse’s eye was looking down at him; the horse looked scared. It was a painting. I liked it. There was another great one of an Indian killing a buffalo. The buffalo had its head in under the horse; the Indian would have to kill it quick or the buffalo would turn the horse over. Something about the way the Indian was on the horse, with his back up and his arm stretched, ready, with his spear, made me know that he was going to win. Anyway, the picture was called The Last of the Buffalo. There were other Indians on the edge of the picture chasing after more buffalo. The field was covered in buffalo skulls and there were dead buffalos lying all around. I couldn’t put this one on my wall because it was from a library book. I went to the library in Baldoyle. I went with my da. One room was the grownups’ and there was another room for children.

He was always interfering. He’d come into our part of the library after he’d changed his books and he’d start picking books for me. He never put them back properly.

–I read this one when I was your age.

I didn’t want to know that.

I could take two books. He looked at the covers.

–The American Indians.

He took out the tag and slipped it into my library card. He was always doing that as well. He looked at the other one.

–Daniel Boone, Hero. Good man.

I read in the car. I could do it and not get sick if I didn’t look up. Daniel Boone was one of the greatest of American pioneers. But, like many other pioneers, he was not much of a hand at writing. He carved something on a tree after he’d killed a bear.

–D. Boone killa bar on this tree 1773.

His writing was far worse than mine, than Sinbad’s even. I’d never have spelled Bear wrong. And anyway as well, what was a grownup doing writing stuff on trees?

–DANIEL BOONE WAS A MAN

WAS A BIIG MAN

BUT THE BEAR WAS BIGGER

AND HE RAN LIKE A NIGGER

UP A TREE—

There was a picture of him and he looked like a spa. He was stopping an Indian from getting his wife and his son with a hatchet. The Indian had spiky hair and he was wearing pink curtains around his middle and nothing else. He was looking up at Daniel Boone like he’d just got a terrible fright. Daniel Boone was holding his wrist and he had his other arm in a lock. The Indian didn’t even come up to Daniel Boone’s shoulders. Daniel Boone was dressed in a green jacket with a white collar and stringy bits hanging off the sleeves. He had a fur hat with a red bobbin. He looked like one of the women in the cake shop in Raheny. His dog was barking. His wife looked like she was annoyed about the noise they were making. Her dress had come off her shoulders and her hair was black and went down to her bum. The dog had a collar on with a name tag on it. In the middle of the wilderness. I didn’t like the Daniel Boone on the television either. He was too nice.

–Fess Parker, said my da.—What sort of a name is that?

I liked the Indians. I liked their weapons. I made an Apache flophead club. It was a marble, a gullier, in a sock, and I nailed it to a stick. I stuck a feather in the sock. It whirred when I spun it and the feather fell out. I hit the wall with it and a bit chipped off. I should have thrown away the other sock. My ma gave out when she found the one I didn’t use, by itself.

–It can’t have gone far, she said.—Look under your bed.

I went upstairs and I looked under the bed even though I knew that the sock wasn’t there and my ma hadn’t followed me up. I was by myself and I got down and looked. I climbed in under. I found a soldier. A German World War One one with a spiky helmet.

I read William. I read all of them. There were thirtyfour of them. I owned eight of them. The others were in the library. William The Pirate was the best. I say! gasped William. I’ve never seen such a clever dog. I say! he gasped, he’s splendid. Hi, Toby! Toby! Come here, old chap! Toby was nothing loth. He was a jolly, friendly little dog. He ran up to William and played with him and growled at him and pretended to bite him and rolled over and over.

–Can I’ve a dog for my birthday?

–No.

–Christmas?

–No.

–Both together?

–No.

–Christmas and my birthday?

–You want me to hit you, is that it?

–No.

I asked my ma. She said the same. But when I said two Christmases and birthdays she said,—I’ll see.

That was good enough.

William’s gang was the Outlaws; him, Ginger, Douglas and Henry. It was Ginger’s turn to push the pram and he seized it with a new vigour.

–Vigour, I said.

–Vigour!

–Vigour vigour vigour!

For a day we called ourselves the Vigour Tribe. We got one of Sinbad’s markers and did big Vs on our chests, for Vigour. It was cold. The marker tickled. Big black Vs. From our diddies to our tummy buttons.

–Vigour!

Kevin threw the cap of Sinbad’s marker down a shore, an old one on Barrytown Road with goo at the bottom. We went into Tootsie’s shop and showed her our chests.

–One two three—

–Vigour!

She didn’t notice or say anything. We ran out of the shop. Kevin drew a big mickey on Kiernan’s pillar. We ran. We came back for Kevin to draw the drops coming out of the mickey. We ran again.