Most of us could stand up straight in the pipe. Only Liam and Ian McEvoy had to bend a bit so they wouldn’t bash their heads. They thought they were great because of it. Liam knocked his head off the top of the pipe on purpose. We got down into the trench; it was real deep, like in a war. The men that were digging it—we waited till they’d gone home—had wooden ladders to get in and out. They locked them in their hut. We used planks. We lowered the plank into the trench and ran down along it. It was better than a ladder. You ran into the far wall of the trench and shouldered it and got away fast before the next fella came down the plank.

The trench was right outside our gate for a while, for a week about; it seemed like ages because it was coming up to Easter and the days were getting longer and the workmen still stopped at halffive even though there was loads of bright left. It was a huge water pipe, to bring water to all the new estates being built along the road as far as Santry and for all the factories as well, or to bring dirty water away from the houses and factories; we weren’t sure which.

–It’s for sewerage, said Liam.

–What’s sewerage?

–Gick, I said.

I knew what the word meant. Our drain was blocked once and my da had to open the square manhole below the toilet window and climb into it and prod at the pipe down there with a coat hanger. I asked him what the manhole was for, and the pipes, and he said Sewerage when he was telling me, before he roared at me to go away.

–He’d love you to help him, said my ma.

I was still crying but I had it under control.

–It’s dirty, Patrick.

–Hehe’s standing in it, I said.

–He has to. To fix it.

–He shouted at me.

–It’s dirty work. Messy.

Later, Da let me put the cover back on the manhole. The smell was terrible. He made me laugh. He pretended he’d dirtied his trousers and that that was the smell.

–Toilet paper as well, I said.

We were standing in the trench. Liam’s wellington was caught in the muck. His foot had come out. Sinbad was up at the side of the trench. He wouldn’t come down.

–And hair, I said.

–Hair isn’t sewerage, said Kevin.

–It is so, I said.—It gets stuck in the pipes.

My da blamed my ma because her hair was the longest. A big ball of it had blocked the pipe.

–My hair isn’t falling out, she said.

–And mine is, is that what you mean?

She smiled.

The pipes were cement. There were pyramids of them at the top of the road for ages before they started digging the trenches. Our part of Barrytown Road, where the houses were, was straight but all the rest of it, after the houses, was windy and crooked, with hedges high enough to stop you from seeing the fields. The county council had stopped trimming the hedges because they were going to be dug up. So the road was getting narrower. The pipes were going to join in a straight line and the new road over them was going to be straight as well. We’d gone down the pipe, a bit further every evening after the men had gone home. It was outside the shops the first time, then outside McEvoys’, outside our house, further down the road every day. The rippedup hedges lying on their sides looked the same as they did when they were upright; they were wide and full. My mother thought that they were going to put them back.

Running through the pipe was the most frightening brilliant thing I’d ever done. I was the first to do it for a dare, run all the way down, from outside my house down to the seafront, in the pitch black after a few steps. The dark was only broken once all the way by an open manhole over a cement platform built into the pipe; the rest of the way was back to dark, total black. You judged by the sound of your breath and feet—you could tell when you were swerving up the side of the pipe—until the dot of light at the end that got bigger and brighter, out the end of the pipe, roaring into the light, hands up, the winner.

You ran as fast as you could, faster than you normally could, but the others were always there at the end waiting.

Kevin didn’t come out.

We laughed.

–Keva—Keva—Keva—Keva—

Liam did the gang whistle; he was the best at it. I wasn’t able to do it. When I put the four fingers in my mouth there was no room for my tongue. The back of my throat went dry and I nearly got sick.

Kevin was still in there. We began to drop the muck we’d been going to belt at him; Kevin was in there with the blood pumping out of him. I jumped into the trench. The muck was hard and dry at this end.

–Come on! I yelled up at the rest.

I knew they wouldn’t follow me; that was why I’d said it. I was going to rescue Kevin alone; it was great. I went into the pipe. I looked back, like an astronaut getting into his spaceship. I didn’t wave. The others were beginning to climb into the trench. They’d never follow me in, not until it was too late.

I saw Kevin immediately. I couldn’t see him from the entrance, but now I could. He wasn’t far in. He was sitting down. He stood up. I didn’t shout back that I’d found him, or anything. This was me and Kevin together. The two of us went deeper into the pipe so the others wouldn’t see us. I wasn’t disappointed that Kevin wasn’t injured. This was better.

I didn’t like the idea of sitting down in the absolute dark but I did it, the two of us. We made sure we were touching, right beside each other. I could see Kevin’s shape, his head moving. I could see him stretching his legs. I was happy. I could have gone asleep. I was afraid to whisper, to ruin it. We could hear the others shouting, miles away. I knew what we’d do. We’d wait here till the shouting stopped, then we’d come out of the pipe before they told our parents or grownups. They knew we weren’t hurt or anything; they’d do it to get us into trouble, pretending they were saving us.

I wanted to talk now. It was cold. It was darker even though my eyes were comfortable.

Kevin let off a fart. We beat the air with our hands. He tried to get my mouth, to cover it, to stop me from laughing. He was laughing. We were fighting now, just shoving, trying to stop one another from shoving back. We’d be caught soon; the others would hear us and come in. These were the last moments. Me and Kevin.

Next thing, he pruned me.

Pruning was banned in our school. The headmaster, Mister Finnucane, had seen James O’Keefe doing it to Albert Genocci when he was looking out his window at the weather, deciding whether to call us in or let us stay out. He’d been shocked, he said, when he went round to all the classes about it; he’d been shocked to see a boy doing that to another boy. He was sure that the boy who had done it hadn’t meant to seriously hurt the other boy; he certainly hoped that the boy hadn’t meant to hurt the other boy. But—

He let it hang there for a while.

This was great. James O’Keefe was in bigger trouble than he’d ever been in before, than any of us had ever been in. He had James O’Keefe standing up. He kept his head down even though Mister Finnucane kept telling him to hold his head up.

–Always hold your heads high, boys. You’re men.

I didn’t know for certain if I’d heard it when he said it the first time; Pruning.

–what I believe is being called pruning.

That was how he said it. It was like a big hole fell open in front of me—in front of all of us, I could tell from the faces—when Mister Finnucane said that. What else was he going to say? The last time he’d talked to us it was about someone robbing his big ink bottle from where he kept it outside his door. Now he was going to talk about pruning. The shock made me forget to breathe.

–Come on, James, now, he said.—Hold your head up, like I said.

Albert Genocci wasn’t in our class. He was in the thicks’ class. His brother, Patrick Genocci, was in our class.