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. She 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.