We tried not to laugh too loud. It was better that way, trying not to. I laughed more than I usually did; I couldn’t help it. I had to wipe my face. I got my atlas out of my bag. We hadn’t used it much, only for learning the counties of Ireland so far. Offaly was the easiest one to remember because it was the hardest. Dublin was okay just as long as you didn’t mix it up with Louth. With Fermanagh and Tyrone it was hard to remember which was which. I stared at the map of Ireland from the top to the bottom. There was nowhere I wanted to run away to, except maybe some of the islands. I was still going to do it though. You couldn’t run away to an island; you had to sail or swim part of the way. It wasn’t like a game though; there were no rules that you had to stick to. An uncle of mine had run away to Australia.

I opened up the map of the world in the middle of the atlas. There were places right in the middle that I couldn’t read properly because the pages wouldn’t flatten fully for me. There were plenty of other places though.

I was serious.

Henno had said that my eyes were red. He said I hadn’t got enough sleep. Right in front of everybody. He’d given out to me, said he was going to phone my mother and tell her to make sure I was in bed by halfeight every night. Right in front. I was being allowed to watch too much television.

He bent down closer to my face.

–Were you drunk last night, Mister Clarke?

For a laugh.

We didn’t have a phone but I didn’t tell him that.

My uncle had gone to Australia, by himself. He hadn’t run away, but he’d been very young, still not eighteen. He was still there. He had his own business and a boat.

I’d stayed awake all night. That was why my ma’d said that my face was white and Henno’d said that my eyes were red. I’d kept myself awake; I’d done it, right through.

I didn’t know what was happening when it started to get more grey than dark; it was more frightening than the dark. It was dawn. Then the birds started. I was on guard. I was making sure that they didn’t start again; all I had to do was stay awake. Like St Peter when Jesus was in the Garden. St Peter kept falling asleep but I didn’t, not even once. I made a corner in the bed, and sat up in the dark. I stopped myself from slipping under the blankets. I hit my head off the wall. I pinched myself; I concentrated on how hard I could go. I went to the bathroom and threw wet on my pyjamas so I’d be cold. I stayed awake.

The cock crew.

There was no more fighting. I went up to my parents’ door and listened without breathing. I could hear my da’s sleep breathing and my ma’s—his noisy, hers trying to keep up. I got away and took a breath, and then I started crying.

Mission accomplished.

A cock really did crow; I wasn’t making it up. It did go Cockadoodledo, but the four sounds were joined together more. It was in Donnelly’s farm, down the road, the bit of the farm that was left. I’d never heard it before. But I’d seen the cock loads of times, in among the chickens behind the wire. I’d never known that it was a cock, until now; I’d just thought that it was a big chicken, the king chicken. We’d put grass through the wire to get him to come nearer.

–He’s dangerous.

–Chickens aren’t dangerous.

–This one is.

–Look at his eyes.

–His eggs are bigger. They’re blue.

He wouldn’t come near us. We couldn’t throw stones properly at him through the wire.

She’d screamed, words I couldn’t make out. She’d broken something; I think it was her because it came just after the scream, like the end of it. He laughed in a way that meant nothing funny. Then sobs. I got up to shut the door but when I got there I opened it more.

–Patrick.

It was Sinbad.

–It’s just talking.

–Get lost, I said.

He was asleep before he’d time to start crying again.

It was up to me.

They’d stopped. Nothing. They went to bed, one after the other, him first. He didn’t go to the bathroom; his breath would smell dirty and meaty in the morning. I heard the bed creaking, his side. Then she came. I didn’t know the television was on until she turned it off. Then her on the stairs, in to the side to miss the creak. She went to the bathroom. The tap. The swush of the toothbrush; she used a blue, him a red, me and Sinbad smaller green and red ones, me the red. She turned the tap off, and the empty bubble hopped back up the pipes into the attic. Then she went across to their room. She pushed open the door as far as it would go, bang into the bed—his side—and flapped it shut with a flick of her hand. Quiet on the stairs, noisy going into the room.

I stayed there, standing. I had to stay still. If I moved it would start again. I was allowed to breathe, that was all. It was like after Catherine or the other baby stopped crying; fortyfive seconds, my ma said—if they didn’t cry out inside fortyfive seconds they’d go back asleep. I stood. I didn’t count; this wasn’t a game or babies. I didn’t know how long. Long enough to be cold. No voices, just shuffling and creaks, getting comfy; everyone except me.

I was in charge. They didn’t know. I could move now; the worst bit was over: I’d done it. But I had to stay awake all night; I had to keep an allnight vigil.

Rhodesia. It was near the equator, the imaginary line around the middle of the world. There’d be elephants there, and monkeys and poor black people. Elephants never forgot. When they were dying they walked all the way to the elephants’ graveyard and then they lay down and just died. On top of the ground. It was too far away. I’d go there when I was bigger. I knew something else about Rhodesia. It was named after Cecil Rhodes, but I didn’t know why; I couldn’t remember why. He might have conquered it or discovered it. There were no more countries left to be discovered; they all had colours in them. I looked at the other pink countries. Canada was huge, forty, fifty times bigger than Ireland. Canadian Mounted Police. Mounties. Policemen on horses. Thin men on fast horses. None of them wore glasses. Red jackets. Trousers that stuck out at the sides. Guns in holsters with a cover on them that clicked open and shut. So the gun wouldn’t fall out when they were going fast. After rustlers. Not rustlers in Canada; smugglers. Eskimos that wouldn’t obey the law. Killing bears. Mushing their huskies. Whipping dogs. Curly tails. Goggles.

–Come on; good man.

The map was right in my face. I could smell the paper and the desk.

Henno was there.

I didn’t know what had happened, what was happening.

–Up; come on.

It didn’t sound like Henno. There were hands at my sides, man’s hands, under my arms. I was lifted. I stood beside the desk. I could only see the floor. It was dirty. Hands on my shoulders. Pushing me forward, holding me up. Up to the front. I saw no one. No noise. Out the door. The door closed. Mister Hennessey’s face.

Looking up at me.

–Alright?

A nod, only one.

–Tired?

A nod.

–Okay; happens us all.

Hands on my side.

Up.

Rough material.

Too tired to move my face, too heavy.

A smell.

Nice.

I woke up. I didn’t move. I wasn’t in bed. The smell was different, leather. I saw the arm of a chair. I was lying in the chair. Two chairs, front to front to make a bed. I was in it. Two leather armchairs. I still didn’t move. There was a blanket over me and something else, a coat. The blanket was grey and hard. I knew the coat. I knew the ceiling, the colour of it, the cracks like a map. The window over the door that had to be opened with a window pole. I knew the smoke rising up out of the ashtray, thin and flattening at the top. It took a while: I was in the headmaster’s office.

–Awake?

–Yes, Sir.

–Maith thú.

He separated the two chairs to let me sit up. He took his coat and put it back on its hanger with his hat.