Roddy Doyle - Paddy Clarke, Ha Ha Ha

Charles Leavy was smoking alone. We never did that. Cigarettes was very dear and they were too hard to rob from the shops, even Tootsie’s, so you had to smoke them in front of someone; that was the whole idea. Not Charles Leavy though. He was smoking by himself.

He terrified me. He was there, all by himself. Always by himself. He never smiled; it wasn’t a real smile. His laugh was a noise he started and stopped like a machine. He was close to no one. He hung around with Seán Whelan but that was all. He had no friends. We liked gangs, the numbers, the rush, being in. He could have had his own gang, a real gang like an army; he didn’t know. We pushed each other to get beside him in the line in the mornings in the yard; he didn’t know that either. There were mills going on around him, fights that never touched him.

I was on my own. The steam came out of my mouth like cigarette smoke. I sometimes put my fingers to my mouth like I was holding a cigarette, and breathed out. Not now though, not ever again. That was just messing.

This was great. The two of us alone. The excitement made my stomach smaller; it hurt.

I spoke.

– Give us a puff.

He did.

He handed the cigarette to me. I couldn’t believe it, it had been so easy. My hand was shaking but he didn’t see because he wasn’t really looking at me. He was concentrating on exhaling. It was a Major, the cigarette; the strongest. I hoped I wouldn’t get sick. I made sure my lips were dry so I wouldn’t put a duck’s arse on it. I took a small drag and gave the fag back to him quick; it was all going to explode out of my mouth, it had hit my throat too fast, the way it did sometimes. But I saved it. I killed the cough and grabbed the smoke and sucked. It was horrible. I’d never smoked a Major before. It scorched my throat and my stomach turned over. My forehead went wet, only my forehead, and cold. I lifted my face, made a tube of my mouth and got rid of the smoke. It looked good coming out, the way it should have, rising into the roof of the shed. I’d made it.

I had to sit down; my legs weren’t there. There was a bench in the back, the length of the shed. I got to it. I’d be fine in a minute. I knew the feeling.

– That was fuckin’ lovely, I said.

Voices sounded great in under the shed, deep and hollow.

– I love smoking, I said. -It’s fuckin’ great, isn’t it?

I was talking too much, I knew it.

He spoke.

– I’m tryin’ to give the fuckin’ things up, he said.

– Yeah, I said.

It wasn’t enough.

– So am I, I said.

I wanted to say more, I was dying to, to keep talking, to make it last longer, up to the bell. I was thinking fast, something, anything not stupid. There was nothing. Kevin had come into the yard. He was looking around. He couldn’t see us yet. He’d ruin it. I hated him.

Something formed in my head; the relief came before it was a proper thought.

– There’s that fuckin’ eejit, I said.

Charles Leavy looked.

– Conway, I said. -Kevin, I said to make sure.

Charles Leavy said nothing. He killed his Major and put it in his box and put it in his pocket. I could see the shape of the box through his trousers.

I felt good. I’d started. I looked across at Kevin. I didn’t miss him. I was afraid though. I’d no one now. The way I’d wanted it.

Charles Leavy walked away, out of the yard, out of the school. He didn’t have his school bag with him. He was mitching. He didn’t care. I couldn’t follow him. I couldn’t even start and change my mind. There’d be teachers coming in, parents outside, it was cold. I couldn’t do it. Anyway, I’d all my eccer done and I didn’t want to waste it.

I got up and went out a bit from under the shed so Kevin could see me. I’d pretend I still liked him. I was going to mitch though. On my own; soon. I’d last the day. I’d tell no one about it. I’d wait till they asked. I wouldn’t tell them much. I’d do it on my own.

I made a list.

Money and food and clothes. They were the things I’d need. I had no money. My communion money was in the post office but my ma had the book. It was for when I was older. It was a waste; you only bought clothes and school books when you were older. I’d only seen the book once.

– Will I put it away for safe-keeping?

– Yes.

It had three pages of stamps and each stamp was worth a shilling. One of the pages wasn’t full. I couldn’t remember how much they were all worth. Enough. I’d got money from all the relations and some of the neighbours. Even Uncle Eddie had given me threepence. My mission was to get the book.

Food was easy; cans. They lasted longer because they were packed in a vacuum and that kept them fresh. They were only bad if there was a big dent in the can; it had to be a big one. We’d eaten stuff out of cans with small dents and nothing had ever happened to us. I’d waited to be poisoned once – I’d wanted to be, to prove it to my da – but I didn’t even have to go to the toilet until the day after. Beans would be best; they were very nutritious and I liked them. I’d have to get a can opener. The one we had was one of those ones that was stuck to the wall. I’d rob one out of Tootsie’s. We’d robbed one before, but not to use. We’d buried it. I’d never opened a can with one of them before. Cans were heavy.

There’d been another big fight, a loud one. They’d both run out of the house, him the front, her the back. He’d gone all the way; she’d come back in. She’d shouted this time as well. The smell on his breath, something about it. I didn’t even see him when he came home, except out of the window. He came home, they shouted, he left. He was late. We were in bed. The door rattled. The air downstairs settled back to normal.

– Did you hear that?

Sinbad didn’t answer. Maybe he hadn’t heard it. Maybe he could decide to hear and not hear things. I’d heard it. I waited for him to come back. I wanted to go down to her. She’d hurt him this time though; that was what it had sounded like.

I’d only bring a few cans and I’d buy more when I needed them. I’d bring apples as well but not oranges. They were too messy. Fruit was good for you. I wouldn’t bring anything that I’d have to cook. I’d make sandwiches and wrap them up in tinfoil. I’d never eaten beans cold. I’d pick them out of the sauce.

I didn’t like it that she’d shouted. It didn’t fit.

I’d eat a good dinner before I left.

Clothes was last. I’d be wearing some and I’d need some others; two of everything and my anorak. I’d remember to zip the hood back onto it. Most fellas that ran away forgot about underpants and socks. They were on my list. I didn’t know where my ma kept them. In the hot press, but I wasn’t sure. There were clean ones of each on our beds every Sunday when we woke up, nearly like Santy’d put them there. On Saturday night in the bath we put the old underpants in front of our eyes to stop the suds from getting in when our hair was getting washed.

He came back a good bit later. I heard his echoes around the side and then the slide of the back door. The television was on. Ma was in the living room. He stayed in the kitchen for a while, making tea or waiting for her to notice him; because he dropped something – it rolled. She stayed in the living room. He went out into the hall. He didn’t move for a bit. Then I heard one of the creaky stairs; he always stepped on them. Then I heard the same creak: he’d turned back. The lino along the edge hung on to the living room door as he pushed it. I waited. I listened hard.

I made a belch. My back had lifted up off the bed, like I was trying to stop someone from pinning me down. Another belch got out. It hurt my throat. I wanted a drink of water. I listened for their voices; I tried to hear them behind the television noises. I couldn’t get up and go nearer; I had to hear them from the bed, exactly here. I couldn’t. The television was up louder than it had been before; I thought it was.