Roddy Doyle - Paddy Clarke, Ha Ha Ha

I waited, and then I couldn’t remember.

They were both to blame. It took two to tango. It didn’t take three; there was no room for me. I couldn’t do anything. Because I didn’t know how to stop it from starting. I could pray and cry and stay up all night, and that way make sure that it ended but I couldn’t stop it from starting. I didn’t understand. I never would. No amount of listening and being there would give it to me. I just didn’t know. I was stupid.

It wasn’t lots of little fights. It was one big one, rounds of the same fight. And it wouldn’t stop after fifteen rounds like in boxing. It was like one of the matches from the olden days where they wore no gloves and they kept punching till one of them was knocked out or killed. Ma and Da had gone way past Round Fifteen; they’d been fighting for years – it made sense now – but the breaks between the rounds were getting shorter, that was the big difference. One of them would soon fall over.

My ma. I wanted it to be my da. He was bigger. I didn’t want it to be him either.

I could do nothing. Sometimes, when you were thinking about something, trying to understand it, it opened up in your head without you expecting it to, like it was a soft spongy light unfolding, and you understood, it made sense forever. They said it was brains but it wasn’t; it was luck, like catching a fish or finding a shilling on the road. Sometimes you gave up and suddenly the sponge opened. It was brilliant, it was like growing taller. It wouldn’t happen this time though, never. I could think and think and concentrate and nothing would ever happen.

I was the ref.

I was the ref they didn’t know about. Deaf and dumb. Invisible as well.

– Seconds away -

I wanted no one to win. I wanted the fight to go on forever, to never end. I could control it so that it lasted and lasted.

– Break -

In between them.

– Burr-rreak!

Bouncing; my hands on their chests.

Ding ding ding.

Why did people not like each other?

I hated Sinbad.

But I didn’t. When I asked myself why I hated him the only reason was that he was my little brother and that was all; I didn’t really hate him at all. Big brothers hated their little brothers. They had to. It was the rule. But they could like them as well. I liked Sinbad. I liked his size and his shape, the way his hair at the back went the wrong way; I liked the way we all called him Sinbad and at home he was Francis. Sinbad was a secret.

Sinbad died.

I cried.

Sinbad died.

There’d have been nothing good about it; I couldn’t think of any advantage. Nothing. I’d have had no one left to hate, to pretend to hate. The bedroom, the way I liked it, needed his noises and his smell, and his shape. I really started crying now. It was nice, missing Sinbad. I knew I’d see him in a while. I kept crying. There was no one else. I’d see him and I’d probably hit him, maybe give him a dead leg for himself.

I loved Sinbad.

The tears on the left were going faster than the ones on the right.

Why didn’t Da like Ma? She liked him; it was him didn’t like her. What was wrong with her?

Nothing. She was lovely looking, though it was hard to tell for sure. She made lovely dinners. The house was clean, the grass cut and straight and she always left some daisies in the middle because Catherine liked them. She didn’t shout like some of the other mas. She didn’t wear trousers with no fly. She wasn’t fat. She never lost her temper for long. I thought about it: she was the best ma around here. She really was; I didn’t just reach that conclusion because she was mine. She was. Ian McEvoy’s was nice but she smoked; there was a smell of it off her. Kevin’s one frightened me. Liam and Aidan didn’t have any. I thought about Missis Kiernan a lot but she wasn’t a ma because she didn’t have any children. She was only Missis because she was married to Mister Kiernan. My ma was best of them and all the others as well. Charles Leavy’s ma was colossal, her face was all nearly purple. She wore a girl’s raincoat all the time when she was out and she tied the strap in a knot instead of using the buckle. I couldn’t even imagine getting a kiss from her when I was going to bed; trying to make it look like I was kissing her so I wouldn’t hurt her feelings or get into trouble, getting my lips close enough without touching. She smoked as well.

Charles Leavy could kiss her.

My da had more wrong with him than my ma. There was nothing wrong with my ma except sometimes she was too busy. My da sometimes lost his temper and he liked it. He had black things across the top of his back, like black insects clinging onto him. I’d seen them; about five of them in a bendy row. I’d seen them when I was watching him shaving. His vest didn’t cover up two of them. He was useless at lots of things. He never finished games. He read the newspapers. He coughed. He sat too much.

He didn’t fart. I’d never caught him.

If you put a match to your hole when you were going to fart it came out like a flame; Kevin’s da told him that – but you had to be older for it to work, at least in your twenties.

It was all him against her.

But it took two to tango. He must have had his reasons. Sometimes Da didn’t need reasons; he had his mood already. But not all the time. Usually he was fair, and he listened when we were in trouble. He listened to me more than to Sinbad. There must have been a reason why he hated Ma. There must have been something wrong with her, at least one thing. I couldn’t see it. I wanted to. I wanted to understand. I wanted to be on both sides. He was my da.

I went up to bed just after Sinbad, before I had to. I kissed my ma goodnight, and my da. There’d been no words so far; they were both reading; the television was on with the sound down waiting for The News. My lips hardly touched my da. I didn’t want to disturb him. I wanted him to stay the way he was. I was tired. I wanted to sleep. I hoped it was a brilliant book.

I listened on the landing. It was silent. I brushed my teeth before I went into our room. I hadn’t brushed them the proper way in a while. I looked at my da’s razor but I didn’t take the blade out. The bed was cold but the blankets were heavy on me; I liked that.

I listened.

Sinbad wasn’t asleep; there wasn’t a big enough gap between the in and the out breathing. I didn’t say anything. I checked again, listened: he definitely wasn’t sleeping. I listened further – I’d left the door a bit open. There was still no talking from downstairs. If there was none before we heard The News music there’d be no fighting at all. I still said nothing. Somewhere in the minute I’d been in bed, while I’d been listening, my eyes had learned how to see in the dark; the curtains, the corners, George Best, Sinbad’s bed, Sinbad.

– Francis?

– Leave me alone.

– They’re not fighting tonight.

Nothing.

– Francis?

– Patrick.

He was jeering me, the way he’d said it.

– Pah-trick.

I couldn’t think of anything.

– Pahh-twick.

I felt like he’d caught me doing something, like I was falling into trouble, but I didn’t know what. I wanted to go to the toilet. I couldn’t get out of the bed.

– Pahhh -

It was like he’d become me and I was him. I was going to wet the bed.

– twick.

I didn’t.

I got the blankets off.

He’d found out; he’d found out. I’d wanted him to talk because I was scared. Pretending to be protecting him, I’d wanted him close to me, to share, to listen together; to stop it or run away. He knew: I was frightened and lonely, more than he was.

Not for long though.

There was a small hole in the top sheet just at where my big toe usually was; I liked searching my toe in it, the rough feel of the blanket, and taking my toe away. Now, the sheet ripped there when I pulled it off. I knew why: he didn’t. He’d heard it. I’d scared him. The ripping sheet.