Brilliant by Roddy Doyle Page B

seagulls were flyingwith them. That was how it seemed anyway, and how it looked. Every seagull in Dublin seemed to be above or beside them. It was like running inside a tunnel made of seagulls. It should have been terrifying. But it wasn’t. The seagulls were with them, encouraging them.
    â€œKeep it up!”
    â€œYis’re doin’ great!”
    â€œConsiderin’ yis don’t have wings!”
    â€œOr proper beaks!”
    The kids kept running, past Collins Barracks. There was still no sign of the Dog. But the seagull at the front was still pointing straight ahead, along the river. He flew under the James Joyce Bridge.
    â€œWheee!”
    â€œPete! Wait, will yeh!”
    Gloria loved the seagulls. She remembered once when she went to a place with her Uncle Ben. Raymond wasn’t with them, or her mam or dad. It was just Gloria and Uncle Ben. They’d gone in his van to this amazing place. He’d called it the South Wall. But it wasn’t really a wall. It was more like a wide path, and it went right into the sea. It took more than half an hour for them to walk to the end of it, and the sea was on both sides of them all the way. It was like they were walking out of Ireland, across a bridge that grew out as they walked. The sea was rough on one side, and calm on the other, rough where the sea stretched out to the rest of the world, calm where the wall—maybe it was a wall, after all—blocked the waves and protected the bay and the docks. The sunshine bounced on the sea, and the sky was full of seagulls. They were mad. It looked like they were playing football, with hundreds on each team—and no ball.

    As Gloria and her uncle got nearer to the red lighthouse at the end of the wall—okay, it was a wall—she saw why the gulls were going mad, swooping and dive-bombing. There were loads of men fishing there, pulling fish out of the water, and throwing the little ones back in.
    â€œThey’re like kids in a sweetshop,” said Uncle Ben.
    â€œDeadly,” said Gloria. “Chocolate-coated mackerel.”
    â€œThat’s not a bad idea,” said Uncle Ben.
    There was a ship, one of the ferries, coming into Dublin Bay. It seemed so close, Gloria only had to lean out a bit to touch its side as it glided past.
    â€œOh my God!”
    The Dog was there, in front of them. He was at the corner of Smithfield. Gloria knew the name of the place because she’d been there loads of times with her dad. The Dog was right in front of them. “No more daydreaming,” she said to herself. “Concentrate.”
    It was like the Dog had been in front of them all along, but the glare of the morning’s early sunshine had made him impossible to see. But now he was back. And he wasn’t running away this time. He was coming toward them.
    â€œUh-oh!”
    The Dog’s head lifted slowly to stare right at them. It was colossal, the head, as big as the whole Dog had been when they’d chased him out of Phoenix Park. He started to open his mouth.
    His teeth were dripping, his tongue looked hard and horrible.
    Gloria knew what was happening. She knew what they had to do.
    â€œQuick!” she yelled. “Shout before he does! Brilliant!”
    Nothing happened.
Brilliant
wasn’t working. It was proper daylight now, so
brilliant
didn’t explode into light, the way it had in the night. It was just a word.
    Some of the kids slowed down, and the seagulls scattered all over the sky. Other kids stopped, too frightened to go any further. But Gloria kept running at the Dog. So did Raymond and Ernie. And Damien. And others too—Paddy, Alice, Sunday, Suzie, Precious.
    Gloria knew now that the Black Dog wasn’t afraid of the light. The air was bright and kind of lovely, but the Dog had never looked fiercer. His eyes were huge; the light wasn’t making him squint or cringe. He didn’t care about the light. He never had. Their