and watched him as he spread his hand wide on the table and began to stab the empty spaces between his fingers. The knife made a high sound against the Formica.
Don’t ruin the table.
I won’t.
Why don’t you put the knife away?
He snapped the blade shut.
Fuck the Queen! he shouted suddenly, and he startled himself with the curse. Fuck Maggie Thatcher! Fuck them all! Fucking cunts! Fuck every soldier that ever walked!
There was a silence unlike any he’d heard before.
His mother sat upright in the bed, swung her feet out from the sleeping bag and walked across to the other side of the caravan. She didn’t look at him as she passed, just went and knelt down at her own bed. The backs of her knees creased. Her head bowed.
Give us this day our daily bread, he said viciously.
You go to sleep, young man. I’ll deal with you tomorrow. You’ll not be going anywhere for a while, not kayaking nor nothing else.
He didn’t stir from the table. She finished her prayers and climbed into her bed in the vast and attentive silence. He whispered the line again, Fuck the Queen, loud enough that she might hear, but she had turned her face away. He could hear the sobs into the hood of the sleeping bag, and he said aloud that he was sorry, but she didn’t turn.
A half hour later he said it again—Sorry, Mammy—but she had fallen asleep.
He reached out and began to mold another piece of bread and the hours slid forward and by morning he had made two chess teams—one white, the other the brown of cocoa—just two pieces missing.
* * *
AFTER THREE DAYS he was allowed out again and he ran down to the house, but there was no sign of them in the front, so he stole around to the side window. The old man was napping. His wife sat at a mirror. The boy could see her reflection. There were brown freckles in the glass and she kept shifting her head sideways in order to avoid them. Between her neck cords there was a deep hollow. Her skin seemed corrugated and her eyes were a startling green. She took off her housecoat and the boy ducked his head, and when he looked a second time, she already had her nightdress on. She climbed into the bed and leaned across the old man, reached for a book, and momentarily both their bodies merged into one.
The boy moved away from the house and spat on the ground where the sunlight hit shadow.
* * *
THE WIND CAME UP from the sea as if it were looking for someone. It was the fifty-first day and he had heard that another hunger striker was critically ill and his uncle in the prison hospital was having a hard time focusing his vision, that everything was blurry. A prison guard had come and taunted him with binoculars. There were jokes being made about very thin coffins. His uncle was lying on a sheepskin blanket now to protect his skin, and he had been moved to a waterbed to keep away the sores. The boy imagined what his body might look like: the chest caved in, his arms thin, his hipbones showing through his pajamas. He was unable to walk now, and there were prison orderlies who wheeled him around. Sometimes the orderlies, even though they were Protestants, would bring him tobacco, which was only worsening his cough. He was allowed to sit outside in the prison hospital courtyard for an hour each day, and despite the warm weather his uncle wrapped himself in half a dozen blankets. He liked to make bets with others in the hospital on when certain crows would leave the razor wire of the prison. He had sent out a statement saying he wasn’t afraid of death because it was a cause worth his life.
The boy began to think that death was a thing that only the living carried with them. He remembered a poem from school. Death once dead there’s no more dying then. The line shot around in his mouth as he slumped through town.
Kayaking kept the thoughts away. The world was altered from the position of water. In the repetition there was quietness. He could feel his arms strengthening and a
Don’t ruin the table.
I won’t.
Why don’t you put the knife away?
He snapped the blade shut.
Fuck the Queen! he shouted suddenly, and he startled himself with the curse. Fuck Maggie Thatcher! Fuck them all! Fucking cunts! Fuck every soldier that ever walked!
There was a silence unlike any he’d heard before.
His mother sat upright in the bed, swung her feet out from the sleeping bag and walked across to the other side of the caravan. She didn’t look at him as she passed, just went and knelt down at her own bed. The backs of her knees creased. Her head bowed.
Give us this day our daily bread, he said viciously.
You go to sleep, young man. I’ll deal with you tomorrow. You’ll not be going anywhere for a while, not kayaking nor nothing else.
He didn’t stir from the table. She finished her prayers and climbed into her bed in the vast and attentive silence. He whispered the line again, Fuck the Queen, loud enough that she might hear, but she had turned her face away. He could hear the sobs into the hood of the sleeping bag, and he said aloud that he was sorry, but she didn’t turn.
A half hour later he said it again—Sorry, Mammy—but she had fallen asleep.
He reached out and began to mold another piece of bread and the hours slid forward and by morning he had made two chess teams—one white, the other the brown of cocoa—just two pieces missing.
* * *
AFTER THREE DAYS he was allowed out again and he ran down to the house, but there was no sign of them in the front, so he stole around to the side window. The old man was napping. His wife sat at a mirror. The boy could see her reflection. There were brown freckles in the glass and she kept shifting her head sideways in order to avoid them. Between her neck cords there was a deep hollow. Her skin seemed corrugated and her eyes were a startling green. She took off her housecoat and the boy ducked his head, and when he looked a second time, she already had her nightdress on. She climbed into the bed and leaned across the old man, reached for a book, and momentarily both their bodies merged into one.
The boy moved away from the house and spat on the ground where the sunlight hit shadow.
* * *
THE WIND CAME UP from the sea as if it were looking for someone. It was the fifty-first day and he had heard that another hunger striker was critically ill and his uncle in the prison hospital was having a hard time focusing his vision, that everything was blurry. A prison guard had come and taunted him with binoculars. There were jokes being made about very thin coffins. His uncle was lying on a sheepskin blanket now to protect his skin, and he had been moved to a waterbed to keep away the sores. The boy imagined what his body might look like: the chest caved in, his arms thin, his hipbones showing through his pajamas. He was unable to walk now, and there were prison orderlies who wheeled him around. Sometimes the orderlies, even though they were Protestants, would bring him tobacco, which was only worsening his cough. He was allowed to sit outside in the prison hospital courtyard for an hour each day, and despite the warm weather his uncle wrapped himself in half a dozen blankets. He liked to make bets with others in the hospital on when certain crows would leave the razor wire of the prison. He had sent out a statement saying he wasn’t afraid of death because it was a cause worth his life.
The boy began to think that death was a thing that only the living carried with them. He remembered a poem from school. Death once dead there’s no more dying then. The line shot around in his mouth as he slumped through town.
Kayaking kept the thoughts away. The world was altered from the position of water. In the repetition there was quietness. He could feel his arms strengthening and a
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