no dramatic dives. Not once. Not counting Mr Daly. Not counting the assistance of leg or foot cramps. Nothing. I sit on the stool, sometimes I stand, and I watch the oversized ticking clock and the list of pool rules. No running, no jumping, no diving, no pushing, no shouting, no nothing … all the things you’re not allowed to do in this room, all negative, almost as though it’s mocking me. No life-saving. I’m always on alert, it’s what I’m trained to do, but nothing ever happens. And the very second I take an unplanned coffee break I miss a possible heart attack, a definite near-drowning and the emergency cord being pulled.
‘It’s not fair,’ I say.
‘Now come on, Sabrina, you were in there like a shot when Eliza stepped on the piece of glass.’
‘It wasn’t glass. Her varicose vein ruptured.’
‘Well. You got there fast.’
It is always above the water that I struggle, that I can’t breathe. It is above the water that I feel like I’m drowning.
I throw my coffee mug hard against the wall.
My neck is being squeezed so tightly I start to see black spots before my eyes. I’d tell him so but I can’t speak, his arm is wrapped tight around my throat. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. I’m small for my age and they tease me for it. They call me Tick but Mammy says to use what I have. I’m small but I’m smart. With a burst of energy, I start to shake myself around, and my older brother Angus has to fight hard to hold on.
‘Jesus, Tick,’ Angus says, and he grips me tighter.
Can’t breathe, can’t breathe.
‘Let him go, Angus,’ Hamish says. ‘Get back to the game.’
‘The little fucker’s a cheat, I’m not playing with him.’
‘I’m not a cheat!’ I want to shout, but I can’t. I can’t breathe.
‘He’s not a cheat,’ Hamish says on my behalf. ‘He’s just better than you.’ Hamish is the eldest, at sixteen. He’s watching from the front steps of our house. This statement is a lot, coming from him. He’s cool as fuck. He’s smoking a cigarette. If Mammy knew this she’d slap the head off him, but she can’t see him now, she’s inside the house with the midwife, which is why we’ve all been turfed out here for the day until it’s over.
‘Say that again,’ Angus challenges Hamish.
‘Or what?’
Or nothing. Angus wouldn’t touch Hamish, older than him by only two years but infinitely cooler. None of us would. He’s tough and everyone knows it and he’s even started hanging out with Eddie Sullivan, nicknamed The Barber, and his gang at the barbershop. They’re the ones giving him the cigarettes. And money too, but I don’t know what for. Mammy’s worried about him but she needs the money so doesn’t ask questions. Hamish likes me the most. Some nights he wakes me up and I’ve to get dressed and we sneak out to the streets we’re not allowed to play on. I’m not allowed to tell Mammy. We play marbles. I’m ten but I look younger; you wouldn’t think I play as well as I do, most people don’t, so Hamish hustles them. He’s winning a packet and he gives me caramels on the way home so I don’t tell. He doesn’t need to buy me off but I don’t tell him that, I like the caramels.
I play marbles in my sleep, I play when I should be doing homework, I play when Father Fuckface puts me in the dark room, I play it in my head when Mammy is giving out to me, so I don’t have to listen. My fingers are moving all the time as if I’m shooting and I’ve built up a good collection. I have to hide them from my brothers though, my best ones anyway. They’re nowhere near as good at playing as me, and they’d lose my marbles.
We hear Mammy bellow like an animal upstairs and Angus loosens his grip on me a bit. Enough for wriggle room. Everyone tenses up at the sound of Mammy. It’s not new to us but no one likes it. It’s not natural to hear anyone sound like that. Mattie opens the door and steps out even whiter than usual.
He looks at Angus. ‘Let him go.’
Angus does and I can finally breathe. I start coughing. There’s only one other person Angus doesn’t mess with and that’s our stepdad, Mattie. Mattie Doyle always means business.
Mattie glares at Hamish smoking. I get ready for Mattie to punch him – those two are always at it – but he doesn’t.
Instead he says, ‘Got one spare?’
Hamish smiles, the one that goes all the way to his green eyes. Daddy’s green eyes. But he doesn’t answer.
Mattie doesn’t like the pause. ‘Fuck you.’ He slaps him over the head, and Hamish laughs at him, liking that he made him lose his temper. He won. ‘I’m going to the pub. One of you come get me when it’s out.’
‘You’ll probably hear it from there,’ Duncan says.
Mattie laughs, but looks a bit scared.
‘Are none of you keeping an eye on him?’ He gestures to the toddler crouched in the dirt. We all look at Bobby. He’s the youngest, at two. He’s sitting in the muck, covered in it, even his mouth, and he’s eating grass.
‘He always eats grass,’ Tommy says. ‘Nothing we can do about it.’
‘Are you a cow or wha’?’ Mattie asks.
‘Quack quack,’ Bobby says, and we all laugh.
‘Fuck sake, will someone ever teach him his animal sounds?’ Mattie says, smiling. ‘Right, Da’s off to the pub, be good, Bobby.’ Mattie rustles Tommy’s head. ‘Keep an eye on him, son.’
‘Bye, Mattie,’ Bobby says.
‘It’s Da, to you,’ Mattie says, face going a bit red with anger.
It drives Mattie mad when Bobby calls him Mattie, but it’s not Bobby’s fault, he’s used to us all calling Mattie by his name; he’s not our da, but Bobby doesn’t understand, he thinks we’re all the same. Only Mattie’s first boy, Tommy, calls him Da. There’s Doyles and Boggs in this family and we all know the difference.
‘Let’s get back to the game,’ Duncan says as Mammy screams again.
‘He’s not allowed to play unless he takes his turn again,’ Angus says angrily.
‘Fine, he will, calm down,’ Hamish says.
‘Hey!’ I protest. ‘I didn’t cheat.’
Hamish winks at me. ‘You can show them.’
I sigh. I’m ten, Duncan is twelve, Angus is fourteen and Hamish is sixteen. The two Doyle boys, Tommy and Bobby, are five and two. With three
