Birdy Flynn

  When the Toughest Fight is to Be Yourself

  Birdy Flynn fights harder than any boy at school. And Birdy Flynn carries secrets. There is the secret of Birdy’s dead grandmother’s cat. How the boys tortured her and Birdy Flynn had to drown her in the river to stop her suffering. There’s the secret of Mrs. Cope, the popular teacher, who took advantage of Birdy. And the secret of Gypsy Girl at school who Birdy likes, but can’t mention. Because Birdy’s greatest secret could change everything . . .

  About the Author

  Helen Donohoe studied politics at Manchester University and the LSE and has dedicated her career to speaking up for the powerless and invisible as a campaigner, lobbyist, volunteer and writer. She recently completed an MA in Creative Writing (Novels) at City University, London, winning the PFD Novel Writing Prize for Birdy Flynn, her first novel. She lives in London.

  For my mum

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Innocence Drowned

  I am not vicious. Was not my idea, the whole cat murder. Kicking a cat half to death is wrong, out of order. Proper disturbed behaviour. Hammer House of Horror. But all for one, and all that stuff. Boys stick together. We always stuck together. Dad blamed it on hormones, the changing of the blood. Boys’ bodies growing so fast their brains can’t keep up.

  I held the cat’s collar between my finger and thumb. The scruffy, manky, dirty cat with eyes that looked shiny in the evening sun. She was black and white, with bright green eyes the colour of Nan’s brooch. The one she found on the strand as a girl, when life was all laughter and the fun was superb.

  The cat should have gone home.

  When I reached for her name tag she shook me off. Please yourself then, I thought.

  The boys laughed, so did I, but I didn’t know why.

  ‘Get lost then,’ I said and I stepped away.

  She followed me. She recognised me, smelt my clothes.

  Martin threw a stick at her.

  ‘Please go home,’ I knelt down and said.

  I thought that cats were clever, but she just tilted her head.

  Every day after school we stood on that bridge, staring at the brook, looking for fish. A pound note was promised to whoever spotted life, but nothing in there was ever found alive. The water stank and had a grumpy, stuttery flow. If you were lucky, the oil on the surface sometimes made a rainbow.

  When we were little we played pooh sticks on that bridge, back and forth, back and forth. We loved it. But the road got dead busy and the reeds got too thick. We played every day and we never hurt a thing. The only bad we did was a little bit of nicking. Easy pickings: open car windows, catalogue deliveries sitting on doorsteps. Joe did Woolworths because his dad worked there. For Mum’s birthday he got me a UB40 cassette and a stack of Tupperware.

  ‘There’ll be milk at home,’ I said to the cat. ‘Creamy milk. Go on, off you go.’

  But she looked straight at me, like I was doing her wrong.

  Martin threw a stone.

  I looked at Liam, but he looked away.

  ‘Go home. I know where you’re from.’ I spoke to her like a teacher. ‘Go home where you belong.’

  ‘Come on.’ Liam started walking. ‘That cat don’t look normal.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Joe laughed, ‘it’s diseased and disgusting.’

  ‘Liam,’ I shouted.

  ‘It stinks,’ he said, and then he was gone.

  They climbed under the rusty railings and jumped down from the bridge. For a second I couldn’t see them, so I climbed down quick. I landed in soft, soggy mud. The cat did too. It stuck to my ankles like fluff on a broom.

  ‘You please yourself,’ I shouted, ‘you mad moggie idiot.’

  The boys looked around and laughed like baboons.

  We squelched and slapped along the boggy edge of the brook. Above us, the air was dry and warm and still. ‘A bloody drought,’ Dad called it that lunchtime when I’d gone home to check on Mum. He was in the garden, chatting with his wilting vegetables. Inside, all the curtains were closed to keep out the sun. At school all the windows were open, wedged with old books, so the taste of the motorway coated the back of my throat. I wore my short-sleeved shirt, tank top and did my best Windsor knot. Dad said I looked like a prison guard. He didn’t mean to, but that cheered me up.

  In our heads, me and the boys were soldiers on patrol, marking our territory, ready to fight, to save the world. The cat strutted along like she was guarding us, like a dog. Then, zoom, she darted up the bank. Martin went after her. We all followed, from wet mud to the crusty pathway at the top. The cat walked on. We marched behind her. The cat stopped to lick its paws. We stopped to watch.

  ‘My dad got a medal from the army,’ Martin said.

  Four of us stood watching the cat.

  ‘Did you hear?’ he went on.

  We looked up. That was Martin’s hobby, bigging up his dad. We let him do it whenever he wanted – his dad was a ferocious man. His dad would look at you with two fingers shaped like a gun. Even though I wasn’t a relative, he said, ‘Bang bang, you’re dead, my son.’ He was barred from every pub, even Dad’s ones. Mum gave Martin my brother Noely’s blue Farahs, the ones that I was after. Plus some socks, denim shirts, polo-neck sweaters, boxer shorts and a jumper that was fake Lyle and Scott. I couldn’t stop being jealous, until his dad set fire to the lot. My sister Eileen said there were rats in Martin’s house, druggies and hippies, and it was like a gypsy camp. I told her to get lost. I told her that one day me and Martin were going to run a pub. She said no way was I clever enough. I said I was.

  ‘He showed me the medal last night,’ Martin said.

  I tried to look him in the eye, but orange sunbeams were slicing like lasers through the thick trees and burnt into my sight. It was daytime turning to dark. Fuzzy air and echoey sounds, like you get in the gardens behind pubs. The buzzing from insects you never get to see. The coo of pigeons that Dad said were doves.

  Martin dipped his hand in his pocket and bent down. ‘Here you go,’ he said, holding out his palm with dusty biscuit crumbs.

  The cat flicked her tongue. It was swirly red, like an aniseed twist, and Martin’s shoulders twitched and turned like he was fighting off a tickle. He stroked her dirty chin and smoothed down her messy fur.

  ‘You turned soft?’ I said to him.

  ‘I’m going to kill it,’ he said, without looking up.

  ‘Anyone for fishing?’ I asked. I wanted Martin to shut up.

  ‘Yeah, fishing,’ Joe said, and Liam tried to laugh.

  Martin stood up.

  The cat scratched herself.

  Somewhere a Flymo whirred up.

  ‘Beetles are real clever,’ Joe said. ‘I like them a lot.’

  We watched one digging in the dust. I remembered the dead stag beetle under my bed, wrapped in cotton wool in one of Mum’s old Nivea pots.

  ‘My dad’s got a new job,’ Martin said, staring at the cat.

  We looked at him.

  The cat watched him.

  ‘He’s going to be a bodyguard.’

  ‘Cool,’ Liam said with a huge smile.

  ‘Brilliant.’ Joe punched the air like he’d won a new bike.

  ‘For who?�
�� I said.

  ‘The Pope.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The Pope.’

  ‘You’re joking us.’

  ‘He’s coming to London.’ Joe pulled at my arm. ‘He is – my mum said he is.’

  ‘It’s the truth, Birdy,’ Martin said to me. In the dirt he used his foot to mark a cross.

  ‘Your dad’s going to work up London?’ I said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Kiss these.’ I gave him two fingers.

  ‘He is.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’ I didn’t like his dad working when mine couldn’t get a job. Joe started swinging a stick at weeds like he was cutting down crops.

  ‘He is,’ Martin carried on.

  ‘OK.’ I put my hands up.

  Joe whacked dandelion heads into the air.

  ‘Stop it,’ I snapped, ‘or you’ll get a wallop.’

  ‘You and whose army?’ He poked me.

  ‘I’ll break it round your neck.’ My fists clenched in my pockets.

  ‘Dream on, you little Irish leper.’

  ‘It’s leprechaun, you berk.’

  ‘Oh God,’ Liam interrupted us. He was looking at the cat, trying to get more words out.

  ‘Shut up,’ Martin shouted.

  The Flymo stopped.

  ‘He has,’ Martin spat the words at us. ‘He has got a job.’

  ‘OK, mate,’ I said and stood in surrender, my arms stretched out like Jesus on the cross.

  Martin stepped towards me. He took each of my arms. First my left and then my right. He folded each one down, flat against my sides, like closing the blades on a Swiss army knife.

  ‘He has,’ he repeated and his eyes got bigger.

  ‘We know,’ I said. I wanted the cat to run off.

  ‘What do you know?’ Martin spurted.

  I looked up at the sky.

  ‘Bloody Catholics.’ Martin went inside his thoughts. ‘That’s what Dad says.’

  Joe muttered something under his breath that made Martin shout louder.

  ‘What do you know, Worzel?’ Martin tapped his finger on his head like he was hammering in a nail.

  Liam pretended he found it funny.

  Do something, I begged Liam inside my head.

  Joe’s leg began to shake.

  The cat licked her paws.

  Martin jabbed her with his toe. ‘Let’s kill it, now.’

  ‘What?’ I said. ‘No.’

  ‘Or frighten its head off.’ He turned and grabbed Joe by the throat. Then after letting him go, Martin looked up to the clouds and let out a roar that was half laugh, half burp.

  Joe held his own throat, forcing out a cough to make it seem worse.

  ‘Leave it, Martin,’ I said.

  He turned his hand into a gun and pointed it towards my eyes.

  ‘Don’t,’ I said.

  Martin looked confused. Like he’d forgotten his own name. His face was greasy but speckled with brown dust and one of his cheekbones was still bruisey yellow.

  ‘Don’t what?’ he said.

  ‘I’m going home.’ I waved my hand at the cat, hoping she would come.

  ‘Don’t what?’ Martin repeated.

  ‘You going?’ Liam asked me.

  ‘Got to.’

  ‘I’ve gotta shoot too.’ Liam grabbed my arm.

  ‘What you looking at?’ Martin said to the cat, and we froze.

  Her crystally eyes looked up.

  ‘What you smiling at?’ Martin leant down, like a giant standing over her.

  Shut it, Martin, I thought. Every word was getting to me. He sounded like Dad tanked up.

  ‘Leave it, Mart,’ I said and looked at Joe. He was looking at the cat.

  I looked at Liam and he looked at me.

  ‘What you looking at?’ Martin repeated, slowly and surely. He crouched down to her. ‘You staring at me?’

  The cat didn’t move. Martin took his right hand out of his pocket and reached for her. I thought he might lift her for a hold and a stroke, but he snatched at her collar, yanking her up. He held her like a scrag of meat on a hook, letting her legs dangle and flap. Her little mouth fell open, trying to get air. She had teeth as white as Tic Tacs, but the green of her eyes was gone, rolled back inside her head. Martin stepped down the bank towards the brook. He swung the cat over the water like a hypnotist swings a watch.

  ‘Martin, cats don’t like water,’ I said. ‘They can’t swim.’ I thought he’d stop.

  ‘Aren’t they meant to be clever?’ He dunked the cat under.

  My heart began to thump. The cat squealed a high-pitch sound, like a frightened child.

  ‘Come on, Mart.’

  He carried on, holding the cat in the water longer. ‘Not so clever now,’ he said. ‘Not such pretty eyes.’

  The cat looked like an oily rag, and twisted and squealed and squirmed and spun her legs and paws, trying to punch him with her claws.

  I went down the slope, careful not to fall.

  Martin’s face screwed up as he held on, not letting go. The cat fought and struggled and let out screeches in bursts.

  ‘Come on,’ I said, but Martin didn’t stop.

  My right foot slipped but I steadied myself.

  ‘You can’t swim,’ Liam said.

  ‘Shut up, you div.’

  I stepped forward and tugged Martin’s sleeve. I couldn’t pull any harder. It was nearly me dunked under. Martin looked around as if he’d only just noticed me. I smiled. He stepped back from the water’s edge and, holding the gasping cat in mid-air like an animal he had hunted, he walked back up to the path.

  I looked at the boys for superhero applause. They stood with their hands in their pockets, looking like dumb waxworks.

  I climbed back to the top, grabbing bunches of reeds to pull myself up.

  Martin held the cat out with his arm locked straight. Both Joe and Liam laughed.

  The cat cried and tried to wrestle free. Martin nodded and smiled. Then he let go of her. He opened his hand, let go of the collar and, as the cat fell, with perfect timing, he put his foot right through her.

  The squelchy thump was like a boot kicking a flat wet football. A gush of air pelted out of the cat’s mouth with a yelpy noise I’d never heard before. She landed half on her legs, half on her belly, flopped into a wet clumpy lump. Cries whistled out of her.

  ‘Hilarious,’ Joe laughed.

  ‘Hilarious?’ I turned to him.

  I waited for Liam’s reaction, but he stood like a statue, looking down, kicking dirt.

  Martin squinted with impatience. Like he wanted the cat to jump up and settle the score. Like a boxer admiring his knockout. I wanted her to turn into a tiger and tear his throat out. But she lay there shaking, like a trodden-on wasp.

  ‘All right, Martin,’ I said. ‘Come on, leave it, mate.’ My head felt giddy and I thought I would throw up.

  Martin ignored me. He looked down at the cat.

  ‘Leave it, Martin,’ I said.

  I needed the toilet. I clenched my bum-cheeks together and crossed my legs.

  Joe and Liam stood watching.

  Then, like he was lining up the most spectacular free kick, Martin pulled back his left foot in slow motion.

  ‘Oh, God. Don’t,’ I said.

  His boot swung back down. I jerked my head away and felt wee pistol down my leg. I saw Joe and Liam watch full on and I heard a crack. I turned back and saw the cat’s head nearly ripped from her neck. Her mouth was open far too wide, filled with dark red syrup. Her jaw was in two pieces, twisted. My head started to pound; my pants were warm and wet. Her sticky dark blood was mixing into the dusty ground.

  ‘He asked for it,’ Martin said.

  ‘It’s a girl cat,’ I said.

  ‘Even better,’ Martin laughed.

  ‘Even better?’ I couldn’t get what he was saying.

  ‘Silly bitch ain’t even dead yet,’ Joe said, and my whole body froze.

  I thought I must be somewhere else – in a dream, an
unreal world. My brain was empty. I loosened my tie, but my skin was stuck to my shirt.

  ‘Don’t cry, you mong,’ Martin said to me. ‘Cats think they’re so clever,’ he carried on. ‘But they’re not as clever as dogs, or as strong. You got to show them who’s boss.’

  Blood oozed out of her ear and got stuck on her fur.

  I could not speak. I couldn’t breathe. I thought that my heart was going to burst.

  ‘Come on, Martin,’ Joe said.

  And they went, Martin and Joe.

  Liam waited. He looked at me then followed in their footsteps.

  Martin turned and, instead of his two-finger pistol, he faked the noise of a hundred bullets as he pointed an invisible machine gun at the cat.

  ‘You coming, Birdy?’ Liam squeaked, but didn’t wait for my answer.

  They got smaller as they got further away. They shouted again and waved, but I let them cross the road and fade out of sight.

  I was shivering like the cat. The sun had hidden behind the railway track.

  I knelt down and put my hand on her belly.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said.

  I took her silver name tag off her tartan collar. It still had Nan’s address on it. I put it in my pocket.

  My shivering turned to shaking and the birds in the trees started shouting at me, cheeping and chirping and telling me to do something.

  Her little belly moved up and down in tiny pulses. I couldn’t leave her there, almost dead, in the dirt. But I couldn’t take her home, or hurt her even more. Dad would strangle her or finish her off with a stick – the humane thing to do, he would say, with stories of his grandad’s farm in Limerick. With two arms I scooped her body up.

  ‘Come on, Murphy,’ I said.

  I held her floppy neck and head. I held down my sick. She needed a hug but I couldn’t risk getting blood on my coat. So I carried her, slowly and gently.

  ‘I’m sorry, Murphy,’ I said in the kindest way I could. ‘You’ll go to Cat Heaven. You’ll like it a lot – it’ll be good.’

  I got to the edge of the bank and I slipped and nearly fell. I took her gradually down the slope.

  ‘Shh, don’t worry, Murphy,’ I said. ‘Don’t worry, little one.’

  The brook gurgled below as I knelt close to the edge. I held her for a moment and then lowered her carefully down. The water felt stronger. I laid her in as much water as would cover her. I could wash her, I thought. And she might come back to living. But she flitted and flicked and red bubbles rose to the surface and I had to keep going.