“Are ye listening, ye little hoors from hell?” Old Murphy continued to threaten, sounding closer now. “When I get myhands on the pair of you, I’ll wring your necks. Especially the fat one!”
Now, I was the one to cover my mouth to smother my laughter while Gibsie scowled in outrage. “Thatfucker.”
“That’s right, ya little overfed tank,” Old Murphy taunted, sounding farther away now. “I’ll put manners on you yet!”
“Thatfucker! Mam says I’m stocky, not fat, and Dad says it’ll fall off when I get taller,” Gibsie said, defending himself but looking outraged. “I’m big-boned,Hughie.” Now he was the one to elbow me to stop me from laughing. “We can’t all be beanpoles.”
“I know, I know,” I coaxed, trying to stop my face from smiling. “And don’t mind Old Murphy. He’s only jealous because he’s old and bald.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Okay, go and check,” he instructed me then, gesturing to the wall we were hiding behind. “See what he’s doing now? If he goes back inside, you can sneak through the gate and get your ball.”
“Why don’tyougo in?” I shot back. “You kicked the ball in there.”Again. “You wrecked his petunias.”Again. “You’re the culprit.”Again.
“Yeah, but I can’t scale the wall like you,” Gibsie explained, looking up at me with mischievous eyes. “Come on.” He hooked his hands together and stooped down low. “I’ll give you a boost up.”
“I’m four months older than you,” I grumbled, using his hands as a step to hoist myself up. “But you’re four times more trouble.” Gripping on to the concrete ledge of Mr. Murphy’s side-garden wall, I slowly heaved myself up and peeked over just in time to see the gray-haired monster plunge his penknife into my ball.
And that was that.
Another one bites the dust.
Sighing in disappointment, I dropped back down to the ground and shook my head when Gibsie looked at me with a hopeful expression. “Nope,” I replied grimly. “Rest in peace, ball.”
“Oh, that’s it.” Balling his hands into fists at his sides, Gibsie glared at the wall separating us from the killer of joy and cupped his mouth with his hands before shouting, “You better take some photos of those flower beds, Murphy, because you can’t guard them forever, you big, bald, battle-axe, bollo—”
“Don’t make it worse,” I warned, slapping a hand over his mouth before he could finish. “We’re already dead as it stands.” Hooking an arm around him, I backed us away from the neighbor’s wall, careful to avoid Mrs. Grady’s flower bed as we trudged through her backyard. “If he tells our parents we swore at him, we’re double dead.”
Waving back at Mrs. Grady, who was smiling at us from her kitchen window, I steered Gibs around her prized roses, taking special care not to upset them. Mrs. Grady was even older than Old Murphy, but she wasn’t a grouch like him. She used to be our babysitter until she broke her hip during the summer. Even though she couldn’t mind us anymore, she still let us play in her garden and invited us in for tea and scones.
“Oh, this is war,” Gibsie grumbled when we were back on the street. “Just wait until next week.” He balled his small hands into fists at his sides. “We’ll get that fucker on Halloween night, Hughie.”
Veering off the footpath when we reached his house, I trudged up the driveway after him, feeling disappointed over my ball.
“I’ll get you a new ball for your birthday,” Gibsie promised when we walked into his house. “Dad’s taking us to his place for the weekend, so he’ll take me to the shop to get you a new one.”
“Forget about the ball,” I replied, feeling even worse now that I knew he was leaving for the weekend. “Will you be at school tomorrow? Miss Lawlor said she’s bringing sweets because it’s our last day before Halloween break.”
“I’ll be there,” he promised, walking through the hall to the kitchen. “I’ll just go from Dad’s house instead.”
“Will you be back for my birthday party on Monday?”
“Of course.”
“And trick-or-treating afterward?”
“Ohyeah.” He rubbed his hands together with glee and moved for the cake sitting on the kitchen island. “I’ve been storing trays of eggs under my bed for revenge on the ball-stabber.”
I grinned. “Excellent.”
“Gerard Joseph Gibson, if you don’t take your hands off Hughie’s birthday cake, you won’t have fingers to pick your nose with,” Sadhbh warned, appearing from behind the open fridge door.
“How dare you,” he huffed, looking outraged, with his hand hovering inches above the frosting on the birthday cake. “I don’t pick my nose.”
“No, you don’t pick your nose, Gibs,” Joe chimed in when he strolled into the kitchen with Bethany snoozing on his shoulder. “You use it for storage, don’t ya, son?”
