Bog Child

by Siobhan Dowd

  Deeeaaaadddd…Fergus started over his books. The cries in his dream drifted off. He shook himself awake. He’d been reliving the afternoon. He’d been doubling and trebling every second of the kissing like compound interest. The letters of the equations he was working on kept turning into waists and necks and tongues and short-cropped hair. He’d finally slumped over the drop-leaf table, exhausted. Falling asleep had been like diving into a warm swimming pool.

  Felicity and Cora were out to supper with Professor Taylor. Cora had said Felicity wasn’t to know about the kissing or she’d ground her again. Meanwhile, Mam was baking in the kitchen. Theresa and Cath were watching TV in the lounge. And he’d another exam tomorrow, the last but the worst. Applied Physics, the one he’d been dreading.

  His ankle was throbbing again.

  The door opened. Cath put her head in. Her hair was plaited over her head like a girl out of The Sound of Music. She’d a banana in hand, unpeeled.

  ‘Mam says, d’you want this banana and d’you want a cocoa?’

  Fergus looked at Joe’s watch. Nine o’clock and he was wrecked. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yes, what?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll have the cocoa. And yes, I’ll have the banana.’

  Cath handed over the banana reluctantly. Fergus turned it over in his hand, examining it.

  ‘Say, Cath. Here’s Padraig’s latest joke. Why can’t boys eat bananas?’

  Cath looked hard at the banana. ‘Dunno, Fergus. Why can’t boys eat bananas?’

  ‘Because they can’t find the zip.’

  Cath shrieked and slapped his arm. ‘Stupid.’

  ‘Don’t slap me. Slap Padraig.’ He peeled the banana, gave her half and shooed her away. He turned back to the equations, munching.

  Mam came in ten minutes later. She brought the cocoa over to him and two fresh-baked scones. She stood for a moment, looking over his shoulder.

  ‘How’s the ankle?’

  ‘’S fine.’

  ‘I’d never make any sense of all those figures.’

  ‘You would, Mam. They’re not as difficult as they look.’

  He felt her fingers brushing over his crown. ‘They are as difficult as they look.’

  ‘OK. They are.’ Fergus threw down his pen. ‘Mam?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Can I see Joe? It’s driving me nuts, thinking of him but not seeing him.’

  ‘Have you any more arguments thought up to persuade him?’

  ‘No. But maybe I’d think of one on the spot.’

  ‘Your exams—’

  ‘They’re over tomorrow. Remember?’

  ‘So they are.’ Mam frowned, confused.

  ‘I’m not a child any more. I’m eighteen. And Joe’s my brother. I’ve a right to see him.’

  Mam nodded, her eyes filling. ‘Maureen’s changed her tune, Fergus. Did you know?’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘She’s gone all patriotic. She’s giving interviews to the radio saying how her son Len is the brave warrior and martyr and she supports him to his death. Should that be what I say, Fergus?’

  Fergus shrugged. ‘Joe would like it if you did.’

  ‘He would.’ Mam walked to the window and looked out on the close. The streetlamps were just coming on, a light violet, turning white.

  ‘But it would be a lie,’ Fergus said. ‘Wouldn’t it?’

  Mam didn’t answer. Even though there was still blue left in the evening sky, she drew the curtains. ‘Before Joe went on strike, we had a family visit organized for tomorrow afternoon,’ she said. ‘I haven’t cancelled it.’

  ‘So I could come then?’

  Mam nodded. ‘But not Theresa or Cath. They’re too young to see Joe in the state he’s in. Just you, myself and Da. OK?’

  ‘OK.’

  They were silent. ‘How bad is he, Mam?’ Fergus whispered.

  ‘He’s lost a good few pounds. The doctors check him over every day.’ She scrunched up a corner of curtain in her hand. ‘He’s quieter now. Tired. But just as determined.’

  ‘Is there no talk of the strike finishing?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘I heard different.’

  ‘Who from?’

  ‘Michael Rafters.’

  ‘What does he know about anything?’ She gestured at the cup of cocoa. ‘It’s getting cold.’

  Fergus took a sip. ‘What did the chaplain fellow have to say to you today?’

  Mam smiled wanly. ‘He said that what Joe’s doing isn’t a sin. It’s not suicide.’ Her lips tightened. ‘You know, Ferg–the lads inside–they’re more a family to Joe now than we ever were. And what I want to know is, what did I do wrong? What?’ She kneaded the rough curtain fabric between her red workaday fingers.

  ‘Nothing, Mam,’ Fergus said, touching her elbow. ‘You did nothing wrong.’

  She let the curtain go and shook her head. ‘Good luck with the study, Fergus,’ she whispered. Biting her lip, she left the room.

  Twenty-four

  That night, he dreamed not of Mel, but of Cora.

  Cora floated into his room and slipped into his bed. He’d his hands under the soft cotton of her outsized T-shirt and they lay still like two quiet question marks. Somewhere over them, a goldfinch hovered like a tongue of fire, frenzied. Then Cora was gone and he was calling her name, running down the corridors of the H-block, past the blue-painted gates, searching, desperate. He’d a can of Coke in one hand and a lock of hair in the other, but she was nowhere. A pale face appeared instead in the darkness. It was Michael Rafters, in prison garb. ‘Dafters!’ he yelled. ‘What are you doing here? Did they catch you too?’ Michael shook his head and his skin started drooping from his cheekbones as if he was melting. He turned into beige dough, with eyes of currants. ‘Fergus,’ he said, ‘don’t forget the packets.’ He laughed as if he’d cracked a gag. As Fergus watched, Michael’s body tilted upside down and floated from the ceiling. Fergus’s body followed suit. They roared, laughing, the two of them, like characters out of Mary Poppins. Then Fergus realized. They were hanging from hooks, with the blood flowing into their faces, suffocating them. They were laughing carcasses, the pair of them. He bolted awake.

  Jesus. A slither of lamplight fell across his coverlet through a crack in the curtains. He panted. Outside, he heard a distant clatter, as of a dustbin lid falling on the pavement, then nothing. He breathed out long and slow. He picked up Joe’s watch from beside the bed and made out the time in the half-light: 4:17.

  He lay back down, calling Cora’s name under his breath. He willed the door to open, but there was no sound through the paper-thin wall. He shut his eyes, flat on his back, his arms crossed behind his head. Everywhere inside him the heavy silence grew, as of the sleeping dead.

  Twenty-five

  The next morning, Felicity and Cora emerged from the twin room just as he was leaving for his exam.

  ‘Hi there,’ he said, pausing at the bungalow’s front door.

  ‘We’re off up to Omagh,’ Felicity said. ‘For Mel’s X-rays. We’ll call you if anything interesting emerges.’

  ‘Good luck with the exam, Fergus,’ Cora called.

  ‘Thanks. I’ll need it.’ He smiled, looking back at her, as Felicity went through to the kitchen and started a bright, polite conversation with Mam. Cora lingered on her own in the dimness of the hall. He stepped towards her but she put out her arm, palm upwards. Her finger went to her lips. She nodded her head in the direction of the two mams’ voices.

  ‘Fergus,’ she whispered.

  Her face gleamed white under her short dark hair. In the half-light, her eyes were incandescent.

  ‘Cora…’ He reached his hand out to hers, and for a magical second she let her fingertips trace his. Then she shooed him away.

  ‘On you go,’ she hissed. ‘Scram.’

  He grinned and stepped out of the house.

  Outside, the day was grey and uncertain but he jaunted into town on the bus as if the whole world was an electromagnetic field
set up by the fingertip-touching. But the pulse faded when he got to school and filed into the exam. The equations he’d been working on the night before crumbled to pieces in his head. He turned over the paper. Three Bs and you’ve a place for medicine in Aberdeen, Fergus McCann. A whole new life. Maybe he’d got a B in chemistry and biology. No way would he get one in physics. He dropped his head in his hands, afraid to look at the questions.

  You’re stronger than you look, Fergus.

  It was Cora’s voice, with the goldfinches hovering and the charged particles sizzling. He smiled, picking up his pen, and read question one.

  Two hours later, he had to admit the exam wasn’t as bad as it could have been. Mr Dwyer, invigilating again, said, ‘Time.’ With weary relief he put down his pen. His eyes were sore from staring at the ruled feint. His right hand felt like dropping off. But all he could think was, It’s over. Three Bs or no, it’s done.

  Once released, he and Padraig capered down the corridor, punching the air, bounding out through the school vestibule and across the concrete yard. ‘School’s out for summer. School’s out for ever,’ shrieked Padraig as they sailed through the school gate. He shook out his head and played air guitar, sounding the spit of Alice Cooper.

  ‘School’s–been–blown–to–pieces,’ crooned Fergus.

  They waited for the bus together, Padraig head-banging and strumming through the hits of their youth. Fergus shadow-boxed the bus stop, his knuckles stopping just short of the metal, then he did knee-bends and ran on the spot until the bus came. They got on, flashed their passes and went to the back.

  ‘Jesus. I could drink a crate of beer,’ Padraig moaned.

  ‘Come over to Drumleash later,’ Fergus suggested. ‘We can go to Finicule’s Bar. My Uncle Tally said he’d stand me a pint or two.’

  Padraig laughed. ‘How would I get home? Walk over the surface of the lough, like Jesus?’

  ‘You could crash at our place.’

  ‘Wouldn’t your mam mind?’

  ‘Why should she mind?’ Fergus said.

  ‘You know. What with Joe ’n’ all. Hasn’t she a lot on her mind?’

  It was the first time Padraig had referred to the trouble in their family. Fergus bit his lip. ‘She wouldn’t mind. She’s always liked you, Padraig.’

  Not like some of Joe’s friends, Fergus recalled. Not like Michael Rafters.

  The bus picked up a final passenger and, talk of the devil, it was Rafters himself, getting on like a regular punter. He’d his hands in his bomber jacket and a new haircut. It was sleek and layered, like a pop star in a new romantic band. He saw Fergus at the back and approached, sitting in the seat in front. ‘Hi, Fergus.’

  ‘Hi.’ Fergus shrugged. ‘Where’s the car?’

  Michael was famous for his metallic-blue Triumph TR7.

  ‘In the garage. Being serviced.’

  ‘D’you remember Dafters, Padraig?’

  ‘Sure.’ Padraig grinned. ‘One of the two Incendiary Devices. Who could forget?’

  ‘Whisht.’ Michael smiled. A woman sat down opposite. ‘People might get the wrong idea.’

  The bus started up again. They travelled the eight miles towards Drumleash in silence.

  ‘My stop,’ Padraig said.

  ‘Are you on for later?’ Fergus asked.

  ‘Definitely. I’ll call before I leave.’

  ‘Great. S’long.’

  ‘S’long, Fergus.’

  Fergus stared out of the window, watching Padraig retreat up a side road, strumming his air guitar. The bus rumbled on.

  ‘D’you mind if I sit here?’ It was Michael.

  ‘Feel free.’

  ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘How’s what going?’

  ‘You know. Our…little arrangement.’

  Fergus lowered his voice. ‘Terrible.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘I’ve twisted my ankle. I can’t do any more runs.’

  ‘I saw you just now at the bus stop. You looked as if you were doing kung fu.’

  Fergus recalled the capering. Dafters must have bionic eyes, he thought. The man missed nothing. ‘OK. So my ankle’s mended. Almost. But yesterday, I’m telling you. I nearly got caught.’

  ‘Shush.’ Michael lowered his voice. ‘How?’

  Fergus relayed the story of how he’d fallen over at the sight of the squaddie, and the squaddie chatting away to him all the time he had the packet hidden down his underpants.

  Michael chuckled. ‘Close shave,’ he said.

  Fergus grunted. ‘I’m not doing any more pick-ups. Or drops. Nothing.’

  Michael tut-tutted. ‘You’re not frightened by that little accident, are you?’

  ‘No. I just don’t want to be involved any more. That’s all. I’m out. That’s final.’

  Michael sighed. ‘’S pity. And the hunger strikers nearly ready to call it a day.’

  Fergus frowned. ‘That’s not what my mam says.’

  ‘It’s not certain. But things are’–Michael wiggled his hand–‘shaping up. At the top, there’s talk of a deal.’

  ‘I’m seeing Joe myself. Later.’

  ‘You’re seeing Joe?’

  Fergus nodded.

  ‘Jesus. Give him my best.’ Michael Rafters drummed his fingers on the bar of the seat in front. ‘He won’t have heard about the deal. Not yet.’

  Fergus sighed. ‘D’you know, Dafters–deal or no deal, it’s not the point any more.’

  ‘So what is the point?’

  ‘I’m saying this in confidence, right?’

  ‘Fire away.’

  ‘It’s the squaddie.’

  ‘The squaddie?’

  ‘He’s not just a squaddie. He’s Owain. He’s Welsh. He’s just like you. Or me. And I don’t want to be involved in the killing. That’s all.’

  Michael stared. ‘You’ve taken a shine to him, have you?’

  Fergus shook his head. ‘No. But he’s just a bloke. Normal. He’d no choice but to join up. It was that or go down a mine.’

  ‘A mine would’ve been better for him. Trust me.’

  ‘Trust you?’

  ‘OK, don’t trust me. But he’s no business being here in the Six Counties. Just you remember that.’

  The bus pulled into Drumleash. Fergus was about to get up, but Michael didn’t move.

  ‘Can I get past?’

  ‘In a second.’ Michael had his eyes half shut. ‘Fergus.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Keep on with those packets.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I would, if I were you.’ His words were almost sinuous.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because otherwise that squaddie of yours will end up a has-been.’

  ‘A has-been?’

  ‘You know. Tatty-bread.’

  Fergus stared.

  ‘Rhyming slang, McCann. Remember?’

  Tatty-bread, dead.

  Fergus thought of Owain with his pale, freckled face, his fallen Pentecostalism, his rifle tracing the arc of a bird.

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘So you’ll keep on, Fergus? Just another wee while?’ Michael got up from his seat, smiling and nodding, as if he’d just invited Fergus round for tea.

  Fergus bit his lip. He nodded.

  ‘And, Fergus?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Remember to send Joe my best.’

  Michael skimmed his way up the bus, waving his hand over his shoulder as if they were all-time friends.

  Fergus sat frozen to his seat.

  ‘Last stop, Drumleash,’ the driver called.

  Last stop is right, Fergus thought. He kicked the seat in front of him and winced. His ankle pain returned, sharp. Cursing under his breath, he got up and limped out. The sun came out as he walked up the street towards home. He thought of the dismal smell of the prison blocks awaiting him and remembered the dream he’d had the night before.

  I’d rather be dead meat, he thought. Hanging from a hook. Or cells breaking d
own in the ground. Anything but this. Anything.

  Twenty-six

  The prison visiting room was bright. Light filtered through the frosted glass, making the glass dividers glow. Across from him, Joe sat huddled up to himself. Spasms of shakes came over him. It was warm in the room but around Joe was a chilly penumbra.

  Mam and Da passed the time of day with him, while Fergus was struck dumb. Joe was gaunt-looking, older. His cheekbones jutted through his skin, his eyes were downcast. There was a weary resignation to him, like a lamb being led to slaughter. He remembered a picture he’d once seen in a book, of Christ crowned with thorns. The face of the Saviour had been elongated, the eyes calm, the complexion only one step removed from the pallor of death. Joe looked the same. The struggle of fear and temptation was over. He was going with the flow, on cruise-control to his coffin.

  ‘Couldn’t you take the water hot?’ Da was saying. ‘It wouldn’t be breaking the fast, would it?’

  Joe shook his head, not answering. He looked up and caught Fergus’s eye. A flicker of a smile crossed his face.

  ‘Mam, Da,’ he murmured. ‘D’you mind if I have this visit with Fergus? On his own?’

  Da got up. ‘You see us all the time, Joe. That’s fine. We understand. Don’t we, Pat?’

  Mam bit her lip and nodded. She got up, touching the glass panel. ‘We’ll wait outside, Joe.’

  A guard approached, and after some hushed conversation they were led away. Joe settled back into his huddle. Fergus stared at the ceiling wondering what to say. No words came. No arguments. Nothing.

  ‘You still don’t agree, do you?’ Joe said. His voice was hoarse.

  Fergus shrugged. ‘Like Da says, it’s your choice, doing this. I respect that.’

  ‘So you understand, Fergus?’

  ‘I suppose I do.’

  Joe nodded.

  Fergus leaned forward. ‘Joe?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Is it true that a deal’s being made?’

  ‘A deal?’

  ‘To end the strike?’

  ‘No. There’s no deal.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Sure.’ Joe coughed and shivered. ‘They say your man Adams is delighted. Nobody could have foreseen the rallying around. Nobody.’ He coughed again, grabbing his belly.

  ‘You all right?’