The Hunger Within

by J. M. Hewitt

While she had been away the garden had disappeared and it had been transformed into a concrete wilderness.

  Now, as she walks up her pathway to the front door she stops and regards her home with a critical eye. She’s loathe to leave it, but not sure why. Any happy memories have been quashed by all the bad things that have happened here. Can she start again? Can she do this, live like this, here in this house made for a family, on her own?

  She doesn’t know, and she doesn’t want to think about it tonight.

  *

  Mary sat and clutched her bag on her lap tightly during the forty minute bus ride to Long Kesh. At some points of the journey, when the bus stops, she almost gets off and returns home. A part of her knows this is utter madness and her actions today are just as likely to bring trouble to her door as that Rose James. But she can’t stop herself now, even though this is not the man who killed her lover, he very nearly killed her son. Would she have been making this journey two decades ago if she had the chance, to look the man in the eyes and ask him why? She thinks not, back then she was a tight ball of grief, her only thought was getting through each day and keeping the baby safe and growing inside her.

  Today is different; over the last twenty years she has taken that tight ball of grief and used it to harden herself against everything and everyone except Connor.

  There are many visitors – more than she expected – making their way into the reception of Long Kesh and she files in beside them, standing tall and firm, making no eye contact. When she reaches the front she hands her bag over to be searched and gives the name of the person she wants to see. Mary expects a reaction, but the guard simply writes Granger’s name alongside her own and moves her through to another room.

  Her stomach churns noisily and she sips at the water poured from the jugs that have been left on the table for the waiting visitors. She looks at the other people in the room. They mostly look weary, women around her age. Mother’s come to visit sons, she supposes. There are a few younger women, some with small children and the kids race around the room shrieking, finding their own play in a room filled with nothing.

  A man comes in with a clipboard and reels off a list of names. Hers is among them and she stands up, smooths down her skirt and makes her way towards him. When they are huddled in a group of about half a dozen, he leads them silently out of the door, through a winding corridor. They are deep in The Maze now. The light has been left behind them and for Mary it is like walking into the stinking depths of hell.

  They are made to walk alongside cells and she keeps her head straight forward, not wanting to look left or right and see the incarcerated men. Any of them could be the one who killed her man.

  The small group is broken off in segments as the guard directs them off towards their loved ones. Finally, it is her turn.

  She is shown into a small room, smaller than her little box-room back home, the one that Rose is currently sleeping in. It is simply four walls and it contains two chairs. There is no glass or Perspex divide to separate her and the Granger man. She can’t believe this, and she looks back at the guard, sure he has made a mistake using this room. But he has gone, closed the door behind him, shutting her in with this gun-toting lunatic who maimed her boy.

  Granger has his back to her and she looks at his thick black hair. He must be cold, for his has a blanket draped over his shoulders. Keeping to the edge of the room she walks around to face him. He looks up at the sound of her footsteps, and a frown creases his features.

  “Are you Danny Granger?” she asks.

  He nods, doesn’t speak, doesn’t ask her why she has come.

  Though she had practiced in her head what words she was going to use, they are suddenly taken away along with her breath as she sees now that he is clearly naked underneath the blanket. She knows about the protests that are happening here, it’s all over the news, but to see it in the flesh, literally, is very strange.

  “My name is Mary Dean. My son is Connor Dean.”

  His mouth works, is he trying to hide a smile? “I know who you are, I got your visiting order.”

  She stutters, closes her mouth. She must not show her nerves, not to this man. He will use them against her; he will laugh at her, surely, the uncaring, unfeeling bastard that he is.

  “And how is our little Rose?” He speaks, finally. “Did she ever come back, or did she carry on running for the hills?”

  His mouth is twisted in a spiteful smile and Mary takes a few steps towards him. This is interesting, she had thought he had Rose in mind when he shot Connor, some chivalrous act that however misguided, he thought would be doing the James woman a favour in getting rid of the Protestant. But his tone and his words suggest that he likes Rose as little as Mary does. And if that is the case, why did he do it, if not for her? Maybe they were orders from above, just a lesson to be given to make sure the protestants know the pecking order.

  “She came back,” she says, cautiously. “But I don’t know how long she’ll stay.”

  He clamps his lips together and nods, as though he expected nothing else.

  “You know how she came about, right?”

  She shakes her head, not really understanding his question and she moves closer still.

  “Her mam was raped by one of your lot,” he breaks off and laughs, callously. “Fucking ironic, isn’t it?”

  She sits down in the empty chair, all the fear has gone. “How do you know this?”

  He shrugs and with that motion he suddenly looks twenty years younger, like a little boy caught doing something wrong. “I heard Bronwyn’s mother talking to one of her mates once. Wasn’t supposed to be listening, was I? It’s not common knowledge, though I wouldn’t be surprised if the whole damn town knows. Rose doesn’t though, I don’t think.”

  Oh, he’s malicious, thinks Mary. He’s a nasty piece of work.

  “That’s my wife, Bronwyn,” he goes on. “She’s Rose’s friend, though God knows why, they couldn’t be more different.”

  “Yes, I’ve met your wife,” replies Mary, absently.

  At this Danny springs forward and Mary leans back as far as the chair back will allow her.

  “When?” he demands. “When did you see her?”

  Mary collects herself, knows she mustn’t show him that he scared her. She sits up straight so they are almost nose to nose, “The day after it happened and again just last night, why?”

  She suppresses a shiver, clenches her fists to stop her hands fidgeting and wishes she could light up in here. Maybe she can, she looks around, wonders if the guards would even bother to stop her smoking. She knows she has said something wrong, or something that he wasn’t expecting. Her mind whirls, trying to make sense of it, going back over her words. It comes to her, a flash in an instant: he doesn’t know that Bronwyn was the one who called the police on him. It is a thread of power and one that she intends to use.

  Danny breathes heavily and clutches the seat of his chair. He knows the blanket has fallen down around his body. He knows that he is exposing himself to this woman, and he’s not comfortable, not like when he’s in front of the guards. With them, he couldn’t give one shite.

  “Was she arrested?” His voice when it comes out is ragged and quiet.

  Mary’s eyes are bright, “No, why would she have been?”

  He can’t tell her. He can’t say that he thinks she’s locked up because if she’s not, then why the hell hasn’t she been in to see him?

  “You don’t know, do you?” She whispers the words.

  “Know what?” He thinks she’s dead or injured, somehow, but she can’t be, this Dean woman said she saw her just yesterday. Danny grabs her arm and pulls her towards him. “Know what?”

  Mary shakes her arm free and looks down at her sleeve, disgusted at his touch. “She was the one who called the police on you. She told them that you shot Connor and all about your stash in your garden shed. She told them everything.”

  Danny sinks back and stares over Mary’s head.

  �
��I want to see my wife,” he says.

  Mary laughs quietly.

  “Listen, listen to me, woman. I want Bronwyn in here. I want you to arrange it.”

  Mary stops laughing and shakes her head. “I don’t even know her; she’s just been round at my house while her friend is staying. Once she’s gone, which won’t be long, believe me, I’ll likely never clap eyes on your wife again.”

  Danny stands up, ignoring Mary as she flinches. He walks around the small room, deep in thought, a plan emerging from a tiny seed that this Mary has planted. He does a few laps, stops behind her and speaks quietly in her ear.

  “I can make Rose leave your house. I can get her out of there faster than the bullet went through your son’s leg.”

  At this she does flinch, but recovers well, he notes, as she twists around in her chair and looks up at him. “And in return..?”

  Yes, she’s quick, this one, Danny thinks with a smile. “You get my wife in here to visit me.”

  She has a lot of excuses and reasons why it wouldn’t work, he can see that in her face, but to her credit she doesn’t voice them. Instead, she nods stiffly, stands up and turns to face him.

  To him it looks like she doesn’t know how to say goodbye. This is no friendship or even a cordial business meeting. There are no words, so she nods, just once, and makes her way to the door.

  When the screw comes to collect her and escort her out, Danny takes a deep breath. He picks up the chair that he vacated and raises it over his head. Then he throws it as far as he can. It bounces off the far wall and he flings himself to where it lands, and kicks it repeatedly with his bare feet. When the screws come in they wrap their arms around him, restraining him, one of them landing a thump to his head so hard that he slumps over. They drag him out and he hangs his head, looking down at his toes which are bloodied and raw.

  Chapter 9

  Mary is exhausted upon her return home to Newry. She hadn’t realised how tense she had been throughout the meeting with Connor’s shooter, but once she walked through her front door and lay her bag on the kitchen table her body seemed to soften. It was a strange experience, and still wearing her coat she sinks into a chair and lights up a cigarette, pulling on it hungrily.

  Now come the worries and the practicalities. She had to get Bronwyn to go to Long Kesh to see her husband. This would be difficult, because Bronwyn didn’t seem to be the type of woman to do anything she didn’t want to, and if she did want to visit him she would have done so already. And she doesn’t want to see him, why would she? If she cared she wouldn’t have ratted him out to the police in the first place. And if Bronwyn does go to visit Danny, what if he doesn’t like what she has to say to him? Will he still keep his end of the bargain? That bargain, that’s another cause for concern. Exactly how does Danny intend to get Rose out of Mary’s life? Scare her, most likely, he seems like he is good at scaring people, and whoever he would get on the outside to do it for him would probably be just as thuggish as he is.

  Mary is pulled out of her reverie by a tell-tale squeak from an upstairs floorboard. In the silence of the house it sounds very loud, though if she’d had the radio on she wouldn’t have even heard it. It must be Connor, and Mary gets up, hurrying up the stairs, worried, for he was supposed to go back to work today. Even though he wouldn’t be able to carry out his usual brick-laying work, the manager had agreed to put him on desk duty, helping out with the administration for a while.

  “Connor?” She pushes open his door.

  The curtains are still drawn, that is the first thing that she notices. Working in the building trade, Connor has always been an early riser, and she tastes dread at the thought of him still being in bed at lunchtime. It must be his leg, maybe he’s torn the stitches, maybe it’s an infection.

  She covers the couple of feet to the bed, touches the shape underneath the cover. “Connor, what’s-”

  She clamps her mouth shut as a blonde head appears, static charged hair standing on end.

  Mary puts her clenched hand to her mouth as she surveys Rose in Connor’s bed. Rose stares back at her, eyes wide.

  “Get up,” Mary says through clenched teeth. “Get out of there.”

  *

  To Rose it looked like Mary was going to say a lot more as she stared down at her in Connor’s bed. But she leaves, slamming the bedroom door and Rose sits up, clutches the sheet to her. She peers at the clock and sees it is nearly midday.

  She had told the office that she would be back today, though that is the least of her problems. She thinks back, hours ago, when the sound of the door closing had woken her. It was Mary, leaving early, and unable and not wanting to stop herself Rose had crept down the hall to Connor’s room. He was awake, sitting on the edge of his bed and he had smiled at her.

  “Your mum has gone out,” she had said, letting him take her words for how she meant them.

  His smile had widened and he had beckoned her over. She had gone, willingly, let him pull her nightie up over her head and toss it aside.

  Later, he had left for work, and she had lay back in his bed, knowing she had at least another hour before she had to get up.

  But she must have fallen asleep, and now it was lunchtime, and Mary had caught her in Connor’s bed. But come on, what the hell did Mary think they did together, play board games or chess?

  She had mentioned it to Connor, as she watched him get dressed after they had had sex.

  “I don’t think your mother likes me,” she had said in a small voice.

  He had looked over at her then, frowning. “Why? What have you said to her?”

  She had paused at that, as the realisation that he would automatically leap to his mother’s defence rather than hers. “I don’t think I said anything,” she had replied. “I’m sure she thinks it’s my fault that you got shot, and I can’t blame her, it is my fault.”

  He didn’t reassure her that she wasn’t to blame, she heeded, and her afterglow began to fade.

  “You just need to assert yourself, she’s a tough woman,” he said as he picked up his crutches from where they rested against the wall. “Maybe help out here a little bit, get her onside.”

  When he had left that was when she closed her eyes. She wasn’t overly tired, more that she just didn’t want to see anything anymore.

  And now the morning had vanished, and Mary was home.

  And Mary was angry.

  *

  Bob, Sue’s husband from a few doors down, is fixing the door frame. Bronwyn’s mother had arranged it, not happy that even though the door still was able to close and lock in the damaged frame it didn’t look very nice. Bronwyn had watched her talking to Sue and later, Bob, and wondered if she should have cared more than she did about the damn door. But he’s here now and she’s got his money ready, has delved into her sewing cash stash. She offered him a tea, which he gratefully accepted as he fitted a new frame but apart from that she hasn’t spoken to him. She can see the new bit of wood from where she sits. Its natural wood, unpainted, and looks out of place with the rest of the white gloss frame. She’ll have to paint it. Or maybe strip down white paint from the rest of the door. Whichever she chooses its more work that she really can’t find the energy for.

  Last night she found two unopened bottles of Liebfraumilch wine, and as soon as Bob leaves she intends to crack open the second bottle. She finished the first last night and she can still taste it now, sour and dry.

  Finally he is gone and she goes out to the shed. The police have taken everything except for a couple of tins of paint. She prises the lid off one and looks down at the buttermilk. It’s old, it’s got a scummy film on top, but it might do for the kitchen. She heaves it up and brings it in, standing it next to the Liebfraumilch bottle. First things first. She pours a generous glass and gulps it down. As she drinks she knows she is sinking down. Her life is becoming a spiral of alcohol infused days. Bitterly she knows that if she still had the baby inside her she would have tipped the Liebfraumilch down the sink. But
the baby is gone, buried down by the railway tracks. She knows she should stop thinking about Emma, but it’s hard. That is what she’s called her, Emma, because she’s certain in only the way that a Mother can be that the baby was a little girl. And naming her is one of the worst things she could have done, because ever since she applied that name to her, Emma has become so very real. Too real, such a reality that she has to reach for the wine. And the terrible memory of the Pilsner beers she had that morning, the thought that keeps trying to spring to mind and which she keeps pushing back into a dark corner, did she finish Emma off with the Pilsner?

  She sobs, her teeth catching on the edge of the wine glass. And if that is true, if it were the beer, then it’s Danny’s fault, because she wouldn’t have been drinking if he hadn’t have been arrested. She can go even further than that, she can blame Rose, for if the stupid girl hadn’t got herself involved in a relationship with that Connor, Dan wouldn’t have acted and she wouldn’t have had to call the police on him.

  So it comes full circle and the guilt lies with her oldest friend.

  There’s a fine rain coming down outside and Bronwyn shudders to think of the sodden grass underneath which Emma rests. She needs more stones or rocks to shelter her little girl. And throwing back the rest of the glass, Bronwyn reaches for her coat. Today she shall go to the forest, the place that she used to go with Dan when they were young and naïve and happy. She’ll find the best rocks for her baby, and, she thinks as she puts the half empty bottle of Liebfraumilch at the very back of the cupboard, she will be busy, with no time for any more daytime drinking.

  Chapter 10

  February 20th 1981

  Bobby Sands is starting the hunger strike in nine days’ time. Last autumn we were screwed over. Promises were made and broken. This time it will be different. Bobby Sands is going all the way and he has already prepared both himself and us that he will not live to see the final outcome. This time around plans have been carefully drafted. We have all been asked if we would be prepared to volunteer. Dozens of men put their names forward and it has been decided that these strikes will be staggered for maximum publicity. I have given my name, there is no question, no soul searching, this is me and it’s what I’ll do. I’m in a better position that some of the men, I have no family apart from Bronwyn. My parents never really existed, not to me anyway, and I have no siblings. There are no children of mine to lend a second thought. There is no question.