The Hunger Within

by J. M. Hewitt

  Bronwyn lurches away, coming to sit in the chair that Rose had vacated only minutes earlier. There is an uneasy silence, until Bronwyn speaks up.

  “Sorry about all that business about your Dad,” she says. “It must have been horrible for you.”

  Rose has known Bronwyn long enough to know that she is trying for an apology, but her breath catches in her throat. “How did you know? Did Mary tell you?”

  “No, Connor did, the other day…,” Bronwyn tails off and Rose knows her face is aflame again.

  Connor knows? So why hasn’t he mentioned it to her? Does he not think it’s a big deal, or does he not even care? She is sinking, she is in such a big hole and there just doesn’t seem to be any way of digging herself out of it. Worse than that, she can’t find the energy to try and pull herself out. Maybe it’s best to stay in the hole, out of everyone’s way. And one day, someone might come along and fill in the hole, piling earth on top of her and she’ll just be there, quiet, gone away and no more bother to anybody.

  She puts her hands in her lap and scratches at a scab forming on the underside of her wrist. It’s not ready to come off, the scab, it’s too new, too fresh, but she accepts the pain, willingly and gratefully. She lets it take over, it’s better than having to listen to Bronwyn sniping at her. And then Bronwyn is standing over her, pulling her arms and Rose gapes at her strength. She struggles against her, twisting in her seat.

  “Stop it,” Bronwyn shouts as she grapples for Rose’s arms. “For Christ’s sake, what’s wrong with you?”

  Rose slumps and Bronwyn’s grip relaxes.

  “What do you think is wrong with me?” Rose hears her voice, loud – for once, not meek and subservient as she usually is.

  “You’re not the only one!” Bronwyn shouts. “How do you think I’ve been, I’ve lost everything, my husband, Emma – it’s all gone!”

  Rose’s mouth forms the word as a question, “Emma?” But before either of them can speak the front door is slammed closed and Mary sweeps down the hall into the kitchen.

  “What the hell is going on, I can hear you from outside!”

  Rose looks around, sees clearly for the first time what Mary is looking at. The plates and the grill pan, the butter and jam and the knives, all strewn over the worktop and table. And the blood, on the tea towel, on the table near Bronwyn’s bag, on Rose’s sleeves.

  “I should go,” says Bronwyn.

  Mary looks over at her, as if seeing her for the first time. “I’ll walk you out,” she says, stiffly.

  Rose watches them, as both the women stare at her for a long moment. Mary, angry, yet again and Bronwyn, her expression seems worse, like Rose has let her down.

  Chapter 14

  “I’ll walk a little way with you,” says Mary to Bronwyn as they go down the front path.

  She has been out all morning, sitting in the cold by Billy’s grave, but she can’t go back inside yet. Hopefully when she returns Rose’s mess will have been cleared up. Anger is thumping inside her chest, she can’t believe the girl is so useless that she can’t even use the kitchen without turning it into a warzone. And what was all that blood about? Rose is an accident-prone witch. Mary looks sidelong at Bronwyn and silently appraises the woman. Not for the first time she wonders how they are still friends. It’s common in childhood, she knows that, there is usually a leader and a follower, but for this unlikely pair to still be close in adulthood is strange.

  “Did you visit your husband?” Mary asks, remembering why she had decided to walk out with Bronwyn.

  “Yeah, for all the good it did,” replies Bronwyn, sullenly, before looking up at Mary. “You were right, you know, he’s on the blanket protest.”

  Mary nods, gives Bronwyn what she hopes is a sympathetic look. “Are you off to see his solicitor or something, all togged up?”

  Bronwyn emits a laugh, short and sharp. “No, I have to get a job if I want to keep my home.”

  Another difference between Bronwyn and Rose, thinks Mary. One has a perfectly decent job yet doesn’t bother to go to work, and this one sees her own situation and is doing what she needs to in order to improve her own life. Mary stops walking, Bronwyn, not noticing, carries on.

  “I’ll see you later,” Mary says softly.

  Bronwyn doesn’t halt or turn, and Mary wonders if she even heard her speak or noticed that Mary was no longer walking alongside her.

  Mary crosses over the street, makes a phone call via the operator and then heads towards the bus stop. If Bronwyn has been to see Danny then Mary has done her job. Now Danny Granger needs to stick to his end of the bargain.

  After an hour she finds herself once again at Long Kesh. There are a lot more people than last time, but they seem to be hanging around the gates and some of them look like television reporters. She desperately wants to light up a cigarette, but knows it’s not wise to linger out here. She puts her head down, sinks her chin into her scarf and makes her way quickly to the entrance. She has to wait longer than last time, and she sits in the communal room, her bag on her lap, not watching the people who sit alongside, who also don’t talk to her.

  Finally her name is called and she travels down the same corridor, following the guard, pulling her scarf up around her nose and mouth to try and dispel the horrid aroma that seems to seep out of the cells.

  He is already in the cell-like room when they show her in, sitting, facing away from her, the blanket pulled tightly around him. She stops just inside the door, even with her coat and scarf and gloves she can still feel the chill. He must be freezing. He hasn’t turned around yet and Mary is grateful for the time it gives her. This man could be her son, sitting here, naked save for a prison issue blanket. Prepared to be bone cold, prepared to go without food, preparing for die. But like the seed of fondness she almost felt for Bronwyn, she mentally pummels it down. She can’t sympathise with these people, they are not her people and especially this man in front of her, the one that shot her son through his leg, she can’t feel anything for any of them.

  “She came then,” she says, her voice ringing around the small room.

  He doesn’t turn around, forcing her to walk in front of him. She swallows hard and hopes the horror doesn’t show on her face.

  He looks up at her with tired, bloodshot eyes. His hands, indeed his whole body, from what she can see, are filthy, smudged with brown dirt and his feet are caked with grime and grit.

  “I’m actually looking forward to the hunger strike,” he says, by way of explanation for his appearance.

  “You’re mad.” Mary sits down opposite him, taking care that his legs don’t touch her skirt. “I can’t believe anyone would willingly do this to themselves.”

  He doesn’t reply, and she picks at an imaginary piece of lint on her coat. She didn’t come here to talk politics, that doesn’t interest her, and she has more important things on her mind.

  “So, I kept the deal, I got Bronwyn to come and see you. Now you do your part.”

  He shifts on the chair and she feels another rush of unexpected pity as he tucks the blanket underneath him.

  “What do you want?” he asks.

  How quickly emotions can change, a small part of her mind notes this as his tone, almost insolent, causes the pity to dissipate and a rush of annoyance takes its place. She leans forward, points her finger at him.

  “You know what I want, I want the girl gone. I want her out of my house and my life, and out of my son’s life, too.”

  He looks like he’s pondering this fact and she stifles a sigh. He’s playing with her, he is holding the cards and he knows it. And she can’t afford to lose her temper because he could simply laugh and not accept any more visits from her. He has nothing to lose.

  The silence is long and the room is suddenly so quiet that Mary can hear the ticking of the clock on the far wall. She thinks back to this morning, of how she had to get out of her own house – twice, and the mess in the kitchen and the blood that stained the table and Rose’s sleeves. She has
n’t really focussed on the blood, dare not ask herself what happened, what the girl had been doing to herself. Because it wasn’t an accident, Mary isn’t so out of touch that she thinks any of Rose’s strange wounds are accidental. And she can’t have that in her home, because how long before Rose totally loses control and turns her knives and weapons on someone else in the household? She snaps her head away from the ticking clock and leans forward. Ignoring the grime and the smell, she grasps Danny’s bare knee. He looks up, surprised.

  “You need to help me, I will do anything I can for you in return, do you understand?”

  It’s as though those were the words he was waiting for and he lifts an eyebrow, smiles lopsided at her. In that moment she can see the man he was before the politics took him over. A man not unlike her own son, cheeky, good-looking: a skirt-chaser and a jack-the-lad. She has to remind herself what this man in front of her has done to her son. She has to remind herself that he held her Connor down on the ground and cold heartedly put a bullet through his leg. It’s hard when she is in the room with this one, though, when she sees him, cold and alone and surely frightened, even if he doesn’t show it. She tries to step it up a little, when her anger fades, by imagining this is the man who killed her Billy. Who knows, it was maybe even a bloodline of Danny, an uncle or a cousin, even his father.

  “I’d like to see my wife again,” he says and clears his throat. “I don’t think I said the right words last time, I was sideswiped, I didn’t know about the miscarriage and I didn’t handle it very well. I didn’t even get to talk to her about grassing me up to the police. So yes, make her come here again, and I’ll get rid of your problem.”

  This time she lets her sigh escape, unchecked. She had been afraid of that, as far as Mary was concerned it was the hardest thing she had done, and it would be even more difficult now, if Rose and Bronwyn had had a row, which to Mary it seemed they did this morning. There is less chance of Bronwyn coming round the house for Mary to try and convince her to come here again.

  Then she thinks of this morning, the state of the kitchen, the horrible atmosphere that Rose drags around the home with her, wearing it like a shawl, and Mary raises her chin.

  “I’ll try my best,” she says to Danny and fixes him with a stare. “But you need to sort out my little problem right away, there’s no waiting until your wife comes in here.”

  “How do I know you’ll even talk to my wife?” he fires back.

  “You’ll have to trust me,” replies Mary.

  He looks like he is about to thank her, he actually looks grateful, but Mary can’t let their relationship go that far, that’s not what this is all about, after all. She stands, quickly, and backs away from him, walks a wide arc around him, still seated in his pathetic blanket, to the door.

  “When did this miscarriage happen?” she asks, her mind only now registering his words now that her own issues are dealt with.

  “She reckons she lost a baby,” he says, hoarsely.

  Don’t walk back to him, just leave it, she tells herself. This is nothing to do with you, this is getting into the dangerous territory of actually caring. But oh God, it’s so hard not to walk over to him and fold him in her arms, just to offer a bit of humanity. And the urge surprises Mary, she’s not a natural comforter, she doesn’t offer up hugs and sympathy like many women her own age do.

  She takes a last look around the room, looks at the back of the young man. It’s terrible, this room, this whole place. She hopes that this is the last time she sets foot in Long Kesh, and the last time she claps eyes on Danny Granger.

  *

  Bronwyn pulls off the suit as soon as she gets home. Dragging on a pair of well-worn jeans and a jumper she goes downstairs and puts the fire on in the kitchen.

  Mr McKeown had offered her the job, right there on the spot after chatting for fifteen minutes. She had felt almost lightheaded with relief after being scared that he was going to judge her, that he had heard that she had grassed up her own husband’s activities. But perhaps Mr McKeown didn’t move in those sort of circles, or maybe he just didn’t care what sort of woman he employed to clean his school.

  “Perhaps we can see how you go, and if anything else comes up, maybe a position in the library...,” He had said, almost apologetic that she was going to be employed as a cleaner.

  A job in the library doesn’t interest her, cleaning is about all she can manage right now, and only because it comes naturally and without having to think about the task in hand. She didn’t say this though, she just nodded politely.

  She will commence work tomorrow, she can wear jeans and a jumper and she has already been given a tabard and her own peg in the cloakroom. She will start work at 7 o’clock in the morning. On the way home she checked the bus timetable. There is a bus that goes that early, but she is thinking now that she could incorporate her morning run into her new routine and she could jog to work. She could put her jeans in one of Danny’s old rucksacks and change when she reaches the school. She wouldn’t have to change out of her trainers, they would do to work in. And then when she finishes the cleaning duties at about half eight she could run home again, all her work done and dusted by 9 o’clock.

  She smiles, thinks of Mr McKeown and his kindness. She’s not sure if he knows that her husband is in prison. Probably, everybody knows everything in this place. He surely doesn’t know that she put Danny inside though, or he wouldn’t have been so quick to offer her the job.

  She shivers, the electric fire isn’t warming her. It’s burning her legs in patches, but she’s still so cold. Bronwyn opens the cupboard underneath the sink and retrieves her hairdryer. Plugging it in and switching it on she puts it underneath her jumper. Instant relief. She smiles fondly as she recalls her and Alia doing this very thing years ago. When you’re poor you learn any tricks to keep you warm. The cold was worse than hunger, because for some reason people thought eating was more important than being warm. Alia would send Bronwyn to the local fish and chip shop some evenings and she would push some shillings over the counter, asking for as many chips as she could get with the amount she had. Always, without fail, the kindly servers would hand her over a full portion.

  She considers breaking further into her cash and treating herself to fish and chips to celebrate her new job. Turning off the hairdryer she grabs a couple of pounds and pulls her coat back on.

  Later, the cod and chips gone and with a warm, full belly, her thoughts turn to Danny. There will be no nipping to the chippie for him, and on the blanket protest he’ll be cold to the bone.

  It’s the first time she’s thought of him in ages without a stab of something that is close to hate. She shakes the feeling off and turns over the television channel to take her mind off him.

  It works for a while as she sinks into Wish You Were Here, which just makes her sad that she can’t see a time in her future where she would be able to have a holiday like the ones on the television. She flips over to Hart to Hart, but finding that she can’t follow the story she switches the set off.

  Shuffling into the kitchen she digs around in the bin for the bottle of wine that Alia had opened. She pops the cork, washes the mug that held her earlier coffee and fills it up. As she sits back down in front of the fire she slowly sips at the wine, all the while thinking about Danny.

  *

  Rose ensured that the kitchen was as clean as a whistle by the time Mary returned. She used bleach and scouring pads, threw away the ruined toast and washed up every cup, plate and utensil that she had used.

  It helped; while she was busy she wasn’t thinking and by the time she has finished she has worked up enough of a sweat that she pulls her jumper off and stands in her T-shirt.

  Perhaps I can do more, she thinks, maybe I can make an effort. She takes a bowl of warm water into the lounge and the bleach bottle. She examines the room. It’s already tidy, really, but she can see rings on the wooden coffee table where someone has placed a mug without a coaster.

  With a softer sponge s
he squirts on the bleach, pleased to see the ring disappear. She does the whole table top, carefully moving Mary’s garish lady ornament out of the way.

  She scrubs harder at an obstinate stain, pushing down on the sponge so much that her fingers lock up at the knuckles. She lets go of the sponge, rubs her hand, feeling the pain of the cleaning fluid in her cuts now she’s lost her concentration.

  Tears unexpectedly fill her eyes and she pulls her T-shirt up at the bottom, rubs her face with it. As she leans back on her heels there is a blurry shape, moving so fast that she falls backwards, landing awkwardly on her left hip, grasping out at the table to keep her balance. She lets out a cry, looks up, but doesn’t feel relief when she sees that it’s just Mary, towering over her.

  “What are you doing?” Mary’s cry is a plaintive wail.

  What did I do now? Rose looks around, trying to find out the source of Mary’s obvious anger. “I-I’m cleaning,” she stammers.

  Mary snatches up the bottle of bleach and thrusts it in Rose’s face. “Not with this! You don’t use this on wood, it’s a bloody antique and it’s ruined!”

  Rose jerks backwards as a fine spray of bleach flicks from the top over Rose’s face. Before she can respond, Mary lets out another shout of horror and gazes down to the floor. Rose follows her gaze, sees the sponge, wet with bleach, face down on the navy blue carpet.

  “Everything you touch turns to SHITE!” shouts Mary and Rose can see her hands shaking so violently that bleach is spitting out now, covering everything within a couple of feet.

  She’s going to hit me, she’s going to kill me, thinks Rose. But the thought is processed calmly, and this showdown, though horrible, is almost welcome. She sits on her behind on the floor, heart beating almost audibly, waiting for the inevitable slap or punch. She can feel something wet on her face and she doesn’t know if it’s the bleach, Mary’s spittle, or even her own tears.

  Hit me, she begs silently, give me a good black eye so I can show your son what you did to me, and then maybe he’ll take me away out of this house of horrors.