by J. M. Hewitt
But Mary stands motionless, her chest heaving, her breathing loud. Still wanting something, the smallest movement that Rose can take as a threat she moves her right leg out straight and purposefully brushes Mary’s ankle, provoking a reaction.
Mary looks down sharply, walks a couple of steps backwards and looks directly at Rose.
“You need to get out,” she says, her voice still loud but not quite a shout. “I can’t have you here, I can’t live like this.”
Rose doesn’t reply but some spark of tyranny must come back to Mary, and with a rebel yell she winds back her arm and throws the bottle of bleach at Rose. Her reactions are slow, non-existent really, and the bottom of the bottle hits her square in the middle of her face. There’s sharp pain in her nose but Rose doesn’t touch it. She lets the bottle fall to the floor where it lands on its side, the clear liquid dripping out, pooling to leave a stain that will last longer than either of them.
Chapter 15
March 15th 1981
I scratch a line into the wall with the piece of brick that I’d previously worked free. I knocked it off with my spoon a couple of weeks ago, when I still had a spoon to use. I don’t have any utensils now. They still bring me my meals, but they don’t bother with the knives and forks. It is as though they know the food will come back, so why bother getting them out in the first place? I began my hunger strike on 8th March, exactly one week ago. After the first few days I had headaches so terrible that I could hardly see. Then as I made sure to drink the six pints of salted water each day as I’d been instructed to, it was as if my body adjusted. Now, heading into the second week, I can feel a change again. My physical self has not altered much. I’ve been warned that my body will start to eat itself, sourcing goodness and fat from wherever it can. I can walk steadily, I can see no loss of my leg muscles and once those damn headaches passed my vision was as good as it ever was. Strangely, I don’t even feel hungry anymore.
I’ve had no visits from my wife in three weeks despite the visiting orders I sent and my plea to Mary for her to get Bronwyn back in. I trust Mary, a fact which surprises me in itself, after all, I shot her son, but we had a deal and I know how much she wants Rose gone so I know she’ll bring Bronwyn in to me.
Rose.
I have made arrangements for her. It was difficult, because it is a personal situation – not work related – but not impossible. If you look hard enough and use the right names you will always find someone to do your bidding. Soon Rose will be out of Mary’s life. And for Mary’s sake, Bronwyn had better be back in mine.
There is no sense in getting impatient; I have nothing else to do but wait.
During our waiting periods we talk a lot; myself and the other men, the ones that I think of as my brothers, are within hearing distance. We have started to ‘tell books’, and these are my best times. We have no actual books except the bible, and instead of making up stories we tell each other novels that we recall from memory. I can get lost in these times. We are writing letters too, smuggling them out and sending them to anybody who might listen; media, newspapers, television stations, politicians – anybody who we can think of who might spread the word on what we are doing here. We have a radio, an old wind up one and we listen to the news as much as we can. All of our contraband is smuggled in to us and collectively our favourite visitors are Brenda the Mule and Kimberley ‘tits’ Magee. Brenda is renown around Newry for the amount of stuff she is capable of hiding inside her, and ‘Tit’s’ Magee, as her name suggests, has tits so massive that she can hold bulky items underneath them. They are good girls, humorous and loyal. Unlike my wife, I think darkly whenever she crosses my mind.
I digress. Our radio is vital, so that we know exactly what is happening outside and it gladdens our hearts when we hear of marches and demonstrations on our behalf. I think about Bronwyn, I wonder if she is marching. I think not, I think she is sitting at home, mourning this ‘Emma’ and regretting grassing me up. Wasting her life.
I can hear some of my mates getting ready to meet their visitors. I take a long drink of my salt water, swish it around my mouth, trying to get rid of the bad smell of bacteria trying to breed on the nothingness inside me.
Although I’ve not had word of a visitor it might be today. I live in hope.
Chapter 16
March 15th 1981
It’s the first day in the three weeks of her new job that she doesn’t jog straight home. Instead, she is meeting Alia in the town, in the café on the main street. Alia is there when she arrives, hot chocolate and cakes already ordered and on the table.
“I was going to bus home, but I’ll have to run after all this!” says Bronwyn as she slides into the chair opposite her mother.
“Nonsense, you’re too thin,” says Alia, but softens her words with a smile. “You look happier though.”
Bronwyn tosses her hair. She knows she looks good; she feels good. In part it is the running; she’s done it every day, to and from work, even when a light covering of snow came down in the last week of February. Work has helped too, just the notion of having something to get up for, somewhere she needs to be at a certain time. She sees the same people, new people, and after a week of passing parents bringing their children through the gates in the morning it became only natural to exchange pleasantries and then, longer conversations. And from these new, almost-friendships, has come more work in the form of Bronwyn getting her mending and alteration service back up and running. The mothers that she talks with have to work themselves, nobody is flush in this age, and they don’t have time to sew their kid’s clothes. None of them have harassed her about being a ‘supergrass’, maybe they don’t know, or maybe what she can offer them is more important than banding together in the name of the men. Bronwyn offers a cheap rate, and the mother’s hand her whatever they need doing. She goes home, spends the afternoon working, relishing the ache as she bends over the sewing machine, taking them back the next day and handing over clothes for cash. She hasn’t had any alcohol in three weeks, and most evenings she is so tired from working that she doesn’t even want any.
She’s never spoken to so many people, and she mentions this to Alia now as they sip at their hot drinks.
“You always had loads of friends, more than I could keep track of,” replies Alia. “But at some point, I looked round and realised it was just Rose and Dan who were left.”
At her best friend’s name Bronwyn feels a pang of guilt. She hasn’t seen or spoken to Rose since the morning of the job interview. She’s stepped away from them all, deliberately, she realises now. Because there is only so much you can do to try and help people before you have to force them to stand on their own two feet. She hasn’t seen Danny either, but she knows that he is now on the hunger strike. He is another matter. Rose, she lets herself think of her, but thoughts of Dan are too much, too painful.
“Maybe I should see Rose,” she muses, half speaking to herself. “Hopefully she’s settled in and she’s getting along better.”
Alia looks like she doesn’t approve. She reaches across the table, takes Bronwyn’s hand in her own and squeezes it. “Just remember, you come first, okay?”
“Do you want to walk over there with me?” asks Bronwyn, suddenly.
“What, now?”
“Yeah, why not?” it seems like a perfect idea, if Alia is there it will be someone to help the conversation along, especially if Mary and Connor are there, too. And with her mother’s presence, she can leave when she wants on the pretext of having to get Alia back home.
As Alia agrees and they finish their drinks, Bronwyn is struck by a thought. I never used to have to prepare myself so much to see Rose. What happened to us?
Alia looks uncomfortable as they walk into the Dean’s territory. Bronwyn tells her not to worry, that Connor and Mary are people, just like them. And as they walk up Mary’s front path, she sees her mother looking almost longingly at the house.
“It’s a decent area,” Alia says, grudgingly.
Br
onwyn knocks on the door, but they are startled by footsteps approaching them from behind. It’s Mary, looking cross, as seems the norm to Bronwyn.
“She’s not in,” Mary declares as she moves in between them and puts her key in the lock. “The girl finally went back to work.”
“Oh,” says Bronwyn. “Well, that’s good, if things are getting back to normal.”
Mary fixes her with such a stare that Bronwyn widens her eyes.
“I wanted to speak to you, though,” says Mary and then stops, looks over at Alia.
“This is my mother, Alia,” Bronwyn says by way of introduction.
Alia nods, attempts a smile, but Mary simply turns back to Bronwyn. “I’d like a word, come in for a second, won’t you?”
Bronwyn looks helplessly at Alia, who shrugs in reply. Mary opens the door, holds it open for Bronwyn, and then closes the door just as it looks like Alia might slip through.
“Hey!” exclaims Bronwyn.
“This won’t take long,” Mary snaps as she unwinds her scarf and hangs it on the banister. “Have you visited your husband lately?”
“No, why?” Bronwyn, annoyed at Mary rudely shutting her mother out, puts one hand on her hip and glares at Mary. “Why do you care so much about him anyway?”
“I don’t care!” Mary raises her voice, seems to realise she is shouting and takes a deep breath. “I hear things, I know what’s happening in there and I know… I don’t want you to have any regrets, that’s all.”
“What would I have to regret?” Bronwyn is genuinely nonplussed. “He’s not dying, it’s not like he’s going anywhere.”
“Oh, Bronwyn,” Mary’s voice is quiet now and she almost looks sad. “But he is, they all are.”
It doesn’t occur to Bronwyn to ask how Mary hears things, being on the ‘other side’ she should hear nothing, and anything she does hear in the way she is suggesting should surely be celebrated.
Bronwyn doesn’t want to hear anymore; the one good thing about Alia is that she doesn’t try and talk to her about Dan, unlike Mary. It seems to be the only thing on her mind whenever Bronwyn sees her. She stands up straight, and says, firmly, “I have to go now, tell Rose I’ll try and see her soon.” Bronwyn fumbles behind her for the catch, pulls the door open and stumbles out straight into Alia. “Come on, Mum, we’re going.”
Alia hurries after her, struggles to match Bronwyn’s gait. Behind them, they hear Mary’s door slam loudly.
Chapter 17
March 15th 1981
Despite what Mary thinks, Rose hasn’t been going to work. She went in the office, once, a few weeks ago and told her manager that she couldn’t come back yet, that Connor needed her, yes, her boyfriend, he’d been shot, and she would do her best to return to work the following Monday morning.
She had been hoping for some sympathy, a little bit of kindness but it turned out that the manager, Frank O’Hara, knew all about the situation. There was no kindness to be found here, and as she stood in the open plan office while the workforce tried to pretend they were not listening, she realised that like her mother’s house and Mary’s home, this was another place where she was no longer welcome.
“Maybe it’s for the best, at the moment.” The words could have easily been spoken with sympathetic undertones but they weren’t. They were hard and punchy, like O’Hara’s glare.
And as she had walked out, probably for the last time, she realised what a lonely place it was when you were ostracised by everyone.
There was a girl at work, Marie McLoughlin, who Rose always sat next to. She had chosen Marie – actually they had chosen each other – as they were both quiet and reserved. It never quite escalated into a friendship, but it was the closest thing Rose had had to one in the workplace. As she had walked out after speaking to Mr O’Hara, she had seen Marie at her desk. Rose had paused, desperate that someone at least smile at her or exchange a few words. Marie had watched her walk all the way down the bank of desks and when Rose had stopped, Marie’s wide-eyed, innocent expression had changed into that of a rabbit caught in the headlights.
“Marie...,” Rose heard how dejected her own voice sounded, and cringed.
Marie looked away, sharply, her eyes now big and scared. Marie snatched up the telephone, hooked her finger and began to dial a number.
Rose had breathed in, jaggedly. She knew her face was red and sweat patches had formed under her arms.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, and half ran out of the office.
She hasn’t told Mary that she can’t go to work anymore. Mary doesn’t speak to her anymore anyway, not since the incident with the bleach.
After the bottle had hit her face she had escaped upstairs to the bathroom, watching as her nose swelled and prodding at the tiny cut on the bridge. She had bathed it in cold water and sat in her room until Connor returned. It took a good ten minutes for her to summon the courage to go downstairs. She heard them in the kitchen, Mary and Connor, talking in hushed voices.
This is it, she had thought, show time. This is where Connor would realise exactly how his mother had treated his girlfriend, and the thought of Connor taking her hand, showing their unity and announcing that they were moving out was what spurred her on.
She stood in the doorway of the kitchen. They were at the table, silent now, Mary staring off into the distance, Connor shaking his head, drumming his fingers on the table. They both looked up as she loitered, Connor being the first to move. He came around the table, still limping but not relying on his crutches so much anymore. She’d folded into herself as he approached, preparing to fall into the welcome circle of his open arms. He’d pulled up short of her, just out of reach of touching distance.
“Ma told me what you did,” he had said as he scrutinised her face. “Jesus, Rose, it’s...” He had stopped, sighed heavily. “Just be more careful, okay?”
She had blinked, swivelled to look in disbelief at Mary. Mary, still seated, folded her arms and didn’t even balk at Rose’s stare.
“Dinner is nearly ready,” Mary said after long seconds of silence, still looking directly at Rose.
“Good, I’m starving,” replied Connor and made his way back to the table.
He pulled out a chair for Rose, so she had no choice but to join them. All through the meal and every day afterwards she wondered what lie Mary had told Connor. Neither of them ever told her. She hadn’t found out what she was supposed to have done to herself.
It was the day after that she had gone to the office, and since then she had spent every day in her old childhood hiding spot at the library. She took a table in the far corner, around the back of the medical journal section, and she was rarely disturbed there. Even the librarians didn’t look up anymore when she came in each morning. She is like a ghost. She is invisible.
Today she sits like every other day. She pulls out a couple of journals and opens them to random pages. She places a notebook and pen on the desktop and then closes her eyes. Every day she thinks about her mother, the man who is her birth father, Mary and Connor and Bronwyn and Danny. It doesn’t escape her that she spends all day thinking about all these people who don’t even talk to her or give her a second thought anymore.
The magic that she had with Connor is vanishing. Gone are the days when they would walk down dark alleyways and without warning he would stop, push her against a wall and drag the clothes off her lower body. She thinks of those times a lot and the instances where he wouldn’t even remove her clothes, just pull her skirt up and push her underwear aside. She had glowed for days after each such occurrence, and it hits her that they haven’t been together like that since the morning that Mary found her in Connor’s bed.
Most days, sitting in the library, the thoughts get too much. An actual headache brews, starting at her temples and moving down through her neck and shoulders, just like it is now. She gets a paperclip out of her coat pocket and pushes her sleeve up. With uniform precision, she scratches at the underside of her wrist, until the blood starts to bubb
le up and leaks out, along with the hurt.
Chapter 18
March 22nd 1981
Two weeks in and I’ve lost the taste for cigarettes. This devastates me, as smoking was something to do, or rather, a way to take a break, even from doing nothing. A roll-up is a way to break up the monotony of the day, a way to break up the twenty-four hours. I’ve smoked since I was a teenager, not so much out of the enjoyment of it, but everyone else was and then, like almost everyone else, because I needed it. I still think I need it, but my body won’t accept it. My senses are so heightened right now that even sparking up sends me into a spin of nausea. One of the screws wears a ghastly aftershave, even before the strike the scent of it would make me gag but now it’s ten times worse. I can smell him coming long before I hear him, and I cover my face with whatever is within reach. Still the smell permeates, invading my nostrils until my eyes water.
Today was the first day that I’ve vomited back up the water I’ve been drinking. It’s a bad sign, really bad, but one that I was told to expect. When I threw up the water it seemed to generate a tick in my left eye. Hours later and it still hasn’t stopped, no matter how much I brush at it or pinch the surrounding skin.
There’s something going on out in the hall. It sounds like a beating and using the wall I pull myself up slowly. Everything I do is slow now, moving at a snail’s pace. Up until a few days ago I willed my body to move quicker, but it became obvious it wouldn’t and all I was doing in trying was using precious energy that I should be conserving.
“Seany,” I call to my neighbour, wincing at my voice, which sounds like a bleat.
“Danny, boy.” Sean’s voice booms out in response. “How are you doing, lad?”
Sean is not on the hunger strike yet, we have got all the shortlisted men on it and the others will now only commence striking when somebody dies.
