The Hunger Within

by J. M. Hewitt

  “Saint Mary’s, what for?” he looks perplexed.

  “I’ll tell you when we’re there, it’s… it’s to do with your Dad.”

  She waits, holding her breath, mentally crossing herself for using Billy that way. Eventually Connor nods his agreement.

  “Just us though, okay?” she clarifies. “It’s a personal matter. It’s a family thing.”

  “Okay, okay, I’ll be there.”

  She withdraws from the room, hurries back to her own bedroom and sinks back into her still warm bed. So rarely do they discuss Billy Dean that she is confident Connor will be at the church. She will show him his father’s grave, she’s never taken him there before. She just has to make sure and keep him there.

  Though the sun hasn’t even risen yet she throws off the covers. Today is a game changer and there is no more chance of sleep for Mary.

  Chapter 22

  April 1st 1981

  Bronwyn dimly registers that she has been drunk for a week. Not falling down, throwing up, all out pissed, but she has drank every single day since she visited Danny. After Alia and her got off the bus and said their goodbyes, Bronwyn headed straight for the off-licence. It wasn’t even open but she didn’t care what passers-by thought of her standing outside, kicking her heels. All that she knew was she had to deaden the thoughts and the memory.

  When the proprietor unlocked the door Bronwyn almost fell into the shop. Eyes raw from crying, Bronwyn had no particular medicinal fluid in mind. Anything, any product would do.

  When she got home with her selection she didn’t even inspect it, rather, she pulled the tab on the nearest item – a can of Harp – and took it down to sit by Emma where she remained for the rest of the day.

  The following day, and each of the others after that, she went to work. She still jogged, though it was much more difficult, and she still took in the clothes that needed mending from the other mothers. Once back at home she rushed through the sewing, knowing that her stitching wasn’t as neat as usual, but consoling herself that her customer’s wouldn’t mind. As long as they don’t have to do it themselves, she thought, wryly.

  Now a whole week has passed. No correspondence has been received from Long Kesh – not even the original letter – and she has heard nothing further about Danny or his condition. In equal measure she wants to telephone them and also to forget about it, about him, and ignore his imminent death.

  She sits beside Emma, using her sewing scissors to tidy up the patchy grass around the tiny memorial.

  “I know exactly how you were created,” she whispers with a smile.

  How many people can say that? Though it’s easier to pinpoint exact moments of passion when you have been with someone as long as she’s been with Dan and the moments don’t happen as frequently as they once did.

  It was before Christmas, snow was on the ground and the covered over concrete had put Bronwyn in such a good mood she had pulled the kitchen curtain open all the way. Dusk had fallen but the white of the snow had cast an ethereal glow around the garden. It had been breathtakingly beautiful. Danny was home from work, he had still had his job then, and he had come up soundlessly behind her in the kitchen and wrapped his arms around her waist. It was an unexpected, tender moment, one that had brought tears to her eyes, for the only reason that she couldn’t remember the last time he had touched her like that. They had stood looking out at the garden for ages, until she had twisted in his arms to face him.

  “Let’s go outside,” she whispered, tilting her face up to look at his. “Like when we were kids.”

  His lips had twitched in a smile. She remembers it all; how his hands had squeezed the small of her back, how his eyes had turned so dark they were almost liquid coal. Like the children they once were, they ran hand in hand outside and picked their way through the snow down to the train tracks. A snowball fight had evolved into physical tussling, and when their stomachs hurt from laughing they had sunk into the snow together. She recalls now that they did not feel the cold, and how afterwards she had looked at his face, red cheeked and hope and happiness had risen within her.

  The hope soon faded, in fact it melted away with the snow, and when normal life resumed they were back to their old selves.

  “We had some good times though, Emma,” Bronwyn whispered to the not-quite-carcass of their child.

  And as she sinks the last can of Harp she stares out over the fields. There’s nothing now; no Danny, no Emma and no snow.

  Chapter 23

  April 1st 1981

  When Rose wakes she rolls over in the bed and stares at the wall. It’s April, winter is turning into spring.

  And though the seasons have changed, Rose thinks, nothing in my life has changed at all. If anything it’s only got worse.

  She can’t even get up today and pretend to go to work. Perhaps if she stays here, deep in the warmth and relative safety of the bed and the room that nobody comes into, they won’t even notice that she’s not left the house. It’s an intriguing thought, a test, really, to see how invisible she has really become. Connor’s not happy, Mary’s not happy, and Rose has run out of ideas to try and make up for the disappointment she is to them.

  It’s still dark outside as she makes her way through the hallway to the bathroom. She uses the toilet as quietly as possible and as she darts back to the spare room she hears Connor’s alarm go off. She pauses in the hallway, near his door, thinks about going in, just to get a smile or... anything really, anything except the horrible, flat, polite atmosphere that exists between them.

  She is weary though, and through her open door she can see the dark cave of her bed. Forgoing Connor she slips back into the spare room and pulls the duvet over her head.

  *

  Later, much, much later when she wakes again, the house in still in darkness and she pulls the clock around to face her, squints at it. It’s almost 6pm and she has slept for another twelve hours solid. The realisation of this should shock her, but she feels nothing.

  After a while she becomes aware of a rustling noise. Someone is out on the landing. It could be Mary or it could be Connor. Do they not wonder where she is? Do they not think to check this room? For if they are both home they know that she will be too, at this time of day.

  She waits for the tears or the stomach-churning hurt, but nothing comes. And I feel flat, flat and dark and like a waste of a body. I’ve fallen down to the very deepest, darkest depths of rock bottom. And I’m not going to crawl out of here.

  The thoughts come thick and fast and she duly notes each one, without surprise, without fear. All emotions are gone. Even cutting her skin doesn’t bring any feelings anymore.

  Seconds, minutes or an hour have passed when the door to the spare room is pushed open. Again with no reaction, she regards the man standing in the doorway. He is wearing a balaclava, this detail she does note.

  Just like the night they shot Connor, she thinks.

  She can’t see his face, but his eyes stare back at her.

  And what now, what happens now?

  The lack of interest that she has at the stranger standing in her doorway is almost interesting. And I could laugh at that, if laughter were possible.

  He’s by her bed, reaching out an arm and pulling her roughly to a sitting position. She doesn’t struggle, she has no fight and no wish to fight. She realises that she is nodding to herself as she lets herself be led from the bed. Dimly she wonders where Mary and Connor are. Has this man already got them? Are they tied up, already shot, dead, even? Are my senses so dulled that I didn’t even hear gunshots?

  He halts her on the landing, just at the top of the stairs. He gesticulates upwards and she raises her face to the ceiling, an act which only serves to make her even wearier.

  That was the rustling that she heard, the loft hatch opening, being pushed to one side, the rope that was tied to the beam of the interior roof, hanging down from the eaves and appearing through the opening, arranged just so to form a noose.

  The air com
ing from the exposed roof is cold, she feels that much and she crosses her arms across her chest.

  “It’s time for you to go.” The man speaks for the first time, his voice quiet.

  She can feel his breath on her ear and she understands. This is where she begs, where she says that she’ll do anything, she won’t tell a soul if he’ll just let her go. Just let her walk out of Mary’s house and not come back.

  She nods again, more to herself than him. It makes sense, everything clicks into place.

  “Okay,” she says, still nodding. “Okay, then.”

  Chapter 24

  April 1st 1981

  The church is a peaceful place where Mary can sit undisturbed. It’s cold, terribly cold, like all places of worship seem to be, but she had anticipated this and the extra layers help, as does the flask of tea that she has bought along.

  There is a fair bit of traffic here today, there are no services, but people are coming and going. The florist came before midday and arranged fresh flowers at the font, the cleaners arrived, vacuumed around her and left in the early afternoon. Worshipers came too, to pray, to cry soundlessly and some of them just to sit, like herself.

  She went out to see Billy a few times, when she looked through the blue stained glass window and saw the sun’s rays trying to peep out of the heavy white clouds. And then as it began to get dark, Connor arrived.

  She led him to Billy’s grave, handed him the flowers that she had picked for him to place there. He did so awkwardly, with what seemed like a degree of embarrassment. She was upset, she had envisaged this moment as an emotional connection between the three of them.

  “Doesn’t it make you feel sad?” she asks with disbelief.

  He shrugs, fuelling her temper with his attitude.

  “I didn’t know him, I can’t miss him, Ma,” he protests. “I understand that you do because you were with him, you loved him. But I never knew him.”

  Mary turns away and traces her fingers over Billy’s name. Connor is right, of course, but he should care, he should be upset. And, she has to stall him, she has to keep him here so Danny’s men can invoke the forced removal of Rose from Mary’s home.

  “I suppose I’d like to talk about him sometimes,” she says, still stroking at the grave. “And also, if you’re serious about this girl, we need to talk. You need to be prepared about what your life will be like.”

  “Well, I already know, don’t I?” he points to his wounded leg.

  He is being flippant. Like a teenager, she thinks, pushing me, pressing my buttons. “This is serious, Connor.” Her tone is mild and it pleases her that she’s able to keep control.

  He sighs, openly, but when he doesn’t make a move to leave she begins to talk then, and even though he occasionally tries to interrupt and even though the temperature has dropped to surely below zero, he stays.

  “And are you ready for this?” she demands, finally. “For staying at home because no public place will welcome you as a couple? Or what, are you going to move away, over into England? How are you going to raise your children, you have to pick a religion because you can’t have it all ways, can you?”

  At this he holds up his hands. “Woah, come on, Ma. We’ve only been together a few months, who’s talking about kids and houses?”

  She closes her eyes, very tired all of a sudden as she gets it. He’s not serious about Rose. He was, or he thought he was, when they were sneaking around at night and it was all exciting and fresh and new, but he’s changed his mind. Now he sees for himself that she would be a useless wife and homemaker, and he’s been clapping eyes on a make-up free face and wild hair each morning. He has changed his mind.

  Obviously he doesn’t know how to tell the girl that he has realised how close he has come to being trapped. Because next there would be a child, and then he’d never get away. Poor sod, she thinks to herself. But it’ll be over soon.

  “I thought I’d go and see her friend, Bronwyn, maybe get the two girls together again. They were as close as anything but they’ve drifted apart. It’s no good for Rose,” Connor says, as he levers himself off Billy’s headstone that he had so disrespectfully been perched on.

  And Bronwyn has a big house all to herself, if Connor can get the two girls talking then it would be natural for Rose to stay at her best friend’s house. Pleasure froths up inside of Mary at all of the loose ends being tidily knotted. Everyone would be happy; Mary would have Connor back, Bronwyn would have company, and the girl would have a home. Because as much as she despises her, Mary wouldn’t like to see Rose homeless. After all, she’s not a monster.

  It’s a pious thought, but a pleasing one.

  She waves him off as they part at the gates. He heads towards the night bus, she walks home.

  The house is in darkness, she notes, as she walks up the front path. A good sign, but not unusual, for if the girl were still in the home she would be ensconced in the spare room anyway, lights out and sleeping, even though it’s only 7 o’clock.

  She opens the front door and slips inside, shrugging off her coat and hanging it in the usual place over the banister. She stops, sniffs. Over the furniture polish and the faint stale aroma of Mary’s cigarettes there is a definite scent of excrement and she is transported back to The Maze, being led down the corridor to see Danny. The peace that she had walking home is replaced with anger. The girl has gone and as a last act of defiance she’s left some cat shit somewhere, Mary imagines. Mixed in with her contempt is a grudging admiration; she didn’t think the girl had it in her.

  She begins her hunt in the kitchen, but the room is exactly how she left it earlier. The aroma is stronger in the hallway and by the light of the lamp in the porch she checks behind the umbrella stand. Slowly she becomes aware of a creaking noise, so low she missed it until moving to the bottom of the stairs. Here though, she can hear it clearly. There used to be an old conifer tree in the garden of this house and one winter, a branch was damaged, either by lightening or in the near hurricane force winds. For weeks after the storm the branch had creaked until it drove Mary mad and she had Connor cut it down.

  It’s coming from the top of the house, somewhere in the darkness, and as Mary climbs the stairs the air changes. It’s even colder up here and she can hear the wind that has picked up outside. Has the mad girl opened the windows before she left? Or is that how Danny’s man got in, through a window? Annoyed, she picks up her pace, eager to find the offending open window and close it, to gain some heat back from which she’s been so careful to preserve over the winter. She pulls herself up the last stair, spins around the top handrail and God, up here, the smell… She hasn’t put the light on yet, she knows every inch of this house blindfolded but she has to see, and she reaches an arm out towards the switch, brushing something, something that is the cause of the creaking.

  With a yell she pulls back and clutches her hand to her chest as though it was injured. Fabric, skin, something solid yet yielding that is out of place, that shouldn’t be on the landing and which brings with it an underlying smell of urine and sweat.

  She punches the light and sees the loft hatch hanging open.

  So that’s where the cold air is coming from. She has a split second to process the thought and then there is a scream, guttural, with an unearthly quality. She dodges around out of reach of the spinning, swinging body that creaks above her, seeking the source of the screamer. As her back hits the wall and she slides down to land on the carpet, she realises that she is the one who is screaming.

  Chapter 25

  April 11th 1981

  A whole month on the hunger strike. There’s a strange sense of pride that was only apparent once I began to adjust and feel...,not better, but like I still had some more mileage in me. I don’t know why it happened, that day a couple of weeks ago when Bronwyn came I felt like I was close to death. Personally I think the fact that she ran out crying has spurred me on, as though I can’t let that be the last contact we had with each other. Seany told me some of the other hunger
strikers had recommended walking around as much as possible, just to stop the muscles dying in their legs and bodies. So I did and I continued with my salt water diet and so far I’ve not been sick anymore.

  I’m still squinting though, my eyesight has always been pretty perfect, but the daylight through the window really hurts my eyes. Like a painting or a photo that spends years in direct sunlight my eyes are fading, just like the picture would.

  I’ve had no visitors except a man a couple of days ago, I can’t even think where he was from, it’s a bit foggy, but he was talking about my power of attorney and how it will be shifted to Bron when it looks like I’m on my way out. This means she can instruct the prison doctors to intervene medically, shove tubes down my throat and force feed me if she so desires. I’ve made it clear that I don’t want this, otherwise what is the point of the strikes? But the decision will be out of my hands. I need to see Bron again, I need to tell her that she mustn’t do this. At the same time I consider it and her possible actions. If she does medically intervene then she obviously still cares. Or on the other hand, maybe not, maybe she’s just not the sort of person who can have another man’s death on her hands, perhaps she’s not cut from the same cloth as Thatcher. Regardless, I want to see my wife. I want another chance to say the right thing to her, because I keep messing up and God knows, I’ve not got too many opportunities left.

  The boys are doing okay, Bobby has gone downhill but he’s still here. We are all still here and we’re not budging. Today and yesterday we’ve had the crystal radio set on nonstop as we listen for results of the election. The results come in the early evening. It began as a low murmur, news passed to the men through windows, bars and pipes. Some occupants react differently; there was singing from one wing, shouts from another. Me and the half dozen others, we just sit and grin at each other. The screws come and tell us that Bobby had lost. Spitefully they await our reactions but we just keep on smiling. Confused, they slip away. They didn’t know we have the radio and that we are aware of the news from the outside just as well as them. Now we reassure each other that Thatcher is not going to let this go too far. She can’t afford to, the Brits are going to have to give in first, because now Bobby Sands is an officially elected Member of Parliament. They will have to give in to us now; they’ll have to give us what we want. With this new hope we stand and we won’t be broken. We will not meekly serve our time.