by J. M. Hewitt
I am out of the ‘H’ Block and in a hospital in Belfast. As soon as I am well enough I will be shipped back to The Maze to resume my prison term. It comforts me that I am not the only one whose family decided to medically intervene in the hunger strikes. I wonder if they got together, all of the mammy’s and the wives, or if it took just one person to tip the balance and as soon as that one made the decision the floodgates opened for the others to follow suit.
I can’t work out if I am surprised that Bronwyn gave the instruction for them to keep me alive. Kieran told me that she went to see him and though he denies it, I know he would have confessed everything to her. He’s so young, too young, really, for all this.
And each day that I lie here I wait with anticipation for her to come and see me. She must know by now the decision that I made, to end the life of the wicked Mrs Dean. Perhaps Bronwyn is scared, frightened that I’ve become this unstoppable killing machine and that I’m going to come for her, or rather, send someone to her. Bronwyn is so wrong, I would never do that, and all I need right now is for her to come and see me so I can make her see that.
I listened while Kieran told me about the events of the night of the 1st April.
“And she just slipped into it, put her head right into the rope and then walked right off the top stair.” Kieran’s voice was unsteady, disbelieving.
And Mary had come again, this time with another woman for me to dispose of, but this time it was my wife. She had counted on me to be so outraged at Bronwyn’s unfaithfulness that I would do her bidding, but the longer I thought about it, the more memories surfaced that gave me pause for thought. When I could think clearly, which wasn’t a lot of the time, I had set my mind to work. Finally I had summoned Kieran again, and given him the instruction.
“Do it,” I had said.
And it had been done. It would never be traced back to me, it was simply a sad case of recent events being too much for her, and Mary had decided to follow Rose’s way out.
They feed me small solids now, mashed up potato, no different to baby food, they think that they are strengthening me but they’ve got it so wrong. The hope that she will walk on to my ward is my nourishment. The belief that she will wait for me, wait with me, and stay with me, is my salvation.
Chapter 39
July 28th 1981
He hadn’t been around for a long time and she thought he’d finally given up. Tonight he’s back, hammering at the front door, moving around the house and calling through all of the windows. She wonders if he’s drunk, or if he’s lost his mind. She resolves to stay in the darkness and ignore him, like she did when he came around each night after she shoved him out of the door that time.
The flap of the letterbox goes and his voice is clear now as he bellows down the hallway. His words tumble over each other and she just picks out one single sentence; “I need you, Bronwyn.”
She wonders if he’s still staying at home. A cold shiver spikes at her spine and she wraps her arms around herself as she stands just inside the empty pantry and listens to him. She wouldn’t have stayed there if she were him, the place that his lover and mother hanged themselves. That house must stink of death and misery.
The letterbox flap clangs back into place. There’s a thud and then silence. In spite of all her promises to herself she comes out of the pantry and opens the front door.
He’s sitting on the step, head in hands, and she crouches down behind him, lays a hand on his shoulder.
His hand comes up blindly, reaching for hers and with her free hand she tugs at his arm. He gets up, stumbles inside, and she closes the front door behind them.
By the light of the lamps in the living room she studies his damp face. His eyelashes are spiky with tears. It is impossible not to feel for him.
She doesn’t offer him a drink or platitudes, or verbal sympathy, but she kneels down on the rug and before she’s even fully opened her arms he is there, clutching onto her like a drowning man.
She feels his face hot against her cheek and as he pulls at her clothing he is silent. He’s lost weight, she notices. She wonders if he can see the difference in her body. It’s not the runner’s figure that she gained back but it’s plumper, fleshier. Healthy. He doesn’t comment on her, he doesn’t say anything as he grips her hips hard enough to leave bruises and slams into her. She lets him, she takes it; she needs it too.
Later, still on the rug, he seems to come to and he looks around the dimly lit room at the boxes.
“Are you leaving?” his tone is high, almost accusing.
“Yeah,” she replies, turning over to reach for the ashtray and the rolling tobacco.
“When?”
“Tomorrow.” She looks at the clock and sees it is past midnight. “Today.”
“Where?”
She doesn’t want to tell him, she had never planned to tell him.
He’s sitting up now, scrutinising her and she hunches over, no longer wanting his gaze on her naked body. “Are you..?” he tails off, shakes his head and smiles. “I want to come with you.”
Unexpected tenderness fills her. This man, he’s just lost. All of his life he has had someone looking out for him, looking after him and now there is nobody. She thinks deeply, imagining a life with him. One where they can be together without being judged. But she would still judge herself, and him, and how their relationship began and how they behaved. Wouldn’t she? Or would it fade, over time, like memories do?
“I still have so much to do tonight,” she begins. “Come here tomorrow, it doesn’t have to be early, maybe lunchtime.”
He wants to know everything now, has she arranged a place to live, a job? Are they staying in Ireland or moving further afield?
“England, the south,” she says. “Near the coast.”
“I’ll stay tonight,” Connor announces. “I’ll help finish packing.”
She shakes her head. “I’ve got too much to do,” she repeats. “And people I must say goodbye to. People who wouldn’t appreciate you being there when I see them,” she adds meaningfully.
She has revived him, restored him, and it’s quite a powerful feeling as she pushes his discarded clothes at him. He covers her face in kisses and she wraps her arms around him at the door.
“Thank you, Connor,” she whispers, before giving him a gentle push.
“Tomorrow!” he calls, joyfully, so different to the man who was on her doorstep just a couple of hours before, “midday.”
She nods, smiling. “See you tomorrow.”
Chapter 40
July 29th 1981
It’s strange to be on this train. Despite watching it almost daily from the bottom of her garden, Bronwyn has never been a passenger on it before. It is almost empty today. Everyone is staying indoors, watching the event of the century as Prince Charles marries Lady Di. It’s a shame to miss it, she thinks, though, looking at her watch, this train is due to arrive in Dublin at 11:20, just about the time that the wedding is due to start. Maybe there will be a television in the waiting room. There is about a half hour layover before the connecting train is due. If she were at home today she would be watching the wedding with Alia, at either one of their houses. But she’s not at home, yet it feels very appropriate that she is starting anew on the very day when the whole world is filled with such happiness and hope for the future.
There’s a buffet service on board, and Bronwyn clutches the edge of the table in front of her. Though they may sell those miniature bottles of wines and spirits, she won’t buy those. She’ll get a coffee, maybe, or just an orange juice. She needs some goodness, her body is telling her that.
The train slows as it comes up to the crossing at the bridge and she grips the table even harder.
I won’t look, she thinks. But she does. She shuffles across the seat and stares hard out of the window at her house. The green curtain is pulled tight across and she wonders if anyone ever sat in this train seat and watched her moving around in her kitchen. Her eyes travel down the garden to he
r rock. She pats her pockets, Emma’s stones are there. They will always be with her, unlike the little pieces of Emma, buried right there by the train track.
“The buffet is open, do you want a drink or something to eat yet?” the voice is at her shoulder but something else has caught her eye in her former garden.
“Bronwyn?”
She flaps her hand, she doesn’t want anything. A beat, then she looks round. She is alone again and she turns back to the window.
He is in her garden, standing motionless, arms crossed, looking into the distance across the fields. If he turns to look at the train he’ll see me, she thinks, and absurdly she considers ducking down in her seat until the train is on the move again. And then he turns, is looking straight at her and she puts her palm flat on the window. His mouth forms her name, his arms drop to his sides, his expression is one of disbelief.
She looks away and then, as the train moves forwards on the tracks she swivels her gaze to meet his once more.
“I’m sorry, Connor,” she cries, but he can’t hear her.
Alia comes back again, laden down with crisps, chocolate bars and juggling two hot drinks.
“I know you said you didn’t want anything, but you have to keep your strength up,” she announces as she lays out her wares on the table top.
“Thanks,” says Bronwyn, gratefully. And she is grateful not to be doing this on her own.
“Did you tell him where you were going?” asks Alia, and Bronwyn knows she must have seen Connor through the train window.
“No,” Bronwyn says, regretfully almost. “I told him England, down south.”
Alia, to her credit, doesn’t judge her. And she never has, she’s just... there.
She turns around for one last look, but the Kidds Road house can no longer be seen. It’s behind her now, and she swings back in her seat, looks forward. She thinks about the two men in her life for a moment. One day she may call them, or one of them, but they are so irrevocably entwined in her and as a consequence, each other, that time is going to have to pass before she can see clearly. She hopes that one day they will understand.
“Wales is much nicer than England,” comments Alia, still talking about their final destination. “You just wait and see.”
Bronwyn nods. “It’s a fresh start,” she says and rubs her hand over her stomach, feeling the butterflies and the bump that is just now starting to protrude, “Just the three of us.”
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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
For fiction purposes some practices have been slightly altered with regards to the actual events of 1981. Saying this, I did want to encapsulate the essence of Newry, H.M.P Maze / Long Kesh and the surrounding areas during the time of ‘the troubles’. I couldn’t have done this without the assistance of the following people.
@NornIronGirl1981 AKA Bronagh was a great source of research. She ‘tweets’ daily using her actual diary from 1981 written as a young teenager living in Northern Ireland at the height of the ‘troubles’.
Melanie McFadyean’s 2006 article in the Guardian, The Legacy of the Hunger Strikers, was particularly informative and helpful, as was Melanie herself.
For many parts of this story I am indebted to Laurence McKeown, former hunger striker and I.R.A member. Laurence kindly answered my plea for help and gave me information on everything from the physical effects on the body of a hunger strike, the reasons behind the protests, correct names and terms and what these men wanted to achieve. He went so far as to very kindly present me with a copy of his own collaborative novel; Nor Meekly Serve My Time, as well as a copy of his own Doctoral Thesis. And as the emails and voice recordings went back and forth between us, I was lucky enough to get not only a firsthand account of life during the protests but an impression of everything else that makes up a human living under extraordinary circumstances. From Laurence I got a strong sense of intelligence, knowledge, loyalty and humour. A recent feature on Laurence in The Irish Times (A former I.R.A gunman and hunger striker tells his story) by Gerry Moriarty is an absolute must-read.
There are also those who are a constant support over the years;
My parents – Janet and Keith, my partner, Darren and my family and friends both in my personal life and the amazingly supportive world of crime fiction.
Noelle Holton of www.crimebookjunkie.co.uk whose cover reveals of J.M Hewitt novels are done with such gusto and genuine enthusiasm. The fact that she is such a huge supporter of all things crime related is gratefully acknowledged.
The award winning crime fiction author Ruth Dugdall, Beta reader, mentor and above all, friend, who took an early draft of The Maze on her summer holiday with her – that is dedication.
