Bury the Living (Revolutionary #1)

by Jodi McIsaac

  She forced herself to join the others in the exercise yard for a game of rounders. No one seemed to mind that she didn’t know how to play; she blamed it on being a city girl. It was simple enough, much like the baseball games she’d seen on the telly. A bowler threw the ball to a batter, who tried to hit it with a wooden chair leg. Other women tried to catch it and tag the batter before she reached one of the posts around the yard. It felt good to do something active, and the camaraderie of the other women helped soothe her own bitter disappointment over the confiscated camera. She avoided the girls from Belfast, lest they ask too many questions, and instead stuck close to Jo and Lena and their friends from Cork. The competition in the game was heating up when Julia O’Neill sent the ball soaring over the wall and out onto the street. A collective groan rose from the players.

  “That was our last ball!” one of the Cork girls cried.

  “I’ll write for another one right away,” Julia said, her face turning pink.

  “Ach, it was a good shot, so it was,” Nora said. “I think this means you won the game.”

  After supper, some of the girls gathered in the corridor outside the hospital room to sing hymns. Nora stood a little way off, listening to their soft voices. She wanted to offer her support to the hunger strikers, but she didn’t want to intrude on this intimate moment between those who truly belonged here, in this time. Let us carry your cross for Ireland, Lord, they sang. Her chest ached. She missed going to Mass with her mother and Eamon. She’d say extra prayers for them tonight.

  She followed the stone walls back to her own cell, letting the voices fade behind her.

  She woke hours later to a knock on her cell door. She picked up her burning candle and, keeping a blanket around her shoulders, opened the door. It was Julia O’Neill.

  “I saw you were next on the prayer schedule, so I thought I’d wake you. Shall I wake Pidge as well?”

  “No, I’ll do it,” Nora said quickly. “So we just . . . pray by the altar? On the landing? This is my first shift.”

  “Yes, second floor of the other wing. You’ll see it—Grace Plunkett painted a beautiful picture of Our Lady. Just try to stay awake. That’s why there are two of you. Monica Doyle fell asleep last week, and the OC was ragin’.”

  “Ta,” Nora said. “Good night.” She watched Julia pad down the hallway, then grabbed her rosary beads. She’d let Pidge sleep for another hour, then wake her.

  Julia’s sister Frances was still kneeling in front of the altar when Nora arrived. She cleared her throat softly.

  Frances didn’t say anything—she just smiled and got to her feet, then walked past Nora and down the stairs.

  Nora shivered. The tour guide in the future had told her Kilmainham was said to be haunted. Alone in front of this altar, surrounded by the cells of women who had been long dead on her first visit to this place, the idea of ghosts seemed all too possible. The entire jail seemed to be holding its breath. Were Kate O’Callaghan and Mary MacSwiney meant to die here? Was something else afoot?

  The altar was simple enough, a small wooden table covered in a white cloth embroidered with fine blue and yellow flowers. A painting of two saints decorated the wall behind it, the Virgin Mary presiding above them. Nora picked up the lit candle from the altar and held it closer to the painting. The two figures were identified in small black letters at the bottom of the image: “Saint Colmcille” and “Saint Brigid.”

  Well. Perhaps this was the right place, after all.

  Kneeling, Nora crossed herself and clutched her rosary beads. She prayed the Our Father and a couple of Hail Marys, feeling guilty that she’d let her devotion slip amid the chaos of the past few days. She stared at the painting of Saint Brigid as she recited another Hail Mary.

  “If you have a plan, could you just tell it to me already?” she muttered.

  The silence of the jail closed in on her.

  “Or if you have any ideas, that would be grand as well.”

  Nora stood and rubbed her knees. When she turned around, a guard was watching her from near the top of the staircase. She stiffened, then raised her chin and walked toward him, planning to tell him to leave her alone. But as she drew closer, those thoughts were pushed from her mind. His face was thin, with a long, straight nose and eyes just a little too close together. The same red hair as hers peeked out from under his cap. He looked young. Eighteen or nineteen, maybe.

  “What are you looking at?” he asked.

  “You’re . . . you’re Roger O’Reilly, aren’t you?”

  “Aye. What’s it to you?”

  “Nothing. You just . . . you look like my brother, is all. I’m an O’Reilly as well.”

  “Oh, aye, you’re the one who caused all the trouble with your smuggled camera, are you not?”

  “Just trying to tell the truth.” She kept her gaze steady. “You’re the one who got Miss Wilson fired.”

  “’Twas her own doing, so it was.”

  “Why do you work here, Roger? You come from a family of Republicans.”

  His eyebrows twitched. “How do you—you don’t know what you’re on about.”

  “Don’t I?”

  “What, you think because we have the same surname you know my family?”

  She regarded him silently, struck by the family resemblance. He looked away from her gaze—maybe he could see it, too. It was definitely the young man in the photograph she’d seen at Aunt Margaret’s, the one of her grandfather and his brother laughing, their arms slung around each other. “Is your brother here as well?” Her grandfather had died when she was a little girl, and she could scarcely remember him. The thought of meeting him here filled her with excitement. Might he believe that she was his granddaughter, come from the future?

  “How d’you know about my brother?”

  What was she supposed to say? Mind yourself.

  “I just thought maybe we were distant relations. Both of us being from Belfast and all. I can tell from your accent,” she added hurriedly.

  “Aye, well, I’ve loads of relatives I’ve never met, so I suppose it’s possible. But that doesn’t mean you’ll be getting special treatment, y’hear?”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  Nora was about to ask why Roger had come to Dublin, but then she remembered the date on the back of the photograph at Aunt Margaret’s, and her blood chilled. April 4, 1923. The date of Roger O’Reilly’s death.

  “What’s the date, Roger?”

  “April 1, I reckon. Or April 2, I suppose, seeing as it’s past midnight. Why d’ye ask?”

  “Nothing. I just . . .” She couldn’t take her eyes off him. It was as though she were already seeing a ghost stalking the halls of Kilmainham. On an impulse, she reached out and laid her hand on his arm.

  He jerked away. “Houl on! What are you playing at?”

  “Nothing,” she said quickly, drawing away. “I just . . . I’m sorry.” She ran back to the altar, pressing the rosary beads into her chest. Should she warn him? Would it even work? Or would he, like Mrs. Gillies and Mrs. Humphreys, suspect she was not as she seemed? I don’t even know how he dies, let alone where. What if I tell him to stay inside all day, and his house catches on fire? What if I’m the one who causes his death?

  She squeezed her hands together, the beads pressing into her palms. “Holy Father, Mary, Brigid, anyone who is listening, this isn’t what I signed up for. I don’t want this man’s death on my hands. What should I do? What should I do?”

  She stayed at the altar until a voice softly said her name.

  “You’ve gone and done the shift for both of us,” Pidge said, pulling a prison blanket tighter around her shoulders. “Why’d you not wake me?”

  “I planned to, after an hour. I suppose I just got into it.” She checked over her shoulder. Roger was still at his post, watching them.

  “Well, it’s Cis and Una’s turn now. They’re on their way up. C’mon.” They tiptoed together back to their cells, nodding at their replacements on the way. N
ora’s knees ached, and she was shivering.

  “Have time for a talk?” Pidge asked.

  “Aye, o’course.” Pidge followed her into her cell. They sat close together on the mattress, both clutching their candles.

  “I’ve decided I’m going to do it.” Pidge didn’t look at her but stared into the flame in her hands.

  “Join the hunger strikers? Do you really think that will bring about Ireland’s freedom?”

  “All I know for sure is that sitting here doing nothing certainly won’t.”

  Good Lord, was she really willing to die out of sheer stubbornness? “If it’s your freedom we’re talking about, just sign the form, like Dorothy MacKinnon. You’ll be back with your family by nightfall.”

  “And have everyone think I’m a traitor? I’d rather die.”

  “That’s just the problem—you might. Think about your family, for Christ’s sake. Do you think your mother can stand to lose another child?”

  Pidge stood up and crossed to the other side of the cell. She leaned her back against the wall and glared at Nora. “Why are you so against this?”

  “I’m trying to save your life!”

  “Did you even read what I wrote in your autograph book?”

  Nora frowned. “No . . . I’ve not had a chance yet.”

  Pidge went to the door. “Read it. It sums up everything. And if you still can’t understand why I’m doing this, then you’re not who I thought you were.” She opened the door and walked out. Nora heard the cell door on the other side of the corridor open and close.

  Ballix. She grabbed her autograph book and opened it to the first page, where Jo had written:

  Now, Nora, my dear, always be of good cheer,

  And don’t let the ‘Union’ oppress you,

  There are great times ahead when the Slave State is dead,

  And an Irish republic will bless you.

  —Jo O’Mullane, Kilmainham Gaol April 1923

  She turned the page to see Lena’s signature.

  Here’s to the girls in Kilmainham.

  Here’s to the girls on the run.

  Here’s to the girls who are active,

  And to girls who can carry a gun.

  Had Lena, with her blond curls and rosy cheeks, ever carried a gun? Had she ever taken a life?

  She turned the page again.

  The date was neatly written in the top corner, underneath the words Kilmainham Gaol. Delicate scrolls and knots wove their way around the outer border of the page. In the center was written, in a curving, delicate hand:

  Far better the grave of a rebel, without cross, without stone, without name,

  Than a treaty with treacherous England that can only bring sorrow and shame.

  “Those aren’t the only two choices,” Nora whispered to the empty cell. She lay down on her mattress, with the autograph book splayed open on her chest. She’d told Pidge she’d think of something else, something that wouldn’t put her life at risk. Pidge’s life . . . Roger’s life . . . how many more would be put in her hands? Would death follow her everywhere she went?

  At least she could do something about one of them. She picked up her candle and returned to the altar. Two girls were kneeling beside it, their hands busy with their rosaries. As before, Roger stood a way off, in the shadows, watching. She hesitated, remembering the OC’s suspicions, which would surely be confirmed if she were seen talking to the guard. But if the alternative was letting him die . . .

  She marched over to him. “I need to talk to you.”

  “What are you doing back here? You’re supposed to be in your cell.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Listen, I know what I’m going to say will sound crazy. But while I was praying, I had this . . . strong premonition about you.”

  He took a step back. “About me?”

  “Aye, just hear me out. It’s going to sound—well, here it is . . . I had this feeling that you’re going to, well, die. In three days’ time.”

  “What are you on about? Is your head cut?” The girls at the altar glanced back at them.

  Nora kept her voice low. “I told you it would sound crazy, but I’m quite serious. On April 4, you’re supposed to die.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “No, it’s nothing like that! Believe me, this doesn’t have anything to do with the war or which political side you support. It was just a sense I got. When I was praying. Do you pray?”

  “O’course I pray,” Roger muttered. “But I don’t have no feelings about people dyin’.”

  “Neither do I, usually. And I wasn’t going to say anything. But it didn’t seem right to keep that from you. I’d want to know, if it were me.”

  “You’re off your head. Go on with you, or I’ll report this to the matron, so I will.”

  “Fine. I’m going. All I know is what God showed me. And I don’t know what you can do to stop it. Or if you even can. But I’d at least try if I were you.”

  “Get on with ye!”

  Nora turned and hurried down the staircase. Maybe it would do nothing, but at least she’d followed her conscience. Besides, this was an important test. In three days she’d know for certain if the past really could be changed.

  She lay awake in bed, her mind racing with questions about Roger and his coming fate.

  Then a sudden realization struck her.

  Roger O’Reilly wasn’t the only man who was meant to die in the coming days.

  “Liam Lynch,” she whispered into the darkness. “April 10.”

  It was April 10, she was sure of it. Her Provo mates had made a big deal out of it when the Good Friday Agreement was signed on the exact anniversary of Lynch’s death. “Like spitting on the grave of one of Ireland’s greatest heroes,” one of them had said.

  She sat up and stared at the lone flame flickering on the floor beside her. Those same friends claimed Lynch’s death had effectively ended the Civil War. He’d been shot by the Free State Army during a skirmish in the countryside. The Staters hadn’t even known they’d shot the chief of staff of the IRA until he told them who he was. They took him to a hospital, but it was too late. Without their leader, the IRA had lost its nerve and surrendered to the Free State, leaving the six counties of Northern Ireland to fend for themselves.

  This was it. This would be so much bigger than a propaganda coup, so much bigger than saving a single man’s life.

  If she could save Liam Lynch, the IRA would fight on. They wouldn’t give up until the treaty was rejected. There would be no surrender.

  Chapter Eighteen

  To Nora’s dismay, Pidge announced her decision to the prison matron and a crowd of fellow prisoners the next morning. She told them she planned to stay in her cell for as long as possible, only moving to the hospital room when her condition required it. She pledged to let no food cross her mouth until she was a free woman.

  As soon as they were alone, Nora tried again to talk her out of it. Pidge was adamant, and Nora reluctantly dropped it. Pidge was a grown woman, entitled to her own mistakes. And she’d need support, not censure, if she were to survive this ordeal. Nora just hoped the authorities would cave and release her sooner than later.

  At mealtimes, Pidge shut herself into her cold cell, so as not to be tempted, she said. Jo and some of the others who’d been on strike before gave her advice on dealing with the cravings—and the pain—that accompanied the first few days.

  “The first days are the worst,” Jo said. “Try to keep busy for as long as you can, and whatever you do, don’t let your mind dwell on food.”

  Nora passed the news on to a stricken Mrs. Gillies from the third-floor window. A letter arrived for Pidge the next day, begging her to reconsider. Pidge set the letter on fire.

  April 4 arrived. The day of Roger O’Reilly’s death. Nora spent the day in nervous anticipation. If she had successfully changed Roger’s fate, that meant she could change Lynch’s as well. He wasn’t stationed by the front doors as usual. Nor was he in the exercise yard when the
women were allowed out for their rounders game. Nora began to pace around the halls of the jail. His red hair and gangly form were conspicuously absent. At noon she joined Pidge in her fast, her stomach too tight to eat. At dinner, she had a few spoonfuls of potatoes and onions but could not sit still long enough to finish her bowl. She went on another circuit around the East Wing, walking up and down the stairs and returning repeatedly to the altar.

  She’d mercifully been moved to a midday prayer shift. It was hard enough on her, Mrs. Humphreys said, to have her closest friend on hunger strike. That same afternoon she and Pidge were moved to Dorothy MacKinnon’s old cell in the East Wing. Nora was grateful for the shared quarters. It would be easier to keep an eye on Pidge this way.

  By the time night fell, Nora succumbed to exhaustion and curled up under her blanket. But sleep would not come. Had Roger merely taken her advice and stayed home . . . or was he dead? If so, how had it happened? Had he thought of her warning as he lay bleeding out from a bullet wound or a mangled leg? She tried to tell herself that she’d done everything she could, that if he’d believed her he might still be alive . . .

  But as the day wore on, her feeling of dread grew. Perhaps Ireland was set on a tragic course from which it could not be derailed.

  No, it had to be possible. Even being here had changed the future for some. Frankie Halpin. Pidge. Thomas. She cringed into her pillow. Yes, she’d probably saved Frankie Halpin’s life, but what of the Gillies family? What of Thomas? They were worse off now than before she’d met them.

  She drifted to sleep, haunted by thoughts of Roger O’Reilly’s face, bloodied and still . . . who then became Frankie Halpin . . . who then became Eamon . . .

  The morning brought gray light through the bars of her window. Another day of uncertainty. Pidge was tight in a ball on her mattress, arms wrapped around her knees. Nora knelt beside her and rubbed her back.