On the Brinks

by Sam Millar

  As we were herded in, a welcoming party of Royal Marine Commandos welcomed us with their usual friendly banquet. For hors d’oeuvre we had punches, hair grabbing and verbal insults. Le plat principal consisted of batons, boots and bloody fists du jour. And finally, for le dessert we finished with some divine, backbreaking press-ups, of which our hosts insisted upon us finishing every last one, despite our protestations.

  Six hours later, fait accompli, the Marine Commandos departed, all in high spirits and singing various British conquest songs of old. Our spirits, however, weren’t high, and we had to forego any singing. Instead, we quickly set about trying to build some makeshift shelter from the freezing night ahead. Unfortunately for us, we had gone a bit crazy when burning the cage. Perhaps, after all, the OC really did tell us to ‘set the place ablaze, and leave no stone upon another …’

  While other cages still had some sort of structural value left, ours had gone belly-up and bankrupt. The Marine Commandos had bulldozed what was left into one giant heap of bricks and mangled metal: a modern pyramid of nothingness.

  As we all looked at the scene in shock and awe, suddenly the heavens opened in a deluge so heavy the rain literally took our breaths away with its power. With nowhere to run or take shelter, we huddled close together – though not too close, being macho and all that. On the plus side, it did help to wash the remnants of gas from us.

  An afterthought

  after an aftermath

  For months, we were kept in horrendous conditions, with little or no shelter to shield us from wintry onslaughts. Food was meagre, one bowl of porridge in the morning, and a bowl of stew at night. On rare occasions, some bread was handed out. If you were a sparrow, the amount would have burst your feathered belly. Unfortunately, we weren’t sparrows.

  On a more serious note, many of these ex-prisoners, disproportionately to their age group, have since died from, or developed, cancer. The gas that was used turned out to be CR gas (Dibenzoxazepine), rather than CS. CR gas, ten times more powerful than CS, was developed in the fifties in Britain. A heavy carcinogenic agent and distributor, most civilised countries have banned it. Some, however, still use it to suppress and oppress. In the late 1980s, CR was used in the townships in South Africa, causing fatalities, particularly among children. Thousands of tons of CR gas were used by the US forces in Vietnam to bring the Viet Cong into the open, rather than fight them in the jungles. North Vietnamese forces also used it in 1968, and during the Easter Offensive in 1972, and Bashar Assad’s regime has allegedly used it in the current conflict in Syria.

  Despite all our hardship, morale remained high. Evidently, we had caused millions of pounds worth of damage, but more importantly had taken on the full force of the Establishment, head-to-head, in what would become the definitive kickstarter of the conflict on the outside. The British may have won the physical battle of Long Kesh, but we had won the all-important psychological war. Scenes of the Kesh burning nightly on TV, brought recruitment for the IRA to an all-time high. So much so, in fact, that would-be volunteers had to be turned away.

  Finally, after long, brutal winter months of sleeping on the ground with little covering, we were shipped to a new cage. I was never so glad to be inside one: hot showers, electricity, warm beds, clean sheets, the chance to catch up with Norman Stanley Fletcher in “Porridge” and, even more importantly, Pan’s People on “Top of The Pops”.

  Some things just never change. Or so we thought …

  Behind our cage, workmen began building an enormous Berlin Wall copy, eighteen feet in height and smothered in razor wire. Initially, we simply regarded it as a tightening of security, an inevitable consequence of The Burning.

  However, rumours started circulating that behind the wall a new prison was being built, to contain political prisoners. The rumours eventually proved false. Not just one prison was being built, but eight. Prisons within a prison, so to speak, like Russian matryoshka dolls. Each prison would consist of four wings, with each wing containing twenty-five cells. Most important to the British Government was that the new prison would be escape-proof, designed by their top escape-proofing engineers. A name had even been given to these impossible-to-escape-from prisons, making them sound sinister, like something from a concentration camp: H-Blocks.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Return of the Native

  1975

  When one man says no … Rome trembles.

  Spartacus

  I was called a terrorist yesterday, but when I came out of jail, many people embraced me, including my enemies, and that is what I normally tell other people who say those who are struggling for liberation in their country are terrorists. I tell them that I was also a terrorist yesterday, but, today, I am admired by the very people who said I was one.

  Nelson Mandela, “Larry King Live”

  I was released eventually in 1975, a changed person. Never one for modern-day politics or history, I had consumed both insatiably in the Kesh. The education that I had been denied on the street eventually filtered down to me via other prisoners, some with university degrees.

  Secretly, I wanted revenge for having been put in the Kesh simply for being Irish. If the British had the audacity to imprison me in my own country, for no other reason than being a nationalist from a republican background, then I may as well make it worthwhile. Payback would be a bastard. I would become a thorn in the side of the British Government, and teach the fuckers some manners.

  Unfortunately for me, the British very quickly took that thorn out, and shoved it right up my arse, sentencing me to ten years of incarceration for allegedly having guns and explosives.

  I was on my way back to my old alma mater, Long Kesh, the place where men made rules but rarely obeyed them. A place where, sometimes, men could change the course of history …

  The van’s wipers scythed the windscreen, leaving iridescent ellipses in their wake as I peered tentatively through the grilled windows. In the oblique distance, the chalky headlights swathed silhouettes of starving trees and serpentine hedges, transforming them into a Gothic vignette. I could only steal a quick, last glance at freedom before the ponderous gates of Long Kesh slammed thunderously behind us, making the van quiver.

  The old Nissen huts were now mostly replaced with what would eventually become notorious around the world for mistreatment of political prisoners: The H-Blocks.

  They were the jewels of the British Government’s doomed-to-failure “normalisation” policy; a policy they hoped would prove to the world that everything was honky-dory on this wee piece of earth, that all the brutality and discrimination you might hear about were just figments of the imagination.

  “Out!” a gruff voice shouted, and out we tumbled, myself and two loyalist prisoners, into the incandescent glare of the Reception, where we were quickly herded into tiny, solo cubicles. The doors – standing in an uneven wave, de-crucified by time and wear – quickly slammed shut behind us, their bolts shooting into place. The bolts sounded like old .303 rifles being cocked, and I had no doubt in my mind that the screw at the other side of the door would have loved to have had one of those in his hands at that moment.

  The narratives on the walls of the cubicle kept reminding me of something I no longer wanted to remember, but, like a long-lost diary, you simply had to turn the page.

  After a few minutes, the door suddenly opened, causing the light to bleach my eyes.

  “Here ye go! Strip! Put this on! We don’t have all fuckin’ night!” said a voice, before slamming the door violently.

  Resting at my feet, like a dirty pool of water, was a brown prison uniform, or gear, as the political prisoners called it.

  On the wall to my left, someone had scrawled: “You’ll have to nail the gear to my back!”

  A nice act of defiance, I thought, but in all honesty it did little to steel me. My heart had not stopped banging in my chest, causing white sparks to dance in front of my eyes.

  The door flung open and once again my eyes stung. My stomach l
urched like a trap door.

  “What the fuck’s wrong with ye?” said the screw. He was the size of nothing divided by something, and his oversized hat kept falling over his bloodshot eyes. His breath stank of last night’s whiskey. “Didn’t I tell ye to strip and put the uniform on?”

  I had perfected my speech in my head, reiterating it each night on my bunk in Crumlin Road Gaol. Now that it was time for the main event, my throat had turned arid.

  “I …” My stomach started churning, causing purgative acid to ferment in my bowels. I needed to take a shit. “I refuse to … wear … the … gear.” There! I’d said it! God, I’d said it!

  Just like magic, a great weight eased from me, even though, in my heart, I knew what was coming next.

  The screw stared at me in disbelief, as if he had been struck by lightning. He blinked a couple of times, then slammed the door, leaving the smell of shirt starch floating in the air. It made me think of Dad dressed for a Saturday night, and it made me feel so terribly alone and, yet, afraid to be afraid.

  From inside my cubicle, I could hear the muffled best-of-mates laughter from the loyalist prisoners and screws, the sound fading as they boarded a van for one of the Blocks. I could even hear the van’s fat tyres crunching on the expanse of gravel, then fading to an echo. Then silence.

  Suddenly, the Reception became as eerie as a tomb, and my nerves began to play havoc with my mind. Like a fox, waiting in the dark.

  Anticipation. Silence. Of course, I thought, almost smiling. I knew from experience that a perfect measure of silence had the potent power to be as terrifying as the actuality. This was all part of the meltdown procedure. Dehumanising the senses.

  When the door opened this time, the screw was no longer alone.

  “This is yer last chance, Millar. Put the fuckin’ uniform on now!”

  Defiantly, I crossed my arms, taut as springs, and waited for the inevitable.

  It wasn’t long coming.

  The plus side of being attacked in such close confines is that your attackers usually do as much damage to themselves as they do to you.

  “All right now, wee hard man? Bet yer fuckin’ ma and da would be proud of ye layin’ there, bollock-naked. We should take a photo of ye and send it to ’em, ye Fenian bastard!”

  It had only taken them a matter of minutes to literally rip my clothes from my back and give me a “jolly good” kicking into the bargain. Two of the screws lay on top of me, sweating and heaving, cursing and threatening. When they got their breath back, I was jerked up by the hair and pulled to my feet.

  “I’m not going anywhere naked. No matter what you or –”

  I was kicked in the balls, and collapsed immediately to the floor, vomiting. Seconds later, I was being dragged outside into the yard, like a chariot in Ben-Hur. The rough tarmac surface was flaying my skin, embedding it with tiny pebbles. A few more kicks were administered to my balls and head.

  “Take ’im to Block One. They’ll sort ’is wagon out for ’im,” said a screw with an English accent.

  It was Friday night. I should be in the Star club, drinking a pint and listening to a terrible band doing terrible impressions of Fleetwood Mac. Instead, I was bollock-naked, my arse tattooed with tarmac buckshot, and my balls a wicked magenta.

  And I still hadn’t reached the Block. Fuck, this was going to be a very long day’s journey into night.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The Nightmare Journey Begins

  SEPTEMBER 1976

  The English have a divine right to fight the Irish on their native soil, but every Irish man fighting against the British government is to be treated as an outlaw.

  Karl Marx

  I will not make any deals with you. I will not be pushed, filed, stamped, indexed, briefed, debriefed or numbered. My life is my own.

  Patrick McGoohan, The Prisoner

  The contiguous bone-coloured cells, their starkness augmented by a dark-blue sky, came into view as I descended from the van. A salient moon floated merrily above, its devious grin belying the madness at its feet. It was a fat moon, and reminded me of an Auguste Rodin nude – just like myself at this moment in time.

  In the corner of my vision, a tiny red nipple faded in and out amongst the shadows, like an SOS beacon. A screw, his face sheltered from the chill, had ensconced himself in a corner as he sucked on a cigarette. A village of discarded butts lay about his feet like spent ammo shells. He could have been Clint Eastwood in Hang ’em High.

  For a second, I thought he shook his head at me, as if questioning my sanity. But it was probably just the moon playing games.

  “Go on! Git yer bare Fenian arse in there!” screamed the screw in the van.

  “Take it easy, for fuck’s sake!” I shouted back.

  “Shutdafackup and git in!”

  I took a deep breath; entered.

  The astringent smell of polish was overpowering as I entered the Circle – the hub of the Block. The floor was constantly polished, buffed and shined, giving it the colour of horse-eye ebony and the smoothness of oil on water. The surreal feeling of being on a giant mirror flashed into my mind.

  An orderly – a non-political prisoner – was buffing the floor. He stared at me for a second before continuing his mindless task, as if naked prisoners were the norm in this hellish place.

  The screw knocked on a door. A voice said, “Enter,” and I was shoved forcibly into a room. Four screws, dripping with cheap aftershave, flanked me.

  At his desk, pretending to write, sat the so-called PO. His eyes strolled leisurely along a yellow pad, discerning imaginary mistakes, which he noted with invisible ink.

  His hair was the colour of damp straw; a sore-looking, ruddy complexion evoked habitual scrubbing of the sour face, as did his bleached shirt. Tiny bars of brass rested on his solid shoulders, completing the propaganda poster.

  After what seemed an eternity, he finally placed the pen down and nodded to the screw.

  “Number 606, Millar, Sir!” barked the screw behind me, into my left ear. “Refuses to obey a direct order, Sir! Refuses to wear his uniform, Sir!”

  Straw Head placed his fingers under his chin.

  “Is that correct, Millar?” Straw Head said.

  “More or less,” I answered.

  “More or less, Sir!” screamed the screw, into my right ear this time. “Ye’ll address the Principle Officer and all members of staff as Sir, Millar!”

  Sir Millar? I thought. That has a certain ring to it.

  Straw Head tilted forward and removed an orange from his desk. Deliberately, he nipped its skin, tunnelling under it with his finger. Citrus engulfed the room as he tore the orange in two.

  “I remember ye,” he said, nodding. “Crumlin Road. Seventy-three. Remember me?”

  There was hate in his eyes; not his own hate, but an ancestral, genetically gifted hate, anchored in memory.

  Yes, I remembered. His name was Docky Fada, and in those days he held no rank. He was as quiet as a mouse, never looking you in the eye, galvanised by his own shadow. Now here he was, all brass and bogus toughness.

  He picked up his pen and tapped his finger with it. “Different days now, eh?” he said, his left eyebrow forming a hairy question mark. “No more special status. No more ridiculous scenarios of inmates having the audacity to tell staff what to do. Now the tables are turned. The shoe is on the other foot, Millar. Better get used to it.”

  “Whatever you say,” I said.

  “Sir!” screamed the screaming screw behind me. “Ye’ll address the Principle Officer at all times as –”

  “It’s okay, Officer Wilson. Time is on our side. A few weeks of solitary confinement will teach Millar some respect,” Docky said, grinning. “Ye realise, of course, that each day that ye refuse to wear the uniform and go to work, will result in loss of remission and all privileges? Think about that in yer cell, tonight.”

  Somewhere in the night, sounds gathered force: the drone of a military helicopter slicing the air, drowning out
the anxious call of a lost bird, and the lonely lament of rain beating on the windows.

  “I can tell ye’re no longer listening, Millar,” Docky said. “Very well. But let me make one thing clear. If ye fuck with my staff, ye fuck with me. I don’t tolerate disrespect. The rules are simple: when a member of staff, governor or myself come to your cell, ye’ll stand to attention. Our maxim is: key in the door – foot on the floor. Understand?”

  I ignored his question, simply eyeballing him with disdain.

  Eventually, he made a motion to dismiss me, but stopped. “Where did ye acquire those cuts and bruises?”

  I remained silent, but the screw behind me boomed: “Sir! 606, Millar, acquired said cuts and bruises when he slipped on the slick step of the van. We advised 606, Millar, to wear his uniform so as to at least shelter himself from the elements. Our advice was ignored by 606, Millar, Sir!”

  Docky nodded, satisfied with said answer, but had some prudent advice before dismissing me.

  “See the doctor in the morning, Millar. Yer balls look like they’re ready to explode.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Bare Soles and Bare Souls

  A great part of the information obtained in war is contradictory, a still greater part is false, and by far the greatest part is of a doubtful character.

  Clausewitz, On War

  This is one thing I love and I admire about the Irish people, you have been underdogs for hundreds of years, people dominating you and ruling you and you can identify with this freedom struggle … I have my own on the other side of the water but we all have the same cause and ideals.

  Muhammad Ali

  Papillary lights, each the size of a baby’s toe, correlated the entire stretch of the wing. A bluish darkness added to the eerie silence, ruined only by the plop plop plopping of my bare feet.