On the Brinks

by Sam Millar

  It had been more than four years since I last saw myself in a mirror. My vanity refused to allow me a look in that mirror, knowing it would be a stranger staring back, an old battered stranger who would question the sanity of it all.

  All the while, the hunger strike continued.

  You are perpetually conscious, as you sit in the “comfort” and darkness of your cell, of the man a few feet from you who is slowly and painfully dying. You have prayed so hard that the blue of your mind becomes an accusing leather screen of condign sulphur, questioning your very existence: why aren’t you on hunger strike, suffering with the rest?

  And the more you scream for it to leave you alone, the more it torments, until you finally tell it you lack the courage, that you could not go without food for a few days, let alone weeks; that you have read books on the suffering the body and mind must endure, as the skin shrinks to fit the perfect skeleton, its bones as brittle as baked chalk; that you shudder at the thoughts of migraines so violent they bite through your skull, piercing your eyes. Then come the blackouts, blindness and coma. Finally, death.

  I shuddered in the darkness, a coward hiding from myself, as each day brought the hunger strikers closer to death. The shrill voice of Thatcher squealed like fingernails clawing a blackboard.

  The screws, for their part, placed great plates full of Irish stew and other delights outside the cell of each hunger striker, in a sick and feeble attempt to torture them into eating. The aroma filled each cell in an appetising mist, competing against the natural groans of an empty stomach. The mist was fanned into the cell, just to make sure each hunger striker got the message. This would be followed with a screw’s loud voice: “Good man! That’s the way! Get tucked in. There’s more where that came from.”

  The fact that each hunger striker refused even to acknowledge these pathetic and sadistic manoeuvres sent the screws into a rage. They carried empty lockers ghoulishly by them, saying, it won’t be long before we’re burying you in this. Despite this provocation, we remained disciplined. The psychology was reversed, as the screws were let know that they would be the next to go should any of the men die.

  Then the strangest of things happened. Something so perfectly timed, it made you wonder about fate, and about whether perhaps – just perhaps – there might be a God, after all.

  When Frank Maguire, MP for Fermanagh/Tyrone, died, it came as a great shock to all the POWs. We had lost not just a friend, but also a voice that had consistently highlighted the ill-treatment meted out to us by the British Government and the screws. His death brought our morale down another notch. It was the lowest we had ever reached.

  Then, just as in life, Frank once again helped us out.

  “Bobby should run for Frank’s vacated seat,” suggested someone, whose arse was obviously out the window. A ludicrous suggestion. Hadn’t we discouraged our own people from participating in any elections run by the British? And how could we compete against the well-oiled propaganda machine of the British State? Plus, there was always the trap-fall that if Bobby did stand and received a low number of votes, it would hand the British Government a big stick to beat us with. They would proclaim that the low vote proved the prisoners had no support.

  Despite all of this, there was no alternative but to try.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Tragedy

  TUESDAY, 5 MAY 1981

  Our torments also may in length of time Become our elements.

  Milton, Paradise Lost

  Cast your mind on other days That we in coming days may be Still the indomitable Irishry.

  Yeats, “Under Ben Bulben”

  The days prior to the election became soul-destroying. The British tried desperately to have Bobby’s name removed from the ballet paper. The Catholic Church, through their slavish priests, informed us that: ‘No one would vote for Bobby Sands.’ It was truly comforting to know that the British Government and Catholic Church were not only singing from the same hymn book, but soiling the same pair of pants.

  If we could only get a respectable portion of the votes cast, that in itself would be a significant victory for us.

  Quietness enveloped the Blocks as we waited on the result from our clandestine radio. The OC forewarned us that under no circumstance were we to give any impression of knowing the result, for fear of losing the radio, a lifeline that he kept for news bulletins. His orders were clear: irrespective of the outcome, bite your tongue.

  And we probably would have, if not for the fact that not only did Bobby do well, he topped the poll, becoming the new MP for Fermanagh/Tyrone.

  We screamed, we cried, we banged the doors until we could bang no more. We had won. We were floating, and nothing on this Earth could bring us down. It was all over bar the shouting. We hugged each other. No one would have to die. We could live like human beings again.

  The Human Wart looked suicidal. The Preacher was speechless. The Volunteer could barely conceal his grin. Everything was falling into place.

  “The light is at the end of the tunnel, Finbar. Can you believe it after all these years?” said JCB, ecstatic and giggling like a school kid. “I could be home this time next year.”

  “Light at the end of the tunnel, JCB?” said Finbar sarcastically. “The tunnel hasn’t even been built yet for any light to emerge.”

  “It’s over, Finbar. Admit it, mate,” I said, coming to JCB’s defence. “Even fucking Thatcher isn’t devious or stupid enough to allow an elected MP to die. So lighten up. Don’t put a damper on it.”

  He was silent for a moment, then asked: “How long’ve ye been on the Blanket, Sam?”

  “You know the answer to that,” I said. “Same as yourself. Over four years. Why?”

  “Oh, just thought the way ye were talkin’, it was only four days. Ye know the Brits as well as I do, what they’re capable of.”

  I can’t let him get to me. He’s simply winding me up …

  “Okay, Finbar. Whatever you say. You win.”

  The tragedy being, of course, that he was right.

  The British Government contemptuously dismissed the result, claiming it didn’t change a thing. So much for democracy! And in a last ditch effort to save face – its own, of course – the Church sent in a confederacy of dunces to “negotiate” an end to the hunger strikes. They explained what we might get, what we probably could get, but never what we would get. All they produced was a rehash of the document that ended the first hunger strike in such acrimonious ambiguity. They were not the slightest bit embarrassed by their mendacity. Perhaps, had they advanced such concern years ago, we would not have been in such dire straits now. It was all too little too late.

  It was early Tuesday morning, the fifth of May, when a small tapping sound could be heard coming down the pipe. It sounded like a heartbeat. We were not unprepared for what it meant, but it still came as a shock when the news of Bobby’s death filtered through.

  * * *

  ‘When I was sixteen … IRA hunger strikers died, including Bobby Sands … these were kids who were about my age who were literally dying for a political cause that they believed in. I was looking around me, and we had some kids who were trying to lose weight to make the wrestling team and others who were focused on the homecoming stuff. That was the time I thought beyond the walls of my high school and the culture that gets drilled into you.’

  Tom Morello, guitarist, Rage Against The Machine

  Over 100,000 people attended Bobby’s funeral. The last words in his prison diary spoke for us all: Ní bhrisfidh siad mé mar tá an fonn saoirse, agus saoirse mhuintir na hÉireann i mo chroí. Tiocfaidh lá eigin nuair a bheidh an fonn saoirse seo le taispeáint ag daoine go léir na hÉireann ansin tchífidh muid éirí na gealaí. (They won’t break me because the desire for freedom, and the freedom of the Irish people, is in my heart. The day will dawn when all the people of Ireland will have the desire for freedom to show. It is then that we will see the rising of the moon.)

  Nine more men would follow Bobby, each
enduring a horrific death by starvation.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Catch 22

  WINTER 1982

  We are not saints, but we have kept our appointment. How many people can boast of that?

  Beckett, Waiting for Godot

  Is a dream a lie if it don’t come true, Or is it something worse?

  Bruce Springsteen, “The River”

  “It’s difficult getting used to wearing shoes again after all these years, isn’t it, Sam?” said Finbar, answering his own question.

  We were walking at a steady pace around the yard, trying to break in our shoes, which felt like planks of wood, or clogs with tiny nails in them. Our feet seemed to balloon the further we walked.

  Months had now slipped by since the ending of the hunger strike, which had taken the lives of the ten prisoners. The Brits had conceded some basic rights to us: we wore our own clothes instead of prison garb; we had access to newspapers, books and writing materials; and we could now take an hour of exercise walking the yard. But the crux – not doing prison work – still remained unresolved.

  Overhead, clouds rolled in, releasing small gumdrops that tasted like new leather on my tongue. An addictive percussion after all these years of drought. Men ran for shelter, but I could only stare at my cell from a distance and picture my face, a silent scream, squeezed between the bars, year after year. It was horrible to assimilate, but it burned in my head, branding forever the enduring chill of an unassailable belief in a moment that time could not conquer.

  Rumours. Chassis without foundation. Prisoners thrive on them. We heard so many over the years, you’d think we’d be immune to them. But no, not us. Our first response was always: Is that genuine? That’d be brilliant. Are ye sure, now? No fuckin’ about?

  We always fell for it, even when we knew how impossible it sounded, just like me telling everyone it would all be over by Christmas all those years ago. So this latest one was no exception, plus it was feasible.

  After the hunger strike ended, one of the concessions made to us was the implementation of lost remission. It all sounded good in theory, except that, like all British agreements, it had a Catch 22. To be granted the remission we would have to do prison work. After three months of towing the line, lost remission would be restored. In my own case, for example, if I were to work for three months, I would be released at the end of that three months, instead of serving the two-and-a-half years that remained on my illegal sentence.

  It was tempting, of course, and the Brits knew this. It was the old divide-and-conquer trick. But if I had not come on the Blanket in the first place, I would have been home almost three years ago. No welcoming committee in the reception; no nakedness, degradation, humiliation; no strip searching, anal-probing mirror searches; no wing-shifts, forced washing or horrendous beatings.

  Fuck it, I thought. Two-and-a-half to go. No problem.

  More days, weeks, months and years of wing-shifts, of beatings. Deep in my heart, I knew I would be free some day. I dreamed constantly of it, night and day, like an adventure game, clutching it in my fists, burning it into my consciousness for all time.

  Little did I know then, what an adventure I was in for when, years later, freedom did eventually come.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  The Real Great Escape, Minus Steve McQueen

  AUTUMN 1983

  Chance and uncertainty are two of the most common and most important elements in warfare.

  Clausewitz, On War

  A week before the date of the escape there were still six men protesting and who refused to end it. They were all serving long sentences and saw the protest as the only way of expressing themselves effectively. It was a big step for them to end it.

  Derek Dunne, Out of the Maze

  “Why the hell are the six of youse continuing with this protest?”

  The question the screws, the Brits and the Church had asked all these years was now being asked by an unlikely source: The OC of the H-Blocks. Veins protruded from his forehead as his face alternated from crimson to purple.

  “Ye’re gonna have a heart attack if you don’t calm down,” said Blute, his enormous bulk dwarfing the moaning chair he sat on.

  Months had passed since the official protest had ended, leaving myself and five others on a de facto protest of our own.

  “The Movement should be priority in your actions,” continued the OC, ignoring Blute’s advice. “Not some emotional – no matter how well intended – protest that can only help fuel dissension, when what we need most is to be able to move as one.” He sucked in his breath, then released it slowly. His speech wasn’t having the effect he had hoped for. “This has been a traumatic protest for us all. Everyone has suffered. The lads who died were all friends of ours. But we’ve got to build on that – and quickly. We need complete unity on this, and I’m askin’ youse to reconsider and do what’s best. Even if humble pie has to be swallowed …”

  No one was listening any longer. We had heard it all before, weekly at first, now daily. Our minds were made up. Our volition was solid. We weren’t for turning. No matter what.

  The OC gazed out the window, shook his head in bewilderment, then sat down wearily. He was drained, as if arguing with us had become too much.

  “Okay,” he said, more to himself than us. “Only two people in the Block know what I’m about to tell youse, and God help any of youse if ye open yer mouths.” He leaned forward from the chair, and whispered so low I could barely hear.

  The greatest escape in Irish history was coming, like an unstoppable train of steel and courage. No one could stop its determination or its destination. No one. Not the British, not the screws.

  It was then the six of us made the decision: we would be more than proud to facilitate it.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Unfinished Business

  25 SEPTEMBER 1983

  The hour of departure has arrived and we go our ways – I to die and you to live. Which is the better, only God knows.

  Socrates, quoted in Plato’s Apology

  We’re all of us sentenced to solitary confinement inside our own skins, for life!

  Tennessee Williams, Orpheus Descending

  Our day had finally come. The Circle was a scene of organised chaos. Prisoners – those going on the escape – ran in all directions. Some wore the uniforms of screws, who were now tied up and bundled in one room. Outside the control room, the body of a screw lay like a beached whale, blood oozing from a head wound. He had refused to hand over the keys when asked to do so by a volunteer. His brave or foolish action earned him the predictable bullet to the head.

  A group of prisoners surrounded the wounded man, offering words of encouragement that he wasn’t going to die, as they attempted to curtail the flow of blood.

  I was angry that they would be concerned about any screw after what we had been through. But my initial thoughts changed as I reflected that it could be the Volunteer, or some other screw who had helped us in the past.

  As I edged closer, the remorse in me quickly changed to euphoria. It was none other than the Human Wart.

  The eidetic images of his hangman’s noose tied to the penis, then pulled; his grubby sausage-like fingers probing rectums of naked men; his urinating into the mouths of sleeping prisoners; these would haunt me forever. No, I decided, if there truly was a God, then the Human Wart should survive. But only as a vegetable, locked in his cocoon of perversity. No man had it coming to him like the Human Wart. Quid pro quo had been a long time coming, but now that it had arrived I would savour it for as long as possible. Not since Fletcher Christian beat the fuck out of Captain Bligh with the cat o’ nine tails had justice been so sweet.

  Everything seemed to be going like clockwork. All the main goals in the Block had been achieved. All that remained was the arrival of the Happy Wagon. It wouldn’t be long …

  “It’s comin’! The Happy Wagon’s comin’!” shouted a volunteer.

  “Get this mess cleaned!” ordered th
e OC. “Youse two? Help the MO move the Wart. The rest of ye men go about yer business as screws. Don’t fuck up.”

  The last three words were a command as well as a plea. Everything was riding on normality, or the semblance of it.

  The driver of the Happy Wagon nodded to the screw – a disguised prisoner – at the gate as it opened, allowing him access. Nothing was out of place. Perfect. Come into my parlour, said the spider to the fly.

  “How’re things?” asked the driver, but the answer he received wasn’t the one he was expecting.

  “See what happens to heroes?” said the prisoner to the driver, suddenly producing a gun and placing it to the driver’s head.

  The driver had walked into the nightmare that all screws dread: prisoners taking over, holding hostages. This was worse than a nightmare, because it was real. And the fact that a fellow guard was dying or dead on the floor made it all the more tangible.

  The driver simply nodded like a zombie. He felt faint. He needed to go to the toilet. Had he ever verbally abused these men? Would they blame him for the crap that lousy cook called food? He was only the driver, surely they understood that? I always did my best to make sure the crap was warm. That bastard of a cook! He’s the one who should be here, not me. It isn’t fair! Why did it have to be me, dear God?

  “Ye’re gonna drive us through each gate, nice and calm. Do ye understand?”

  The driver nodded. His tongue had disappeared. He needed to take a shit.