by Sam Millar
“We have a hand grenade, as well as guns. Every man here is a lifer, and has sweet fuck all to lose. Try anythin’ stupid, and we all go up together. Understand?”
Oh, God! A fuckin’ hand grenade! I’m dead. These are maniacs, these fuckin’ Blanket Men. Everyone knows that. I’m dead. That fuckin’ cook bastard!
“Okay, okay! Ye can stop noddin’ yer head,” said the prisoner with the gun. “We get the picture.”
The driver couldn’t stop nodding, and who could blame the poor bastard? I probably would have nodded just as vigorously, under the same circumstances. Perhaps even more so. But everything now hinged on fear being the spur. Had enough of it been put into him, or would he try at the last minute to be another Human Wart?
It was all academic now, as prisoners – including Blute and Goose – piled into the Happy Wagon. As it disappeared slowly down the yard with its precious cargo on board, I wondered if the Happy Wagon would finally live up to its name.
The propulsion of events, coupled with the fact that at any minute screws and armed British soldiers could come storming through the doors, was a great incentive to complete as quickly as possible our scorched-earth policy. Every single thing possible was burned: photos, files, cell cards. Anything to cause confusion.
I couldn’t resist the urge to look in at the screws, tied and stripped to their underwear, all huddled together, fearful for their lives.
Our fear had lasted years. Theirs only minutes. I felt cheated, that their punishment should be so light, and wanted to rectify it. I could so easily have set fire to the room and let God deal with it. The innocent would survive, while the guilty perished.
Small petals of smoke rose from the smouldering documents, as the Human Wart’s blood congealed into a wine-coloured stain, shaped like a question mark. All I wondered was how far the lads in the Happy Wagon had reached, and what must be going through their heads as they stopped at each gate? How on Earth could they get through one gate, let alone sixteen?
About an hour later, our clandestine radio supplied the answer.
“And just to repeat our earlier headline. News of a massive attempted escape from the Maze [Long Kesh] is coming in. Details are still sketchy, but a number of men have been caught …”
I was devastated. All captured. I felt sick. I cursed God. Could He not at the very least grant us one break – a prison break – after all these years? What kind of a God would continue to torment us, after all we had endured?
“… a significant number still at large …”
God forgive me! I knew You were really on our side!
It was instantaneous. The entire Block exploded into one volcanic our-time-has-come-at-fucking-last scream of jubilation. Doors rattled like thunder, furniture banged off walls. The hair on my head stood up, fired with electricity, and I swear my feet floated from the ground.
I stared out the window, watching my smile reflect back at me. We had done the impossible – escaped from the unassailable fortress so loved by Thatcher, boasted of as escape-proof. This was the best revenge. There would be a lot of sick people tonight.
Then they came, converging like insects, covering the entire yard. Screws and the notorious RUC, angry but fearful. Prisoners had guns. Must be careful. They were mad enough without guns, these crazy Blanket Men bastards.
I was amazed at my own calmness. I wanted them to come and see what could never be defeated; to see the faces of the Blanket Men – unfuckingconquered.
The governor was reeling, staggering like a drunken skunk as he entered the Circle, gun in hand. He could not comprehend the anarchy that greeted him – his men tied and stripped to their knickers; a wounded screw; documents turned to ash and congeries.
“Bastards! Someone will pay for this!” he screamed, a wounded dog howling at the moon.
“What do ye reckon, Sam? The news says a couple of screws have been shot,” said Pat.
“We can only hope it’s true, mate,” I replied.
Doors began to open. A governor, accompanied by a PO, a screw and two RUC men, was doing a quick head-count, desperately trying to find out who was gone, who remained. Our little bonfires had done the trick. It would take the enraged governor a while to determine the names of the escapees. The longer the better.
“Are ye fuckin’ deaf, Millar? I said move it!” screamed the screw into my face.
I eased myself slowly off the bed, and as casually as possible walked towards the Circle, now a shadowy vignette of smoke and blood, screws and cops. They all stood sombrely, like Orangemen on the Twelfth.
“Take off yer shoes!” snarled a screw.
“You take them off!” I snarled back.
With the help of a few screws, he did. Next came my jeans, my shirt, my underwear. Other prisoners were going through the same routine. Eventually, we were frogmarched out the door and down the yard, naked. The tiny stones cutting my feet made me think of Bangor beach. But instead of crying gulls, I could hear barking in the distance.
As I entered the gate of the other Block, I could see the dogs, lined in a perfect flank, straining angrily on their handlers’ chains. We were forced to walk through, dogs snapping at our skin. The cold numbed the first nip, but the second and third started to hit home. Then came the bites, making me scream, hating myself for it.
The dogs were now in an uncontrollable frenzy. They bit, snapped and ripped the skin with impunity.
“Bastard! Kicked the dog!” Someone had committed sacrilege. The horror of it.
“Kicking a defenceless creature,” screamed the screws and cops, as they kicked the shit out of the naked man. “That’ll teach ’im, the fucker!”
“An utterly fearless man,” said Melville in Moby Dick, “is a far more dangerous comrade than a coward.” I could only agree with his sentiment as the prisoner continued to ward off the dogs and screws with impotent, barefooted kicks. Each time he went down he came straight back up.
No one escaped the dogs …
* * *
The next day, reports filtered in of how many men had made it to freedom, how many had been captured. In the end, nineteen of our men got clean away. The prison came to a standstill, as the Brits conducted an investigation into how the impossible became possible. Things would never be the same. We knew it. The screws knew it.
Ironically and justifiably, the escape had brought us all the added benefit of no-work being the norm. We could no longer be punished for refusing what was no longer on offer, and within a couple of months I found myself in a van heading to the Reception, heading home. It was déjà vu in reverse. It had been a long and arduous journey, faith genuinely tested but still unconquerable.
“Sign this,” the governor said, holding a piece of paper in his extended hand.
“What is it?” I asked, not touching it, my arms folded defiantly.
“To say you’ll never have guns or explosives in your possession. Sign it if you want to go home.”
“No. I’m signing fuck all.”
His face went as red as a baboon’s arse. The four screws flanking him couldn’t believe their ears.
“You better sign it, Millar,” one of the screws advised.
“Or?”
The screw looked at the governor for guidance.
“Or … or … we’ll keep you here until eight o’clock tonight!” spluttered the governor, smirking with delight. “We have the legal right.”
I almost pissed myself laughing. “You’ll keep me here until eight o’clock tonight?”
“That’s right.”
“You’ve kept me here for over eight long fucking years. Do you think I really give a flying fuck about another few hours?”
His face looked ready to explode.
“Put him back in the cubicle! Keep him until tonight! A few more hours should take the rebel out of him!”
Hurriedly, I was forced back into the cubicle, and the door slammed on my back. I could hear the governor and screws walk away, leaving me in total silence. Suddenly all th
e memories came rushing back, of all those long years ago, battered and naked, waiting to be taken to the Blocks to begin my nightmarish journey. So much suffering; so much death and torture. How the fuck had I – we, the Blanket Men – survived it all?
“Right, Millar. Outside. There’s a van waiting to take ye to the front gate,” said a screw, less than an hour later, opening the door. “The governor’s showing leniency with ye.”
Unbeknown to me, a large gathering of friends, family and neighbours – led by Dad – had gathered outside the prison gates, demanding my immediate release, or there would be trouble.
Just what the governor didn’t need.
Dad and Danny greeted me at the gate. It had been years since I last saw either one of them. Dad said nothing, simply shook my hand and smiled proudly. He left the words for Danny.
“Welcome home, kid.”
* * *
That night, I attended a welcome home party in a local republican club, surrounded by family, friends and neighbours, most of whom I hadn’t seen in years. On my way home from the club, I witnessed a teenager being harassed by the notorious Ulster Defence Regiment. A loyalist paramilitary force used by the British to try and terrorise nationalists into submission, most of the UDR were recruited from the farming community. They were involved in many murders in the North, including the infamous Miami Showband Massacre. Despite the many Catholics they slaughtered, only a handful of UDR members were ever convicted of murder.
The ten heavily armed thugs had set up a roadblock on the Antrim Road, to stop and search nationalists going about their daily routine. Alongside the UDR, their mates in the RUC (now known as the PSNI) hid in the shadows, machine guns pointing menacingly towards nationalists’ homes.
“Why don’t you leave the wee girl alone, and let her head home?” I said, approaching the motley crew. One of the UDR men turned his attention on me. He had longish, unkempt hair, sticking out from beneath a scruffy cap, and hadn’t shaved in weeks.
“Fuck off and mind yer business, ye Fenian bastard,” he said, attempting a threatening snarl. His thick, Ballymena farmer’s accent made the threat laughable, but the rifle he cradled lovingly in his arms prevented me from laughing.
“Fuck away off yourself.” Not a drop of drink in me, righteous anger was making my blood boil uncontrollably. Before either of us could get into a verbal war, one of the cops came over and eyeballed me. He had his thumbs hooked into either side of his bulletproof vest, cap down over the eyes, in a would-be Clint Eastwood style.
“Apologise to the corporal,” the cop said.
“Not a hope.”
He came right up to my face, and hissed: “You think you’re dealing with one of these country lads, hard man?” He indicated with his head towards the UDR milling about the roadblock. “I’ll give you one more chance. Apologise or I’ll arrest you for assault.”
I stood there eyeballing him, not saying a word.
“Right! That’s it,” he said.
And with those words, I was shoved into an armoured Land Rover, taken to Tennent Street Police Station and formally charged with assault. I had been out of a cell less than ten hours, and here I was, inside another one.
A few hours later, Dad arrived on the scene. Even from my cell, I could hear his great voice booming all over the place, tearing into the cops. Finally released, I went home and waited to see what the cops would do next, having been forewarned I would be appearing in court in the next week or so.
Four days later, events took a strange turn. A phalanx of armed cops surrounded my home. I opened the door, and there stood a sergeant, paper in hand. I took it for granted this was a warrant for my arrest, but to my surprise it was the opposite. The charge had been dropped against me, the police wishing to show “leniency”. The truth was, they had come under scrutiny by local media and prisoners’ rights groups, and decided their fabricated nonsense wasn’t worth the hassle of a court case.
While the group of peelers stood there, holding their breaths for my thanks, I could see an arm coming towards me, clutching a letter. It was Martin, our postman, slicing his way through the throng of cops.
“Sam! Letter from the States, mate!” shouted Martin.
He handed me the letter, and I thanked him, before slamming the door on the cops’ faces. I quickly opened the letter, and was amazed at its contents. A cheque for one thousand dollars! It was more money than I had seen in my entire life. The letter was from a group of mates working in New York, telling me to get my arse over to America, pronto. They had a job lined up for me, working in a casino, of all places. Dad looked happier than me – this was my chance to get out, and make a new life for myself.
“You deserve it, son. Forget about this place.”
“I can’t, Dad. There’s no way I’d leave Belfast to live in America, not while the war’s still going on.”
“Don’t you think you’ve done more than your fair share?”
“That’s not the point. I’ve lost too many friends. I can’t turn my back on their memory.”
Dad shook his head. “I’m sure your dead comrades would want you to go. Let someone else do the fighting, for a change.”
“No, my mind’s made up. I can’t do it.”
“At least go for a week’s holiday. Eh? Give your head some peace. You’ll love New York, just like I did when I called into port. Please, son. For me?”
“I can’t, Dad …”
“Please?”
“I … can’t …”
PART TWO
BEAUTIFUL NEW YORK
Practically everybody in New York has half a mind to write a book – and does.
Groucho Marx
Anytime four New Yorkers get into a cab together without arguing, a bank robbery has just taken place.
Johnny Carson
My favorite thing about New York is the people, because I think they’re misunderstood. I don’t think people realize how kind New York people are.
Bill Murray
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Casino
JULY 1984
All who have been famous for their genius … have been inclined to insanity.
Aristotle
Life is a gamble at terrible odds – if it was a bet, you wouldn’t take it.
Tom Stoppard, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead
I was now living in Queens, New York. With me was my girlfriend Bernadette, who had been introduced to me by Dad, in the hope that such a quiet and lovely person would help keep me out of trouble. With over 100 ethnic groups settled there, Queens is the most ethnically diverse, as well as the largest, of the five boroughs that make up New York.
I had finally taken Dad’s advice and gone for a short holiday, telling him I’d see him in a week. Little did I know, but it would be well over a decade before we saw each other again.
In Manhattan, I was training to be a croupier at a local casino. I had come in early, just to get some extra training done, when I decided to take a ten-minute break on the second floor. Cobalt smoke drifted upwards, spiralling before dissipating into the high-rise ceiling. Below me, people clustered around the tables, trying to match luck against skill, skill against luck. Thousands of dollars exchanged hands in the blink of an eye.
I watched, fascinated by the dealers’ prowess, boxer-speed coupled with arithmetical perfection. In Belfast, we called it twenty-one, or pontoon. Here, they called it blackjack.
The card tables were half-moon shaped, covered with lush green and large enough to seat seven customers. There were ten tables, all going full tilt. Behind the seated customers stood more customers, waiting for a seat or jockey-betting – placing their bets alongside those in the seats.
“Where da foick is Nicky!” screamed Bronx Tommy, one of the managers. Money was leaking from the casino at a terrible rate. Nicky was the casino’s best dealer, with a knack for rescuing, but from the way the customers were winning, I thought it more appropriate to call on the help of Saint Jude.
“
Where da foick is he?” Bronx Tommy repeated, his one good eye scanning the entire floor. I was sure he was looking straight at me, so I quickly stepped back, out of sight, just in case he was thinking of getting me involved.
Except for the oohs and ahhs of victory and defeat, blackjack is a quiet and unnerving game, most of the communication done by slight movements of the finger or hand. A finger motion asks for another card, while a slicing motion means the customer will stay with what he or she has. These rules are strictly adhered to. Once the dealer has released a card from the ‘shoe’ – a long Perspex housing unit – it can’t be returned. Therefore, a customer must be wary of getting an itch at the wrong time or waving to a fellow player – an unwanted card can be the punishment.
The casinos were known as after-hours joints in New York City. They were mainly large houses, converted and styled to resemble Atlantic City casinos, albeit on a much smaller scale. What they lacked in size, though, they more than made up for in their cosiness and chic, although that was only part of the reason for their popularity.
The chief reason was taxes. In New York City, the casinos don’t tax winnings. This is not due to some charitable benevolence, but is because all casinos in New York are illegal. One major concern overrides all others: visits from officers of the Public Morals Squad (PMS), a gung-ho group of sledgehammer- carrying cops whose job it is to shut down the ones refusing to give them a cut. These cops always intensified their raids whenever elections were due, to make themselves look good for the local politicians. They would disguise themselves as business people, out-of-towners, or use any camouflage that would blend in, before raiding the clubs, usually between the hours of 8.00 and 1.00 pm, and would leave their calling card in the form of smashed tables and destroyed wall fixtures. What they were really after was quite simple: the same as ourselves – the money.
