This Human Season Page 10

  Dunn saw the man’s arm, badly scarred with burn marks. It looked like a leg of lamb. There was a pile of excrement in the corner of the cell, and some half-hearted markings on the walls. Lavery was cross-legged on his bit of mattress, the blanket about his shoulders, rocking slightly. His eyes were rheumy, his cheeks hollow. He stood up, letting the blanket fall open and spoke up with his eyes distant.

  ‘We are not criminals. We are prisoners of war. These are our five just and right demands. One, the right not to wear prison uniform. Two, the right not to do prison work. Three, the right to associate freely with

  other prisoners. Four, the right to a weekly visit, to a letter and a parcel and the right to organize recreational and educational pursuits. Five,’ he licked his dry lips and carried on, ‘the full restoration of remission lost through protest. These are our five demands.’

  All of a sudden, a resounding cheer filled both wings followed by a chorus of tin-pot banging. The prison officers were obliged to wait for the noise to subside. They flashed looks at each other. Bolton went to speak, but just then, from the cell next to Lavery’s, there was shouting in Irish and then a din started up over at the next block.

  Frig grinned surreptitiously with the unbidden glee of a child whose mother was kicking up a fuss in the grocer’s.

  ‘All right,’ said Bolton squarely. ‘2111 Lavery. You have stated your position. The deputy governor will be round this afternoon to charge you. Close the cell door, Campbell. Well that was a new one on me, Mr Dunn.’ Bolton put his back to Campbell who was agitating to put across his own view.

  In the next cell, both prisoners were standing. One was before them and the other was at the window making hand signals across to the other block, writing in the air at great speed. While Campbell repeated his phrase regarding regulations, Dunn realized that the one at the window was in fact writing backwards, with agile finger strokes, pianist turned painter. Dunn couldn’t follow what was being written.

  The one facing them repeated, word for word, the statement that Lavery had made. ‘We are not criminals. We are prisoners of war. These are our five just and right demands. One, the right not to wear prison uniform—’

  ‘We can’t allow this, Sir. It wouldn’t happen on any other block, not even in the Cages would this be tolerated.’ Campbell addressed himself to Bolton.

  ‘It’s like a bloody stage play,’ said Frig, frowning now and looking earnestly from Campbell to Bolton.

  As the man concluded, ‘These are our five demands,’ another cheer went up around the block and the one at the window made a thumbs-up signal. Shortly, like a distant echo, a cheer went up from the other block.

  ‘We have to do the adjudications, Campbell.’

  ‘I’m not going to listen to that load of old bull forty-something times, Sir.’

  ‘Every dog has its day.’ Bolton indicated the next cell.

  Campbell strode down the hallway, his shoes drumming and he told the grille guard to let him out.

  ‘Right. Let’s continue,’ said Bolton, unperturbed.

  ‘Are we to carry on, Sir?’ asked Frig, something like Oliver Twist.

  ‘Aye, the full tragedy.’

  They proceeded from cell to cell, with every prisoner reciting the five demands; some faltering, one or two slower than others, but all of them clearly well rehearsed.

  ‘1760 McIlvenny.’ Frig looked peeved and sorry for himself. It had been a long morning, the drama had passed.

  ‘The communications officer. This will be his work, you can be sure,’ said Bolton as they got to the cell next to O’Malley’s.

  But young Moran, the lad who had challenged Dunn in the yard was determined also to have his day. He was now doing a little dance, jigging on the spot, his fists clenched, like a boxer warming up as his cellmate McIlvenny performed the piece with word-slow pleasure.

  ‘2892 Moran.’ The boy Moran delivered the reply with comic intonation, in an English accent of Churchillian resonance. McIlvenny had his fist up underneath his nose and was laughing. From next door, O’Malley was droning, ‘Nevv-ah in the field of human conflict . . . was so much . . . Owed . . . by so many . . . to so few.’

  Frig closed the door.

  ‘These are our FIVE DEMANDS!’

  O’Malley delivered his own piece in strident tones, and added, ‘I think you’ll have got the idea of what we’re after by now. We thought we’d teach yous our demands, parrot fashion, so you could spread the word.’ When Bolton got back to his office, he closed the door and Dunn heard classical music playing. Campbell was in the mess, complaining broadly and bitterly and casting dark looks around as if they were all a party to his betrayal.

  ‘And that great girl’s blouse from admin’s coming down here this afternoon, awarding the punishments, he’ll probably ask them for a repeat performance.’

  Frig looked up from his paper where he was doing an anagram. He went on in a public school accent, ‘Our friend Carl Lingus, you mean. Rather! Good show! He’ll think he’s got himself a right load of Hamlets.’

  ‘The day that lot gets cigars is the day I quit.’

  Frig and Shandy exchanged looks. Shandy put down his tea and snorted like a horse. Frig bit his grin in half.

  ‘What? What?’ said Campbell.

  * * *

  In the afternoon, the assistant governor, Carl Lingard did indeed come to the block.

  ‘The “five demands”,’ he said sternly, standing opposite Mr Bolton, his forearms clasped across his body. ‘Yes, I can quite see it must have been a performance. Religious discipline in a way. Like saying the rosary. It’s the psychology that interests me, Trevor.’

  They were standing close enough to the mess to hear a loud raspberry being blown. At Bolton’s nod, Dunn popped into the mess to indicate to Campbell that he should be more discreet.

  ‘Bullshit. They’re pouring bullets into us and he wants to play mind games. It’s fucking real, isn’t it! And what were Gilligan’s five demands, or Garvey’s? Or any of them? To have a normal life,’ he was counting on his fingers. ‘To have a drink now and again, to play with their kids, to see Christmas in. They didn’t get them did they?’

  ‘I shan’t be asking them what their damned five demands are,’ Lingard was saying, petulantly. ‘I’m not interested. Where do I always go first when I come into the block, Mr Bolton? Trevor?’

  ‘The mess, Sir.’

  ‘The officers’ mess, Mr Bolton, did you say? Well I think that gives a pretty good indication of where I stand, don’t you?’

  ‘Shall we complete the adjudication process, Sir?’ asked Bolton. Lingard went from cell to cell, gave the prisoners the same cursory greeting then hurried on with more or less the same speech.

  ‘So I’m afraid it falls to me to award – funny word that, in the situation – nevertheless, this is what I’m bound to say, to award you fourteen days’ lost remission, fourteen days’ lost pay, the loss of visits and all other privileges.’

  It was customary for him to ask the prisoner if he had any questions but after a chat with Mr Bolton concerning the morning’s events he decided not to pose the question.

  ‘Well, if you need to contact me on any matter, in confidence, there is a mechanic provided via Mr Bolton. A piece of paper, yes, you may write me a private letter.’

  Lingard had never received such a letter. There was the same procedure for prison officers. He’d never had one from them either.

  ‘Anything you need to communicate, use the process,’ he said to the grille guard and to John Dunn as they passed back into the circle. Noticing that Dunn was new he cheered up and added, ‘Can be tricky the first weeks. If you’ve problems with the prisoners or the prison officers, let me know. We want to know.’

  Lingard made his report to Bolton in the office with the door closed and then, with Bolton shepherding him out of the block, tapped on the mess door and put his head in to say farewell. Campbell was on the circle. Skids, Rabbit and Frig were playing cards with Frig exclaimin
g ‘you tossers’ every time he unfolded his hand.

  ‘How the devil you lads keep your spirits up I don’t know. We all know that this is the hard job. Especially with, well, what’s going on on the outside. Not to say we don’t all run the risk, desk-bound or not. All the very best then, and cheerio, lads.’

  Frig looked up and gave him a glancing nod. Skids grunted. Little man Rabbit, with his feet up on the table, raised an arse cheek and screwed his eyes up.

  ‘No. Just can’t muster one.’

  Lingard’s face fell. He walked towards the block door, indicated the locks to the guard there and said irritably, ‘Come on get on with it. I’ve got work to do, you know.’

  Chapter 15

  Cleaning the front room, Kathleen found two pound-notes under the small brass harp on the sideboard. Father Pearse had left them there for her when he came by that morning. And she’d gone on about the cost of Christmas, chewed the ear off the poor man and he went off without even a cup of tea, leaving her the money, half-hidden. She could use it. She’d give it back after Christmas. She took two purses out of her handbag. One was for people who came round asking for money and one was for going to the shops with. She closed the bag and put the money instead in a jar on top of the sideboard.

  Kathleen’s older brother William was a painter and decorator and he came round in the afternoon and fixed up the ceiling for her. He could only do a temporary job, to hide it from below. He’d put some wood down, and he was plastering over. He’d paint it the next week.

  She made him a cup of tea every half hour or so.

  ‘Do you want a bap?’ she’d called out, spreading one with margarine.

  ‘Aye, go on then,’ he said, coming in to wash his hands off. He looked critically at the spin dryer, rubber hose chugging water into her sink. He’d got a friend worked in the Hoover factory and they were talking about the chance of getting some refurbished twin tubs.

  ‘I like it. It works and I like the noise. It’s a hard worker.’

  He emptied the dregs of his cup into the sink. ‘Bridget swears by the twin tub. Eileen’s after one but seeing how you can’t get the HP living in the Murph, you’re first. I told her that. On this occasion.’ He smiled, put the cup upside down on the draining board and kissed her on the brow. Then he took his bap in hand and tore off half of it with his teeth.

  What with the ceiling broken, she’d decided to take the house to task and she’d boxed her son Sean’s things and left them on top of Liam’s bed to go through. Most of it was Manchester United souvenirs. When Liam came in from school she told him to go have a look.

  ‘What about when they let them wear their own clothes again?’

  ‘Them clothes’ll stand the washing.’

  She went to the jar with the father’s notes in it and took one out. He looked surprised when she handed him the money. ‘Get yourself a book or comics, something to read, something about somewhere along way away from here.’

  ‘You shouldn’t give up on the lads, Mummy, they’ll get their status.’

  ‘You sound just like your brother. Listen, Liam love, we’ve got to start using our heads in this house. I’m going to join the Relatives Action Committee. What do you think about that? Your mother might end up in politics, like Owen McCann’s lot. Could you see me with a loudspeaker?’

  ‘It’s a loud-hailer.’

  ‘Oh aye.’

  He handed the money back to her. ‘Keep it for our Sean.’

  ‘I’ll worry about Sean. You get yourself something to read. You need your education. Besides, you don’t get much from me.’ She kissed the top of his head, smelling dust and feeling fur.

  Aine came in from playing over the road at the McCanns’, two grey streaks on her face, tears long dried. Other things had happened since and now she had freshly grazed knees and was out of breath. She stood panting by her mother, who was cleaning the inside of the fridge, then went upstairs.

  Kathleen gave them their dinners; egg and chips, some tinned fruit and condensed milk to follow and told them to get ready for bed. She was going over the road to Sheila McCann’s for seven-thirty. Roisin was coming in to babysit for her. Kathleen wanted to watch the news before she went. She lit up a cigarette and sipped her cup of tea. All around

  Belfast, mothers like her were watching. Their lives were ordered by the schedule of the news. A chance to relax with a cup and a fag, listening to the killings. You were bound to know someone.

  Aine came down. ‘Do you need me to bring anything up to Daddy?’

  ‘He’ll be fine.’

  ‘What about a bap or something?’

  ‘I’m watching the news the wee moment.’

  ‘Shall I go up the road with it?’

  ‘No. It’s not safe. You know that.’

  ‘He’ll be hungry.’

  ‘He’ll help himself to a bag of nuts.’

  ‘Someone’s got to think of him.’

  ‘Let’s hope he finds someone.’ Kathleen got up and turned the volume up on the telly.

  Roisin came in a few minutes later and dropped herself down in the armchair. She’d come straight from the heat of her own television and fell to pointing at their TV with a cigarette in her hand.

  ‘I can’t have a fag in peace over there now, with himself always at the coughing.’

  When they came to the latest screw funeral, she started up about her new job up on the Antrim Road.

  ‘Screw funeral on the telly,’ said Kathleen, down at the mouth, eyes fixed on the screen.

  Roisin went on that it was like going to heaven going up there, ‘Ach there’s flowers in the gardens . . .’

  ‘Right. What’s that they’re saying, I can’t hear. Where was he from? Was it the Crum or the Kesh?’

  ‘It’s what you call elegant.’

  ‘Jesus wept, all right Roisin, you’ve told me before.’ Kathleen got up and turned the set off.

  ‘There’s Coronation Street coming on! And your set needs five minutes to warm up. You’d better get it fired up or we’ll miss the start. They’ve gone over to colour up on the Antrim Road so they have. And it comes up like that.’ She clicked her fingers.

  Kathleen went to the mirror over the mantelpiece and picked up the lipstick.

  ‘There’s her friend needs someone starting in the new year. They pay a pound an hour, so say you do three mornings a week, that’s twelve pound a week. That’s worth doing, Kathleen.’

  ‘Aye, well Sheila McCann says you get more on the berew and taking the berew hits the English where it hurts. But you know you could say it’s a pay-off, taking their dole money. You know, part of the system.’

  ‘I tell you, Kathleen, you wouldn’t know all this was going on when you get up there. It’s like a holiday. Then you come back here, to the barricades, watch out for the bloody stones being fired at you, pray the smoke isn’t coming from your street.’

  ‘Aye well I’ll be taking a break from the dead animals after Christmas, he’s got no more work for me, O’Donnell. Tell your woman I’ll take it.’ Kathleen went back over her mouth with the reddish pink and made a small popping sound with her lips. Aine called it a fish-kiss.

  ‘I wish I was a Jew. I said to her I might become one myself, just for the peace and quiet.’

  ‘My mummy worked in a mill that was owned by Jews. When the boss saw the Prods out the front shouting and screaming that there were Taigs working in there, he took all the Catholics out the back over the train lines, got them out safely and then they closed up the factory.’

  ‘There’s barely any left you know. You’d best get round there as soon as you can after Christmas, Kathleen.’

  Coming up the Whiterock towards Ballymurphy, it smelt of war. Roisin was right about that. A few times she’d had to lie down and take cover. Once when the two of them were coming up from the Falls, they’d had the devil of a time trying to talk two young girls into getting down on the ground. Shots were coming through St Thomas’s, hitting the tarmac and bouncing. ‘Them�
�s my new Gloria Vanderbilts,’ said one of the girls as they shoved her down. ‘You ought to know you can’t wear anything decent round here,’ Roisin had said to her as they got up. ‘They’re fucked now,’ said the girl bitterly, dusting herself down.

  The lights were all on over at the McCanns’ and she was pleased to have somewhere to get out to, even if it was just over the road. Eilish Purcell came out of her front door to shake out her tablecloth. ‘What about you Kathleen? Going out?’

  ‘Aye, I’m off to see my fancy man.’

  Eilish looked unimpressed and went back inside.

  Sheila McCann was every Republican’s dream date. Thin and intense looking, with not only this cause but plenty of others up her sleeves. She was a socialist. She was a woman’s libber. She’d leant Kathleen a book called Our Bodies, Our Selves. It went through sex, masturbation, lesbianism, violence, birth control and abortion. There was a picture of a naked woman with her legs apart, and another woman grinning up at her over a speculum with a sort of Rolf Harris smile. She gave it back to Sheila the following night, before Sean saw it. ‘When he gets new equipment, I’ll give him the new manual,’ she’d said to her sister. She told her what was in the book; all about fulfilment and stuff. Sheila said that women shouldn’t feel guilty about their sexual desires. You couldn’t argue with it. It seemed so unimportant, though. Sheila had liberated women coming from all over the world and staying in her house, now her husband was inside the Kesh. Sharing the bed. When she told Sean about it, he set to swallowing like he did when he carved a roast. She said to him, ‘It’s a very mutual experience making love with a woman, so they say.’ He’d got himself all worked up over it. ‘It’s all just a laugh to them, and him on the inside, cold and lonely, for his country, and her practising feminism!’ She liked to wind him up, it was her only pleasure. ‘Me and Eileen are thinking of burning our bras as well.’ ‘If your Eileen burns her bra she’ll look like she’s got herself three arses.’ Kathleen would go on wearing a bra, but she couldn’t be fucked with doing the ironing any more.