This Human Season Read online

  ‘He tells them about things he’s done for the ’Ra, Mummy, and he sends me off with a bag of crisps.’

  ‘Liam, think about how your brother was. Think about your Uncle Pleader, for God’s sake. If your daddy was in the ’Ra he wouldn’t be after talking about it all the time.’

  ‘I know that.’

  Liam popped his head back round the upstairs bar door every fifteen minutes or so. His father would frown and wave him off and so he’d go back to the steps, pulling at the little straw-like threads in the dirty red carpeting, then plaiting them, then chewing his fingernails, then going to sit in a corner of the bar unnoticed, listening in. Some of them were good stories even after a lot of telling. His dad talked about all the places he’d been, about mafia men making moves and how they trusted him because he smuggled them from country to country hid inside his chest of drawers for which he’d made a false front. How he’d run a con on the Bank of New Zealand in the fifties, made a fortune and lost it in a bet in Sydney, and about bringing guns in. That evening he was telling them about moving more guns up from the Free State when there was none to be had in West Belfast and the Prods were killing them, burning them out of their homes, and the RUC and the Brits were firing on them too.

  ‘There’s wee Kipper Malone, fearless as you like, running up to Bombay Street with a revolver and all the women cheering him on, shouting, Shoot for Jesus’ sake, shoot! And he turns to the ladies and says, There’s no fucking bullets in it. Aye. Well I say, this won’t do. Them’s got thousands of guns and they’re going to kill the lot of us. So I goes round to see one of the boys and I says fuck this come on, we’ll take a trip over the border the night. And we did.’

  His father had an audience of labouring men in no hurry to go home. His father was rarely angry, but he could not bear to be interrupted, he lived for the punch line. His face would sour to see his wife or Liam come in the pub; it meant the certain ruination of his grand finale. ‘And what is it you’s after me for now?’

  ‘Mother of God,’ he’d said when Liam told them that their Sean was up at Castlereagh. He said the same thing when Liam came up and told him that Sean was being charged with the murder of a police officer.

  Sean and his friend had been driving a car bomb into the city in 1977 but the traffic had been heavy and they’d decided to turn back. They’d parked up round the waste ground at Beechmount, hopped out to make a phone call and the car went up. An RUC patrol had been passing and stopped to investigate the oddly parked car. One of them was killed. Sean went on the run for over a year. He came home at Christmas to see his mother and was lifted shortly afterwards.

  Each time Liam went up there with the news about his brother, the landlord, Flinty, had poured his father a whiskey and sat him down at the bar, and one whiskey had followed another and Liam slipped away again after about an hour. His own Coca-cola lasted him about fifteen minutes, after which he was idle and bored. In an hour he reckoned on the same conversation going round at least once. ‘He’ll be going on the blanket, then, your Sean,’ one of the men had said and his father had replied for the umpteenth time. ‘Aye, if I know my own son.’

  ‘Is our Sean putting his shite on the walls, Mummy?’ he asked when he came home.

  ‘They’ve nowhere else to put it.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’

  He came home without his father but not entirely empty-handed.

  ‘Dad says he has to be working late, being a Saturday night.’

  She gave a short laugh. ‘There’s your father, devotion to duty. Did you get the fags off him?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Give them over then.’

  She went upstairs with him and put the covers back over Aine. One of Aine’s long arms was outstretched with the fingers curled as if she’d grasped some falling treasure. Kathleen uncurled the fingers, kissed the palm of her hand and put it alongside her daughter’s sleeping body. Once it had been Sean and Mary sleeping in those beds. When he came out of the bathroom she made Liam kneel by his bed to say his rosary.

  Then she went into the bathroom; she loved it there in that small room that smelt of soap. It was the only place she got a minute’s peace for herself. She sat on the toilet and had a pee, looking ahead at the basin and the shelf above it. There was a mug with no handle for the toothbrushes. Sean’s was in the cupboard above it and Mary had taken hers with her. There was her husband’s, strands akimbo as if it had been jumped on, there was Aine’s small pink brush, barely used under the arc of her father’s, then there was her own, pale green – brown at the roots as her gums were often bleeding – and Liam’s red toothbrush beside hers. When he was younger he used to enmesh his own toothbrush in hers and she used to marvel at the jealousy of his love.

  Childhood was filled with secrets and rites, ways of making sense of the unreason, of feeling safe. She used to have this funny thing she did as a kid where she kept back a piece of bread from her dinner and got up in the middle of the night to sit on the toilet and eat it on her own. It was hard to abandon your own ways for what everyone else agreed on, but you did and being a Catholic made it easier, you learnt by rote. Her children had had to leave their childhood behind long before she did. With their disgruntled breakfast faces, they were surly and unco-operative, as if they’d been kidnapped.

  When she stood up, she held the sink with both hands and looked into the mirror. The last man to tell her she was beautiful was her son, Sean. She watched the tears coming out, forwards not sideways, like water spilling over the basin.

  ‘Sure I’ll go and have a cigarette and cheer myself up.’ She wiped her eyes on a flannel and went downstairs to the kitchen.

  No sooner had she switched the kettle on than Liam appeared at the foot of the stairs. He was wearing Sean’s football shirt, with a pair of pyjama bottoms.

  ‘Mummy can I have a cup of tea with you?’

  ‘Aye love, come on then, quiet though, don’t wake your sister.’

  He stood barefoot on the kitchen floor, un-sticking one foot and then the other. She handed him a cup of tea.

  ‘There’s no sugar, again,’ she said.

  ‘Can I have a cigarette?’

  She put her own tea down with a heavy bang, causing the tea to slop out over the sides. ‘For the love of God, Liam, we might be half a home, half a family, I might even be half a mother but you’re not going to be smoking at thirteen!’

  He gave her his saucy smile and sipped on his tea. She picked up her own cup and he put his down and took the tea-cloth to wipe where a ring of brown was on the counter top. He handed her the cigarettes and the matches.

  ‘This place is still dirty and a whole day it took me to clean it.’

  ‘I’ll light it for you, Mummy.’

  ‘I’m in training for my next career. Go on then. I used to think I’d be somebody one day, you know. Like our Mary does. God knows where she is and what she’s doing. At least we know where our Sean is. Go on with you and have it then. What difference does it make?’

  ‘It’s only a cigarette, Mummy.’

  The two of them sat, side by side, smoking, with their mugs of tea between their knees.

  ‘Use the ashtray, Liam.’

  ‘Oh, aye,’ he went to reach it on the side table but the ash hit the carpet. His mother didn’t see. He put his bare foot over it and pressed it in. Then he tapped the cigarette softly on the ashtray and took a long hard drag, followed by another.

  ‘You can take a breath between puffs you know. You’re not a condemned man.’

  They looked at each other.

  ‘He won’t be gone for ever,’ said Liam, po-faced.

  She put her arm around him. ‘Drink your tea, your father will be in soon and he’ll kill me if he sees you smoking, so he will.’

  He took another few drags and put the cigarette out, then took his cup into the kitchen, and stood there, just beyond the doorway, looking at her. She’d brought her long hair round to one side of her neck, and there she was, tea between her han
ds, knees curved, feet up on the settee.

  ‘I love you, Mummy.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Just as much as Sean does.’

  Why was his love so jealous? Did it come from her, from her side of the family or did it come from the way she was with him? Or was it her husband’s fault, or the both of theirs? Her sons, and Mary, even Aine . . . they all loved hard, as if it might be taken away from them if they didn’t. She was close to something, but outside of understanding, like being at a fair without any money.

  He shifted his feet, exhaled unevenly.

  ‘What is it Liam?’

  ‘There are things I’d die for Mummy; for the people round here, for

  Ireland, for our family, for you, for Sean and the others.’

  ‘Liam, you don’t have to take it all on your shoulders, love. Liam, I want you to live, not to die.’

  He looked embarrassed and disappointed. The kitchen light-bulb blew with a tinny splintering noise and he stood in the dark. ‘The light’s broke.’

  ‘Don’t worry about the light. Your daddy will fix it when he comes in. Or I will. Go to bed now, Liam, love.’

  He rose and went. She knew that he stood at the bottom of the stairs watching her and she called out from the dark, ‘Go on up now!’ He stood his ground for a while then moved off.

  ‘Is that what you think I want for you?’ she said to herself. Her mind slowed to a halt, her brow fell, her cheeks went slack, and her mouth fell open, the spittle drying.

  Chapter 18

  John Dunn had a piece of Angie’s blue writing paper on the mess table and a biro poised above it. The door was ajar and he saw Baxter knock on the PO’s door, tapping out a little rhythm. He didn’t hear any reply and Baxter went inside. After a few minutes Bolton emerged with Baxter and instructed the guard on the grilles to wings A and B to let Baxter go down on his own.

  The big-nosed fellow Skids looked up from his paper. ‘What are you looking at?’

  ‘Nothing. What’s Bax doing going down the wing on his own?’

  ‘Don’t know. Cleaning. You should look at the tits on this girl . . .’ This was the regular line of conversation with Skids. Dunn suspected he talked about it to flush others out, to find out whether he was alone in his condition. That and the relief from stewing in his own juices too long.

  Dunn bent over the pale-blue piece of paper. ‘Dear Mark, I’m not much good at letters so I’ll keep this short. Yes, I would like to meet you. You decide when. I suggest you come and stay a few days over here when you knock off University. I work difficult hours so don’t expect to see too much of me, but it will be better than nothing. I live with my girlfriend Angela. I’m putting some money in this for your fare etc. Come when you like. Yours sincerely, John Dunn.’

  He read it through. He put his hands on the table. He thought that he had ugly, hairy, knobbly hands, like ropes knotted.

  ‘Nipples like saucers.’

  Everyone there was out of whack. Booze in Shandy’s case, women in

  Skid’s, power in Campbell’s, and money in Frig’s. They were all of them in there for one thing or another.

  Baxter came in and tidied around the sink area.

  ‘Your team’s on a winning streak then, Baxter,’ said Skids, jabbing at the paper. Baxter looked over his shoulder, squinting at the print.

  ‘Bax supports Celtic, the fuck-up,’ said Skids, eyebrows aristocratic with distaste. ‘You’ll be able to tell the streakers some good news.’

  ‘I support whoever’s winning. Wing-shift this afternoon.’

  ‘You’re joking me, pal. No one’s mentioned it to me. Does your man know?’

  ‘Campbell? Don’t know.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘PO told me.’

  ‘Told you?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘What time is it? Campbell might not be back from lunch a while, he was popping over to the Swinging Tit today.’

  Baxter took a cigarette from behind his ear. ‘You big fellas will be all right between you, so you will,’ he said, lighting up.

  Skids got up quickly, leaving his jacket on his chair and walked out, ducking as he passed through the doorway. Dunn saw him knocking on the PO’s door. When the door opened, he heard the laboured refrain of dramatic music. When it opened a second time to allow Skids back out, the music was turned off. There was the sound of Skid’s steel-toed shoes across the corridor and then his hat was on the table.

  ‘That’s fucking rich that is. He didn’t mention it this morning did he? When he did the detail. Nobody knows. I’d have got a few drinks inside of me if I’d known. Campbell might not be back in time. You’ve no idea what you’re in for, Johnno. Even you with your army training. We could take a hiding if it’s not done right. You need numbers going in hard. They don’t give us guns like with your lot.’

  Baxter came in again, giving a little between-the-teeth whistle that sounded like the shuffle of feet.

  ‘What happens then with a wing-shift?’

  ‘Nothing if you’ve got your man Campbell doing it. We’ve got to get close to forty streakers from A wing into D wing. We’ve got to check their arses when we move them. It’s murder trying to get them to go along with it. We used to do it at the circle, over a table, bend them over and do the job but sometimes we take them into the cell twenty-six and we do it over a mirror. Depends. What with Garvey being killed and that, Mr Campbell would have wanted to express a certain point of view. All part of letting them know what’s what. He’ll be that fucking scunnered if he gets here and it’s all done.’ Skids proceeded to walk up and down the mess, smoking and wheeling about to look at the clock.

  ‘Who does what?’

  ‘Whatever Campbell tells you to do, you do. Frig does the torch, does the looking up their arses. Rabbit does the worst bit, the fingers.’ He twiddled his fingers like a puppeteer warming up. ‘I just drag them about, get them moving. When you’re in the middle of it, you just do what you’ve go to do.’ He started to pace again.

  At three o’clock, Bolton had eight men assembled ready for the wing-shift. Skids shook his head at Dunn.

  ‘A wing-shift is not a nice thing. But we need to get the cells cleaned so we have to move the prisoners. Nobody likes the mirror-search, least of all Shandy here.’

  Shandy had been asked to come back early from lunch and he was morose. He was holding a thin pair of latex gloves. ‘It’s usually Rabbit that does it,’ he said.

  ‘Someone’s got to do it,’ said Rabbit, straightforward, blinking through his glasses, which were as ever finely dusted, as if with icing sugar.

  Frig held the mirror. A square piece of glass embedded in a thick piece of latex foam. ‘Fucking stargazer, that’s me. Oy, how does it look from the back, Sir, shall I take a bit more off the sides?’

  ‘No need for the torch today Officer Harding.’ said Bolton. ‘We are going to make the big bad wing-shift a thing of the past. Gently does it. If you can show me you’re a good team, who can get things done without trouble then you’ll be sound with me and I’ll be doing my best to make sure there’s some days for you.’

  Skids stopped him. ‘There’s no riot squad on hand then?’

  ‘Nope. No need.’

  ‘Should we wait for Senior Officer Campbell?’ put in Shandy.

  ‘I’m the Principal Officer here, you follow my orders.’ Bolton narrowed his eyes, looked at each of them, wished them good luck and made for his office. ‘You know where I am.’

  ‘Come on then you lot.’ Shandy dragged himself ahead of them, shaking his head.

  As the officers were being admitted to the wing, a cry in Irish went up.

  ‘Bogadh sciatháin!’

  There was a small commotion at the circle behind them and Dunn saw that Campbell was striding towards them, leaving his cap on the desk.

  ‘Thank fuck you’re back, mate,’ said Skids, waiting at the second grille. The others expressed agreement.

  ‘Aye,’ said Campbell,
tight-lipped. ‘I didn’t know there was a wingshift on.’ Dunn could smell the booze on him. He was looking at each of them one at a time, as if assessing their moral fibre, his chest rising and falling.

  ‘Owen, you gather up the lads on break and get them here in riot gear as soon as.’

  Then he moved ahead and tapped on the grille door and they were admitted; once through to the wing each man was limbering up on the balls of his feet.

  ‘All right lads let’s get those fucking filthy bastards out of here and into D wing. Ditch the mirror, Frig. We’ll do the check right here on the table before we cart them over into D wing. Shandy, you can work with me on getting the streakers out. Don’t want to waste your big hands on their wee arses. Let Rabbit do that. Johnno you can help him hold them. Skids, you get them over it and off it. Frig, you, Owen and Pitt and the others get them across to D wing.’

  A shout went up. It sounded like a command, the urgency

  comprehensible in any language. The officers looked round at each other.

  ‘Let’s fucking have them!’

  Skids and Shandy went down to the end cell with armfuls of the thin, white towels. Campbell followed.

  ‘Out!’ he shouted.

  Dunn stood back with Rabbit, Frig and the other blokes. Rabbit was putting on the latex gloves. Shandy threw his towels on to the ground. The prisoner would not come out; Campbell and Shandy went in to get him, a man with grey chest hair. Shouts came from the other cells, a clamour rising with many of the prisoners beating the doors or pipes.

  ‘Drop the blanket!’ Campbell shouted at the prisoner.

  The old man was trying to remain seated. ‘Not without a towel round me.’