Year of the Beast

by Steven Carroll

  She looks up as her tram arrives, almost sauntering towards her at a slow, weekend pace, the tram that will now take her to Milhaus. For it is Sunday, visiting day. And Mr Milhaus will have a visitor.

  ***

  If the beast is a glimpse of hell on earth, then these are hell’s dungeons. Day and night, it’s all one in here. When the guard shuts the door behind them, he shuts out the day. And everything is not only dark, but Maryanne has the immediate feeling of being hundreds of feet underground. There is no day, no sun, just this hopeless feeling of being underground, while the world up above goes on.

  ‘Don’t get many visitors,’ the guard says, as though visits and intrusions are all the same and her presence is an annoying fact of life, like not finding a seat on the train or dealing with a salesman at the door.

  He leads her over a stone walkway between rows of cells. Each cell has a small square opening on the door for the guards to peer through when they choose. The rest of the time they’re shut, as they are now. Lamps, as in a laneway at night, light the way. She is suddenly afraid. Not that there is any threat. She is safe. It is simply being here that is frightening: the lamps and the cold stones and the shadows. It’s an alien world, like being in the black heart of the beast, or its belly, and already she wishes she hadn’t come and can’t wait to get out. The place is stifling and she’s been inside less than a minute. What must it be like to be stuck here in this never-ending night? And because she feels as if she’s disappearing into the very shadows and darkness of the place, she speaks up, tense and on edge, if only to hear her own voice.

  ‘Do the cells have a window? Does any light get in?’

  ‘More than they deserve.’

  Maryanne turns to the guard, frowning, but he doesn’t notice.

  ‘These people are the scum of the earth,’ he goes on. ‘All of them. Scum.’

  He looks at her, shaking his head, disgusted. Some scum’s whore, he’s no doubt thinking, with more scum in her belly that’ll wind up in here like they all do. Scum are born that way and stay that way and all finish up here. She doesn’t like the guard. He doesn’t like her. They don’t say another word as on they go, lower and lower, it seems, the dingy lamps lighting the way. A voice here and there from behind the iron doors. A groan. A shout. And everything cold. Spring outside; dark and cold as winter inside.

  At the end of the long walkway they turn to their right and the place opens out. Maryanne looks up for the first time and sees the stairs leading to two more levels of cells above her. She turns around and looks all the way back to the distant door she came through, level upon level upon level of tiny cells between it and her. Dungeons from a storybook world of monsters and half-humans and three-headed dogs. A place of cold flames, muck and swamps straining upwards to an underground sky that’s never seen the sun.

  It is when she turns back to follow the guard that she catches sight of something from the corner of her eye. Dangling. Hanging there. And even before she swings round to face it fully, she knows what it is: the rope, the beam, the lever. Just there. And so simple. So matter-of-fact. Like a bucket and a mop. And so close. Everybody, prisoners and guards, must surely look up whenever they pass, and must surely hear death’s drop, the clank of the trapdoor or the thud of someone at the end of the rope. Surely, they must hear. And she can’t help asking herself if, one day, Milhaus will dangle from that rope.

  ‘He’s this way.’ The guard points to another wide walkway, cells either side. Though she now sees that some of what she took to be cells are bath-houses. Two prisoners mop the stone floor while their guards look on, the slap, slap of the mops the only sound.

  She’s on the point of shaking her head and saying no, this is all a big mistake. She can’t do this. She can’t stay in this place a moment longer. She looks back to the door through which she came, and through which she can leave any time she chooses. Don’t get many visitors. But she has chosen to come and she can’t go. Not now. She’s here. One of these cells is Milhaus’s. But which one? The whole prison smells of danger. And it’s as though the place can smell her fear. She must get out and never come back. Still, she walks on beside the guard.

  ‘Here.’ The guard points to a half-open door. A small cell. She can see a table. A pair of folded hands resting on the table. And it’s only then that she realises this is not Milhaus’s cell; it’s what the guard says is the visitors room. But it’s a cell, all the same.

  ‘You’ve got ten minutes,’ the guard tells her, then stands by the open door.

  When she asked at the jail entrance to visit Milhaus, the policeman on duty asked her why. Absurdly, she hadn’t thought of this. What should she say? To let him know he’s not alone? And someone cares? That the entire world hasn’t turned on him? To let him know that there is more to the world than the beast? That the beast doesn’t roar for everybody? After a long silence, noting that the policeman was becoming suspicious, she said that she had taught Milhaus. When he was a little boy, a little boy with a gift for drawing. Way beyond his years. A little boy who could have grown up to be an artist, and who, in his own way, did. Only his studio was the football field. A little boy in the classroom with a gift for drawing, and in the playground a gift for the game. And when she said it the policeman nodded, though with a look in his eyes that suggested he’d never heard such nonsense. Then he nodded again, as if to say, nonsense or not, he thought it was a good story or maybe even believed her. Which didn’t surprise Maryanne because she almost believed it herself. Where did it come from? She doesn’t know. But she knows what Katherine would say: too much imagination. Does it matter? It was the right story at the right time.

  And what did Milhaus make of it when they told him he was to receive a visitor? A teacher from long ago whom he couldn’t remember. But perhaps he imagined that he did remember. Remembered the name, but not the face. Perhaps, in his memory, she’s already become someone else, acquired the face of some long-ago teacher, whom he may have liked and has vaguely pleasant memories of. After you’ve been locked up in this place for any time, she imagines, any pleasant memory, however vague or invented, would be welcome. Perhaps Milhaus is simply curious. Or needs a break from the boredom and the horror.

  Whatever the case, she is about to find out. And Milhaus – the name, the story, the case that has absorbed the city and left it returning to the slops bucket of its loathing and hatred every day, wanting more every day, but never sated; Milhaus, the god who fell, whose fate feels entwined with hers – is about to become fact.

  Milhaus is smaller than she imagined. Perhaps it’s because he is shackled, for as soon as she sits opposite him she notices his handcuffs. But there is power in his presence too. What is it? The intense stare? The composure? The strange calmness that surrounds him? She’s not sure, but it’s there. This power. Almost as though he could break his handcuffs at will, whenever he chose. The power of someone who has that something extra; his whole body, tight and coiled, ready to spring into spectacular flight at any moment. But at the same time there is something lost in his look. His foot taps continually as he stares at her. Cool blue eyes search for something familiar in Maryanne’s face one second, turn vague the next.

  While she in turn is telling herself that there, just a few feet from her, on the other side of the table, is Milhaus: a name that is its own story. His foot stops tapping.

  ‘Who are you?’

  His voice is smooth and cool, like an actor’s. Once more she feels like leaving. It’s all too much. It’s madness even being here. But here she is. Who does she think she is, indeed.

  ‘You don’t know me,’ she half whispers, half stammers, leaning forward. ‘I never taught you.’

  He eyes the face and the swollen belly of this woman he has never met before, then he too falls into a whisper. ‘No. I knew that.’

  ‘You did?’

  He nods slowly. ‘Why are you here?’

  She looks away, composing herself, then turns back. ‘Because …’ and she breaks off
, silently rehearsing her reason in all its preposterousness, but deciding that, preposterous or not, it is true. She continues. ‘Because I wanted you to know that you are not alone.’

  He leans back in his chair. Puzzled and suspicious. Wary. She can see that. And why wouldn’t he be? She could be anyone, here for any number of reasons. Possibly even sent to spy upon the spy.

  ‘You came here to tell me that?’

  ‘It seems so. If you like, I’ll go. I should never have come. This is madness,’ she says, rising from her chair.

  ‘No.’ He waves his cuffed hands. ‘Stay.’

  They are silent. The tapping of his foot starts up again. His eyes don’t leave her and she can barely stay still. It’s crazy enough to be true. She’s crazy enough to believe, he seems to be thinking. Even to trust. Maybe. And Maryanne decides that the vague, faraway look in his eyes is also a sad one. As if he’s sleepwalking through a sad, dark dream he woke to one morning and can’t escape from.

  ‘The crowds, the newspapers. They don’t speak for everybody. There is a group. A women’s group, not far from here. They campaign for your release. Have you heard?’

  ‘No.’

  It is a long, drawn-out no. His face still puzzled. His look suspicious. ‘No, I haven’t,’ he adds, as if it were a matter of no importance.

  And he also states this in the manner of saying: I don’t know you. I’ve never met you before. Why should I believe you?

  ‘They are making up a petition. It will be published in the papers. Mannix himself has signed it.’

  He shows no reaction to the mention of Mannix. No reverence, no loathing. Just indifference.

  ‘A petition? Why?’

  ‘Why? Because you are innocent.’

  His foot stops tapping. He laughs. A short, hollow laugh.

  ‘Innocent?’ He shakes his head slowly, as if to say, what does that mean?, the slap, slap of the mops on the floor beating time outside. Or measuring it. Milhaus pauses. ‘The crowds don’t bother me; I’ve put up with crowds all my life.’ He breaks into a short, couldn’t-care-less laugh. ‘What the hell does it matter anyway? We’re all guilty of something.’

  ‘What does it matter? How can you say that?’

  There is a beyond-it-all look about him, a dangerously casual air. ‘Well, does it? Everybody’s made their minds up. It’s all decided.’

  ‘You mustn’t say that.’

  ‘It’s true. Why bother?’

  ‘No, no. You mustn’t give in to them. You’re young. You’ve got your whole life in front of you.’ Here she pauses, staring directly at him to emphasise the point, stressing the enormity of it. ‘Your life!’ She pauses again, gathering herself. ‘We are only given one. Think of all the things that are out there waiting to be done. All those years waiting to be lived. Your life!’

  He falls silent for a long time, staring down at his cuffed hands as if asking himself what sort of life he has, manacled like this. And although the silence is uncomfortable, he seems to be working through some line of thought, which he may or may not share with her, so she lets it be. He sighs, taps his fingers on the table. Perhaps she has struck a chord, for he seems to be dwelling on what she’s said, circling some enormous question. Time passes. A minute, perhaps two. Then he looks up.

  ‘Do you have someone you can trust?’

  ‘Yes,’ she says, puzzled. An odd question.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘My sister.’

  ‘Ah,’ he nods. ‘A sister. You’re lucky.’

  He looks back at his hands, speaking to them, not Maryanne. ‘How do we know who to trust?’

  She pauses before answering, dwelling on what it must be like to be Milhaus. Your whole world upturned overnight. Somebody, somewhere, turning it upside down. But who? Someone you knew, or thought you knew. Even trusted. Suddenly pointing the finger at you for whatever reason so that, overnight, everything is utterly changed. And will surely never be the same again. But who? Well might he ask that. Who wouldn’t? It is then that she realises he is staring at her, waiting for an answer.

  ‘You just know.’

  He is silent, looking about the small room, possibly saying to himself: Is that it? Is that all you can say? And she wouldn’t blame him, for it doesn’t feel like much of an answer.

  His focus returns to her. ‘What if you don’t?’

  ‘There must be someone.’

  He laughs, then shrugs. ‘What if there isn’t?’ He pauses, weighing things up, the way someone does when they’re about to say something they might regret. ‘I’m not even sure I trust my lawyer.’

  Milhaus falls silent again. She ponders him, frowning. She knows nothing of football, but, she is thinking, perhaps he is one of those who play in a team but are never of the team. Is that possible? One of those who only ever rely on their own genius, and never trust the team. And so has gone through life never having to trust anyone. Until now. His hands are folded, his eyes closed. He could almost be praying.

  At this point the guard steps into the cell. ‘Time.’

  She looks round, surprised; it has been a short ten minutes. And, in another way, an eternal ten minutes. She stands as the guard leads Milhaus from the room. He glances back at her, still wary. Unsure. A look that asks, almost pleads: Can I trust you? You come with a story crazy enough to be true … but can I? And again he has the look of a man who has never known who to trust because, protected by his genius, he has never had to. And now desperately needs to know.

  Then he is gone and she is led along the same dark corridor that she entered by and is soon standing in the full glare of the street, looking back at the grey face of the jail. People pass. Horse-drawn carriages clop by, a motor car rumbles along. The sun is high in the sky. Milhaus will be back in his cell, somewhere back there in hell’s dungeons. Milhaus, the person who is no longer simply the case, the name that is a story unto itself, the god who fell, the traitor who betrayed them all. Back there in his cell, foot tapping on the stone floor, a shaft of light through the bars of the window. The image of a woman he’s never met before, telling him he is not alone, clear in his mind. But wondering who she is. He didn’t even ask her name. She never gave it.

  Maryanne is drained. Exhausted. Palms sweating. There are no tea-houses or cafes in this part of town. She’s hungry and thirsty. She passes the courts and makes her way down the street, past the library, to a familiar building where she knows she will be welcome. The women always make her welcome. There she can sit and rest. Revive herself for the trip home. And there she can tell them where she has been. And what she has seen. If she can find the words. Then she remembers. It is Sunday. They won’t be there. And so she makes for home. She can wait, they can wait, until tomorrow.

  9.

  ‘You spoke to him?’

  It is not the usual crowded scene in the office, and Vera’s question turns heads. Vera: this young woman with skin like fresh cream from the posh side of the river; this young woman whose voice and bearing talks of money and an expensive education; who speaks the most wondrously strange language, the language of the enemy. But with whom Maryanne feels such an odd affinity.

  ‘Yes.’

  Vera smiles at her, eyes alight with admiration and a touch of awe. ‘Good heavens!’ She pauses, then adds, ‘And?’

  ‘What do I think?’ Maryanne raises her eyebrows, not sure what to say. ‘I don’t know. He’s alone, yes. Suspicious, yes. Of everyone and everything. Who wouldn’t be? But …’ She tries to gather together impressions that she hasn’t yet had time to think about properly. ‘It’s hard to say, but I couldn’t help but think he was holding something back.’

  ‘You don’t doubt he’s innocent?’

  Maryanne calculates her answer. ‘He laughed when I said he was innocent. That we all think he is.’

  ‘Laughed?’

  ‘An odd laugh. Said we’re all guilty of something.’ She pauses, slowly returning to Vera’s question. ‘What do I think? I don’t know. His eyes don’t miss anythi
ng. But there’s something lost in them too. Almost as if he’s not in the room. In a dream. Sleepwalking.’

  ‘Lost?’

  ‘As if he’s woken up in a strange land.’

  Vera glances down at the sheet of paper in her hands, and when she speaks it’s as if her mind is on two things. ‘Imagine it. You’ve got everything one minute, and nothing the next. The crowd cheering for you one day, and baying for your blood the next.’ She looks up from the paper. ‘Who wouldn’t be lost?’

  And as she speaks, Maryanne’s picture of Milhaus, the lost boy in the playground wondering where everybody has gone, comes back to her. Along with the nagging feeling that he was holding something back. Or that there was a story somewhere inside the story. ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Who wouldn’t be?’

  Maryanne sips her tea and munches absentmindedly on a biscuit. The two women are silent. She forgets Milhaus for the moment. Once again she contemplates this young woman with whom she has nothing in common but with whom she feels this affinity; this young woman who gives every impression that her life is blessed, full of possibilities in a way that Maryanne’s is not.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ The question pops out of Maryanne.

  ‘Do?’ Vera asks, looking up from writing on her sheet of paper.

  It amuses Maryanne; the women here are always writing something down, always rushing around with sheets of paper in their hands.

  ‘With your life,’ Maryanne adds, a touch of envy in her voice.

  ‘My life?’

  ‘Yes.’ Maryanne nods as she says this, a thoughtful nod that suggests her life and Vera’s will be as different as today and tomorrow. ‘When this is all over. I mean the vote, the war. It will exhaust itself. It will end. What then?’