Belfast Girls

by Gerry McCullough

  She heard only what she expected when the foreman replied twice more, “Guilty, my Lord.”

  Phil had gone very white.

  Mary longed to be able to go to Phil and put her arms around her. Instead she could only wait in suspense as the judge prepared to give his sentence.

  “Prisoner at the bar,” he began, “you have been found guilty of some very serious charges. The evil of illegal drugs must be rooted out from this country. Leniency will only result in further death and misery for the innocent. I therefore sentence you as follows. On the first charge, possession of an unlicensed firearm, I consider that this offence is in itself a serious one. As a first offence, I am prepared to give a sentence of two months imprisonment. On the second and third charges, of possession of an amount of heroin not just for personal use, and of intent to deal in this illegal substance, I feel obliged to exercise my discretion, and impose a sentence which reflects the gravity of these crimes. Since this is a first offence, I will not impose the full term which the law allows. I sentence you to two years imprisonment for each offence, the sentences to run concurrently.”

  Two years.

  Mary felt her mouth drop open. Surely it was impossible!

  But it was not impossible.

  Indeed, the commentators on the news that night seemed to feel that, if anything, the sentence was too lenient. The recent spate of drug-related deaths had roused a desire for blood in the local politicians and reporters. There was an almost universal cry for tougher measures.

  Poor Phil, thought Mary. No-one seemed to doubt her guilt. This was no Agatha Christie story, where Poirot or someone would turn up evidence to prove the heroine’s innocence, even after the jury had found her guilty.

  Phil was to go to prison.

  How would she bear it?

  Mary shuddered again at the thought.

  She longed to be able to change things and see Phil walk free. She was still convinced of Phil’s innocence. But it seemed that she was alone in that belief.

  Phil had been sentenced and the sentence would be carried out.

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  To Phil, her arrest and trial had passed like a dream. A bad dream but one which somehow could not touch her.

  She came back to reality when, sentence having been passed, she was taken down to the cell in the Lagan Court and told that she would be transferred shortly to Hydebank.

  Suddenly, the knowledge received like a cold shower of water in the face, Phil realised that none of this was a dream. She was really in prison, and would be there for most of the next two years – or perhaps less, with remission.

  Annie Maguire came to see her on the next visiting day. She had been in court but apart from that had only seen Phil on one brief visit since her arrest. For Phil, the sight of her mother’s pain made everything much worse. She was thankful when the visit was over.

  “I didn’t do it, mammy,” was the first thing Phil said.

  “I know you didn’t, Philomena,” said her mother. “But everyone else thinks you did. That’s what I can’t understand. How can an innocent girl end up like this?”

  Phil’s eyes filled with tears. “Oh, mammy, I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  “You’ve nothing to be sorry about,” said her mother. “I told you, I know you had nothing to do with any drug dealers.”

  Phil looked away, and could say nothing.

  When her father came to see her on the next visiting day, it was just as bad. Phil could only feel relief when she was alone again.

  Mary had written to her and asked to be allowed to visit if Phil wanted to see her. To Phil, the prospect was one to look forward to. She need not feel guilty towards Mary. Perhaps it might cheer her up.

  She had begun to find herself accepting the prison routine as day followed day. She had been given some work to do in the kitchen and found that she could chat on a superficial level with some of the other women. But there was no-one she felt might become a real friend. It would be good to talk to Mary.

  All the same, there was an awkwardness for the first few minutes. They sat across a table in a room where many other couples were seated in the same way, and looked at each other. There was a buzz of conversation all around them. The prison officers stood to one side out of earshot of all but the loudest remarks.

  Mary looked at Phil. She was wearing prison uniform which looked rather more like a shapeless overall than anything else, and no make- up.

  She was still looking pale and very far from the bright, light-hearted Phil of their schooldays. Even in their recent meetings, when Phil had more often than not looked down-hearted, she had never looked like this.

  “Well, Mary,” said Phil, after a pause. “It’s good to see you. Thanks for coming.”

  “Any time,” said Mary. They both laughed awkwardly.

  “I can’t understand how this has happened,” Mary said suddenly. “You, of all people, Phil – the last person to hurt anyone.”

  “Oh, don’t, Mary, don’t!” Phil cried suddenly. One of the warders looked over and Phil, recollecting herself, said nothing more.

  Mary leaned forward. “What is it, Phil? Tell me.”

  Phil looked at her for a long moment. “Mary, I haven’t told anyone else, but you’re different. And you already know part of it.”

  Mary nodded encouragingly.

  “The thing is –” Phil said, and stopped. “The thing is – I didn’t know anything about the gun or the heroin. But – there were other things – things I couldn’t help knowing – things I heard about by accident. I couldn’t tell anyone without giving away how I knew.” She stopped again.

  Mary smiled at her. “It’s all right, Phil. You needn’t say any more. I understand.”

  “I don’t want to mention any names,” Phil said quickly.

  “Of course not,” Mary agreed. To herself she said “Davy Hagan. I might have known that if Phil was in trouble, he would be at the back of it.” But aloud she said only “I understand.”

  “So I wasn’t guilty of the things I was tried for,” Phil went on quietly. “But I was guilty all the same. Guilty of concealing knowledge that could have saved people’s lives. I can’t live with it, Mary. I couldn’t fight the accusations in court, even though Gerry and the solicitors kept trying to make me, because I felt that I deserved it all. And now I can’t escape from the dreadful feeling of knowing what I’ve helped to cause. What am I to do?”

  Mary reached out and took Phil’s hand in her own.

  “I do understand, Phil,” she said. “I want to help.” She was quiet for a moment, then she said “Phil, do you remember going to confession when we were kids?”

  “Yes. It’s a long time since I’ve been,” Phil answered. “Not since Davy and I –” She left the sentence unfinished.

  “I’ve been thinking,” Mary said. “It seems to me that sometimes it’s necessary to confess and to hear a human voice say that you’re forgiven. It probably doesn’t much matter who says the words. Do you think it would help you to do that now?”

  Phil thought for a moment.

  “I wonder if it would, Mary?” she said slowly. “I think perhaps it would.”

  “We could try, if you like. No-one would hear us. There’s so much noise all around.”

  The two girls bent their heads in the middle of the busy room. Their hands were clasped across the table. In broken, halting words, Phil poured out all her sorrow, her guilt, her repentance. As she did so, she felt a great weight lifting from her heart. When she had finished, she continued to sit with bowed head for a few moments while Mary, speaking very quietly, tried to adapt for this strange situation the familiar words of forgiveness and absolution.

  When she had said everything that seemed appropriate, she looked up. Phil’s head remained bowed for another moment, then she too looked up. Her face was calm, her eyes bright with tears.

  “Thank you, Mary,” was all she said, but Mary felt relief flooding her.

  It was the old Phil again, f
reed from the burden she had struggled with, and ready to go on with her life.

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  For Phil, prison was not an easy life. Its main problem was monotony. Phil, used to lively companionship and mental activity, found it difficult to adapt to the daily routine of laundry or cleaning or cutting vegetables. After the first month, she began to realise that she needed to occupy her mind and that she would be allowed to carry on research for her MA if she applied to do so. The opportunity to do something different was a great help.

  More than anything else, she missed Davy.

  Davy had known nothing of what was happening to her until the trial was over and, by the time he came back and learnt that Phil was in prison, she had been there two months.

  On the instructions of the drug network, he stayed away from her.

  O’Brien was also in prison with the others who had taken part in the abortive snatch.

  There had been so many recent blows, these arrests, and the loss of a full consignment of heroin and of a safe store house with the raid on the flat.

  But the remaining traffickers were determined not to lose such a lucrative business. They were operating under the motto of business as usual and didn’t want to risk losing another valuable asset in Davy.

  To visit a convicted dealer would be to arouse suspicion against himself which, once aroused, would be easily confirmed.

  Phil realised all that. Nevertheless, her heart ached for him. Mary continued to visit her on a regular basis. Her visits were a source of great comfort. Phil felt a new lightness now and the relief from the crushing weight of her guilt was the one thing which made it possible for her to face each new day, even in Davy’s continued absence.

  She moved about her tasks in the prison with a quiet, composed mind, taking each day as it came and finding, after the routine had become accustomed, a strange satisfaction in the manual work as well as a lifeline in the mental stimulation of research for her MA.

  The months passed and, for Phil, being in prison became, in a way which frightened her when she stopped to think of it, a way of life which it was hard to believe would ever change.

  She had made few friends and none of those were close.

  Only one girl, a nineteen year old jailed for her part in a robbery, became more to her than a vague face and a name. Arlene Montgomery, a lively good-natured girl who seemed to have wandered into crime as much from a friendly reluctance to turn down the suggestions of her mates as for any desire for gain, made it hard by her repeated overtures for Phil to ignore her. It was as impossible to overlook her as if she was a friendly puppy continually jumping up to be patted.

  So Phil talked to Arlene whenever necessary and vaguely missed her when, her year reduced to six months, Arlene finally disappeared from the prison orbit.

  When she had been in the prison for almost six months, Phil was approached one day in the TV room by a woman who had not previously spoken to her.

  She was tall, thin, and had an indescribable air of toughness.

  “I’ve a message for you,” she said to Phil quietly, speaking without apparently moving her lips. “Be in the toilets at four o’clock.”

  Phil would have preferred to keep away from the woman. She suspected that the message was to do with her supposed drug dealing connections. There was nothing she wanted less than to speak to anyone on that basis. However, she was curious.

  When four o’clock came, she went to the toilets.

  The woman’s name, she remembered now, was Margaret McCleary, ‘Big Maggie’ to the rest of the prison inmates.

  They stood side by side washing their hands and Big Maggie said in her almost motionless style, “I have a letter for you from a friend. The initials are DH. It’s hidden in a safe place. When can you come for it?”

  Phil was glad she had come. She thought for a moment.

  “I’ll be working in the library today, after tea. Can you get it to me there?”

  “I’m never there myself. I don’t want to do anything unusual. But we’ll see. I know someone who goes there from time to time. I’ll get her to bring it.”

  Phil sat at her accustomed desk in the library, with a book open before her, staring at it sightlessly.

  DH.

  The initials are DH.

  It seemed like a lifetime since she had heard from Davy.

  It was impossible to read, impossible even to imagine what he would say in his letter.

  Impossible to do anything but wait.

  A slight, blonde haired woman sat down opposite her. She carried a few books which she set halfway between herself and Phil. She drew one of the books towards her, opened it, and sat quietly reading.

  Time passed.

  The woman glanced up, saw that the prison officer in charge had her back turned.

  With a slow, careful movement – much less noticeable if the warder turned round, than a quick snatch – she took the top book from her pile. She placed it almost by Phil’s hand.

  She caught Phil’s eye and winked at her. Phil looked down again. When she was sure that enough time had passed and that she was in control of her actions, she reached casually for the book. The letter was between the pages, towards the middle. Phil put a sheet of file paper on the open book, wrote some meaningless notes, then lifted the paper together with the letter and put it on top of her other notes.

  Presently, she closed up the book again and pushed it back to the centre of the table.

  Later, she read the letter in the privacy of her own bed. It was not long.

  Dear Phil, Davy wrote,

  I don’t understand what happened. I know that you, of all people, would never have got mixed up in anything. I’ve just got back to the country. Some friends told me where you were, but not why – no details at all. I’m hoping to get this to you secretly but it may not reach you for quite a while yet.

  I can’t write openly, or visit you, or I’d be attracting suspicion to myself and it wouldn’t take them long to confirm it.

  I may have to leave the country again soon, in any case.

  I’ve been told not to go back to the flat because apparently it’s a known address, now. I’m devastated at what you’re going through. I wish I could help. I love you very much.

  I don’t want to sign my name in case this goes astray but you don’t need to be told it.

  I love you, I love you, I love you.

  There was no signature. The rest of the space was filled up with kisses.

  Phil felt a warm surge of emotion as she read.

  She kissed the paper and put it inside her bra, next to her heart. It was prickly and a bit uncomfortable, and she wouldn’t dare walk around with it, but it was nice to keep it there for a while.

  Soon she would have to think of somewhere safe to keep it.

  So Davy had only recently come back.

  He seemed not to know that it was the discovery of the gun and the drugs in his flat which had led to Phil’s imprisonment. His friends must have decided to keep him in the dark. She could see that it would have been hard for him to find out from anyone else without giving away his connection with her.

  Phil was glad he didn’t know. If he felt that her conviction was his fault, he would probably do something quixotic. Give himself up, most likely.

  And what good would that do?

  They wouldn’t believe that Phil was innocent. Since she was his girlfriend, they would simply think that she and Davy had been working together.

  It would just mean that they would both be in prison, and in Davy’s case, perhaps for much longer. Phil knew that she had got a lighter sentence because of her age and her sex.

  And once they had Davy’s name as a drug dealer, they could probably dig up a lot of other things against him.

  Phil shivered at the thought.

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  There were no more letters from Davy.

  Phil didn’t know whether to be glad or sorry. It was difficult enough to keep one letter hidd
en in the exposed, public life of prison where everything was open to regular inspection. She switched hiding places regularly and several times narrowly escaped having the letter discovered. To keep a series of letters hidden would have been impossible.

  She considered more than once destroying it, eating it perhaps, but could not bring herself to do this.

  The letter had become a talisman, a guarantee that she would someday see Davy again.

  She made no attempt to write back. She had nothing to say.

  She needed to see him face to face before the right words would come.

  And the days went on. Soon, unbelievably, she had been in prison for almost a year. She was to get full remission for good behaviour. Taking into account her time on remand, this meant that her sentence was almost up.

  She had become so used to the prison routine that she felt panic- stricken at the idea of making decisions for herself again. She had lived for nearly a year in a cocoon where everything was organised for her and there were no responsibilities. Now, suddenly, as the time of her release drew ever closer, that was finished with.

  She felt naked and new born.

  Life outside the prison was something unreal, a dream she had had long ago and could only vaguely remember. Her family and Mary had faithfully visited her and written but this had not been enough in itself to sustain the reality of that other life.

  She spent as much time as possible on the research she was doing into the life and poetry of Byron. This was a third world into which she could sometimes vanish. She would move around in a daze, thinking about the ‘mad, bad, and dangerous to know,’ poet, and about his circle. She was only recalled when someone in the daily life of the prison stepped outside routine to ask her something which required thought to answer.

  But as the time of her release approached and a date had been set which was almost in sight, Phil began to worry.