Mermaid in a Bowl of Tears (Exit Unicorns Series Book 2)

by Cindy Brandner

  The young soldiers standing watch had tensed up, their guns now up and pointing toward the huddle of men. It was only the glut of men on the deck that made it impossible for the soldiers to discern what was actually happening.

  Casey pushed his way through the other men toward the two furious combatants. He placed a large hand lightly on the back of Roland’s scrawny neck, the implied threat unmistakable.

  “Roland, stop it now, before someone gets hurt.”

  He risked a glance at the observation post, casting a reassuring smile at the tense soldiers, as if to say ‘all’s fine here, lads.’ What he saw in the window though made his intestines clench. The Sergeant’s rawboned face had appeared and was trained directly on the three of them.

  “Fockin’ give over the knife,” Casey whispered tersely, “the Sergeant is watchin’ the both of yez. Roland, I’ll see that ye get a new rosary.”

  “That one was blessed by the pope,” Roland said, the light of real murder still in his eyes.

  “I can’t make promises there, but I think I can get one blessed by the Bishop of Armagh,” Casey said, thinking Jamie was going to be scratching his head over this particular request.

  “That and an apology will do.”

  “Declan,” Casey said in the tone of a man who still had hold of his reason, “apologize to the man before the lot of us get shot.”

  “Not to me,” Roland said primly, “to the Blessed Mary, for interruptin’ our conversation.”

  Casey sighed, trying to keep a rein on his own rather frayed nerves.

  “I’ll not do it,” Declan said through gritted teeth.

  Casey leaned down into his face, “Ye’ll do it, or I’ll cut yer fockin’ hair off meself.” He gave Declan a long dark look that communicated volumes.

  Declan swallowed, chest heaving with an angry breath, but when his lips parted, a surprisingly humble—“Holy Mary Mother of God, I am extremely sorry to have offended you,” came out.

  Roland’s long nostrils flared briefly, the red slowly fading to patches, leaving him looking like he’d a bad case of nettle rash. He let the haft of the knife go and Casey took it with shaking hands.

  The entire deck had stilled, the milling, tense crowd suddenly frozen in place. And Casey knew without even looking up, that the cat had come amongst the pigeons.

  “It’s my understanding that even cockroaches have some base understanding of the rules by which the universe functions,” the Sergeant said, each word punctuated by the snap of the riding crop he carried hitting his leg. “So I would think that even you Irish would understand that to be in possession of a weapon on this ship, which is my universe, is a very, very bad thing.”

  Casey felt the blood drop down below his knees as he realized he was still holding the weapon in question. He’d that horrible feeling he’d had once as a child when his father had taken him on a ferris wheel and the thing had paused at the top before starting the spinning rush downward. He had felt as though he’d lost his grip on the planet, and the bottom of his stomach along with it.

  The Sergeant had fixed his ghostly pale eyes on Casey.

  “I believe you have a weapon in your hands, Mr. Riordan?”

  His stomach lurched a little further with the knowledge that the man knew his name. If he knew his name, he likely knew a great deal more, including his address, the names and locations of all his nearest and dearest, and what brand of briefs he wore.

  “Hands up and out, Mr. Riordan.”

  Casey felt the knife slip from his fingers, taken by a silent hand. The bottom of his stomach seemed to reassert itself a little. He put his hands palm up for the Sergeant’s inspection.

  The cold blue eyes met his own, but Casey neither blinked nor looked away.

  “What have you done with it Riordan?”

  “Done with what?”

  “Clear back from him now!”

  No one moved. The universe was stilled to this single point, here and now, and Casey knew his very existence could well depend on how the next few seconds played out.

  “I said clear back NOW!”

  The Sergeant’s eyes were next to bugging out of his head and the riding crop had assumed a staccato beat that didn’t bode well for anyone.

  “Do as he says,” Casey said, tone quiet but carrying with enough force to make the men move back so the deck could be inspected. The knife was likely sinking to the bottom of the lough at this point. At the very least it had been kicked down off the deck, for Casey knew there was a small gap in the fencing in the northernmost corner. He was certain the knife had made its way swiftly to that gap.

  “You will not order these men. This ship is under my command and as such so are all those under it. You will mind that you are a prisoner.”

  “The ship may well be yours, but these are not your men,” Casey said.

  “Neither are they yours,” the Sergeant replied, with a tiny smile that pinched the corners of his eyes.

  A rustle began amongst the men on the deck, a quiet stepping back to clear the deck for searching, even as somehow it became clear that their ranks had closed around Casey. The deck was searched, but it did not yield up the knife. Every man was patted down, most none too gently, but the knife, as Casey had suspected, was well and truly gone.

  After they were searched, the men, one by one, came back and took their places beside and behind Casey. The Sergeant watched this proceeding with a look of mounting fury on his countenance.

  “Ah, I see. Is that how it is, Mr. Riordan?”

  “Aye,” Casey replied, “that’s how it is.”

  The Sergeant nodded, the small smile still tucked firmly in place. There was something obscene about it. Casey fought the desire to shiver. He knew he had to hold his ground at all costs though. Any sign of weakness would give the man what he sought.

  “Until later then, Mr. Riordan.”

  Casey didn’t respond, merely stood tall and firm as oak in the midst of the men that surrounded him. They had given him their support and he had to face this man down on their account. Or they would all pay.

  The Sergeant walked away, bending down to whisper something in the ear of a young Scots soldier called Campbell.

  Once he’d disappeared into the stairwell leading to the officer’s quarters, a collective breath was released around Casey. It sounded like the sighing of a thousand leaves in an autumn wind. Slowly the men began to mill away, many stopping to touch Casey’s shoulder in passing, or to give him a nod.

  “Christ, man,” Declan said, face still a starchy white, “that was a mite too close for my likin’.”

  Casey gave Declan a smile of reassurance, but the bottom of his stomach had fallen out again.

  “Couldn’t ye have buckled man?” Matty said in a low voice, his own countenance distinctly worried. And so Casey knew he wasn’t alone in his understanding; that today he’d made an enemy he could not afford to have.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  The Music Room

  WITHIN THE WALLS OF THE JAIL, time held no meaning. Day blurred into night, one minute could have been an hour, or an hour an entire week. Pat had no idea whether it was night or day as he’d been hooded continuously since the brutal helicopter ride. The hood was rudely shoved up above his nose, but no higher, when he was given his paltry meals. Which consisted of a sort of watery stew that he was expected to eat with his fingers. He was continually dizzy, as though his head were miles away from his body and there was a constant ringing in his ears. He knew that he and all the other men were on a deprivation diet, a tactic to keep them weak and off balance along with the interrupted sleep and regular visits to the ‘music room’.

  It was what he called the room they put him in for hours on end, bombarding his senses with white noise of a variety that was designed to make a man want to blow his ears off. Which was likely the general idea. It was also ungodly hot in the room.

  He’d been issued a boiler suit right after his helicopter ride. It was far too large and this too was
purposeful, as was the hood, which hadn’t been removed since he’d first been beaten. The air he managed to pull in was stale and fetid and seemed lacking in the oxygen he so desperately longed to take in in great gulping lungfuls.

  He understood the theory behind sensory deprivation. Take away the enormous stream of information the brain was used to processing and the brain would start to malfunction. Knowing it in theory, however, didn’t help a man greatly in practice. Particularly after being made to stand against a wall, legs spread, forehead not quite touching, hands splayed and arced against the damp concrete.

  The last time they’d stood him there for what might have been a few hours or a few days, he no longer knew. There was no light, only darkness.

  He eventually collapsed to the floor, no longer able to stand the pain in his legs. A doctor had been brought in to ascertain if he was fit enough to withstand more ‘interrogation’. The doctor obviously felt he was because they’d propped him back up against the wall and continued with their questions which were screamed from close range into his tortured ears.

  He didn’t respond to their questions. He couldn’t have even if he’d wanted to. He didn’t know anything about the things they asked him. Was the IRA planning a large scale campaign? Where were the 2nd Belfast Battalion’s weapons cached? Where were the safe houses along the border? He had no clue, but his captors either didn’t believe him, or they just enjoyed inflicting a lot of pain.

  He couldn’t even remember what proper sleep felt like. Every time he managed to lose consciousness here, he was slapped awake, had bright lights beamed in his eyes or someone shout in his ear. All of it designed to keep him off balance, to make adrenaline stream through his body, keeping him in a constant state of panic.

  Pat lay now where he’d collapsed some time ago. He didn’t know how long, nor did he care. They’d threatened him with any number of things if he didn’t get back up, but he simply couldn’t, in fact if they’d said they were going to kill him, he’d have seen it as a means of escape. Finally after several threats and a few kicks to his ribs they’d abandoned him in the wee shed, where he lay grateful for the cessation of noise and freshly inflicted pain.

  He wasn’t aware of having fallen asleep until he heard a voice.

  “Here man, have a drink.” The voice seemed to come from a very great distance, muffled and fuzzy. Pat turned away from it, wanting only to sink back into unconsciousness. It was the one safe place in this unending nightmare. But the voice persisted. “Come on, we’ve only a few minutes, you need the water.”

  He’d the vague sensation of the cord being loosened around his neck and then the hood was pushed up to just below his nose and the cool rim of a canteen was pressed to his split lower lip. He found, to his consternation, that despite his ravening thirst, he couldn’t open his mouth. His jaw, tensed for days, was locked tight.

  The man seemed to sense his difficulty, for a hand, smooth and warm, touched the knotted muscle, then pushed into it with increasing pressure until it gave.

  The water tasted like rain directly from heaven, sweet and chill, it trickled down the back of his tongue causing his throat to spasm in shock. Much of it spilled back out onto his coveralls, but eventually some made it past the bruised constriction of his throat.

  “Th—thank you,” he managed to stutter out, vocal chords protesting even the one small word.

  “You’re welcome,” the voice was soft, gentle, and undeniably British. The double-layered hood was as effective as complete blindness, and Pat had learned in a few short days to rely on his other four senses. His hearing had heightened considerably, and he was able to sort noises out, separating them, categorizing—dangerous or not dangerous, immediate threat or postponed agony. He knew one soldier from another. The one with the clipped upper class accent had a mean kick on him, the harsh Geordie accent belonged to the one who specialized in squeezing testicles, the Cockney voice belonged to the one with a penchant for putting out cigarettes on any bare bit of skin that was handy. But this one wasn’t familiar, there were no telltale regional epiglottal stops and starts or lilts to his words, just a smoothness as though it had been carefully trained to be free of such clues.

  “Could ye take th—the h—hood off?” he asked, tongue stumbling still over small syllables.

  A long stretch of silence greeted his question and then the voice, still soft and calm, said, “I’m not supposed to. If someone were to come in—I—well just for a minute, alright, and then you can’t resist when I have to put it back on.”

  “I w—won’t,” Pat promised, his whole body trembling in anticipation of this small bit of freedom.

  The man loosened the knot further, the hood slipping with no more than a passing sigh against Pat’s face and then all was light—blinding, consuming, agonizing light. His eyes throbbed and burned with it, felt as if they might burst from his head with it but he forced himself to keep them open, to absorb the dazzling brilliance for as long as he might.

  “Are you alright?” the man asked, no more than an indistinct blur in front of him, outlined in a hazy blue aura. Pat blinked several times and then squinted his eyes down to narrow slits in order to achieve some sort of focus. It worked.

  The man was not as young as Pat had thought. Though with his slight build, soft brown eyes and fine blond hair, he retained a boyish aura. Still he was at least in his twenties, possibly early thirties.

  “Hello,” the man said, smiling. “I’ve brought you some tea, strong with lots of sugar. We need to get it down you quickly before someone comes along.”

  “Why?” Pat asked stupidly, feeling like a stunned owl knocked from its perch and left to the mercies of the sun.

  “Because you’re not allowed sugar, it’s all part of the program. The brain needs three things to function properly—oxygen, sensory stimulation, and sugar. So drink up.”

  Pat gulped the hot, sweet tea that the man held to his mouth, scalding his tongue in the process and not giving a damn. He could feel it go all the way down through his esophagus and into his stomach, burning a path through the chill that seemed to have settled permanently in his center.

  “Good man.” The man didn’t take the tea away until Pat had drained every last drop. Then from a satchel on the floor he produced a sandwich, cookies and an orange.

  He unwrapped the sandwich and Pat, sense of smell painfully acute, caught the scent of ham, his stomach contracting painfully at the idea of food. The man held the sandwich to his mouth but as much as he longed to take a bite, to devour the thing whole without even bothering to chew, he turned his head away.

  “Why are you doing this?” he asked, watching the man out of the corner of his eye.

  The man colored slightly, he’d very fine skin that flushed easily.

  “You don’t have to worry you know,” he smiled faintly, “last time I checked neither pork nor tea was on the list of brainwashing tools approved by the British government.”

  Pat, too hungry to care, too tired to second guess what seemed a random act of kindness took a bite and then another and another.

  “Go slowly,” the young man advised, “your stomach, much as it needs it, won’t be inclined to treat the food gently.”

  “I don’t suppose ye’d consider takin’ the handcuffs off so I could feed myself?”

  “No, I don’t suppose I would,” the man replied, “I saw what you did to Johns and Diddy the last time you were out of handcuffs. Being that I’m somewhat smaller than them I imagine you’d make short work of me.”

  Pat smiled ruefully, face stinging as several half healed cuts re-opened, and looked the man directly in the eyes. “How did ye know what I was thinkin’?”

  “I didn’t,” he replied calmly, “but nor am I a complete fool.” He neatly peeled the orange, segmented it, and held a piece out to Pat. It was an oddly intimate act, to be fed by a stranger’s hand.

  “David,” said the man, peeling off another segment of orange.

  “Mmgghpm?” Pat enquir
ed around a mouthful of sweet, tart fruit, juice leaking into the split lip and stinging like fire.

  “My name is David,” he reiterated, retrieving a napkin from his satchel and dabbing Pat’s lip with it.

  Pat eyed him warily. “Is this some sort of new torture the Army’s instituted, death by table manners?”

  “No, I was just raised well.”

  “Oh,” Pat said, feeling suddenly awkward. The hate, the violence—these things he could handle summarily, retreating into a corner in his mind and holding that small part safe. Simple kindness, though, disarmed him and left him feeling terribly vulnerable.

  “It’s alright, I wouldn’t trust me either if I’d been in your shoes for the last two weeks, but I really mean no harm.”

  “Won’t ye get into trouble if they find ye feedin’ me?”

  “Yes I would, a great deal I imagine, but I’m willing to take that chance.”

  “Why?”

  David sighed and looked Pat directly in the face. His eyes were hazel, brown around the center, then ringed with green and flecks of gold. Pat found himself oddly mesmerized by the colors.

  “I did it because I’m absolutely appalled at the tactics being used over here and cannot sleep as a result. I know feeding one man doesn’t balance the scales out but I thought perhaps it would help me to rest at night. So you see,” he broke off a piece of one cookie and held it out to Pat, “it’s really a rather selfish act.”

  Pat took the bite between his lips and felt the brush of the man’s finger, warm and dry, against his bottom lip. He hesitated, oddly frightened by the first gentle touch he’d known from another human in days. David’s hand smelled of rifle oil, ham and something far softer, not sweet but warm and comforting. His own smell.

  “Why me?” Pat asked quietly. David drew his hand away slowly, dropping his eyes down to Pat’s bare feet. There was an odd tension in the air and Pat wished he hadn’t asked the question, for somehow it had brought down his own barriers a bit, put a chink in the brick wall that he needed to keep impenetrable in order to survive what had happened and what was likely still to come.