Herself Alone in Orange Rain

by Tracey Iceton

  Aiden is running toward me, calling and waving. I start running too. As I draw near I see the stains on his clothes, dark and glistening. He falls. Behind him Brendan stands, gun in hand. I’m pulled back. Someone calls my name, a faint two-syllable whisper: Kee-lun, Kee-lun.

  I open my eyes. Patrick’s blurred face hovers above mine. I struggle for focus.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  I’m cramped up on the floor of the dock. The WPC peers over Patrick’s shoulder. He lifts me.

  ‘Your Honour, my client is clearly distressed. A recess, please?’

  ‘Granted. Fifteen minutes,’ Haskell says, holding up a pre-empting hand against Whittingham’s objections.

  Patrick helps me into the side room, asks the WPC for water. My head spins. A sticky flush crawls over my skin. I think I’m going to go again; blood drains away.

  ‘Put your head between your knees,’ Patrick advises.

  I do. It helps.

  ‘Can I have a cigarette?’

  ‘Not until you eat.’ Patrick takes a Mars bar from his Mr Men lunchbox.

  I nibble half of it and he hands over his fags.

  Someone taps on the door. Patrick opens it. I knock ash from the cigarette with jittery fingers.

  ‘Your Honour!’

  I spin round. Haskell is in the doorway.

  ‘I wanted to see if your client is fit to continue. May I?’ He gestures into the room and Patrick admits him.

  I stand but Haskell waves me down.

  ‘Miss Devoy, I’m prepared to adjourn until tomorrow if you are unwell.’

  ‘I’d rather get this over with, please.’

  He studies me, perhaps wondering if my faint is a defence ploy.

  ‘If you’re certain. I too would like this concluded as expediently as possible. Five minutes, Mr Duffy.’ He leaves.

  We return to the courtroom. The prosecution glare at me. I glare back.

  Haskell reopens the proceedings, asks about Regent’s Park: is it claimed the defendant planted the bomb? No. Made it? No. What was her supposed role then? Planning and reconnaissance. The supporting evidence for this accusation? None, Your Honour. The Regent’s Park charges are dismissed in ten minutes.

  Haskell returns to the Hyde Park charges which are three murders, conspiracy to bomb and possession of explosives. My heart stutters. Cold guilt swamps me. You are a volunteer in the Irish Republican Army, the legal representatives of the Irish people, and morally justified in carrying out a campaign of resistance. The phrase ‘morally justified’ fades too quickly. I call up Sands’ funeral, Daideo’s false teeth, Cathy’s bloodied sweater: the warmth of Aiden’s lips.

  Haskell enquires about their witness; is he present to testify?

  ‘We request our witness’s identity be protected,’ Whittingham replies.

  ‘That does not answer the question.’

  ‘M’Lord, if I may…?’

  ‘You may not. Answer my question: are you able to produce your informant?’

  ‘No, Your Worship.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Our witness is recently deceased.’

  ‘Deceased?’

  I shiver. Haskell leans back, drumming his fingertips together.

  ‘So on charges that compel me to award no lesser sentence than lifetime imprisonment, you expect me to convict on the word of a dead man?’

  ‘Your Honour, our witness was an extremely trustworthy source for twelve months. His accounts have been corroborated on a number of occasions.’

  ‘But not this one?’

  ‘Your Honour?’

  ‘You have no physical evidence, nor even a secondary statement?’

  Whittingham glances at his papers. ‘No, Your Worship.’

  ‘Are you, Mr Whittingham, familiar with the 1984 report by Lord Gifford into,’ he clears his throat, ‘supergrasses?’

  ‘Your Honour, I don’t think there’s need to refer to that document today.’

  ‘That, Mr Whittingham, is for me to decide.’ Haskell continues to tap his fingertips together. ‘In view of the lack of supporting evidence the charges of murder, conspiracy to bomb and possession of explosives are hereby dismissed.’

  Patrick leaps from his chair. ‘Your Honour, I move this case be closed.’

  ‘One moment, Mr Duffy. There remains the matter of your client’s suspected membership of the Provisional IRA.’

  Patrick grips the table with whitening fingers. ‘If you contend that the testimony provided by the prosecution’s informant is unreliable that must surely apply to every claim in the statement.’

  ‘It must apply, Mr Duffy, to those claims I decide it applies to. On the lesser charge I am prepared to accept the witness account, to be considered alongside the corroborating evidence of your client’s obvious Republican sympathies and associations which are suggestive of involvement with the Provisional IRA.’

  ‘Corroborating evidence?’ Patrick enquires.

  ‘Her marriage to an acknowledged IRA member…’

  ‘My client’s personal relationships are not on trial,’ Patrick interrupts.

  ‘…Her support for the Republican Movement.’ Haskell turns to me. ‘Is it not your handiwork on the Sinn Fein building?’

  Patrick replies for me. ‘Painting a mural is not an offence.’

  ‘Neither is singing…’ Haskell ruffles through paperwork. ‘…‘The Wearing of the Green’ in itself but the cumulative weight of such factors dictate I grant the membership charge validity. This court will be adjourned until 10 A.M. I advise you use the adjournment to inform your client of the penalties for membership of a proscribed organisation and reminding her of the allowances made for guilty pleas.’ A rap of his gavel concludes his advice.

  Undone by love, art and a sing-a-long. Hindsight is 20/20 but I still don’t see how I could have done anything differently.

  The WPC calls two male officers to haul my lead-weighted body from the dock. I feel them moving me but am powerless to resist. I’m locked inside my own head, seeing and hearing but paralysed and mute. Images, sharp and bright, assault me as I’m bundled down steep stone steps and thrust through a door. Ahead a long gloomy corridor curves out of sight. The low arched roof is concrete grey. Pipes race along the wall to my left. Cloying heat wafts from them. I’m in the tunnel that runs five feet below Crumlin Road, separating, connecting, the courthouse and jail, where I’ll spend the night. Synched between the male screws, I’m marched through the tunnel. Half way along smooth concrete gives way to mottled brickwork, Victorian like the jail it leads to, second home to Republicans for over a century.

  Exhaustion trips me. The screws tighten their grip, stumbling me along.

  ‘So much for the Provo’s ice-hard queen,’ one comments.

  Tears scald my eyes. I blink them away, straighten up, fix on the steel door that’s eighty yards and eight hundred years walk, and make the journey unaided.

  Alone in my cell I surrender.

  A key is clanked in the lock of the bare holding cell whose whiteness makes me jail-blind. I rub a sleeve over my cheeks, dampening the white cuffs, and gulp down sobs. My eyes feel raw. The door opens. I keep my face down, ashamed of myself for blubbing like a girl when I’ve fought so long, given up so much, for honorary membership to the ‘men only’ club of life.

  A male voice says, ‘I suppose yous’ll want tea?’

  ‘Thanks,’ Patrick replies.

  The door bangs shut. A hand touches my shoulder, stretching into an arm that encircles me. Fresh tears bubble over. Aftershave and fabric softener combine in my nostrils, a spicy, floral blend. He lets me sob myself dry. The peeler returns with tea that Patrick takes, blocking me from view as he does. The door bangs again. A steaming mug is pressed into my hands.

  ‘We need words,’ Patrick says gently.

  ‘Aye.’ I meet his gaze. ‘Will they be listening?’

  ‘Unlikely, but wise to be careful.’

  I move up on the bunk, making room for him to sit close; the
re’s nowhere else for him to perch and we need the discretion of whispers. In quiet Irish we talk.

  ‘What’ll happen to Danny?’

  ‘Charges dropped. He should be released tomorrow.’

  ‘I don’t know how you did it.’

  ‘Not me.’ Patrick smiles. ‘God, if you care to believe.’

  ‘It’s a miracle, alright.’ I shake my head. ‘One I don’t deserve.’

  ‘Someone’s not agreeing with you on that.’

  ‘I did it, Patrick. All the things they said and more.’

  ‘In Ireland’s name,’ he reminds me.

  I look away.

  He switches back to English. ‘About tomorrow: it’s pretty clear Haskell will be lenient if you plead guilty.’

  ‘How lenient?’

  ‘Perhaps as little as six months.’

  ‘If I don’t?’

  ‘Five years is the maximum.’

  All volunteers must realise that the threat of capture and of long jail sentences are a very real danger.

  ‘I might as well shoot myself as confess,’ I insist.

  ‘If you plead guilty you could be out and back to normal,’ he emphasises ‘normal’, ‘all the sooner.’

  ‘But if there’s a chance of not serving any time I have to take it.’

  ‘You don’t really believe that’s likely?’ Patrick challenges.

  I don’t. But I’ve already gone shit or bust. I won’t fold now. I answer him with silence.

  ‘You need to think about the future,’ Patrick advises.

  Sitting on the thin mattress, cell lit by the arcing beam of the security light outside, the past presses me with killing urgency. I cross-examine myself:

  Why have I done what I’ve done, become what I am? Because I believe in the right to take up arms and free Ireland.

  Now again, without the rhetoric? Because it was too important not to.

  How can you be certain it isn’t revenge motivating you? I can’t… There’ve been times… but every action was military. That Brit was a sniper, an enemy soldier…

  The civilians? Casualties of a war I didn’t start.

  That’s a platitude. I did my best to protect them, given the nature of the engagement. I wish it wasn’t this way; it’s not my fault it is. I’m sorry for them.

  What about your parents? Their choices are what killed them.

  So you don’t care about them at all? I didn’t know them, how can I care?

  What if someone ordered your daddy dead, pulled the trigger. Don’t you need to know? What am I supposed to do about that here, now?

  And Daideo? What about him?

  Isn’t this his fault? He tried to protect me. I made the decision to join: fight. He didn’t want that. His war was over.

  Is it over for you too? How can it be?

  Will it ever be over? Yes, when there’s peace. If…

  At 7 A.M. the guard brings breakfast. I eat the cornflakes, drink the tea, am taken to the washrooms then wait for Patrick, my clothes straightened but still betraying the fact that I slept in them.

  He arrives at 8.30.

  ‘Did you sleep?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Aye, shows.’

  ‘Why’d you ask then?’

  ‘To see if you’d lie.’ He smiles. ‘We don’t have much time. I brought these. Hope they fit.’ He hands me a Marks & Spencer bag containing a pair of grey slacks and a lilac blouse, still with the labels attached.

  ‘When did you buy these?’ I ask, changing out of my skirt.

  Patrick, cheeks flushed, faces the wall. ‘Last night. Have you decided what you’re doing?’

  ‘Yes. No deals. If they want to convict me they’ll do it without my help.’

  He sighs.

  ‘You think I’m being an eejit?’

  ‘It’s your decision.’

  ‘The wrong one?’

  ‘It’s not the decision, it’s the consequences you’ve to concern yourself with,’ he advises.

  Consequences I’ve earned.

  We stand for Lord Haskell. My legs are firm, my heartbeat steady.

  ‘Mr Duffy, have you consulted with your client?’

  ‘I have, M’Lord. My client has nothing to add.’

  Haskell peers at me over his spectacles. ‘You retain your ‘not guilty’ plea?’

  ‘I do.’

  He studies me a moment before addressing me:

  ‘Then, having weighed the evidence presented to this court, I am compelled to find you guilty on the charge of membership of a proscribed organisation, specifically the Provisional IRA. I am further compelled by your intransigence in this court to sentence you to four years imprisonment, to serve a minimum of two under the present terms of fifty percent remission granted to prisoners in Northern Ireland. Do you wish to say anything, Miss Devoy?’

  A Pearse quote pops into my head, ‘Nationhood is not achieved otherwise than in arms… Ireland unarmed will attain just as much freedom as it is convenient for England to give her; Ireland armed will attain ultimately just as much freedom as she wants.’

  But Haskell wouldn’t understand. To those who’ve nothing to fight for, or against, war is stupid, reckless, immoral and futile; they wouldn’t dream of starting it. To the rest of us war is brutal, horrible, desperate but necessary. We dream of ending it.

  I say what I think Daideo would’ve probably said had it been him in the dock.

  ‘Éire go bráth!’

  Haskell removes his glasses and blinks at me.

  ‘Would you like a translation?’ I offer.

  ‘I would not. I’ve had my fill of all things Irish.’ He bangs his gavel on the desk.

  Patrick and I are returned to our side room to wait for my prison escort. We sit in uncompromising silence. This isn’t what he wanted, me rejecting the chance of a reduced sentence. But it wasn’t his gamble to stake. I remove my chain and hold it out to him.

  ‘Will you look after this for me?’

  He takes it hesitantly. ‘Aye, alright. Only if you’ll promise me I’ll be giving it back to you someday.’

  ‘Promise.’

  I’m taken directly to Armagh, onto A wing, and greeted by Mairead who’s rearranged things so that I’m her cellmate. The routine of prison life begins.

  Something A.M., you’re told it’s 7.30 but you’ve no watch. You hear the screws banging down the wing. They peer through spy holes, counting prisoners. You’re checked off a list, packed and repacked every day.

  The door is opened. You file out with your cellmate, greet comrades, go to the toilets to empty your piss pot, filled during the hours since lock-down. You wait for a free sink then splash cold water on your face. Only two days until your weekly shower.

  You queue for breakfast; a quarter pint of milk, flask of tea and bowl of cornflakes. Food served, you return to your cell and pace your eating: too fast and you’re left with more empty time; to slowly and you won’t finish before the screws collect the slops. Then you’ll be hungry long before lunch.

  Breakfast finished and locked down again, the OC calls the roll. You listen at the door, answering ‘aye’ or, if you speak Irish, ‘anseo’. Then, if you have a book not read into your memory, you flick some pages, storing characters and plot for when there’s nothing to fill your mind.

  10 A.M., so they say: the first exercise period. Sixteen of you are marched into the yard for ninety minutes, strolling in twos and threes, sharing news from home, cigarettes and sweets if you have any. If you’re on the afternoon exercise you console yourself: your time is to come; theirs is over before lunch. You try to finish the letter you were writing.

  12 o’clock. You’re herded down to collect lunch: salad, limp and bruised; chips, black-burnt and greasy; if the chef is poorly, stale bread sandwiches made by the screws. You don’t eat those; they spit in them. You try to eat without tasting the food that’s a cold shadow of meals you once relished.

  2 P.M. and your turn in the yard. It was sunny this morning but now it’s r
aining. Screws shelter in the doorway, smoking king-sized cigarettes and touching up their glossy pink sneers. You huddle into yourself, teeth chattering. A comrade talks to you, trying to take you away from the high stone walls, overlooked by tiny barred windows. Tomorrow, if she’s struggling, you’ll do the same for her.

  Four: teatime. It’s lukewarm and sweet. Outside you didn’t take sugar.

  If it’s Wednesday or Saturday you listen at the door, praying for feet to stop outside, delivering small comforts sent by loved ones; proper cigarettes (you hate roll-ups), new socks (yours are holey and your mammy was the one for darning), a magazine (never Republican News), letters. Sometimes the letters upset you; a girlfriend is engaged, another expecting her first. You’ll be too old for that when you’re released. Your cellmate gives you a dab of the hand cream she’s been sent. If she’s really worried she’ll report to the OC who’ll speak to you, even ask the governor for something to raise your spirits. You don’t want to be a burden and pretend you’re fine. Your problems are no greater than anyone else’s.

  7.30 P.M.: another day nearly survived. The wing is unlocked. You dart to collect supper, the only meal you gobble because you don’t want to waste the free association period. You slip in and out of opened cells, visiting, pretending the wing is the back streets of home where you’d slip like this into the houses of friends and neighbours. Someone has a good book they’ve finished. Does anyone want a trade? You accept, thumbing the tattered Mills and Boon as though it’s a first edition by your favourite author. If the television has been repaired you’ll gather with the others to watch something colourful. Anything that isn’t the stale blue or sickly orange of the prison walls is welcomed.

  Nine-thirty. Too early for bed but that’s where you’re sent. The screws chase you to your cells. You hear the final clang that marks the master locks being turned. They reckon there’s no way of opening them until morning. You wonder what’d happen if a fire broke out. But then the rosary is called in Irish and the evening’s entertainment begins. Three nights a week it’s Irish lessons, words called from cell to cell, spellings, lenition, eclipsis. If you know more than your neighbours you teach them. Other nights it’s bingo, a lecture on Irish history or political ideology, a quiz. And always some singing.