Herself Alone in Orange Rain

by Tracey Iceton

  ‘They could be different.’

  ‘How?’

  We teeter a moment then he grabs me. His lips graze my cheek, his breath is hot and urgent on my skin. I only have to turn my head and we’ll be kissing.

  I shove him off. ‘Fuck sake, Patrick.’

  We glare at each other. He’s hurt, confused, angry. I’m afraid: terrified. Because I’m sure now that I’m as much in love with him as he is with me.

  ‘Maybe you’d best get yourself a new solicitor.’

  He bangs on the door for out. It opens and he’s gone.

  When Jen is released Mairead asks me to be second in command.

  ‘Pick someone else.’

  She laughs. ‘Who? Why?’

  ‘Mags or Eileen. Because they’ll be better at it than me.’

  ‘If I thought that I’d not be asking you,’ Mairead says.

  ‘Then your thinking’s wrong.’

  ‘It’s you that’s wrong,’ Mairead replies. ‘You can do this. You’re just needing to prove it to yourself.’ She squeezes my shoulder. ‘Sure, I know there’s been more for you to adjust to here than locked doors but you’re doing grand so far. This’ll be good for everyone.’

  She’s after dissolving those last few grains of distrust lurking in me about myself as friend, not comrade.

  ‘Put it to a vote,’ I say. ‘If it comes back ‘aye’ then I’ll do it.’

  ‘I already have. It did.’

  Over the next few months Mairead starts deputising to me, having me go with her, then alone, to negotiate with Chief Rat. She’s right about the responsibility being good for me. It teaches me to be reasonable without being weak, understanding without being judgemental. And it gives me a focus besides the stabbing in my chest that comes with picturing Patrick’s face, something which I can’t stop doing.

  Nora brings Briege and the little one to visit. Saoirse stretches out in her mammy’s arms, star-fish hands grasping at clothes, hair, nothing. Her gummy pink mouth reminds me of Daideo’s. I feel sorry for her, named for something she’ll probably never get to live out.

  ‘Will you hold her?’ Briege asks, offering me the bundle.

  I glance around the visiting room; no one else has brought a baby today.

  ‘It’s not allowed. In case we’re passing comms that way.’

  ‘Well, she’ll still be wee enough for a cuddle when you get out,’ Briege sighs.

  Nora glares at me. She’s made a career of prison visiting.

  ‘Changed the rules have they?’

  I shrug. ‘How’s himself?’

  Briege smiles. ‘Grand, loves being a daddy, can’t get enough of her.’

  ‘Danny?’

  ‘Fine,’ Nora says. ‘Nearly finished his apprenticeship. He’s looking for work.’

  It’s as much as she can say; I hope there’ll be more in the comm hidden in my shoe. I force out the next name.

  ‘Frank?’

  ‘Knees bother him some but he’s alright,’ Nora admits.

  Life is going on without me, as though I’m dead.

  Will I be able to rise again, like the Provisional’s own phoenix, from the ashes of myself?

  I have to believe the answer is yes.

  Armagh Jail—23rd September, 1986

  Today is hard for two reasons: it would have been my fourth wedding anniversary and Mairead is being released, leaving me as OC over the thirty-two women that form IRA A company in Armagh.

  I argued against the decision, I’ve less than six months myself; we should be preparing for a longer war. In the end there was a unanimous vote. I conceded on condition that Geraldine, who’s doing ten for weapons possession and conspiring to do the usual, be second in command. She’s got a patient strength that’ll see everyone through once I’m gone too.

  ‘Have you got everything?’ I look around our cell.

  ‘Think so.’ Mairead shrugs on her parka; industrial blue with a traffic-cone orange lining, size man’s medium that drowns her tiny frame. ‘Jesus, I’ll be glad to get into a coat that fits.’ She rummages in her bag. ‘These are for you.’ She produces a spray of the purple flowers that grow in the cracks of the yard wall. ‘For you and Aiden, I mean. Four is fruit or flowers. It’s the best I could manage. I’ll take him some lilies when I get to Belfast.’

  ‘You don’t have to.’

  ‘Aye, I do.’ She hugs me.

  ‘Be careful out there,’ I tell her.

  ‘Don’t worry about me, I’ve plenty waiting to help. It’s yous I’m worried about. I wish I wasn’t leaving you to this.’

  There’s talk of us being moved to the shiny new jail at Maghaberry. The uncertainty is unnerving.

  ‘Don’t be silly, you’ve done more than your whack. We’ll be fine.’

  ‘I hope so,’ she says, chewing on her lip and blinking back tears. She leans into me and whispers, ‘Remember, your mind’s your strongest weapon. That’s how we can always counteract whatever they do because they can’t control our minds and they can’t get inside them and that’s their failure.’

  I smile at her. ‘Aye.’

  We hug again. A screw interrupts.

  ‘Bus is waiting, Mairead. Caoilainn, the governor said have you time for a meeting later?’

  ‘Tell him I’ll see him after tea.’

  Mairead nods at me and is gone.

  Time is running short. I have to decide what I’m going to do when I get out, about the future and the past.

  Armagh Jail—29th September, 1986

  A scrap of paper is shoved under my cell door after lock-down, informing me we’re being moved from Armagh tomorrow. Cheating bastards’ve done it this way so we can’t organise resistance. We organise it anyway, shouting messages in Irish through the walls, me bawling from one end of the wing and Geraldine from the other.

  In the morning they move us in pairs, singly if they think we’re really dangerous. Our bellowed plans are scattered to the wind as each woman is handcuffed and surrounded by brick-shit house men in riot gear with trained attack dogs straining flimsy leashes.

  They come for me last. I was keeping a listening watch, counting the doors banging, crossing names off a mental list as each voice shouted, ‘Slán agat, Caoilainn!’ So I know when the door swings back that I’m the last.

  I’m sitting on my bed, waiting: ready.

  ‘I thought yous were leaving me here.’

  Pam, who made head screw six months ago, steps into my cell. The dogs snarl and slaver to be at me. Male screws blacken the doorway and the corridor.

  ‘Wouldn’t I love to do that,’ she sneers. ‘Stand up.’ She jangles a set of cuffs like they’re a treat.

  I don’t move.

  She smirks. ‘I was hoping you’d be difficult. You’ll be bucking up your ideas at the new place.’

  She stands aside. Four male screws done up like Imperial Storm Troopers stamp in: swamp me. I make myself a dead weight. They drag me out, trail me down the stairs and hoik me into a meat wagon.

  I snatch a last glance at Armagh Jail through the tinted van windows; a stately red-brick mansion with barred windows retreats into my past. Looking outside-in homesickness churns my stomach.

  Mourne House, Maghaberry Jail—30th September, 1986

  I’m in a holding cell, the walls so freshly painted it reeks of acrylic and turps, smells that make me long for canvasses and brushes. Apart from the fumes there’s nothing else in the cell. I don’t know how long I’ve been here. The only time-marker is the screaming, a banshee clock wailing at regular intervals. Each cry is closer than the last. When it’s in here with me it’ll be me screaming. I pace the room’s diagonal, not thinking about what it is they’re doing to us to make us scream like that. They want me to think. They want me afraid. I have to be stronger than them. I have to be strong enough for all of us.

  I sit cross-legged on the floor, facing a pure white wall, pristine and primed for painting. Onto it I start to sketch, then colour Mairead’s cheery face, her wavy brown hai
r, her encouraging smile. My eyes start to sting and water; I don’t blink, daren’t break the spell that keeps my brain painting, not thinking.

  ‘Your mind’s your strongest weapon.’

  A draught on my neck blows me back into the cell. I glance over my shoulder. An unfamiliar female screw is in the doorway, holding a clipboard. Her shoes are shiny. She was cutting the tags off her uniform this morning. She barks my name and prison number then, without looking up, says:

  ‘Undress.’

  I get to my feet.

  ‘What?’

  She raises her eyes. ‘Take off your clothes. All of them.’

  My brain dumps debris. I sift through it for sense. The bollockses have changed the regs without letting on.

  ‘If you’re after making us wear prison uniforms yous can fuck right off.’

  She flutters mascara-clumped eyelashes. ‘It’s just a wee search.’

  I hold up my arms. She shakes her head.

  ‘A thorough search.’ She rakes my body with greedy eyes. ‘It’s how we do things here.’

  They did strip-searches at Armagh sometimes, if they thought we were getting it too easy, smuggling more contraband in than they could ignore, but they were infrequent, one-offs, at least during my time. I never copped for one. I look around the bright, clean, modern cell. We’ve regressed. Are being sucked back to that period after the no-wash protests when strip-searches were constant and invasive. I understand the screams and why the cell is bare: ammunition-free.

  ‘I want to see the governor.’

  ‘After we search you.’

  ‘I’m OC of these women, we’ve a right to…’

  ‘You’ve a right to nothing,’ she spits. ‘You’re not in charge here.’ She flicks a tongue over glossy lips. She’s a viper, eyeing me up, imagining how I’ll taste. ‘Now get your clothes off.’

  ‘I’ll help you the day Paisley blesses himself in front of the Pope.’

  She bangs on the cell door. It bounces open. Four more screws in riot gear stomp in. I can see through their unisex visors that, on their days off, they’re women. In the corridor behind them male screws form a line the ends of which stretch out of sight. Herself of the Clipboard stands aside. The others come at me, try to grab me. I smack one in the neck. Get kicked. Pain divides me. I pull myself together and lash out. They whack me and whack me, wrestle me to the ground. I batter their armoured bodies. My wrists are restrained. One sits on me. Air rushes from my chest. I’m hauled off the floor, thrown against the wall and pressed against newly painted plaster, wrists raked up to my shoulder blades. Hands clamp my ankles, dragging my feet from under me, tugging off my plimsolls and socks. My bare toes are crushed by boots that grind my feet into the tiled floor. I buck and struggle. Something hard, a baton, cracks across my shoulders. In the seconds of airless agony gloved fingers fumble with my jeans, unfastening, yanking. The rough fabric of their protective gauntlets scrapes down the inside of my thighs. Cold clings to my skin. My knickers are ripped off. Exposed, I have the sudden urge to pee. I turn my head, look through the doorway at the men gawping in, enjoying the peep-show. I pick one, lock my eyes into his: stare. After three long seconds he drops his gaze. I grasp the tiny triumph and fight harder, letting go of a warm stream of piss. One of the women shrieks in my ear. The two bracing me against the wall jump away. For all the time I’m pissing on the floor of their shiny new jail I’m winning. Then my bladder is empty. I’m clubbed to the ground, sat on, my arms stretched out like I’m going on the rack and my sweatshirt and vest pulled over my head. Underneath the small of my back a rapidly cooling puddle collects. The four female screws take a corner each and spread-eagle me. Herself of the Clipboard comes closer, leers over me and paws at me with her eyes. She squats between my legs to inspect. A face, Asian and avuncular, flashes at me. I block it, imagine instead blasting a loud, stinky fart at her. Visualising the sound, the smell and her prissy reaction drives laughter up from my gut. I howl. She frowns at me. She thinks I’m crazy. Maybe I am. I can’t stop laughing. She stands. Edges away. Nods to the others who, in a synchronised movement, release me. I stay on the floor, the laughter ebbing gently.

  ‘Get dressed,’ she orders.

  Moving slowly enough to not be ambushed by pain, I stand, confronting all of them with my nakedness.

  ‘No.’

  She gapes at me.

  ‘You took them off, now yous can put them back on.’ I know they won’t move me naked and they can’t leave me in the holding cell. I scan the faces of the women who’ve brutalised me. They dodge my gaze.

  ‘Get dressed,’ she repeats and waves her crew from the room.

  The door clangs. I sit on the floor, my backside chilling, and wait.

  The mind is a powerful weapon but it’s also a fickle one. In those cold hours of stalemate it turns on me, aiming the barrel at my heart. I wrestle with it, straining to keep myself from pulling the trigger, dodging the excruciating humiliation designed to break me, telling myself it doesn’t matter if the whole world and his dog sees up my cunt, nothing does, as long as we don’t let them win. I’m married to the Cause. With this body I thee honour. Periodically the spy-hole opens; an eye blinks at me. I don’t blink back. I have to be strong enough for all of us.

  The door opens. Three female screws enter. Herself of the Clipboard isn’t one of them. Changed out of their battledress they are ordinary: breakable. The youngest of them, she’s about my age, gathers my clothes off the floor and comes to me while the others watch. I pity her; she’s their whipping-girl. I bet she wasn’t even one of the strip-mob. This is probably her first day and they can make her do this because she’s as much their victim as I am. I stand, raise my arms. When she kneels, offers me my knickers, I step into them. But that’s all the help I can give her because she made a choice just like I did.

  It’s teatime before I see the governor. He blanks the bruises on my face, informs me in a monotone that strip-searches are part of the regime. We’ll have to endure them before and after visits, court appearances, hospital trips, and randomly whenever there’s a suspected security breach. It’s for the safety of inmates and staff.

  On the wing later, seeing the swollen lips, black eyes, it’s clear I wasn’t the only one who fought. But it’s harder to tell which, if any of us, won. There’s anger, fear, shame: tears. I pep-talk them. The screws are afraid of our strength, desperate to break us. We’re political prisoners. They’re trying to reduce us to the frailest common factor, using our gender against us. It’s about power, like rape. Terry admits that’s what she feels has been done to her. Geraldine wraps comforting arms around her. Others nod their shared anguish. I repeat Mairead’s ‘mind-weapon’ speech. We vow not to let them get in our heads. I don’t believe it’s a promise we can keep and swear privately to do something about it.

  I get a visitation order to Mairead. She arranges the visit. I’m stripped, examined and knocked about before they take me in to her. I have to dress myself because if I don’t I won’t get to see her. This is a time for me to be reasonable.

  She leaps up as soon as I’m through the door. Stiletto heels clack towards me. There’s a flurry of colour and a cloud of fragrance as she hugs me.

  ‘Jesus, look at the state of you,’ she groans.

  ‘Never mind me, look at yourself.’

  Her long hair has been bobbed and permed. Large hoops dangle from her earlobes. Her smile is cherry-red and her clothes green, white and purple; a swirling print top and co-ordinated skirt.

  ‘You look grand.’

  ‘Thanks, but what about you?’ She inspects my throbbing cheek.

  I tell her about the searches. She frowns, grips my hands.

  ‘We don’t move forward without moving back first,’ she sighs.

  ‘The worst thing is I don’t know how I’m to get comms through if they’re turning us inside-out before visits.’

  ‘We’ll find a way,’ she assures me. ‘How’s everyone coping?’

  ‘OK. Some
better than others. I don’t know what to do for them.’

  ‘We’ll make a fuss, get media coverage, maybe get some women’s groups on our side for once. I’ll get the press office onto it.’

  ‘That won’t help with what’s in their heads,’ I say.

  ‘I know.’ She squeezes my hand. ‘I remember feeling so unclean the first time. You have to keep them going.’

  I nod. Promise I will.

  ‘There might be some legal action we can bring, a discrimination case. I’ll speak to Patrick.’

  I haven’t seen him in over a year. I’ve replayed the tape of our almost-kiss in my head so many times the film is grainy and worn. And I still don’t know how I wanted it to end. ‘No.’

  ‘He’d want to help.’

  ‘I can’t have him coming here. I need to focus on this. Find someone else.’

  ‘Ach, Caoilainn, you’re too hard on yourself,’ Mairead scolds.

  ‘Don’t we have to be?’

  She lowers her voice. ‘Sure, when we’re fighting. But not when we’re loving.’

  I don’t know if I have enough strength left to do both. I don’t know if I can do the second at all anymore.

  I acquire a boyfriend, Gerry, assigned by GHQ. We write letters about innocent things; art, books, movies, music, that go through the official censor. We blossom a romance on paper that justifies him visiting me, us kissing. Mouth-to-mouth is the only way to get comms in or out. I practice in the cell at night, swallowing hard paper lumps and regurgitating them, a mother bird feeding her chicks. We move things along as quickly as we dare. His first visit is planned. I feel sick at the thought of kissing a man I’ve never met, having his tongue in my mouth, tasting him. The night before I dream about Aiden; wake up thinking of Patrick.

  Freshly stripped, dressed by my own shaking fingers, I stumble into the visiting room. Gerry greets me. He’s older than I expected, hair thinning. He looks like an accountant, because he fucking is, picked from the network ’cos he’s not known nor on any lists. He’s not Aiden. Or Patrick. I go to him.