‘It’s grand to see you,’ he says, hands circling my waist, lips closing over mine. His tongue slips in. I try to avoid making contact with it while wiggling the comm to him and taking the one he passes over. He keeps his mouth clamped to mine even after we’ve made the switch. I tug myself free.
For forty-five minutes we chat mindlessly. When the bell finally rings and he moves to kiss me goodbye I present my cheek.
Back in the cell I cough up the comm then brush my teeth, rinse my mouth: spit the taste of him. I’ll be seeing him once or twice a month until I’m released. I peel apart the wad of paper and hope its news is worth the gagging heave of my stomach. I don’t know what’s worse: having to kiss him or not being able to kiss the man I’m in love with.
The comm’s from Mairead. They’ve revived the ‘Stop Strip-searches’ campaign. A journalist is coming to interview me. We’ll shame them into stopping before they shame us into submitting.
I recognise him easily, even though it’s been years since he grilled me about my choices on a blustery Monaghan hillside. We’re in a private room normally reserved for legal visits but, because he’s a big voice in mainstream media now, writing for the Irish Times and the British Guardian, we’re being granted privileges; the prison authorities need a favourable report on Maghaberry, bought by thirty million British tax pounds. And that’s only a fraction of the cost of their old-fashioned belief in empire.
‘So you’ve come round to my way of fighting,’ he starts, tapping his pad with his pen.
‘I fight with whatever’s to hand.’
‘Including your own body?’ He nods at the patchwork of scabs on my knuckles, age-able by colour.
‘If that’s what’s needed.’
‘And is it?’
‘Are you married? Have you daughters?’
‘I am. And one,’ he replies.
‘Imagine it’s them telling you what it’s like to have the clothes ripped off your back then decide for yourself what’s needed.’
I spare him nothing. He scribbles furious shorthand, eyes welded to the lined sheets that fill up with indignities and brutalities.
‘Well?’ I’ve finished now.
He braves eye-contact. ‘I’ll do what I can.’
Which is probably fuck all. I shake my head.
‘You’ve a lot of support over this,’ he says, ‘especially from women’s groups.’
‘Where’ve they been ’til now? Hiding behind Mother Ireland? If they’d supported the Republican Movement from the start we’d not be in here, being treated worse than animals: worse than the men in the Blocks.’
‘You want their support but on your terms,’ he accuses.
‘I want them to stop pissing about with petty inequalities and start fighting the big ones.’
He claps his notebook shut. ‘You were a hard young woman five years ago; you’re harder still today. How will you be five years from now?’
‘That depends on what they do to me between times,’ I say, ‘because everything I am is what I’ve had to be to survive. Not that you’d understand.’
‘Because I’m a man?’
‘Because you’re not a volunteer. This is only a good story for you because we’re women; you can play the gender card, write up the outrage of us being treated this way.’
He blushes. ‘How would you have me write this up?’
‘We’re prisoners of war. They’re violating the Geneva Convention.’
‘But the searches are harder for you,’ he presses. It’s what he needs to believe. It’s what everyone wants to believe. It’s why they do it. We resist by not believing.
‘Everything is harder for us. That’s why we’re better at fighting it.’
I don’t know how he writes up the story; we’re not allowed newspapers. The strip-searches continue. I get a legal visit, not Patrick, and start the process of putting in a formal complaint. I go first because I want to see what they’ll do to me before I let anyone else try it. The governor dawdles with the paperwork; I’m only three months from release and he’s hoping to avoid confrontation. Geraldine and I chew over a no-work protest, weighing the likely benefits against the danger of it escalating into no-wash, going all the way to hunger strike. I have to snog Gerry half a dozen times, choking as his slippery tongue probes my mouth, to communicate with the Army Council about our situation. They think the new policy of ‘pragmatic engagement’ with the authorities is a safer play. They press the solicitor who’s not Patrick, getting him, in turn, to press the governor who names a date for officially reviewing my complaint. Not-Patrick finds a sub-section, small print policy code stating that, pending the outcome of a complaint hearing, the issue under review must, wherever possible, be resolved temporarily in favour of the complainant. Strip-searches on me are suspended. Twenty-one more complaints are lodged that week. I suspect it’ll be a brief reprieve but enough to let us regroup. And it means I don’t need to swap any more spit with Gerry.
Geraldine and I use the lull to prepare for my release. She’s taking over as OC. I’m happy I’m leaving them with her capable, compassionate strength.
The panel reviewing my complaint meets in February. They uphold the strip-search powers but limit usage to high-security alerts, restricting the conditions under which we can be flayed of our clothes and our humanity. That night we celebrate on the wing, dancing and singing, sharing chocolates and cigarettes. I know it’s a partial victory but we take everything we can.
The long winter nights draw out. The snowdrift routine of prison life that has been settled on me for over two years melts slowly. I wonder what will be exposed when the last flakes have gone. There’s a past to confront, a new life to fashion from the remnants of the old. It’s the beginning and the end: midnight on a clock face.
Outside Maghaberry Jail—18th March, 1987
Squalls scud across the grey sky, blowing in, dumping loads then blowing off to rearm. The metal gates are opened for me. I step out, walk forwards, turn, look back. Search lights crane their necks above foaming barbed wire that tops mesh fencing that tops concrete walls that hide squat grey buildings with Belfast doors that lock in my comrades: my friends.
In jail you lose ‘freedom to’ but you’re given ‘freedom from’. You don’t have to face whatever you left outside. I glance up to the trees, over the fields and start walking down the slick black drive, towards the car park where Nora and Danny are waiting in a borrowed silver Rover. When I get there I see a second car, a black Mercedes, shiny with rain.
The Merc’s driver-side door opens. Patrick emerges. It’s been twenty months since I saw him. Pain and joy circle me as he walks towards me.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Returning this.’
My chain dangles from his fingers. Afraid of what I’ll do if I’m close enough to touch him, I daren’t take it. He lets it slip to the ground then turns away.
He came back for me. I can’t let him go again. ‘I’m glad you came.’
He stops but doesn’t face me.
‘I’m sorry. You were trying to help. You did help.’
‘Good to know.’ He twists round, steps forward, reaches for my hand; I retreat.
‘Nora’s over there.’ I nod.
He glances across, back to me, drops his hand. ‘Caoilainn… I… will you take this?’ He passes me a slip of paper with his number scrawled on it. ‘Call me if…’
‘I get arrested again?’ I smile at him.
‘I’d rather you called for other reasons.’ He returns my smile.
‘Thanks.’ I want to say I will, soon, but that wouldn’t be fair to him. ‘I’ve things need sorting first but...’
‘I’ll wait. Here’ He retrieves the chain from the tarmac.
‘Keep it. It’s a reason.’
‘Alright.’ It disappears into his coat pocket. He goes to his car and I to Nora and Danny. As he drives away I know I can do what needs doing.
There are hugs and kisses but no celebrating. On t
he journey to Belfast Nora tells me Briege miscarried her second baby, at thirty weeks, forced to endure a stillbirth. Will I go and see them? I promise I will without knowing if I’ll be able to.
Belfast is unchanged, ghettos nudging suburbia. Pockets of resistance flame in the dull afternoon; freshly repainted graffiti reminds us that from the ashes the ’Ra arose. The phoenix is large with glory. We slide by it, small and pale.
Frank greets us at the door, hobbling on two sticks. He hugs me, a sob rippling through him. When he steps back his eyes are bright with tears.
Danny and I sit on either end of the sofa. Frank bustles, pouring drinks, offering me a cushion, a teacake, another cigarette. Finally Nora drags him away, leaving Danny to fill me in on two years in Provoland. Ciaran’s survived but Rory’s in the Crum, on an explosives charge, waiting for a court date. Liam’s cut back on operations because they’ve had a major tout problem; Brendan was one of many. There have been executions. Danny’s eyes roam the room; he lights one cigarette off another, hands shaking. I don’t ask questions; the answers are clear enough. The rest of the time he’s been keeping clean in Belfast, doing the occasional job in Derry or Newry, places he’s not so known. The crack in his voice, the shadows under his eyes, the grey tinge to his skin, show he’s been as much a prisoner as me, serving his sentence in the larger jail that is the north.
Tea is hearty but my prison-shrunk stomach can’t cope with Nora’s stew. I pick at it under her frowning eyes as Frank and Danny natter, their excitement pitching towards hysteria. The crescendo comes when Frank tells me there’s a party for me at the Felons tonight. I’m now entitled to full membership and the committee are waiting to welcome me.
Callum comes home at seven, having eaten at a friend’s. I’ve not seen him since the night Briege announced her first pregnancy. He’s tall and thin, shoulders stooped. Wire-rimmed glasses, the lenses grubby, sit high on his nose. Seeing me he pulls up short in the doorway.
‘Callum, how’re ya?’ I stand.
‘Fine.’ He backs out.
‘Everything alright?’ Danny shouts after him.
‘I’m away to do my homework,’ is the disembodied reply.
Danny shakes his head. ‘If he says ten words to us it’s a good day. All he does is come in from school and go up to his books.’
‘Has your ma not seen anyone about him?’
‘Aye. Docs were for giving him pills but what good’s that gonna do?’
‘Have you tried talking to him?’
‘And say what?’
‘Don’t you remember what I said to you, when you were ready to blow?’
Danny grins. ‘I try not to.’
‘How old’s he now?’
‘Seventeen coming up.’
‘Someone needs to have words with him before he gets into bother.’
‘Knock yourself out.’
I tap on the closed bedroom door. ‘Callum?’
‘I’m busy.’
‘I’ll be quick.’
When he doesn’t answer I go in. He’s cross-legged on the bed, books scattered about, scribbling on graph paper, calculator beside him. He doesn’t look up.
‘What do you want?’
‘To see how you are.’
‘I’ve said.’
I perch on the bed. ‘What’re you studying?’
‘Maths.’
‘That your favourite?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Why?’
Anger blazes behind fingerprint-smeared lenses. ‘Numbers follow rules, they’re predictable, explainable.’
‘Not like people?’
He stabs some numbers into his calculator.
‘That what you want to do, be a mathematician?’
He flicks a page in his textbook.
‘Good man, yourself.’
He scribbles x0 = 1 x½ = √x x 1/n = n√.
‘So you’ll be away to university.’
He draws a thick line through his work.
‘I’ll let you get on.’ I rise. Am at the door when he finally speaks again.
‘Can you study in jail?’
‘You can, but it’s not the best place for it.’
He chews his pencil.
I sit beside him. ‘Are you thinking that’s where you’ll end up?’
‘Isn’t that what happens to all volunteers?’
‘Is this what you’ve been hiding up here from? Danny says they hardly see you. Are you worrying they’re after you joining?’
He nods. One tear splashes onto his notepad, blurring x²-¼ =.
‘You daft bugger.’ I grab him into a sisterly embrace. ‘Nobody’s wanting you to do that.’
‘But you did, and Danny and…’ Dampness seeps through my shirt, soaking my shoulder.
Before any potential volunteer decides to join the Irish Republican Army he should understand fully the issues involved. He should not join the Army because of emotionalism.
I hold him at arm’s length, fixing him in place with a heavy look.
‘Callum, you don’t choose to join; it chooses you. It’s a burning inside, a hole you have to fill, a…’ I cast about for something he might understand, ‘…an equation you’ve got to solve. And you can’t make yourself feel that way.’
‘But Mammy…’
‘Would be smacking your arse if she knew you were thinking you’ve to join to please us.’
He sniffs. ‘Really?’
‘Aye. And how proud will we be at your graduation, watching you in cap and gown?’
‘But what about the Cause?’
‘You can be our Michael Collins.’ Callum gapes at me. ‘Aye, he was finance minister in the Dail. But you need qualifications for that, so crack on.’ I point to his homework. ‘And promise me you’ll not do anything that your heart’s not in.’
‘Promise.’
‘Grand.’
I want Callum to be the one whose laughter is our revenge.
At eight o’clock we set off for the Felons in a taxi. Frank brags to the driver that I’m fresh out of the jail. Next to me, Danny tenses. I keep my eyes on passing houses, my mind blinkered to passing thoughts.
Patsy is on the door, older and fatter but jolly as ever. He hands me my membership card. It reads: Caoilainn O’Neill nee Devoy.
‘I wasn’t sure what name you’d be wanting. Frank said… will that be alright?’
I glance at Frank who beams. ‘Aye, fine.’
Above the bar a welcome banner is strung. Frank displays me like a trophy: his daughter-in-law, the IRA volunteer. There aren’t many of us can openly call ourselves that because so few get done for membership; the peelers prefer bigger charges that are easier to prove and harder to serve out.
I’m greeted by people I don’t know. Drinks are bought for me, my fingers crushed in handshakes that work my wrist loose. I scan the crowd, see Liam and worm over to him.
‘Jesus, how are you?’ he asks, hugging me.
‘Grand. Have you a minute? I need a favour.’
He frowns but leads me into the back room. ‘What’s up?’
‘Can you get me a gun?’
‘Steady on, you’ve only been out a day,’ he laughs.
‘I’ve something to take care of.’
‘I don’t think…’
‘I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.’
‘It’s against regs.’
‘I know but I’ve been stewing on this for two fucking years, longer even. If I don’t deal with it tonight I’ll never get it behind me. Please.’
He pouts. ‘Alright.’
Ten minutes later he slips me a handgun. I tuck it into my waistband.
‘I’ll need it back in the morning.’
‘Fine.’
‘I hope you know what you’re about,’ he cautions.
‘I do.’
We’re at the Felons until gone midnight. I tip my drinks down the toilet or abandon them on the bar as I circulate among well-wishers. The gun warms up against my spine.
<
br /> Back at the house Nora chases Callum to bed and follows a few minutes later. Danny goes half an hour after; he has work in the morning. Frank offers me one final tipple. I accept and we sit in the living room.
‘Wasn’t that a great night?’ he asks.
‘Aye.’
‘It’s grand having you out. Still, you could’ve had it worse.’
I see him for what he is, a spent old man, and wonder if that’s what my da was like at the end, if one day I’ll be depleted too.
‘I could.’
‘So you’ll be reporting back, will you?’
‘Is that what you’re wanting me to do?’
‘It’s up to you,’ he replies, sipping his whiskey.
‘Is it?’
He shuffles in his chair, sets down his glass with a shaking hand. ‘Why wouldn’t it be?’
‘Sure, Frank, two years is a shorter stretch than most. But it gave me enough time to think, about you, what you did, why you did it, what I’m going to do about it: you.’ I level the gun at him in a steady two-handed grip that is as involuntary as inhale/exhale, even after two years of breath-holding.
His eyelids flutter. His mouth twitches. He leans forward, hands raised.
‘Caoilainn, what’re you doing?’
‘Giving you chance to confess. Did you pass sentence? Pull the trigger? Both?’
He deflates, slowly then suddenly, as though a tiny hole is now a massive rip and all that’s been keeping him afloat is escaping. He flops against the cushions with a fumph. ‘I… it was… he…’ Sobs explode. His shoulders judder, chest expanding and contracting in rapid jerks.
‘Jesus, Frank, be man enough to tell me.’ I cross to his chair and rest the muzzle against his temple.
He nods. ‘It was me.’ The words are torn from his throat. Fear, guilt and despair fall with his tears. ‘I had no choice and, by Christ, not a day’s passed when I haven’t thought on that night, on both nights. I’ve tried, so I have, to make it right.’
Herself Alone in Orange Rain Page 30