by Nina Dreyer
A sharp knock on the door. Ethel flitted over to open it.
Eilis stepped into the hall on hard heels. Sleet glinted in her grey fur collar. ‘You,’ she pointed a velvet-gloved hand at the maid, ‘out.’
‘Eilis,’ Marion pressed a hand to her lips, ‘my god, how… I’m so sorry…’
Parting her lips and frowning, Eilis looked around, her heels clicking on the marble floor. ‘Well. Nice new digs you’ve got yourself here, Marion.’ Eilis tugged at a lock of shining hair under her green velvet hat. A peacock feather shivered over her forehead. Her eyes were red and puffy from weeping. ‘That wilting lump George Simard gave me your new address. Such a helpful little man.’
‘Eilis…’
‘John owns the entire building, it seems.’ Eilis brushed past her and looked around with a little snort. ‘He got the property cheaply, because nobody else wanted it. A district inspector for the Dublin Metropolitan Police used to live here. Sent down from Belfast to crush the rebellion. Got shot by our lads in Lower Harcourt Street a few months ago. John didn’t tell you that?’
Marion’s heart was pounding. ‘No. He didn’t.’
Eilis sniffed and ran a finger over a gilt picture frame, looking for a smear of dust. ‘Apparently, the district inspector’s wife went mad with grief. Hanged herself in one of the upstairs bedrooms. John didn’t tell you that either, I suppose?’ She tutted. ‘His little joke, perhaps.’
‘I should have told you sooner, Eilis,’ Marion burst out, ‘but you never listen to me, you never listen!’
Eilis reddened. ‘So that’s my fault, then.’
‘No, no,’ Marion pulled back her hair and exhaled.
‘Why didn’t you tell me,’ Eilis shouted, slapping the wall, her voice echoing under the high ceilings, ‘you ate at my table, we drank together, I read the cards for you, I trusted you, why the hell didn’t you tell me!’
‘Because I was afraid! Liam ordered me not to mention it to a living soul-’
‘Curious turn of phrase.’ Eilis smiled coldly.
‘Liam pressed a gun to my face, he threatened to shoot me.’
Eilis’ mouth slackened. ‘He what,’ she whispered, ‘Liam did what? To you?’
‘Perhaps he did not know me in the darkness.’
‘Yes,’ said Eilis slowly, ‘perhaps he didn’t. As you say. In the darkness. He didn’t recognise you. Because he’s not like that. Not like that at all. My Liam.’ She knotted her fingers under her chin and turned her face away from the light.
Marion reached out to touch her shivering shoulder, but hesitated, her hand hovering in the cool air. ‘You didn’t tell me about your Sinn Féin friends, either,’ she said softly. ‘I’m not the only one who has been keeping secrets.’
Eilis clutched her gloved fists, then spun around and pressed her hands flat to her cheeks. ‘Fine.’ She inhaled sharply. ‘Grand. I take your point. But why the hell didn’t you come tell me that my husband has been arrested!’ Her voice broke, and she heaved a ragged breath. ‘When were you going to tell me that?’
‘John only told me late last night, and I came to tell you first thing-’
‘Oh, I knew it. I just knew it.’ Eilis looked feverish, turning her fur muff over and over in her hands from its thin silk string around her neck. ‘John told you. Of course he did. And how did John come to know of it?’
Marion blinked. ‘He… heard it in a pub.’
‘Really.’
‘He overheard something in a pub. Rumours. Yes. Men talk when they drink. They boast. Exchange,’ Marion swallowed dryly, ‘war stories.’
Eilis stared at her for an uncomfortably long moment, her lips as thin as a scar. ‘War stories, indeed. God, I can’t believe it’s come to this. You and I have been such fast friends,’ she said, her voice breaking. ‘Sure remember that Sunday back in May,’ she sniffled, ‘when we went to the Pleasure Gardens, and you frightened the living daylights out of those preening Trinity gentlemen and I laughed so hard a bit of wine came out my nose?’
Marion smiled sadly. Bright new leaves had swayed overhead under a brilliant summer sky. Eilis had worn a billowing gown of lavender linen. They’d sat on the newly-mown lawn, giggling and drinking sparkling wine as if they were young and careless again.
‘My pet,’ Eilis clasped her hand a little too hard, ‘you know it’s not too late. To leave John behind, to leave all this behind.’ She waved a hand at the marble floors, the glinting gold mirrors, the crystal lights. ‘You don’t need any of this. Come with me instead. You can stay in my spare bedroom for a little bit, until we get you sorted.’
‘And Winifred? Liz? Mrs. Campion? Your other friends?’
Eilis rubbed her forehead. ‘Winifred’s just a barbarian. I don’t believe she even reads. Don’t worry about her. She can blather all she likes, I’ll soon have her in check.’ Her eyes glimmered. ‘Maybe if you hadn’t threatened to curse her, eh? You little witch.’
Marion lowered her head. ‘She made me so angry, the way she was accusing you.’
‘Sure you could have just hit her over the head with a lamp if she aggravated you that much,’ Eilis laughed and wiped her cheeks on her sleeve. ‘No need to go around threatening people with hexes and maledictions. Tell me, where in the name of all that’s holy did you get that from? Curses and all this carry-on. Sure that’s not part of what we do, that’s not mediumship.’
Marion waved her hand as if she was flitting away a wasp. The tips of her fingers began to prickle. ‘None of that matters anymore. At all. So far in the past. Ancient history.’ She cleared her throat.
‘Ancient history, eh?’ Eilis gave her a strange sideways look. ‘And is Germany ancient history, too?’
Marion’s legs began to feel weak.
‘Oh, I told you. The cards never lie,’ Eilis whispered, narrowing her eyes, ‘you’ve been pretending to be something you’re not, all this time. Tell me why,’ she trailed a gloved finger down Marion’s cheek, ‘tell me why you lied? Don’t you know,’ she whispered, ‘that the Germans were our allies during the Easter Rising? The enemy of our enemy? Our gallant allies?’
‘I just,’ Marion shivered, ‘I just wanted a new beginning, a new… a new start.’
‘The cards said you were a dangerous mystery. Are you a dangerous mystery, Marion?’
Marion shook her head.
‘And did you tell your darling John about it? About Germany? About how much you despise ze English Army?’
Marion felt a wave of panic roiling inside her, as if she was floating on the black surface of a bottomless ocean, and something cold had just brushed against her bare feet in the darkness.
‘I see,’ said Eilis slowly, withdrawing, her sphinx-like eyes shrouded in shadow, ‘well, maybe that’s… for the best.’ She turned to leave.
‘Wait,’ Marion said, ‘wait, we should be talking about you, not me. Eilis, why are you so… you seem so calm. About Liam, I mean. If I were you, I’d be sickened with worry.’
‘Worried sick. That’s the expression. Not sickened.’ Eilis turned and stared at her, one hand on the bronze doorknob. ‘Liam can look after himself. And I can look after myself, too. This was the agreement between us. We trust each other to be brave. And strong. Besides,’ she sniffled, fluffing rain drops from her fur muff, ‘he’ll probably just get a sentence of hard labour. That won’t break him. He can’t be broken. I’ll have him back again as soon as we’ve won the war. Which won’t be long now.’
Marion looked at Eilis’ tense face and felt a cold dread like a sliver of poison in her bloodstream. ‘He will be proud of you,’ she said quietly, ‘you’re being very strong.’
‘Well.’ Eilis smiled sadly and let go of the doorknob. ‘There we are, then. My Liam’s been caught by the soldiers, and you’ve been caught by John.’
‘No I haven’t-’
‘I’ll miss your charming threadbare look, so I will.’ She plucked at Marion’s sleeve. ‘You’ll be among the quality now. John will want to dress you in silk
and rubies, like a caged bird of paradise.’ She wiped her nose with a gloved hand.
In the distance, a church bell tolled sonorously.
Marion glanced at her watch. ‘Eilis, I’m so sorry. I have to go. John has need of me.’
‘Now? Sure he can’t have any need of you now, it’s past midnight.’
‘He asked me to come. He said he needed me.’
‘Oh sure.’ Eilis leaned her head back, flicking long glances over the crystal lamps. ‘I see. You’ll have to sing for your supper now, won’t you? Mind yourself, Marion. You little Hun. Mind yourself among the quality. Mind they don’t eat you alive.’
Chapter Thirteen
The black taxicab rattled over the cobblestone streets, heavy rain sloshing down the windows. Marion tried to peer out the window, wiping the mist of her breath from the glass. The streets were lost in almost total darkness, broken only by chinks of light from shuttered windows.
‘Where are we going?’
The driver turned slightly. ‘What’s that,’ he shouted over the growl of the engine.
Marion started as they sped over a bump in the road. ‘Where are you taking me?’
‘Almost there, missus. Not long now.’
They sped around a corner, and the driver slowed down, muttering to himself. ‘Here, I’m not waiting around because of the fecking rosary brigade, missus,’ he said, pushing back his grey cap, ‘I’ve got a permit to be out until two, and that’s as far as that goes.’ He rolled down the window. ‘You there,’ he shouted, ‘get out the fecking way! Mad yoke.’
Marion cupped her hand to the window and peered out. A group of women stood on the curb, clutching rosaries and signs and chanting abuse.
‘What are they doing,’ she asked.
‘Fecking protesting, is what. Who do these people think they are? Some of us had to stand in line for hours for a fecking permit, and these people just waltz about, sure it’s all grand until someone loses an eye…’ He cursed under his breath and stomped on the brakes.
Marion rolled down her window and looked out. Behind the protesting women, a tall granite wall.
A gatehouse.
Coils of barbed wire. Sandbags.
Two soldiers with bayonets fixed stalked back and forth in front of barricades, barking threats.
Marion pressed a hand to her throat. ‘Why are you talking me here,’ she gasped.
‘Following orders, missus. I’m to take you to Mountjoy Gaol, and so here we are, and don’t be asking me to make sense of any of it.’
‘What? Prison?’ Marion jolted back, grasping and rattling the door handle. It was locked. ‘I haven’t done anything, let me out, I haven’t-’
‘For Christ’s sake, stop shouting,’ the driver growled, angrily rolling down his window as a soldier approached.
The driver pulled out his papers and shoved them out the window. The soldier shone a torch light in his face. Marion crouched down in her seat, pressing herself deeper into the shadows and trying to still her pounding heart.
They drove slowly over pockmarked cobbles into a courtyard.
‘This,’ Marion swallowed hard, ‘this is a mistake, I haven’t-’
‘Can you just shut up and listen! You’re to go in that door over there. Side entrance.’ The driver took the cigarette from his lips and pointed it at her. ‘Ask for a,’ he glanced at a slip of paper, ‘Rothman. That’s your man,’ he snorted, ‘Rothman. And good luck to you.’ He leaned over and reached out his hand, and Marion flattened herself against the back seat, thinking he meant to touch her with his coarse fingers. But he only opened the door.
Cold rain blew in. Marion staggered out, clasping her hat against the wind and glancing up at the looming stone facade.
The prison was larger than she’d ever imagined. Impenetrable, blind, built to menace and belittle. She’d never been inside a prison. But she’d read about the place, of course she had. Everyone had. The hangings. The beatings.
If she turned back now, she’d have to walk the length and breadth of the city, past the chanting women, past the stalking soldiers, through the curfew darkness. Why would John bring her here?
With her stomach stuck in a hard knot in her throat, she slipped in through the doorway. A featureless, vaulted corridor extended in either direction. The white-washed stone walls were illuminated only by one light, creaking on an old metal chain. Faint echoes of whispers rose from the bowels of the building. The stale air smelled like mould, wet hemp and souring vegetables. She walked down the corridor, her boots clicking on the flagstone floor, until she found herself in an octagonal hall. Corridors extended in all directions. Her heart sank.
A figure emerged from the darkness, walking towards her with a heavy, uneven gait. She stumbled back as she saw a slice of light fall on his buttoned and buckled chest. A gun strap. The glint of a medal. A soldier, she thought. No. An officer. An English officer.
He emerged from the low vaulted hall, a clipboard pressed under one arm. Execution orders, thought Marion. Orders to burn and slash and rape and fire. She stared at his field-green uniform, the stern tailoring of his jacket, the leather strap across his chest, the revolver at his side. Then she raised her eyes to his face. He was looking at her.
‘Can I be of assistance?’
Marion’s throat felt like a gnarled root. Her hands were trembling.
The officer stepped closer, peering at her with a doubtful expression. ‘Are you one of the visiting ladies? From the Society of Friends? You do know that visiting hours are most certainly over for today. I say,’ he glanced at her with a half-smile, ‘I do hope you are not a terrorist, Miss.’
His posture was almost painfully straight, but he was dragging his left leg. Marion looked down and realised it was a prosthetic leg. She wondered where the rest of him was. Blasted into the mud of Thiepval or the Somme or Ypres. Festering in the sucking mud while he stood here, staring at her.
Marion raised her hand to the side of her head. Her chest was constricting. She felt like she could barely breathe.
‘Are you unwell? Do you require medical assista-’
‘Rothman?’ Marion swallowed. ‘You are Rothman?’
He widened his eyes, blinked, and then burst out laughing. ‘Oh my,’ he chuckled, ‘I thought you were being psychic for a moment there, but of course, you will have been instructed to ask for me. How silly of me. You must me Miss Hahn, of course. Here, do come through,’ Rothman took her arm gently at the elbow and led her down another corridor. ‘The office is close by. Where are you from, Miss?’ He cast her a sidelong glance. He had strangely kind eyes, she thought, slightly puffy and turned down at the outer corners, giving him the expression of melancholic benevolence.
‘Belgium.’
‘Is that so,’ he said in polished school-room French, smiling delightedly, ‘well, perhaps you’re some species of lucky omen for us tonight, then. How remarkable. A Belgian lady in our basement. Utterly remarkable.’
Marion bit her lip. Her French was rusty at best. ‘I’m here to attend to Mr. Kilcoyne,’ she said thinly, struggling to blur the edges of her accent, ‘he sent for me.’
The smile faded from the officer’s face. ‘Mr. Kilcoyne. Naturally. I see. What a ghastly business, eh?’ He unlocked a metal door the colour of ox blood and held it open for her. For a moment, she thought it was a cell. She froze. She was going to be arrested after all.
‘If you could just wait here,’ said Rothman, ‘while I make a few enquiries. I’m sure Mr. Kilcoyne will… explain everything.’
Marion hesitated, then ducked inside.
The room was small, windowless and bare. In the middle stood a desk, unpainted, and a hard chair. Three rows of papers were neatly laid out on it. An ashtray with a regimental insignia under a smear of tobacco grease. An empty tin mug. On the bare stone wall hung a framed etching of the English king.
Rothman turned the key in the lock, and she heard him retreat down the corridor. Marion shivered and hugged her arms. She walked around
the desk a few times, clockwise for good luck, trying breathe steadily.
Long moments passed. Out of instinct and training, Marion began to listen to the building, its ebb and flow, its quiet, unheard sounds. A dim, deep current rose in her chest. The very stones, the mortar that held them together, the metal girders beneath and the heavy wooden beams above, all seemed to inhale and exhale a thick, syrupy feeling of dread. The cold breath of hundreds of men, thousands, waiting alone in their cells for the creeping approach of a hanging dawn. Marion breathed deeply, trying to shake off a sudden reeling feeling of drunkenness.
The lock turned.
A prison guard glared at her though the open door and jerked his head for her to follow.
He marched her down another subterranean corridor and into a larger room, shutting the door firmly behind her with a hollow clang. Filing cabinets lined the granite walls.
John sat at a table, idly flicking through a notebook, like a man waiting for a train or an appointment at the barber. He yawned lazily and unfastened the top button of his collar. In the corner stood Rothman, arms crossed, observing John with an look of barely restrained horror on his face.
‘John, thank God,’ Marion exhaled in relief and hurried towards him, ‘why have you brought me here? What’s happening?’
John looked up, a slow smile inching over his face. ‘You made it. I’m delighted.’ He rose and clasped both her hands, pressing them lightly to his lips. His breath was warm. ‘I missed you,’ he whispered, holding her gaze.
‘Well,’ said Rothman, walking to the door with his stiff leg, ‘I daresay I’ll leave you to it.’ He shot a last glance at Marion. John didn’t acknowledge him in any way, but sighed and gazed at a point in the middle distance, as if mentally mapping out the road ahead.
Marion tugged at his sleeve. ‘John? I don’t want to be here. Let’s leave. Let’s leave right now. Whatever you had in mind-’
‘In about seven minutes,’ John glanced at his wrist watch, ‘a prisoner will be brought to the execution chamber and hanged. And we,’ he continued, ‘are going to help him through it.’