by Paul Cuddihy
There were two of them, both big and burly. One wore the stale odour of the unwashed; Mick guessed it had been weeks, if not longer, since the man’s body had last come into contact with water and soap, and every time he leant in close, Mick had to swallow hard and hold his breath for as long as he could. The other man, however, smelt like a woman. The thought was enough to make Mick grin, though he was grateful the darkness hid his amusement. He actually smelt like a prostitute, drenched in the same perfumes those women wore, not so much as an alluring feature, but more to hide any traces of the previous customer. Mick guessed the man had, at least, the self-awareness to disguise his own odious smell beneath the intoxicating fumes of a cheap bottle of scent.
Once they had bound his arms to the pillar, using heavy chains that Mick knew would be impossible to break free of, they stood back from him. It felt like they were admiring their own handiwork, though he realised he was barely identifiable in the blackness because he couldn’t even make out their shadows.
Footsteps moved closer to him, lighter than the other two men, and Mick sensed they belonged to the voice that he’d just about recognised in the cart. Of course, once the face had thrust itself close to his, there was no mistaking the identity. The crooked nose, evidence of his own intervention back in Ireland, was a visible calling card, and he was sure it was the same man who now slowly circled his tired and broken body.
He waited for the inevitable blows to begin raining down on him and he tensed, hoping his body would be able to cope with whatever would be thrown at him, but instead the footsteps drew to a halt. A match was struck and a candle lit. The orange glow created an instant image of hell and Mick quickly scanned his surroundings. He already knew he was on a ship – the vessel was rocking back and forth – and he figured he was being kept out of sight and out of mind. Before he could fully check out the hold, however, the hot flame of the candle drew ever closer to his cheek and, as well as illuminating his own face, it also shed light on his captor who had crouched down and moved close to Mick.
‘It’s nice to meet up again,’ the man in black said. ‘You have no idea how eagerly I’ve waited for this moment.’
Mick continued staring at the man as the flame danced between them, determined not to be the first to look away.
‘Ireland is waiting for you, Michael Costello. And there’s a nice long rope with your name on it … You look surprised. Surely not? You were destined for the gallows even before you began killing soldiers. That just made me even more determined to catch you.’
Mick shrugged, and swallowed hard, already feeling the knot of the hangman’s noose tightening around his neck.
‘We’ll be setting sail in the morning on the high tide. You’re going home, Michael. What do you think about that?’
Mick shrugged again.
‘Nothing to say? That’s not like you. I hear you’re quite the storyteller, letting anyone know who’ll listen or buy you a drink how you managed to escape from Ireland. Have you not got any stories for me now, Michael? I’m very disappointed.’
The man in black stood up, still holding the candle close to his own face.
‘I’ll give you some time on your own to collect your thoughts,’ he said, ‘and then we’ll have a little chat. There are a few things we need to catch up on … just you and me.’
He turned and strode towards the steps that led up to the deck, disappearing out of sight with the light, the two men quickly following in his wake. Mick lay back and pressed his head against the pillar, closing his eyes and realising there was going to be no great escape this time around.
He had seen a hanging or two in his time and the memories made him swallow again. It was never a pleasant sight, the body swinging back and forth like a tall stalk of corn in the breeze, legs flailing and trying desperately to find a step or anything solid to take the weight of the rest of the body. It was a hopeless fight against the inevitable and the life would drain out of the victim, sometimes quickly, if they’d accepted their fate and realised the futility of the struggle; others choked and kicked but the result remained the same. A lifeless body, rocking gently, almost hypnotically, as the crowd began to disperse, muttering prayers for the repose of the soul, the only sound left in the air the howling grief of relatives.
That was the fate that awaited him back in Ireland and he wondered whether he would be a fighter or whether he would go quietly. He pictured his mammy standing at his feet, just out of reach, kept back by armed soldiers so that she could offer no last comforting caress or even try to save him, holding him up until the strength in her own body had drained away. No, she would have to stand and weep and wait until they cut his body down before she could hold her son again. And that could be days. If they wanted to send out a message – and he feared the man in black was just the sort of person who would insist on doing so – then it would be a decaying corpse that his mammy would have to prepare for burial.
His sisters and brother would help her, of course, but they were just children and shouldn’t be exposed to such horrors. Sometimes they seemed like strangers to him. He hadn’t really got to know them yet, and now he would never be able to watch Patrick grow from boy to man or cast wary eyes at would-be suitors who would surely come calling as his sisters got older.
He was so tired he felt like he could sleep for a week, but even a few hours would have helped. He wanted to be alert when his captors returned but trying to rest was proving to be an impossible task. He was glad at least the sea was calm. He wasn’t sure his body could cope with the turmoil of stormy waters. His chest ached and the pain which shot through his body, starting at his ribs and then spreading out until it felt like a giant hand grasping him and squeezing hard, left him breathless. He sometimes held his breath, grateful for the few moments of respite that it offered before he was forced to exhale and the vicious cycle began all over again.
There would be no great escape this time around because no one knew he was here. Mick had realised that despairing fact very quickly and it spared him the false hope that would otherwise have come with every strange noise or faint voice that drifted into the hold. He didn’t even bother screaming for help, preferring instead to conserve what little strength he had for the interrogation that awaited him.
He heard rats scurrying back and forth across the ship, occasionally running over his legs in their haste to get to wherever they were going, rather than skirting round the human barrier. He heard them too, whispering to each other and he imagined they were talking about him, perhaps discussing how good he would taste. They were waiting for him to die. He hoped they were, otherwise he was facing the prospect of being eaten alive, and he was determined to deny them a fresh meal at least.
A mouthful of water; that’s all he wanted. At this very moment, if he could be granted only one wish, then it would be for a cool, refreshing, life-affirming drink of water. Of course, that wasn’t strictly true. He’d ask for freedom and the chance to lie one more night with Kate’s hot flesh pressed against his own, but he’d settle for the water just now. It was also a more realistic wish. Kate was gone, though she still accompanied him in his thoughts and dreams; he was sure she’d be there, in his mind, as he breathed his last on the Galway gallows. But he’d never see her again, face to face, touching her, kissing her, holding her. He never did tell her that she was the last thing he thought of before falling asleep at night and the first thing he thought of when he woke up each morning. The poetry of his thoughts would have come out as clumsy, awkward words anyway, and he only hoped that she realised how he felt. He tried to tell her in every kiss and caress, but it was too late now to find out if he’d been successful in his physical communications.
Thomas would pray for him. His brother had helped him more than he could ever have hoped for, though he never got the chance to thank him. That would have been an awkward conversation for both of them. But actions speak louder than words – that’s what his mammy had once told him – and Thomas’ actions told Mick everything he ever needed to
know. Still, it bothered him that the feelings might not be reciprocated. Perhaps Thomas thought he was taking advantage of the kindness offered, and Mick cursed his own inability to say what he meant or felt.
He closed his eyes again and yawned, his mouth so dry it felt like his tongue was stuck the roof of it. A drink of water and I’ll tell them anything, he thought. He tried to conjure up some saliva to swallow, though he knew that wouldn’t begin to quench the thirst which was now raging in his throat, but even that simple task proved impossible, and he groaned, a long, low murmur of discontent that, to any passer-by, might have sounded like the ship itself crying out in pain.
Mick knew he hadn’t been sleeping long, but he was grateful nevertheless for the few relaxing moments. His brief nap was interrupted by the sound of heavy footsteps crashing down the stairs that led to the hold and he knew the two guards were returning. The man in black followed immediately behind them, an orange glow embracing his body. The candlelight also revealed the other men. One of them carried a chair that he placed in the middle of the hold facing Mick while his colleague headed for the pillar and began the awkward process of loosening the chains.
Freed from the metal shackles, Mick toppled over onto his side. He felt light, almost weightless, and he couldn’t stop himself. The side of his head cracked off the wet wooden flooring and a pain shot through his skull. A pair of hands roughly grabbed his collar and dragged him across to the chair, sitting him on it and propping him up, though after a few moments, he began to regain a sense of balance and the guard released his heavy grip.
The man in black now stood in front of Mick. He held the candle just under his chin and the flickering light made his face seem like a grotesque mask with a crooked grin painted on. There was a grating noise as something was dragged across the floor from behind him, though Mick resisted the urge to glance over his shoulder. It was to the left of him anyway, and the incessant pain which seemed to have permanently gripped that side of his body, starting at his fingertips and spreading all the way up his withered arm, made the prospect of turning round incredibly unappealing.
Eventually, the source of the noise was revealed as the two guards pushed a large barrel into view, letting it come to rest between him and the man in black, who nodded to the men. They grabbed both of Mick’s arms – he screamed in pain as a heavy grip squeezed the flesh of his left arm – and dragged him off the chair and over to the barrel. They tipped him backwards and plunged him into it. Mick was under water and he immediately closed his eyes and held his breath, occasionally trying to let an air bubble escape from the side of his mouth though he could feel the water rushing up his nose. Panic quickly seized his body. It must have been twenty or thirty seconds before they pulled him up and he began coughing and spluttering, blinking furiously as the water rolled down his face and out of his nose.
‘So here’s the question, Michael Costello. Are you going to help me?’
Mick coughed again and spat up a mouthful of the salty water.
‘Who was in charge?’
‘In charge of what?’
‘Who was in charge?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
The man in black laughed and nodded again. Mick found himself in the barrel again, this time for a minute at least. He moved his head frantically and tried to push himself out of the water but the two guards held him down firmly. Then they brought him out again and he repeated the cycle of coughing and spluttering and trying to clear his throat and nose of water which had threatened to suffocate him just moments before. He was being propped up by the two men and he let them take the strain of his body weight, unable to muster any strength to hold himself up.
‘Who was in charge?’
Mick shook his head. He didn’t want to say anything that would put him back in the barrel. He deliberately bowed his head, staring intently at his feet and trying to calm his breathing as streams of water poured down his face.
‘Come on, Michael. Don’t be shy. We’re all friends here. You can tell me. Who was in charge?’
‘I don’t know. I really don’t. I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Fair enough, Michael.’
The Mayo accent was still fresh in his ears as he was plunged backwards into the barrel again, for even longer this time. He struggled more and they held him tighter, pushing his body down until the water was almost at his waist. His head thrashed about, banging off the sides and still they held him down. One minute. Two. He wasn’t sure what was going to explode first, his head or his chest as his lungs prepared to collapse. Three minutes. He was ready to give up; he was only fighting to stay alive long enough to swing from a rope anyway so why not accept his fate here, in this dark and damp hold? They’d keep his body until they were in the middle of the Irish Sea when it would be tossed overboard, sinking quietly to the bottom never to be found as the creatures of the water, big and small, fed on his decaying flesh.
He was out of the water, dragged up from the depths at the last moment, and his breathing was frantic, grateful, his lungs stocking up on the oxygen they had been so cruelly denied. His head throbbed, like it had been caught in a vice, the pain so severe it actually made him forget his arm. He was almost on his knees now, the two guards still holding him but beginning to feel the strain of his limp body.
‘Michael, Michael. What are you doing? I just need a name. That’s all. Just one name and then this will all be over and we’ll leave you here in peace until we get back to Ireland. Surely you want that?’
Mick had no strength to shrug or shake his head, never mind attempt a reply. He felt like crying. His eyes were moist, salty even, but he wasn’t sure if they were filled with water or tears. There were jumbled images of people he knew and places he loved, or was it the other way around, but he was unable to focus on anything in particular. He tried thinking of Kate, but even attempting to repeat her name in his head was impossible. A pain gripped his chest like a sudden and unexpected punch and he flinched.
‘So I will ask you one last time. Who was in charge?’
There was no reply. Mick wanted to die. He wondered if he already was dead but the pains in his head and his chest and his lungs and his arm were all competing for attention so he guessed he was still alive. He just wanted all the pain to disappear and if he stopped breathing he knew that it would. Water dribbled out of his mouth, spilling onto his vomit-stained shirt like his body was leaking and he had neither the strength to spit it out nor seal his lips to stop it escaping. There was a rushing sound in his ears, like there was a storm brewing within them, and he wanted to clean them out with his fingers. That was impossible, of course, and he didn’t think he’d be able to lift his hand to his face, even if he got the chance. The man in black sighed.
‘Is that your final answer? … Okay, Michael. So be it.’
Mick could feel his body being lifted up again and it was like he was floating on air. After a few seconds, however, he was being tipped into the barrel and as his head touched the water he let out a noise that he hoped made sense, though he feared it just sounded like the final groan of a drowning man. But it was enough to bring him to a halt. He tried again, just in case no one had heard him first time around.
The two guards guided him back to the chair and dumped him on it, binding him once more but still keeping a firm grip on him.
‘Who was in charge, Michael?’
He looked up at the man in black, his face still an orange, glowing mask. Only the grin had changed. Now it was satisfied, triumphant even as it moved towards him.
‘Who was in charge?’
‘Dan Foley,’ Mick whispered, his head hanging low with exhaustion and shame.
19
BROTHERS IN ARMS
Thomas leant his head against the side of the confessional box and sighed wearily, having just given absolution to another sinner. Already he’d forgotten what sins the woman had confessed but he guessed they were tame and boring and probably no more seri
ous than taking the Lord’s name in vain. Even in his current distracted state, he knew he’d have remembered if it was at all illicit or explicit. Those confessions were few and far between in this parish, however, despite everything that he knew went on in the area; people did not feel the need to unburden themselves on him, which was a pity because it would have made for a more interesting time.
His own confession would probably be more exciting than anything else he’d ever be likely to hear. He wasn’t sure Monsignor Dolan could have coped with the dark revelations that were lurking in his heart, eating away at it with every passing hour. Even in here, when he was supposed to be concentrating on the sins of others, he kept thinking of his own. Kate was out of sight now, safely ensconced with Mrs Breslin’s sister, but she was not out of mind. He pictured her sleeping, laughing, talking, eating; he imagined her naked – both of them together – and then he prayed to God for forgiveness which he was not convinced would be forthcoming.
The door of the confessional box opened and Thomas sat up, glad of the temporary distraction. He could hear the shuffling of a body on the other side of the box, and a nervous male cough, and he moved closer to the black veil draped across the grate that concealed the identity of the sinner.
‘In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti. Amen,’ he said in a low voice, imagining the man making the appropriate gestures in perfect synchronicity with his words. He waited for the man to speak, to begin unburdening his black soul of whatever sins had stained it, but there was only silence. Nothing was said for a minute at least. Thomas was reluctant to say anything, not wanting to make the man any more nervous than he evidently already was. After another minute had passed, Thomas cleared his throat and made to speak, but the man’s voice broke through the veil to stop him before he even got the first syllable out.
‘I know where your brother is,’ he said.
Now it was Thomas’ turn to have difficulty speaking. Did he really hear the man properly? He moved closer and pressed his ear against the black material.