An Irish Heart

by C M Blackwood

  “Do I think what?” Stan interrupted. “That you can go back to your cell now? No, you can’t. I’ll tell you when you can. And I’ll tell you another thing – the more time you and I spend blabbin’ about nothing, the longer it’ll take you to get there.”

  He started to walk towards me.

  Mickey reached back to lock the door. “Don’ want anybody walkin’ in on us,” he said. “That’d just be poor manners.”

  “Worse than yours?” I asked.

  He wagged a finger at me. “Don’ start all a’that. Just you wait an’ see – it’s a lot better’n what they do to women at some of the other places. It’s not like we’re goin’ to burn you, or stick you with a knife. There’s nothin’ unnatural about it, just you wait and see.”

  I sucked in my breath, and said, “I’ll scream.”

  Stan laughed. “And where do you think that will get you?”

  I opened my mouth, and cried out. Stan rushed over to me, and slapped me across the face.

  “Quiet,” he said. “I won’t hurt you, if you just be quiet. It’ll bother me if you talk. When I get bothered, it’s said I get a little violent.”

  “That’s true,” said Mickey, nodding his head emphatically.

  “Just lay down there, nice and quiet-like, and there’ll be no problems between the two of us.”

  I stared hard at him, and said firmly (though my insides quivered like a gelatin mould): “No.”

  He looked, at first, like he could not quite believe I had said that – but then he knelt down in front of me, with some difficulty due to his enormity, and spoke right into my face. His breath was rancid.

  “This can go either one of two ways. You be a good girl; I get what I want; and I make sure that all the others fellas know what a good girl you are. That’s the best way, you see what I’m saying? ‘Cause if we go the other way, and you try to fight me on this – well, that’s the worse way, ‘cause then the fellas will know that they have to be a little more forceful when they’re dealing with you. They can be really sweet, you know what I mean? But they can be pretty nasty, too. Trust me – you don’t want them to be nasty to you. You see me, little missy?”

  I stared at his chins.

  “It would be a wonder if I couldn’t.”

  “I’ve had it with you,” said Stan.

  He pushed me onto my back.

  He was unbelievably heavy, and impossible to heave away. What had begun as an annoying and insubstantial encounter became a nauseating, painful reality.

  Chapter 32

  If isolation and discomfort were two very considerable factors in the slow dissipation of an already pathetic supply of faith (and indeed they were), then I was in serious, serious trouble. My grand exposition before Handsome Jem now seemed very small and pathetic. My momentary courage had subsided; my apprehension was daily increased. A complete lapse into fear and hopelessness was imminent and inevitable.

  It happened for apparently no reason at all – or maybe for reasons that I forgot. For all the attention I was paying to the goings-on around me, I suppose that it could have been a dream. It was only Myrne’s consensus that put the stamp of authenticity on the matter.

  Myrne and I did not speak much to one another, even after what seemed a fair amount of time had passed. I suppose there just wasn’t much to say. What was the point of voicing our objections? It would only have made things worse.

  One day, though, Myrne said something to me. He said, “You know, I think that I’m going to die soon. I’m feeling terribly sick.”

  I turned my head slowly in his direction. I wanted to say something positive; but I don’t believe that I succeeded. All I said was, “That doesn’t mean you’re dying.”

  “I suppose not. But this would be one of those times, when I would actually pay to see a doctor.”

  “I hate to be the one to tell you this – but I don’t think you’re going to be seeing a doctor anytime soon.”

  He tried to laugh. “I figured that much. I just wish . . .”

  I waited to hear what he wished for; but he didn’t say anything else.

  “Myrne?”

  A piercing scream scared me half out of my wits. The sound was so high, so shrill, it took me a moment to realise that it was Myrne.

  “Jesus, Myrne, what’s going on?”

  He didn’t answer. He just kept screaming.

  It was not long before our cell door was thrown open, to reveal a small group of angry soldiers. They shouted many things, all to essentially the same effect. (What in the hell is going on in here?) To be fair, I wanted to know the same thing.

  It was several seconds, still, before the screaming died completely away. When it did, Myrne took several deep, audible breaths. “Please, sir,” he begged. “I’m horribly sick. I don’t know what’s the matter, I think –”

  “Sick, are you?” one of the men asked, stepping farther into the room. I squinted in the light from the hall, trying to make out his expression. “What d’you want me to do about it? Do I look like some kind of goddamned doctor? Well, I’m not. There’s nothing I can do about it, so just keep quiet, will you?”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but the pain is just so terrible . . .”

  “Terrible pain? You think you’re in terrible pain? Well, my God. Come here, boy, and I’ll show you the meaning of the words.”

  “Please, sir –”

  “I said come here.”

  I looked at Myrne. He was clutching his stomach and struggling to his feet, trying to do what he was asked. It made me sick.

  “I haven’t got all day. Come here.”

  Myrne hobbled as quickly as he could across the room. When he reached the soldier, he was punched full in the face. The other two men just stood there, looking quite stupid.

  “Oh, please, sir . . .” Myrne coughed, now on his knees on the floor. He spat what looked like blood.

  “How was that?” the first soldier asked, looking down on Myrne. “Stomach hurt worse than that?”

  “Oh, sir, I’m so sorry, but it hurts something awful, something’s terribly wrong . . .”

  “Something’s wrong, all right. With you. What are you thinking of? You’re a prisoner, boy. Do you think anyone cares how sick you are?”

  Myrne kept his eyes down. “I know, sir. I’m sorry.”

  “You damn well should be,” said the soldier, kicking out with his right foot. He caught Myrne around the middle – intentionally, of course. “I’m going to make sure that you don’t forget your place. Now, personally, I have things to do. But Locke and Jameson here will do their very best to get the message through to you.”

  “Please, don’t do that, sir – I know my place, I know I was wrong and I’m very sorry . . .”

  Seeing a grown man, however emaciated and juvenile-looking he may have been,

  grovel like that . . . Well, it was just too much for me. As the first soldier took his leave, and the two remaining men began to kick the life out of Myrne, I broke; I burst into angry tears and flew forward into the fray.

  “What in the hell . . . ?!” shouted one of them, aiming a kick towards my legs in an attempt to take me down. But I would not be done away with that easily; I was far too livid. I clawed at them in a frenzy, imagining my fingers coming away with their flesh stuck all over. In my crazed state, only one thing was certain: Myrne would not fight for himself, so I had to fight for him.

  “Get her off!” hollered the one I thought was called Locke. The other (who therefore must have been Jameson) used both hands to try and pry my thrashing body off of his comrade, but he could not subdue me. I was a wild woman.

  It was not long before the first soldier came back, to see what all the fuss was about. When he had sized up the situation – me pummelling both of his men mercilessly, them fighting back rather unsuccessfully, and Myrne curled up on the floor like a small child – he just stood there and laughed.

  “Well, I’ll be. Can’t you two handle one little old girl?”

  I drove my
fist up into Jameson’s nose, heard the crunching crack that told me I had broken it. I cheered for myself – on the inside.

  Jameson fell back, and I fell with him. Locke took me from behind, pulling up on both of my arms to keep me from swinging at him.

  “It’s about time, Locke,” said the first soldier. “I just can’t believe you two.”

  “I don’ know what happened, Murray. She just went crazy. Me ‘n Bobby were busy wi’ the other one, and she just came up outta nowhere, scratchin’ like a jungle-cat.”

  “You don’t say.”

  I looked from one to the other, drawing deep breaths. I glanced at Jameson, who was sitting on the floor, holding his bloodied nose. “Oh, I’m sorry,” I said. “Doesn’t hurt too much – does it?”

  He glowered at me.

  “On your feet, Jameson,” Murray barked. “Get the hell out of here, and clean yourself up.”

  Jameson stumbled out of the room, dripping massive amounts of blood as he went.

  Murray looked at me. “Now, little miss, just what am I going to do with you?”

  I said nothing. I was not Myrne; I did not intend to apologise.

  He smiled suddenly. “I know,” he said. “I know just what we can do. Give her to me, Locke.”

  Locke shoved me towards him, and he took hold of my arms, twisting me around to shove me out the doorway. I looked back at Myrne. He had hoisted himself up on one arm, and was trying to wipe some of the blood off his face – he watched me go, looking more sorry than he could say that there was nothing he could, or would, do.

  Locke stepped out with us into the hallway, pulling the heavy door behind him and shutting Myrne once again into a world of darkness and silence.

  “Come with me, Locke,” said Murray. “We’re going to pen her up outside.”

  My heart began to flutter at the mention of the word; but was quickly stamped down again, with Murray’s next revelation.

  “I don’t know if you know how long you’ve been here,” he said, “ but it’s pretty cold out there. October now.”

  October . . . My God. It couldn’t be! It couldn’t have been – four whole months!

  “Let’s go,” said Murray, pushing me onward. “Maybe the fresh air will take some of your stink away.” He paused. “Remind me to hose you down when you come back in tomorrow. That smell is just ungodly.”

  We walked down the dimly-lit hall, taking a left at the end to find another of an identical appearance. We turned several more times, walking down more of the same dank, damp corridors, until we reached a pair of tall double doors. It was such a great and beastly maze – well, its structure certainly was not conducive to escape.

  Locke opened the doors, while Murray held my upper arms. He clutched them so tightly, I felt his fingers making permanent bruises on my malnourished flesh.

  I felt a rush of cold air. Locke held the door for Murray, and stared at me without expression. I shivered.

  “Here we go,” said Murray, pulling me with him down a flight of stone steps. Locke closed the doors, and then came scampering after us.

  We must have walked for almost fifteen minutes. My weak legs protested, threatening to buckle beneath me. Just when I felt on the verge of collapse, we reached a small patch of land surrounded by barbed-wire fence. There was no structure, no platform, no walls or surroundings of any kind. There was just the fence, almost four times as tall as me. I looked up tiredly, knowing that I would never even dream of attempting such an escape.

  It was so cold! So very cold, when all I could remember was the air of June. I shook uncontrollably, teeth chattering and bones clacking. My clothes, grown threadbare and hole-filled during my time of sleeping upon a stone floor, were no match for the ruthless wind.

  “Now,” said Murray, “you’re going to spend the night out here. You will sleep here, on the ground. If you die, it will be your own fault. If you live, then you will have learnt your lesson.”

  Locke pulled a key from his belt, and opened the gate. Murray steered me towards a metal stake protruding from the earth. Attached to it was a steel shackle, open and waiting.

  “Lock her up, Locke,” said Murray. He even took a moment to chuckle at himself.

  Locke bent down and retrieved the shackle. Seconds later, I felt cold steel close around my ankle.

  Locke stood up, and walked quickly away. Murray surveyed me for a moment, with an enormous amount of satisfaction upon his ugly face; but then he left without a word. The gate closed. I watched the two men stride off into the empty distance, fading into nothing.

  It was amazing how abruptly my courage had waned.

  ***

  I spent the night drifting in and out of consciousness. I remained standing for as long as I could manage; but eventually my bare and frozen feet, attached to my weak and frozen legs, forced me down to the ground. With nothing to lean against, it was not long before I was lying in the hard-packed dirt, trembling with the very chill of coming death.

  But it did not come quickly enough. Murray came to fetch me, hours after the sun had risen. True to his word, he walked me to the side of the great stone building, and soaked me from head to toe with a high-powered water hose. I was sure that, if I were to look down at myself, I would see the skin hanging off my bones.

  I shivered and shook there before his gaze, dripping with ice-cold water; but I made not a sound.

  The rage I had felt the night before, the righteous indignation that had surged through my veins and erupted from my fists – it was all gone now. It had vanished, and was nowhere to be found. I let myself be dragged back to my cell; I was silent as I was thrown back in, door locked behind me; I sat motionless upon the floor, waiting for food to come. Food that, nowadays, tasted of nothing. It was not disgusting; it did not smell so foul now. It tasted of air, bled through with weakness and misery. I barely felt it pass down my throat.

  I could never understand, even as I swallowed mouthful after mouthful of the stuff, why I even bothered. If I had only stopped – I would have been taken forever from my fear and sickness. I would never have to sleep outside again. I would never be kicked by another guard. I would never feel that dull ache, seeping slowly through my cold joints, which started up each time I laid myself out across the stone floor.

  Never again would the bitter, excruciating pain of loneliness pierce my heart.

  ***

  I squeezed my eyes shut tighter, when the cell door swung open. I heard Myrne scurry into a corner, but I lay still, waiting for the light to disappear.

  “Stan sent me to fetch ye,” said Jameson. (He never did manage to get over the breaking of his nose.) “He seems awfully fond of ye, doesn’t he?”

  ***

  Myrne tried to talk to me, but I never talked back. I had absolutely no idea what to say. I knew not how to think anymore. Was I right? Were they wrong? What did it matter now? Justification would have given me no satisfaction.

  I remembered my own request, in the first naïve days of my rebellion.

  I’d like to be taken back to my cell, please.

  My interrogator had been taken aback. Most of you live for this time, in the light.

  And now – I had no idea how far I would go, to be free of the darkness! Would I have chewed off my own hand? Maybe. Would I have put out my own eye? Most likely. Would I have agreed, that anything and everything I had ever done in my whole entire life, had been wrong; and that anything and everything in the whole wide world that went wrong, was my fault? You’re damn right I would have.

  Myrne eventually stopped speaking. He sounded so sad sometimes, so pitiful and so small, that I almost felt badly for leaving him alone to himself.

  Yet I felt worse for myself.

  ***

  The sun poured in through the window, spreading warm golden light all around the room. I watched for a moment, eyes fixed on the brilliantly blue sky. I sighed contentedly, burrowing deeper into the warm blankets.

  I felt a small movement at my right. She snuggled closer i
nto my side, her head coming to rest upon my shoulder. I pulled the blanket down a bit, so that I could see her hair. It was brighter than the sun that fell over the bed. I watched her face, so peaceful, so beautiful. She looked so much like an angel, I could picture a round white halo floating directly above her head . . .

  “Are you awake?” I asked softly.

  Her eyes opened slowly. Crystal clear, perfect blue. A smile just for me.

  “Has it really been so long?” I asked.

  “Not so long,” she answered, taking my hand.

  “Don’t leave me again,” I whispered.

  “Shhh,” she said, pressing her forehead against mine. She stayed very still, so that I could feel the very beating of her heart.

  “Can we stay here?” I asked.

  “No,” she said sadly. “But everything will be all right.”

  “How?” I asked. I felt my throat begin to close, as tears formed in the corners of my eyes.

  She reached out to take my face in her hand. “Trust me,” she said. “I wouldn’t lie to you.”

  “But I can’t do it anymore. I don’t know how to keep on.”

  She took me in her arms, then, holding me as close as she could. “You have to,” she said. “If you give up now, we’ll never make it home.”

  “I don’t believe it. We’ll never get home.”

  She forced my head up, made me look at her. “If you say that,” she said slowly, “you make it true. I can’t find you, if you don’t believe I can.”

  I said nothing. The plain truth was that I did not believe.

  “I know it’s not easy,” she said. “But I’m here – can’t you feel me?” She brushed my cheek lightly with her fingertips. “Can’t you feel this?”

  I covered her hand with mine, and closed my eyes. “I feel you,” I whispered.

  She kissed my forehead, then both of my cheeks. When she pressed her lips to mine, I could feel her breathing back into me the very life I’d lost; it was like my body was being filled with air, renewing itself into what it had been.

  I felt her hair all around me, smelled its sweet, familiar scent. I felt her tears dripping down onto my face, mingling with my own, burning my skin.