Bog Child (6 page)

Eleven

Felicity and Cora were still out when they got back. The door to the spare twin room was open. On one bed, Fergus glimpsed a pair of maroon, silky pyjamas, neatly folded. The other bed was unmade. The spread with the daisy pattern tipped over onto the floor, the sheets and blankets anyhow.

He’d have done anything to have been up and out with them both on that mountain, looking for relics of another age.

He went into the kitchen. Mam had the tart prepared and in the oven in record time. The family sat down to a hasty dinner of oven chips and frozen peas and burgers. Da sat at the top of the table, saying nothing. His wiry eyebrows were hunched and his mouth pursed. He toyed with his meat.

Cath and Theresa asked to be excused from the table, their plates half full. Mam nodded absently. ‘Go down to the Caseys’ and be good,’ she said.

Da stood up. ‘I’m back to work, Pat.’

‘I’m sorry I didn’t do a roast.’

‘Never mind. We’re none of us hungry.’ He looked at Fergus. ‘You mind how you drive. Sunday drivers are the worst.’

Fergus nodded.

‘If they let you in, tell Joe—’

‘Tell him what?’

Da shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’

After he’d gone, it was time for the tart to come out of the oven. Mam cut it up, ready for examining by the prison guards, and wrapped it in foil, still warm. They set out.

The drive across the North was long and winding. The roads had a thoughtful quietness to them. Clouds scampered over the hills and valleys. Sun broke through fitfully. Mam sat beside him with the tart on her lap. It was three o’clock when they crossed into County Antrim.

They drew up to Long Kesh. The place, a converted RAF aerodrome, was like a low-lying colony for the miserable of the world. The sign at the main gate said HMP MAZE.

Herpes, Mastitis, Piles. A Maze of Misery. Fergus remembered reading how the Nazis had wanted to bomb the place out of existence in the Second World War. He wished they’d succeeded. When they got out of the car, all you could hear was wind and a distant lowing of cattle. The bleak and endless walls, topped with rolls of barbed wire, were barricades against the natural world.

At the entrance it was the usual routine: passports and driving licences to be shown, through the metal detector, hands up for the body search. The search was slow and deliberate. Every square inch of clothing was gone over, then a hand-held bomb detector was traced around them, as if checking their aura. Sniffer dogs were restrained on leashes. The uniformed guards were squeaky-clean, with chains and keys and ‘This way, sirs, this way, madams’.

Across the yard, another gate. Then down long white corridors that smelled sulphurous, almost. This way to hell, thought Fergus.

Bars caged off every doorway. The place was like a laboratory for experiments on rats.

Unlock, lock. They went through three more gates and they’d to leave all their things, including the watch belonging to Joe that Fergus wore, in a plastic tub that was put in a cubby-hole. But they let Mam keep the tart. They looked over every piece, prodding each with a knitting needle. ‘An exceedingly good pie, miss,’ one screw joked. Then they were led to a waiting room. There was a guard at the door and two other people waiting silently on a bench.

‘They let me keep the tart,’ Mam whispered, sitting down. ‘That’s a good sign.’

Fergus nodded. ‘If it makes Joey eat, they’ll be thrilled,’ he said, louder. His words hit the walls and died, echoless.

They waited. Mam’s head sank down as if in prayer. Fergus looked around him. The windows were paned with frosted glass, making the light in the room dull and strange, as if the outdoors belonged to another world. He thought of the mountain and Cora standing with her hands shielding the sun from her eyes and Felicity springing up from the cut like Olga Korbut and the mysterious figure of the child he’d named Mel, lying prone, awaiting a kind of resurrection.

‘Mrs McCann. Through here.’

A screw beckoned them. Mam grabbed Fergus by the arm. ‘They’re letting us in, Ferg. They’re letting us in to see him.’

They were taken down another white corridor, around a right-angle turn and down a long passageway and around another right angle and through another locked door, with the keys jingle-jangling and a fluorescent light blinking, and then into a long room. A line of visiting booths was divided by a glass-panelled partition.

They were brought to a table at the far end. They sat down and looked through the glass to the seat opposite. There was nobody there.

They waited again.

A visit was going on three tables down. The girl on the visitors’ side looked no older than sixteen. She chattered eagerly through the glass in an undertone, but you couldn’t help catching a stray phrase. ‘
Jerry says she’s raving…too bloody right I phoned…and the clutch gone again on it…another scan, Wednesday…What d’you mean, it’s OK?
’ It sounded like whoever was on the other side of the glass couldn’t get a word in. She had her hand under her denim jacket on her belly. Fergus could see a baby on the way.

A bustle from the other side made him look back through his own portion of glass.

Mam’s fingers tightened on his elbow. ‘That’s his voice. Joey’s voice.’

In the faded blue of the prison garb, Joey’s tall form appeared. As he sat down, his face came into view. His lips were chapped and his eyes bright, as if he had a fever. He beamed at the sight of them.

‘Mam. Ferg. What a surprise.’ He flopped down in the chair and stretched out his arms as if he had the whole world to embrace. Then he dropped his elbows down on the table and propped his chin up on his knuckles. ‘Hi.’

‘Hi?’ Mam said. ‘Is that all you can say? Hi?’

‘Hello, then.’

‘Joe McCann. You were doing the refraction on Friday. Next thing I hear you’ve joined the hunger strikers. Tell me it’s not true.’

‘Mam, I’m sorry. I should have warned you.’

Mam stared. ‘You mean you
are
on it?’

Joe closed his eyes and nodded. ‘We joined yesterday, Len and me.’

‘Why? Why would you do that?’

‘Why d’you think?’ He opened his eyes again and smiled. ‘I want to drop a trouser size. I’ve been putting on weight inside here.’

‘Stop that, Joey. Tell me why you’re doing this.’

‘Like they say. Less is more.’

They stared at him. He was smiling now, almost euphoric.

‘It’s not something I’m
doing
. It’s something I’m
not
doing.’

Fergus felt the three arguments he’d been preparing unravelling. His belly churned from the hasty dinner they’d had. Calmly, Mam took the foil-wrapped tart from her lap and put it on the table. ‘The guards say I can leave this for you. It’s your favourite. Rhubarb. And I made it fresh before coming. And it’s all butter, no margarine.’

Fergus saw Joe’s nostrils widen for an instant and then he shook his head. ‘You shouldn’t have.’

‘It came out good, Joe.’

‘You have some, Fergus. My belly’s a bit puffed up. With air, don’t you know.’ He laughed.

‘This–is–no–joke,’ Fergus said, his teeth clenched. He thumped the table on the word ‘joke’.

The guard tut-tutted.

‘Hush,’ Mam said.

Joe put a hand out and touched the glass. ‘It’s all right, Mam. Ferg’s right. It is no joke.’

Mam took a slice from the foil and held it up. ‘It’s good food,’ she said. ‘Flour, fruit, sugar, butter. Good food. Put here for us to eat.’

Joe made a motion like a priest might, blessing the holy bread. ‘I know. But it’s a strange time we live in. And we have to do strange things to get out of the strange time.’

‘But not starve yourself, Joe. It’s not natural.’

‘That’s my point. This is an unnatural time. See, Mam, it’s like this. I’m not a common criminal. What I did was fight for freedom. I’d rather die free in my own head than live like the dregs of the earth. And that’s how they treat us here, I swear to God.’

‘Can’t you just turn the other cheek?’

Joe shook his head. ‘It’s not as simple as that. It’s about dignity, Mam. Human dignity. Da understands. We talked about it last time he came in. It’s about freedom and dignity. Clothes, visits, the right not to muck in with the common prisoners. The right to keep ourselves apart, doing what we want to do. It’s the right to hold our heads up and not be ashamed of what we’ve done. And me and the boys here–we’re in this together.’

‘Oh, Joe. Fergus. Say something to him.’

Fergus swallowed. No words came.

‘You were always good with the arguments, Fergus.’

Fergus looked through the glass and caught Joe’s smiling eyes. He took a breath and began the first argument he’d been rehearsing in his head.

‘Joe–the Thatcher woman over–she’s not for turning. She says it again and again.’

‘I know.’

‘When Sands died, all she said was he’d had a choice and the bomb victims didn’t. That was the extent of her regret.’

‘You sound like you agree with her.’

‘I don’t, but—’

‘There are no buts. You’re either for us or against us. And more are for us all the time. And that’s what counts.’ Joe leaned forward, his eyes shining. ‘There’s a sea-change. I can feel it. Even in here, I can sense it.’

‘I feel nothing.’

‘How can you say that, when Sands won the Fermanagh seat?’

‘I voted for him. But I’d rather him alive than dead.’ Fergus paused. He put his right palm on the glass and leaned forward. ‘Joe, it’s a brave thing you’re doing.’

‘Thanks.’

‘But a foolish thing. Vain. I know in my bones. It will get you nowhere, only into a coffin. What use is that?’

‘A coffin’s a mighty statement, Ferg.’

‘It’s the end, Joe. It’s worms and earth and generations coming after you that have never even heard of you.’

‘They’ll hear of Bobby. For years and years they’ll remember him. Wasn’t there a hundred thousand people at his funeral?’

‘And fighting on the streets, Joe. Petrol bombs. More killings.’

Joe waved a hand as if this had nothing to do with it. ‘I tell you who will remember him most.’

‘Who?’

‘Those who killed him, as surely as if they put a gun to his head. They’ll remember him for ever. He’ll be like a ghost, haunting them.’

Fergus sighed. The argument was going nowhere. It was as if Joe had an incubus in him doing the talking. It wasn’t his old, familiar brother on the other side of the glass, but somebody new, with new associations, new purposes. Fergus shifted in his seat, searching for another argument, one that would bring Joe closer. Then he had it.

‘Joe–remember John Lennon.’

‘Who could forget him? The nearest thing to Christ in our time.’

Fergus sang
sotto voce:
‘
In the middle of the night. In the middle of the night I call your name. Oh Yoko!
Your favourite, Joey.’

Joey smiled. ‘
My love will turn you on
,’ he said. He flicked his eyebrows suggestively and did an hour-glass shape with his hands.

Fergus smiled. ‘It’s about love and life, Joey. Not coffins, or martyrdom. And what about the refraction? The physics. And your Newry girl waiting on you.’

‘Cindy? She’s history.’

‘History?’

‘She went off with another fellow. I told her to forget me and she did.’

‘There are plenty more girls. Stacks of them.’

Mam leaned forward. ‘The girls were always mad for you, Joe. I remember Sandra Gannon mooning round our back door. And you only thirteen.’

Joey splayed his fingers. ‘Spare me.’

They sat in silence.

After a moment Fergus took a slice of Mam’s tart and held it up on the palm of his hand. Mimicking Joe’s earlier gesture, he blessed it. ‘
Take this and eat it
,’ he said.

‘Fergus!’ Mam said.

‘
This is my body
,’ said Fergus, ignoring her. He shook his head and touched the crust. ‘I don’t think so. It’s what it looks like. God-honest plain tart. And delicious with it.’

Joe beamed a smile. ‘You’re the same old clown, Ferg.’

Fergus took a bite. ‘It’s fantastic, Joe. Superb.’

He ate the slice up.

‘You should try it.’ He held out another slice. Joe shook his head. ‘Please, Joe. Come off this weary strike.’

Joe shook his head. ‘It’s day two now. Every day gets easier, so they say.’

‘Easier for you. Harder for us. Right, Mam?’

‘That’s right. Listen to him, Joe. You’ve us all paralysed with fright.’

‘You mustn’t worry about me. I’m doing what I want to do. Can’t you respect that, either of you?’

‘Your life’s your own to ruin. But what about Fergus’s? You’re putting him off his exams.’

‘I’d never want to hurt you.’ Joe reached a hand to the glass. ‘Oh, Fergus. Mam. Never.’ Fergus saw a tear start from his brother’s eye. He held his breath in hope.

‘Isn’t every moment I think of you starving yourself a torment?’ Mam said.

Joe leaned back and Fergus bit his lip.

‘Come back to us, Joe,’ Mam blurted, her face pressed to the glass. ‘Please.’

A spasm of something crossed Joe’s face. His eyes and nose scrunched up. But then the moment evaporated. His forehead smoothed out like clean paper. ‘I am in no pain, Mam. The hunger’s nothing. It comes and goes and then it vanishes for good. And then you’re bright and clear. Fasting is what holy men have done for centuries. All around the world.’ Joe stretched his arms out like a bird. ‘They say the second week’s like floating. Flying and floating.’

‘Joe,’ Fergus called. But Joe had shut his eyes and was shaking his head, as if rubbing out all the arguments. The moment of possibility had passed.

Fergus put the slice back in the foil and wrapped it up. ‘It’s no good, Mam. He’s not listening.’

Joe opened his eyes. He looked tired and sad. ‘I’m listening, Fergus. It’s you who’s not listening to me.’

Fergus looked at his brother. He thought of the bog child, the archaeologists, the driving lessons and the exams. They no longer existed in this place. He opened his mouth to say something, then gave up.

‘What were you going to say, Fergus?’

‘Nothing. Only another thing John Lennon wrote.’

‘What?’ Joe’s eyes opened again.