Bury the Living (Revolutionary #1) (20 page)

Here’s to the girls in Kilmainham.

Here’s to the girls on the run.

Here’s to the girls who are active,

And to girls who can carry a gun.

Had Lena, with her blond curls and rosy cheeks, ever carried a gun? Had she ever taken a life?

She turned the page again.

The date was neatly written in the top corner, underneath the words
Kilmainham Gaol
. Delicate scrolls and knots wove their way around the outer border of the page. In the center was written, in a curving, delicate hand:

Far better the grave of a rebel, without cross, without stone, without name,

Than a treaty with treacherous England that can only bring sorrow and shame.

“Those aren’t the only two choices,” Nora whispered to the empty cell. She lay down on her mattress, with the autograph book splayed open on her chest. She’d told Pidge she’d think of something else, something that wouldn’t put her life at risk. Pidge’s life . . . Roger’s life . . . how many more would be put in her hands? Would death follow her everywhere she went?

At least she could do something about one of them. She picked up her candle and returned to the altar. Two girls were kneeling beside it, their hands busy with their rosaries. As before, Roger stood a way off, in the shadows, watching. She hesitated, remembering the OC’s suspicions, which would surely be confirmed if she were seen talking to the guard. But if the alternative was letting him die . . .

She marched over to him. “I need to talk to you.”

“What are you doing back here? You’re supposed to be in your cell.”

“It doesn’t matter. Listen, I know what I’m going to say will sound crazy. But while I was praying, I had this . . . strong premonition about you.”

He took a step back. “About me?”

“Aye, just hear me out. It’s going to sound—well, here it is . . . I had this feeling that you’re going to, well, die. In three days’ time.”

“What are you on about? Is your head cut?” The girls at the altar glanced back at them.

Nora kept her voice low. “I told you it would sound crazy, but I’m quite serious. On April 4, you’re supposed to die.”

“Is that a threat?”

“No, it’s nothing like that! Believe me, this doesn’t have anything to do with the war or which political side you support. It was just a sense I got. When I was praying. Do you pray?”

“O’course I pray,” Roger muttered. “But I don’t have no feelings about people dyin’.”

“Neither do I, usually. And I wasn’t going to say anything. But it didn’t seem right to keep that from you. I’d want to know, if it were me.”

“You’re off your head. Go on with you, or I’ll report this to the matron, so I will.”

“Fine. I’m going. All I know is what God showed me. And I don’t know what you can do to stop it. Or if you even can. But I’d at least try if I were you.”

“Get on with ye!”

Nora turned and hurried down the staircase. Maybe it would do nothing, but at least she’d followed her conscience. Besides, this was an important test. In three days she’d know for certain if the past really could be changed.

She lay awake in bed, her mind racing with questions about Roger and his coming fate.

Then a sudden realization struck her.

Roger O’Reilly wasn’t the only man who was meant to die in the coming days.

“Liam Lynch,” she whispered into the darkness. “April 10.”

It was April 10, she was sure of it. Her Provo mates had made a big deal out of it when the Good Friday Agreement was signed on the exact anniversary of Lynch’s death. “Like spitting on the grave of one of Ireland’s greatest heroes,” one of them had said.

She sat up and stared at the lone flame flickering on the floor beside her. Those same friends claimed Lynch’s death had effectively ended the Civil War. He’d been shot by the Free State Army during a skirmish in the countryside. The Staters hadn’t even known they’d shot the chief of staff of the IRA until he told them who he was. They took him to a hospital, but it was too late. Without their leader, the IRA had lost its nerve and surrendered to the Free State, leaving the six counties of Northern Ireland to fend for themselves.

This was it. This would be so much bigger than a propaganda coup, so much bigger than saving a single man’s life.

If she could save Liam Lynch, the IRA would fight on. They wouldn’t give up until the treaty was rejected. There would be no surrender.

Chapter Eighteen

To Nora’s dismay, Pidge announced her decision to the prison matron and a crowd of fellow prisoners the next morning. She told them she planned to stay in her cell for as long as possible, only moving to the hospital room when her condition required it. She pledged to let no food cross her mouth until she was a free woman.

As soon as they were alone, Nora tried again to talk her out of it. Pidge was adamant, and Nora reluctantly dropped it. Pidge was a grown woman, entitled to her own mistakes. And she’d need support, not censure, if she were to survive this ordeal. Nora just hoped the authorities would cave and release her sooner than later.

At mealtimes, Pidge shut herself into her cold cell, so as not to be tempted, she said. Jo and some of the others who’d been on strike before gave her advice on dealing with the cravings—and the pain—that accompanied the first few days.

“The first days are the worst,” Jo said. “Try to keep busy for as long as you can, and whatever you do, don’t let your mind dwell on food.”

Nora passed the news on to a stricken Mrs. Gillies from the third-floor window. A letter arrived for Pidge the next day, begging her to reconsider. Pidge set the letter on fire.

April 4 arrived. The day of Roger O’Reilly’s death. Nora spent the day in nervous anticipation. If she had successfully changed Roger’s fate, that meant she could change Lynch’s as well. He wasn’t stationed by the front doors as usual. Nor was he in the exercise yard when the women were allowed out for their rounders game. Nora began to pace around the halls of the jail. His red hair and gangly form were conspicuously absent. At noon she joined Pidge in her fast, her stomach too tight to eat. At dinner, she had a few spoonfuls of potatoes and onions but could not sit still long enough to finish her bowl. She went on another circuit around the East Wing, walking up and down the stairs and returning repeatedly to the altar.

She’d mercifully been moved to a midday prayer shift. It was hard enough on her, Mrs. Humphreys said, to have her closest friend on hunger strike. That same afternoon she and Pidge were moved to Dorothy MacKinnon’s old cell in the East Wing. Nora was grateful for the shared quarters. It would be easier to keep an eye on Pidge this way.

By the time night fell, Nora succumbed to exhaustion and curled up under her blanket. But sleep would not come. Had Roger merely taken her advice and stayed home . . . or was he dead? If so, how had it happened? Had he thought of her warning as he lay bleeding out from a bullet wound or a mangled leg? She tried to tell herself that she’d done everything she could, that if he’d believed her he might still be alive . . .

But as the day wore on, her feeling of dread grew. Perhaps Ireland was set on a tragic course from which it could not be derailed.

No, it had to be possible. Even being here had changed the future for some. Frankie Halpin. Pidge. Thomas. She cringed into her pillow. Yes, she’d probably saved Frankie Halpin’s life, but what of the Gillies family? What of Thomas? They were worse off now than before she’d met them.

She drifted to sleep, haunted by thoughts of Roger O’Reilly’s face, bloodied and still . . . who then became Frankie Halpin . . . who then became Eamon . . .

The morning brought gray light through the bars of her window. Another day of uncertainty. Pidge was tight in a ball on her mattress, arms wrapped around her knees. Nora knelt beside her and rubbed her back.

“Stomach cramps?”

Pidge nodded. “It hurts.”

“I know.”

“I’m afraid. What if I can’t bear it?”

“There’s no shame in going off the strike.”

“Jo says the pain goes away after a couple of days.”

“Yes, I suppose it does. But that doesn’t mean it gets easy.”

“You said you’ve seen people starve. Who?”

Nora hesitated. Africa was too exotic of a destination for a poor Catholic girl from Belfast. She couldn’t say she’d worked there, in feeding clinics and refugee camps where daily grave-digging was a tragic necessity.

“Children. Orphans and street children. A friend of my mother’s ran a home for them. I helped out when I could.”

“How horrible.”

“Aye, it was.”

“What . . . what was it like? For the people who starved?”

Nora shook her head, remembering going from bed to bed in the feeding center, checking to see who was still alive—and who had arrived too late. “It’s not pretty, so it’s not. Someone explained to me once how it works. Your body uses up all the energy it’s stored . . . and then it basically starts eating itself—getting energy from your muscles and tissues. Eventually, there’s not enough energy to keep the organs functioning, and your body shuts down. You get infections, or have a heart attack, or the brain just stops working.”

Pidge grimaced. “That’s an awful way to put it.”

“Aye, but it’s the truth. Don’t you think—”

“Don’t. Don’t say I should reconsider. I only wanted to know what’s ahead, is all. So I can be ready for it.”

“All right.” Nora stood up. “I’m going to see if there’s any news.”

“News about what?”

“About anything.”

Nora quietly ate her breakfast with Jo and Lena so as not to torture Pidge with the smells. “Has any news been brought in today?” she asked.

Jo was bent over a crochet hook, biting her lip. “The war rages on.”

“Anything specific? Any . . . deaths?”

Jo looked up. “Last night at the window we got word of an ambush, if that’s what you mean.”

“Our side or theirs?”

“Ours, o’course. On the Ballystodden Road. Didn’t lose a single man. Two of theirs were killed, though.”

“Do you know who they were?”

“The men who were killed? No. Why?”

“Doesn’t matter. I just heard someone had been killed, that’s all.”

“I heard they’re going to move us,” Lena said.

Nora frowned. “Where?”

“North Dublin Union, most like.” Lena wrinkled her nose. “I don’t fancy being there; it’s more of a workhouse than a prison. But I suppose we’ll adapt.”

“When?”

She shrugged. “It’s just something I heard. They need to make room for the men in here.”

Jo scowled. “They can’t arrest all of us, but they sure are trying.”

Nora went to the lavatory and took a hot bath—a prison luxury she hadn’t been expecting—then returned to the altar on the second-floor landing. Two Kerry girls were there, their lips moving silently as their hands moved around the rosary. She remembered the children’s rhyme she’d sung as a small child.

Ring around the rosary

Pocket full of posies

Ashes, ashes, we all fall down.

One of her colleagues had tried to teach it to the children in Haiti, but he stopped after Nora told him it was a song about the plague. Tragedy as seen through the eyes of children.

“Miss O’Reilly.”

Roger O’Reilly strode toward her. There was no translucence to his form, no blurred edges. He was as solid and alive as when she’d first seen him.

“Good God, Roger!” she whispered. Without thinking, she ran to him and flung her arms around his neck in relief and joy and astonishment. “You’re alive!”

He disentangled himself from her embrace, blushing furiously. He stepped back but then said softly, “Thanks to you . . . I think.”

She didn’t care who he thanked. She grinned back at him, then punched him on the arm. “You’re welcome.” A laugh bubbled up from her throat. “It worked!”

“What worked?”

“I’m just so relieved that you’re still alive,” she said, bouncing up and down on her toes. It could be changed—
everything
could be changed.

He moved in closer to her. “Nora, you knew that ambush was coming, didn’t you? I was supposed to be there, on the Ballystodden Road. But I begged off sick. Are you . . . are you wanting to switch sides? Is that why you told me?”

She stopped bouncing, suddenly serious. “I am most certainly not wanting to switch sides, Roger O’Reilly. That’s something
you
should be considering, not me.” Then she smiled again. “Because
we
are going to win this war.”

She scampered back to Jo and Lena’s cell, where she found Pidge sitting on Lena’s bed.

“Nora!” Jo called. “Come on in, Lena’s going to tell us our futures.”

Lena was shuffling a deck of cards, grinning broadly. “Don’t be nervous; I foresee happy futures for us all. I’ll tell you how many babies you’ll have.”

Nora snorted, then sat on the edge of Lena’s bed beside Pidge. “How are you feeling?”

“Better,” Pidge said. “The cramps are gone. For now.”

Nora rubbed her back. “Listen, I need to tell you something. Don’t get upset.”

Lena stopped shuffling. The three women looked at her expectantly.

“I’m going to sign the form.”

“
What?
” Jo stood so fast her chair toppled over behind her. Lena’s mouth hung open, her hands frozen around her deck of cards. Pidge’s lower lip trembled and her nose wrinkled, as though Nora had just passed her the chamber pot.

“It’s not what you think. I have a plan,” Nora said quickly. She laid her hand on Pidge’s arm, but Pidge jerked it away.

“What are you talking about?” Pidge demanded.

“I can’t tell you why, but I need to get out of here.”

“We
all
need to get out of here,” Jo retorted. “You think we don’t have families waiting for us, mothers worried that we’ll be the first to die in here, sweethearts to see, a cause to fight for? But you don’t see us signing the form, do ye?”

“It’s treason, Nora. Treason against the Republic,” Lena said.

“It’s not,” Nora said quietly. “I’m going to help the Republic. Save it, if I can.”

“How?” Jo asked.

“I can’t say. I’m sorry.”

“So you’re going to leave me? And Kate and Mary? You’re going to go back to your old life while we’re starving ourselves for the cause?” Pidge kept her gaze fixed on the cell floor as she spoke.

Nora swallowed a stone that had lodged in her throat. “I don’t want to leave you, Pidge. But I have to. I have to do this.”

“Does this have anything to do with Thomas?”

“Who’s Thomas?” Lena asked.

“No,” Nora retorted. “It has nothing to do with him. I don’t even know where he is—or if he’s still alive.”

“Then what? What could be so important that you would betray your sisters?”

“I’m not—”

“You know what? I don’t care.” Pidge got to her feet, hands on her hips. “You want to leave? Fine. Maybe the OC is right; maybe you’re a spy, after all. Did you tell those Staters to come to my house? Did you lead them to the training camp, too? Are all those lads in prison now because of you?”

“You’re talking rubbish!” Nora shot back. “You have no idea what I’ve done—what I’ve lost—all for the sake of a free Ireland.” She stopped herself, clenching her teeth together. Then she reached out a hand. “Pidge, you have to just trust me on this.”

Pidge slapped away her hand. “I can’t believe I let you into my home. Into my family. Get out. Just get out!”

Nora pressed her lips together. “Fine. But you’ll see that I’m right in the end.” She stalked out of the cell, ignoring the stares of the other prisoners as she hurried down the corridor. She went straight to the wardress’s office.

“I want to sign the form.”

Miss Higgins looked up from her desk. “Is that so?”

“Yes.”

“I have to admit I’m surprised, Miss O’Reilly. But I’m always pleased when one of my girls makes the decision to support our government.”

“So, can I sign it now?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Why the hell not?”

Miss Higgins cleared her throat. “Language, please. Because it must be witnessed by the prison governor. Mr. O’Keefe won’t be here until tomorrow, to oversee the transfer. You’ll have to wait until then.”

“What transfer?”

“Kilmainham has become too crowded. The women are being moved to North Dublin Union. The State needs Kilmainham for more male prisoners.”

“Even the hunger strikers? Surely they’re too weak to be moved.”

“They could always eat something,” Miss Higgins said, closing the book on her desk with a thud. “I’ll send for you tomorrow when the governor arrives.”

Nora returned to her cell and closed the door. She had to stay focused on the job at hand. Find Lynch. Warn him about the gunfight that would lead to his death. Protect him. That was her job.

She didn’t know where or how she would find him. But first she had to get out.

She stayed in her cell the rest of the day, thinking, planning—and avoiding the other prisoners. But she couldn’t stand the idea of Pidge thinking she was a traitor. Maybe she could earn her trust by telling her only part of the truth.

“Hey, I’ve been waiting for you. We need to talk,” Nora began when Pidge finally returned to their cell.

“There’s nothing to talk about.” Pidge picked up her box of belongings and put it under her arm.

“Where are you going?”

“Hospital wing. Lyons says it’s time.”

“But . . . you’re not that weak, yet . . . are you?”

“What do you care? You’re leaving anyway.” Pidge shoved the heavy door shut behind her, letting the sound reverberate through Nora’s body.

The next morning she lay awake in bed, waiting for Miss Higgins to bellow for roll call. A faint scrape at her door made her sit up. Then a click. She crossed the room and pulled on the door handle. It was locked.

“Hey!” she said, banging her palm against the door. “Hey!”

Through the tiny grate she could hear other cries of protest down the corridor. Then a man’s voice boomed out.

“Listen up, ladies! You are being moved today to another facility. When your door is unlocked, you may proceed in an orderly fashion to the entrance, where our men will escort you to the transport vehicles. If all goes smoothly, no one will be shot.”

His speech was met with boos and jeers through cell doors. After half an hour had passed, the commotion in the hall told Nora they were being released. The lock in her door turned. Miss Higgins stood on the other side.

“Do you still wish to—”

“Yes.”

“Then you may go down to my office and wait for me there.”