Faithless (59 page)

             
John shook his head. "I'll be here at nine."

John was standing outside the pub at 9pm. A car pulled up. He saw Eithne in the passenger seat. She wound the window down and said, "Get in."

             
He opened the back door and slid in. The car was on the move before he even got the door closed. "Remember your seat belt," smiled Eithne back at him. 

             
"Did you manage to speak to the people I asked you to?"

             
Eithne nodded. " Pádraig did."

             
"Not by telephone I hope?"

             
"Don't worry. We know all our phones are bugged. There are other ways to get in touch with your friends."

             
"Ok."

             
"You don't sound reassured."

             
"It's difficult to trust people."

             
"I can see why. But not everyone is fickle."

They drove through streets John
would never remember. He had the vague idea they were going west. It was dark. The driver didn't speak. All he could see of him was the glowing tip of his cigarette which burned bright each time he took a drag. He  knew the streets well. He drove fast. He cut through red lights.

             
"Easy Mickey, we don't want to get a stop just because you drove through a red light."

Mickey laughed but didn't reply and didn't slow down. They came to a working class part of town. They drove through small terraced houses and th
en they came onto a desolate looking estate of three or four story housing blocks. There were acres of car parks mostly empty. The cars that were there were old and battered.  A deflated orange football lurked in a gutter as if it had no home to go to. A skinny cat walked slowly in front of them as Mickey screeched to a halt.

             
"Look at dat fuckin' cat," he said in a thick Dublin accent. "It didn't even fuckin' flinch."

             
"Yes," said Eithne sounding middle class. "Even the cats are hard here."

             
Mickey laughed his rough laugh. John got out of the car and stood beside it not knowing where to go. No workers' paradise this. And like the hopeless poor everywhere in the western world, those surplus to the system got by on dope and crack, petty crime and benefit fraud. Beating each other up and breaking into each others' apartments that held nothing of any worth.

             
"Come on," said Eithne, looking out of place and appearing nervous. "It's just up here."

             
Mickey opened the graffiti disfigured door and went at a rapid pace up the concrete stairs. Eithne followed him, holding onto the handrail, and John came up last, warily.

             
They went up to the third floor and Mickey went ahead until he stopped at a red painted door. He fumbled with a key, unlocked the door and shoved it open. He lit another cigarette. In the sickly electric glow from the dim hall light John saw he was a thin, pock faced man with sandy hair brushed straight across his forehead. He met John's look and gazed coldly back.

             
"In ye go," he said.

             
John went into the flat. There was a concrete floor, a standard lamp, an old TV and two ripped armchairs.

             
"Is there a bed?" asked John.

             
"I don't fuckin know," said Mickey. "Take a fuckin look in the bedroom."

             
John nodded and went through. He heard Mickey commenting behind him. "Stupid fuckin Brit." Eithne looked challengingly at him. He shrugged, "Well I mean he fuckin is."

             
"Ok, John. We'll be going now." said Eithne, " We'll be back early in the morning. 8 am. ok?"

             
John nodded. "Is there any food here?"

             
"I don't know," said Eithne.

             
"Is there a shop or something?"

             
Mickey laughed. "I wouldn't go out if I was you wit your accent. De local lads 'll take all yer money off you."

             
"Ok John, good night," said Eithne. She leant in and unexpectedly gave him a sisterly kiss.

             
"Good night cunt," said Mickey. Then he laughed, "I mean comrade. Sleep fuckin tight."

             
"Don't mind him," said Eithne. "He thinks he's funny."

They closed the door and John stood for a while examining his temporary home. There was a mattress on the floor in the bedroom with a duvet but no sheets. There was a bathroom and the water ran. There was even hot water. In the kitchen there was a microwave oven, a fridge that didn't work, a loaf of bread, some fresh butter but no knife. Someone had been half thoughtful. He ripped a hunk of bread off the loaf and used the silver paper round the butter to smear dollops of it on the bread. He wished there was some tea. He switched the TV on and sat down in the armchair eating his bread. He watched Gay Byrne on the Late Late Show for a while. Then he went and drank water from the tap in the kitchen. After that he ran a bath. He enjoyed the long hot soak but there was no soap and then when he got out he remembered there was no towel. He stood in the bath and drip dried as best he could. Then he rubbed the rest of himself with his t-shirt and put it on the radiator to dry.

He dreamt he was back with his children and Karen and they
were happy.

He was deep asleep when the Garda put the door in. He jumped up in a terror, his heart hammering. Bright police lights blinded him as booted and helmeted men surged through the door, knocking him back onto the duvet, winding him.

              "Armed Police, do not move," one shouted. Two others wrenched his arms behind his back and snapped handcuffs on him, pulling his arms up painfully so far he thought they would break.

             
"Jesus," he exclaimed.

             
"Shut up," screamed a policeman. "Get him up."

             
They dragged him to his feet and he stood there in his underpants with three policemen pointing machine guns at him. Two more pulled him by the shoulders towards the door. There were yet more police outside. Some of his temporary neighbours were at their doors looking sleepily out. Probably glad that this time the cops hadn't come for them.

             
"I think this is a bit over the top lads," said John.

             
"Shut up," shouted two policemen and one of the men behind him jerked up the handcuffs viciously causing extreme pain in his shoulders.  He shut up.

They pushed him into an armoured police van with small high windows. An unsmiling policeman sat on either side, so close he couldn't move. Two sat opposite, machine guns at the ready. They began to talk about horse racing.

He was driven for about an hour in the dark. His guards looked bored. He hoped they were on overtime. They eventually stopped and he was bundled out. He was at a big government building - security gates, and warning signs abounded.  A nameplate said it was Portlaoise Prison.

             
The police handed him over to the prison guards. He stood there in the brutal neon light in an almost featureless room. There was a team of five guards. They looked as if their hearts were made of flint. Their eyes were cold. They were wearing latex surgical gloves.

             
"We're going to search you in case you are carrying weapons, drugs or any means of harming yourself."

             
"I'm in my underpants."

             
The chief guard said quietly, "Don't be clever. We don't like clever prisoners here. Best to be stupid and quiet and do what we say."

             
"Take off your underwear," said another of the guards behind him.

             
"I'm handcuffed."

             
"Is the camera on?" asked the guard behind him.

             
The chief guard said, "No, it's broken. Shame. That could have been evidence of brutality."

             
John was punched hard in the kidneys. The pain made him feel sick.

             
"Take off your underwear," said the guard again.

             
With his hands handcuffed behind his back, John managed with the tips of his fingers to pull down his underpants so far. He struggled but could get no farther.

             
He was punched again. He sagged forwards but was caught before he fell and pushed back up to a standing position.

             
"When are you going to stop being clever?" said the guard who had punched him. One of the guards got bored of the game and leaned forward and pulled his underpants to his knees. Using his legs, John managed to work them down and step out of them.

             
"Lean forward," said the chief guard. John felt, but could not see, cold lubricant being applied to his anus. "I don't like this any more than you do," said the guard behind and John felt a rubber gloved finger intruding into his rectum. It was withdrawn. He could hear the rubber ping as the guard pulled off the glove and discarded it. "I think he's clean boss."

             
The chief guard said, "Now, we're going to take off your handcuffs. If you resist, we will make you sorry."  He felt the welcome relief of the handcuffs being opened. John massaged his painful shoulders and arms. "Here," said the chief guard and he handed him prison underwear and clothes. "At least they're clean, which is more than I can say for what you were wearing."

They took him fro
m the examination room and to a room with a desk. The chief guard went behind it and got out the paperwork.

             
"What charge am I here on?" asked John

             
"You have been arrested on an extradition warrant under the Anglo-Irish judicial agreement."

             
"What does that mean?"

             
The guard looked up. "It means our friends in England don't like you and want you back. They think you were very naughty to run away. Someone will talk to you tomorrow."  He looked at his colleagues. "Get him a cup of tea and put him in the cell." He looked back at John. "Remember, be stupid. It makes for an easier life."

In the darkness of his cell, John lay awake looking at the invisible ceiling. A faint red light came under the door from the night light out in the corridor. There was a stain
less steel toilet in the cell. The cell was clean. Clearly it wasn't for common criminals. Sometime before dawn he slept.

He was woken by another guard, who opened a hatch in the door. "Wakey wakey. Here's a cup of tea for you and a bacon sandwich. You're
not a Jew are you?"

             
"You've seen my cock," he said.

             
"I wasn't there. But the lads are talking about it in hushed whispers."

             
John went to the door and took the tea and sandwich gratefully. "Ok," said John. "What happens now?"

             
"I believe you've got some visitors. So we were told. Some people over from England for you."

             
"To take me back?"

             
The guard shook his head. "No, not as simple as that. There has to be a hearing with a judge before they send you back. Just to make sure we're not sending you back unlawfully where you will be persecuted by the Brits for your beliefs and shit."

             
"That's reassuring. I think. They willl hand me back though?"

             
The guard nodded. "Oh yes, we like to keep our old colonial masters happy. Makes you wonder why we bothered kicking them out - we lick their arses so much. I'm Sean by the way."

             
"John."

             
"I know. Eat your sandwich."

Later Sean and another guard Dermot came to get him and took him to an interview room. The prison governor was there in his suit.

              "Mr Gilroy," he said. "I trust you slept well?"

             
"Fine, thanks."

             
"I don't think you'll be with us long. You haven't broken any Irish laws of course."

             
John nodded.

             
"There are visitors here to see you from the British Government. They're outside.  I just wanted the chance of a word with you before they entered."