Of Blood and Honey (Fey and the Fallen) (12 page)

“You’re not participating in the game,” Jack said. “Are you well?”

“No, sir. I mean, yes, sir.”

Jack examined his face long enough to make Liam nervous. “I suppose an eye like that would make the idea of football less than appealing.”

Liam carefully touched the bruise. His left eye was still tender—a parting gift from a BA as he had boarded the helicopter that had taken him from Holywood to Malone. Three days ago the eye had been swollen shut, and he’d worried about losing his sight, but he had been blessed with easy recoveries before, and this time hadn’t proven different. The eye seemed to be healing well with no change in his vision.

“You’ve not been to class either. Nor have I seen you chatting with any of the others. We’re not criminals—no matter how hard the British try to make us so. We’re Prisoners of War. As such, we’ve rules here. Not their rules,” Jack said, obviously meaning the screws. “Our rules. Is there something you need to tell me?”

Liam shook his head. The temperature between the huts dropped as blood drained from his extremities, and every muscle tensed. There had been a Loyalist—a self-proclaimed member of the Ulster Defence Association among the prisoners at the start of his stay. The UDA man had apparently lasted two weeks before his mouth broke his nose for him—and then some. Liam had seen what the Republicans had left in the hut the next morning. He’d watched as the screws had carried the remains off on the stretcher. It had been his third night at Malone, and the image had left an indelible impression. Liam was no Loyalist, but that didn’t mean Jack knew it. Without moving, Liam checked the space between the buildings for obstacles; although, it would only delay the inevitable. There wasn’t anywhere to run to.

“Frankie thinks he may have seen you in Holywood a month ago. Where are you from?”

“Derry, sir.”

“Ah,” Jack said, “And what are you in for, Liam from Derry?”

“Was on a march. Anti-internment. Was picked up. BAs said I was rioting.”

“And were you?”

“No, sir,” Liam said. “Only been out of Long Kesh a few days. Didn’t want trouble. Still don’t.”

Jack nodded, but his face didn’t lose its hardness underneath the smile. “And why were you sent to the Kesh?”

Liam shrugged. “Watching the Frontliners throw rocks on Aggro Corner.”

Jack whistled. “You’re one poor luckless bastard. But I suppose when it comes down to it, we all are.”

There was a shout and a thump. The football slammed into another hut.

“As I was saying,” Jack continued, “We’ve rules here, and participation is compulsory.”

“I’m not political. Only want to get back home to—”

“Doesn’t have to be sport,” Jack said, his face growing softer. “Although, it’s likely we’ll only have the ball a few more days. The BAs are due for their regular tour, and it’ll probably need more than a patch after they’ve done with it. You should attend class tomorrow. We’re reading Shakespeare—
Hamlet
, to be precise.”

“Shakespeare?”

Jack grinned, and Liam saw it was a real smile this time, devoid of judgment or calculation for the moment. “You were expecting a lecture on the sudden and violent release of mechanical or chemical energy from a confined space?” he asked. “Sorry to disappoint, but I earned my degree in literature, not chemistry. Although, if you’ve never read
Hamlet
, the end is rather violent. The descriptive ‘explosive’ might be a bit of a stretch, though.”

And that was how Liam had met Jack Rynne, secondary school teacher from Belfast and volunteer for the Provisional IRA.

Jack was proven right about the BAs’ tour. The next night Liam woke to the bang and rattle of the hut being unlocked. The lights came on and someone shouted, “Go to the wire!”

Assuming the situation was much the same as in the Kesh, Liam stayed as he was until the hut OC said to comply. At that, everyone went out in the cold and lined up against the chain link fence while the BAs ripped through the contents of lockers and tossed bedding. As the hut was given the go over a second set of BAs went down the row of prisoners and conducted a body search. Dressed only in his kacks, Liam attempted not to show his nervousness, but when a man was pulled from the wire and beaten he began to shiver. Not wanting to be known for a coward, he stared ahead and hoped no one would notice.

“It’ll be all right,” the man next to him said. Liam had noticed him before. He had a nasty scar running through his eyebrow and half down his cheek. “Nothing out of the ordinary. Be over with soon. After they’ve had their fun.”

Liam nodded and waited his turn, fingers hooked in the steel links and staring into the next cage. When his time came the BAs weren’t particularly rough about it, and it was over with quickly. An hour and a half later, everyone was told to go back to their huts and the locks were replaced. It took some time to sort out the cots and the bedding, but eventually everyone got back to sleep.

Seven-thirty came terribly early the next morning.

“
Maidin mhaith,
” a blond prisoner said with a grin.

The man with the scar said, “Oh, fuck you, Jimmy.”

Half-awake, Liam asked, “What did he say?”

“Good morning,” the man with the scar said. “It’s too fucking early to be that fucking happy. Particularly after last night.”

With little interest in much else and no real choice in the matter, Liam decided classes might not be so bad. Eight months of prodding from Jack, Mary Kate’s optimism, his own obstinacy, and a large number of strategically invested cigarettes managed to get Liam through fifth year. Knowing full well the Gallagher family’s position on his lack of Irish, he’d also been picking up what he could from the other prisoners. It wasn’t easy. There weren’t many fluent speakers even among the staunchest Republican prisoners, and most of the common prison vocabulary consisted of words he wouldn’t have used in front of Mary Kate, let alone her mother. However, he was able to glean a few phrases. To show off, he decided to surprise Mary Kate during her next visit. He entered the room with its rows of folding tables and chairs. Other prisoners sat opposite their loved ones and friends, talking quietly. It didn’t take him long to spot her. She stood up and waved. She was wearing a short brown skirt and a corduroy jacket with a sheep fur collar. It looked new.

Sitting down across from her, he could hardly contain his excitement. He hoped he would get it right the first time and without hesitation. “
Dia dhuit, a Maire Cháit. Ar mhaithleat dul amach?
”
Hello, Mary Kate. Would you like to go out?
He hoped she wouldn’t press on much further as he’d just run through the extent of his hard-earned vocabulary—unless she wanted to talk about the weather, of course.

She leaned across the table and trapped him in a fierce hug. “Oh, Liam. That’s wonderful!”

The guards burst from their corners and yanked him away from her. Everyone stopped what they were doing to stare.

The guard with the red hair said, “Visit is over.”

Liam said, “We’ve a half hour!”

“You, shut your cakehole,” the red-headed guard said. Liam recognized him as the one Frankie called “Gingernut.” He had a reputation for being strict, particularly if there wasn’t any profit in being otherwise.

Gingernut turned to Mary Kate. “Go on. Get on home.”

“What did we do?” Mary Kate asked.

“No fucking Irish,” Gingernut said, forcefully shoving Liam across the room.

Liam staggered into the wall. “I won’t do it again! I’ll tell you what I said! I only asked her—”

“I don’t give a fuck,” Gingernut said.

Liam patted his pockets for anything he could give the man but wasn’t quick enough. The guards dragged him through the door. Furious, he fought them with everything he had.

Liam opened his eyes and found himself on an infirmary cot. Jack was at his side, sitting on the floor. Liam wasn’t surprised. When the doctor wasn’t on duty other prisoners took on the role. Jack’s face was a sketch in concern. “Which guard did this to you? I’m filing a report.”

“I’m done.” Fervor passed through Liam’s clenched teeth. He wanted to scream his conviction—he didn’t care who would hear, but the agony in his sides stopped him. His ribs were broken. The words came out in a fierce whisper instead. “I’m joining up.”

Jack leaned close. “This isn’t you. It’s only the anger talking. You’ll calm down—”

“Fucking mean it.”

Gingernut had ordered a cavity search, and Liam couldn’t stop them from carrying it through. It’d taken three guards to hold him fast while it was done, and they’d laughed and made lewd comments in the process.

With a deep breath, Jack settled on the floor and brushed dirt off his knee. His shrewd brown eyes scanned the infirmary walls until at last he said, “Truth is, I wouldn’t have you, son. Not in my brigade.”

“Why not?”
He knows,
Liam thought.
He knows about the monster. They transferred someone from the Kesh. He’s heard the stories.

Reaching into his coat, Jack pulled out a note. “Can you tell me what that says?”

Accepting the slip of paper, Liam opened it. The words were written in blue ink—in cursive. It was then that he understood it wasn’t the monster that Jack had heard about, but something else. Shame burned Liam’s face with the force of an unexpected blow, and he turned his head. Before he knew it, the heat of embarrassment became a tingling sensation in his chest which crawled down both arms and gathered in his clenched fists. Liam wanted to punch Frankie for not keeping his word. For not keeping his mouth shut. That’s what he got for trusting the likes of Frankie. After all the months of careful self-control, Liam was on the verge of ripping something apart. Anything. He wanted to smash the note in Jack’s smug face. He wanted to run. Only he couldn’t run; he was stuck in the infirmary with two broken ribs because he’d been too stupid not to fight the guards.
Too stupid—

I won’t,
he thought.
Won’t have another goddamned teacher tell me I can’t do something. Fuck teachers. Fuck Jack.
“Mike Cusack can’t read, and he’s in. What does that have to do with anything?”

Jack nodded. “Mike Cusack is a good man.” A long pause stretched out, and for a moment Liam didn’t think Jack was going to continue, but then he sighed. “We don’t need more heroes to die for the cause. If the British could be repelled with a wall built of dead heroes, Ireland would have been free long ago,” he said. “The Brits are getting smarter. Look around you. They’re filling up the prisons with Republicans so fast they can’t keep up.

So, they dump us in improvised shite holes like this. If we’re to survive, we must change too. We must think.” He poked an index finger at Liam’s bruised head.

“You won’t have me because I’m stupid.”

“You’re far from that, I promise you,” Jack said.

“Then why?”

Gently placing a hand in the center of his chest, Jack pushed him back down on the cot. “Calm down, son. Don’t hurt yourself after Murphy went to all the trouble of patching you up.”

Liam closed his eyes, and the moment he did, he recognized the tingling sensation for what it was and how far it had gone. The monster was dangerously close, and if he didn’t do something quick he’d lose it, and Jack would be the one to pay the price, not the fucking screws. Grabbing the iron cot frame under the covers with his right hand, Liam fought for control. Inexplicably, metal seemed to help. Not always, but enough that touching bars and aluminum walls had become a habit when he was angry or upset. He focused on the canvas-covered iron under his palm. He couldn’t let the beast go. Wouldn’t.
Stupid.
Doing so now would only prove him unfit—although not for the reasons Jack thought. Liam was dead certain that no matter what the English said, Provos didn’t recruit monsters.

He bit down on his anger, and hissed for air through his teeth. Pain shot into his head from his bruised jaw, giving him a nauseating headache.

“Suppose we did take you,” Jack said. “What of the others? Their lives will be in your hands just as yours will be in theirs.”

“Frankie told you.”

“He didn’t.” Jack raised an eyebrow. “I’ve been in secondary education for twelve years. Do you not think I’m capable of noticing differences in students’ handwriting? Not that the differences are that subtle in your case.”

“Fine. I’m stu—”

“Still, I couldn’t think of how you were managing to read out loud in class,” Jack said. “Waited two weeks and watched for a pattern. Then I had it. Frankie would kick you just before you’d read. That was clever. Had me thinking he was pushing a reluctant student. Hell, you must have memorized whole chapters to pull it off.” He sighed. “So, I keep asking myself, what’s stopping you? You’re certainly not lazy. There are far easier ways of muddling through. Perhaps it’s a lack of sufficient motivation? I don’t know. Regardless, you’ll have to work it out. Get through your O-Levels without cheating. Do that, and I’ll recommend you myself.”

“I can’t.”

“You can, and you will. Not for me, and not for the cause.” Jack shook his head and sighed. “But because if you don’t you’ll lose that girl of yours.

And from what I’ve heard, you don’t want to go and do that.”

Liam took long, slow breaths, pain warning him to take care. He wanted to listen. He had to listen. The prickling sensation began to recede along with his anger.

When he had told Mary Kate he was thinking of taking fifth year, she had given him a kiss that had kept him up nights for a week. It had been why he had stuck out the classes, no matter how badly he wanted to quit. She only thought him a little slow. She didn’t know he was practically illiterate, and he never wanted her to know. While there was no real shame in not being able to read where he came from—Bogside was full of men who couldn’t—Mary Kate and her family held education in high regard, and she was at Queen’s University, surrounded by learned men who weren’t in prison and weren’t fakes and liars.

“I’ll do everything I can to help, Liam.”

Turning to face the wall again, Liam swallowed. “I’ll do it.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.”