Bury the Living (Revolutionary #1) (17 page)

“Are you telling the truth, Nora? That’s quite the story you’ve got,” Jo said, looking impressed.

“O’course it’s the truth.”

“Then why’ve none of our Belfast girls here heard of you or your family?” Mrs. Humphreys asked.

Nora set her cup down on the table, keeping her hands steady. “I signed up recently.”

“Hmm. Well, that may be. But you’ll have to forgive me for having my suspicions. You see, one of the guards here is called O’Reilly, and judging from his tongue, he is also from Ulster. Any relation to you?”

Nora stared at her, suddenly remembering what Aunt Margaret had said—her great-uncle had worked as a prison guard in Dublin until he was killed during the Civil War. Could this be the same man?

“I don’t—no, I don’t have any relatives in Dublin. And all my relatives are Republicans.”

“But you and he are both from Ulster, are you not?”

“Look, I don’t know who you’re talking about. O’Reilly’s a common enough name. But I’m not a spy, so I’m not. And I don’t take well to people questioning my loyalty after all I’ve done for the cause.”

Mrs. Humphreys stood up. “That sounds like a threat.”

“What does it matter?” Nora stood as well, towering over the squat woman. “The question is, what are we going to do about this?” She gestured to her head. “Are we going to use it to help turn the people in our favor? Or are we going to sit in our cells talking about where we’re from and who we know?”

There was a heartbeat of silence; then Mrs. Humphreys said, “So that’s your plan?”

“If we can get the story of our mistreatment out—better yet, a photograph—it may well spark an outcry. It might encourage others who have been mistreated by the Free State to speak out. Who knows what kind of ripple effect it could have?”

Mrs. Humphreys pursed her lips. “There’s a wardress, Miss Wilson, who will likely take the story out for us. She’s helped by smuggling in food packages during the bans and bringing in the bulletins. Can you write down what happened?”

“Aye. What about a photograph?”

The OC shook her head. “No cameras in here, far as I know.”

“Can this Miss Wilson bring one in? Disguise it as a food package or something?”

“It would be a coup, for certain. I’ll speak with her. But I want Miss Gillies’s name on the letter. Whether or not you’re telling the truth about where you come from, the Gillies name will carry more weight.”

“I don’t care whose name is on it, as long as the truth gets out,” Nora said, picking up her cup of tea again. They seemed to have arrived at a truce—for now.

Mrs. Humphreys nodded stiffly at them and left the cell.

“Well, that’s not what I expected,” Jo said, staring after the OC.

“Me, neither,” Nora said. “Is everyone in here Cumann na mBan?”

“Not officially, no. O’course, everyone was caught doing something the State deemed ‘revolutionary.’ Either that or their menfolk are known Republicans. Except Peggy Murphy, I suppose. She says she was picked up because she crossed the street to talk to Jennie Nagle while she was being arrested. Bit stupid of her, really. But most are Cumann na mBan, aye. I’m on the Prisoners’ Council.”

“What’s that?”

“The way we organize ourselves in here. The quartermaster’s in charge of distributing any food packages that arrive, making sure the girls have enough soap, candles, things like that. The adjutant’s in charge of distributing the post. May Kelly runs the lessons. And the OC is the go-between with the wardresses and the prison governor. She also makes sure we go to church.” She rolled her eyes at this last statement.

“Church?”

“There’s a chapel here, but we’re not allowed to use it. So we’ve set up an altar. It’s in the corner of the landing on this floor.”

“Why can’t we use the chapel?”

Jo made a face. “Because our fine clergy believe we are waging a ‘war of wanton destruction, murder, and assassination against the people and the people’s government.’ No confession, no communion, until we repent of our sins and sign the Form of Undertaking. That’s a form promising you won’t do anything to hinder the new Free State government. You get to leave, and you’re welcomed back into the church with open arms.”

Nora stared at her. “Are you dead serious?” She felt automatically for the rosary beads in her pocket. Most priests in Belfast had supported the Provos’ activities, even if they couldn’t say so publicly. It was a priest who had swayed her to join the cause in the first place.

“I am. Some of the girls find it a bit rough, not being able to go to Mass and all. But we’ve managed. The Lord knows we’re in the right. Now who’s for a game of whist?” Jo pulled a deck of cards out of the box on the table. Before she closed it, Nora glimpsed a delicate pair of cream gloves and a stack of letters wrapped in a green ribbon.

“Ta, Jo, but I’d best be getting back to my own cell. Need to write that account and all.” In truth, she didn’t know how to play whist, and the last thing she needed was for more suspicion to be cast her way.

“Stay here and do it,” Jo urged. “You don’t want to go back to that dungeon until you need to. Here, you can use some of my paper.” She opened the box again and pulled out a single sheet of paper and a pencil only two inches long. “We’re trying to get more, but O’Keefe’s in one of his moods,” she explained.

“Who’s O’Keefe?”

“Deputy governor of this fine establishment. Also a right bastard.”

Nora accepted the pencil and paper and began to set down an account of their assault, making it from Pidge’s point of view. Once again she left nameless the IRA Volunteer who had saved them. The Free State would counter with its own version of events, but hopefully the damage would be done by then. She passed the paper to Pidge, who scrutinized it.

“You’re not going to say—”

“No.”

Pidge nodded and signed the bottom.

“Can you give it to the OC?” Nora asked. “I need to lie down.”

“Do you need to see the doctor again?” Pidge asked, her forehead wrinkling.

“No, but if you could help wrap me up . . .” She pulled the bandages out of her pocket and handed them to Pidge.

Jo laid a hand on her arm. “Don’t give up hope, Nora. We’ll get the story out.”

Nora returned to her cold cell, exhausted by the day’s many traumas. She wished she had half as many answers as she had questions. What would happen to her if she managed to change the past? Would she be able to go home? Was she still expected to help Thomas? And how could she do that . . . if he was already dead?

She lit her candle and moved it close enough to the bed so that she could feel its heat, but far enough away so that she wouldn’t light herself on fire. The dying light of the cloudy day eased in through the open window above her. She wrapped her blankets tightly around her and closed her eyes, trying to shut out the world.

Chapter Sixteen

The next morning she woke up shivering. Her candle had snuffed itself out during the night, and the air was moist with the morning rain. Outside her door, a voice bellowed, “Roll call! Out of bed!”

Nora gripped her blankets tighter, unwilling to relinquish what little warmth they offered. She was rewarded with a loud bang on her cell door, which flew open a second later.

“Get up! Outside your door, now!” a guard shouted at her. Nora considered ignoring the order, but it wouldn’t do to make enemies. She stumbled into the corridor, still wearing her blood-splattered dress and thin black shoes. On both sides of her, girls were shivering and yawning. Miss Higgins walked up and down the corridor, calling out names and checking them off on a clipboard whenever a girl shouted “Present.” She stopped at Nora’s door last.

“Nora O’Reilly.”

“Aye.”

“Do you have anything clean to wear?”

“No.”

The wardress’s face softened. “Make sure you send away for something. How are you feeling?”

Nora fingered the bandage. “Fine.”

Miss Higgins’s eyes lingered on Nora’s bruises. After she left, some of the prisoners returned to their cells, while others stumbled down the hall toward the lavatory. Pidge crossed the corridor to Nora.

“Sleep well?” Pidge asked.

“Hardly. You?”

Pidge shrugged. “I wrote a letter to my parents last night. Jo loaned me one of her papers.” Her eyes drifted past Nora to the window in the cell wall. To the world outside.

“I’m sure they’re fine,” Nora said, trying to sound as if she believed it. “If your mother had been arrested, she’d be in here with us, right?”

“It’s not her I’m worried about, not really.”

“I know.” Nora tried to change the subject. “So, shall we name our cells, like Jo and Lena?”

Pidge smirked. “I was thinking, ‘The Hidden Room.’ You?”

“Good choice. I thought maybe . . . ‘The Bane of Aengus Óg.’”

Pidge raised her eyebrows. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know . . . just something someone told me once.”

“Fair enough. Listen, let’s go up to the East Wing after breakfast. Jo told me you can see the street from some of the third-floor windows. Maybe my parents will be down there, looking for me. If nothing else, we can shout down for news.”

They heard breakfast being delivered and grabbed their bowls. The prisoner on delivery duty today ladled them each a serving of watery porridge. Nora poked at hers with her spoon, then lifted a small amount to her mouth. She’d had worse in the camps . . . but not by much.

Pidge was equally unimpressed. She set the bowl aside. “When I wrote to Ma, I asked her to send some food packages. Seems we’ll be needing them.”

Nora was touched that Pidge seemed to think of her as one of the family. It had been a long time since someone had thought to look out for her. “Come, let’s go find this window.” They followed the example of the other prisoners and set their bowls and cutlery outside their cells, presumably for washing by the convicts.

The air warmed as they climbed the staircase to the third floor. The cells were the same as on the other floors, arranged in a horseshoe shape that could easily be watched by the guards and wardresses. They didn’t have to ask which cell had the best window—there were already half a dozen women crowded around it, waiting their turn. Nora stood on tiptoes to look inside the cell. The bed had been shoved under the window, and a small table was balanced on top of it. A prisoner was standing on top of the table, leaning out of the glassless window. She shouted to someone down below, “Come back and tell me if you find him, will ye?” There was a muffled response. She stuck her arm out and waved frantically, then climbed off the stack of furniture and hurried past them, her cheeks wet.

A few minutes later, it was Nora’s turn. The view was spectacular. To the left was the top of the Guinness brewhouse, and beyond that she could see soaring church spires over the tops of the trees. The majesty of the Wicklow Mountains loomed straight ahead of her. But closer still was a crowd of people standing on the banks of a small river, in front of a large billboard plastered with brightly colored waybills and advertisements. It was hard to make out the faces of the people down below.

Out of the corner of her eye she could see Pidge bouncing up and down on the cell floor. “Do you see anyone you know?” Pidge asked.

Of course not. Everyone I know hasn’t been born yet.
“No. Here, you have a go,” Nora said, helping Pidge up beside her and then shifting over so the younger woman could see out of the tiny window. Pidge’s eyes were anxious as she scanned the distant figures.

“There!” She pointed to a figure at the back of the small gathering. “Ma!” she bellowed, leaning out of the window and waving. “Ma! Kathleen Gillies!”

Mrs. Gillies, clad in a long, dark coat and brimmed hat, pushed forward and waved a gloved hand. “Pidge! Oh, thank God! Are you well?”

“Grand! And so is Nora!” Nora stuck her face in the window and waved down at Mrs. Gillies. “Are you all right? I’ve been so worried!” Pidge yelled.

“I’m fine! Your father and brother are still away visiting your aunt and uncle.” Pidge gave a whimper of relief. At least they’d not been killed. Yet.

“Ma, I’m sorry!” Pidge cried out, her voice breaking. “It’s my fault, I—”

“Hush, Pidge,” Mrs. Gillies cut her off. “I know what they found. What’s done is done. They’ve been looking for an excuse to come after us for a long while now.”

Pidge shook her head, tears wetting her cheeks. “I’m sorry,” she said again, but just loud enough for Nora to hear her.

“Ask her about Thomas,” Nora said. “But don’t say his name.”

“Did you see Nora’s friend? Is he all right?” Pidge yelled.

Nora wished she could see Mrs. Gillies’s face more clearly. “No,” Mrs. Gillies called up. “The neighbors told me what happened—I’ve done nothing but pray that the two of you were not harmed. Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Aye, we’re grand, other than being in prison!” Pidge shouted, recovering her normal good cheer. Nora processed Mrs. Gillies’s news. If they’d killed Thomas, would they have left him there for Mrs. Gillies to find, or would they have taken the body with them? But there’d only been one body in the lorry . . . The pressure in her chest lessened slightly. There was a chance—a small chance—he was still alive. “What about the dog?” she asked.

“There was a dog, badly hurt, but she ran off as soon as she was well enough,” Mrs. Gillies answered. “Tell me, what do you need?”

“Everything!” Pidge shouted. “Cakes and candles and bread and paper and my sewing kit and hairpins—” She stopped to take a breath. Nora grinned and took over.

“And a proper bed and a fireplace and some books and a telephone, please!”

Mrs. Gillies smiled broadly. The sight of it sliced into Nora’s heart. How horrible it must have been for her to have come home to find her house ransacked and her daughter missing. Hopefully the sight of them, smiling and in the company of others, would give her some peace. How long would Mr. Gillies and Stephen have to stay in hiding? Nora felt an awful burden of responsibility. She should have either talked Pidge into hiding the guns elsewhere or refused to smuggle them in the first place.

“Don’t be keeping those windows all to yourself!” someone shouted from behind them. A burly woman missing two teeth shoved in next to them.

“Hey, that’s my mother down there!” Pidge said, shoving back.

“You’ve had your turn. There’s over two hundred of us, and only three windows that can see down to the river.”

Pidge pinched her lips together but then turned back to the window. “I have to go! I wrote you a letter. Will you come back?”

“As often as I can!” Mrs. Gillies cried. “Be safe, Pidge!”

“Don’t forget to send food!” Pidge shouted. She waved wildly, then turned back to Nora. They jumped off the table and left the cell. The corridor by the windows was beginning to fill up now.
Not a bad distraction, I suppose
, Nora mused.

“There, you know they’re all right,” she said, a hand on Pidge’s shoulder.

Pidge nodded, her face somber. “Mother is safe, at least.”

“I’m sure your father and brother are just laying low. It’s not like they can go back home so soon after what happened.”

“I know. Sorry there was no news of Thomas.”

“Aye. I just wish I knew what happened to him—if he’s dead or alive.”

Pidge gave her an encouraging smile. “Did you . . . resolve things with him?”

Nora huffed. “No. We were arguing in the barn when I heard you scream.”

“You’ve an odd idea of how to go about courting a man, Nora. You might try being kind to him instead of fighting every time you see him.” Pidge laughed.

“If he’s still alive.”

“Don’t think like that. If he was dead, they’d have thrown him in the cart with that other fella. And I bet they’d have enjoyed telling us what they’d done. Let’s hope for the best. Maybe you’ll get another chance.”

Nora nodded, heartened slightly.

Jo O’Mullane met them at the top of the staircase. “Come on,” she whispered, gesturing with her hands. “It’s here!”

Nora’s heart thumped.
It
could only be the camera. She followed Jo down the stairs and into a cell near the end of the corridor. Inside sat OC Annie Humphreys, her face grim.

“Close the door,” she said. “Jo, you’re on guard.”

Jo stood next to the door and fixed her eyes on the corridor through the small barred window.

“How’d she find one so quickly?” Pidge asked.

“I spoke with her yesterday,” Mrs. Humphreys said. “Turns out her mother had recently been given one as a gift. She brought it in this morning. Now, it’s important that we do this quickly. We’ve heard another report that they plan to execute one of the female prisoners. This might be enough to stop them.”

“They wouldn’t,” Pidge seethed. “The people of Ireland would never stand for it! There would be another rising!”

“There are over ten thousand Republican men and women in captivity, Miss Gillies. There aren’t enough of us left to revolt. If they start executing women, Lynch and his lads will have no choice but to surrender. They’ll put the blame on them for continuing to fight while women are being killed.”

“You think the people will blame the rebels if the Free State starts executing women?” Nora found this hard to believe.

“The State controls all the newspapers except for the
Eire
, which it constantly tries to shut down. The people already want an end to this war. I fear an execution would push them over the edge.”

“Then why is this any different?” Nora gestured to her face and scalp.

“Because you’re still alive. And it will be hard for the papers to position the brutal beating of a woman as a politically necessary act of war. It’s a long shot, to be sure, but it’s a sight better than doing nothing at all.”

“Who do they plan to execute?” Jo asked from her post at the door.

Mrs. Humphreys shook her head. “It’s just a rumor at this point. Let’s pray it stays that way.”

Pidge stood straighter. “I’m ready to die for the Irish Republic.”

“Pidge, don’t say such things. Think of your family,” Nora urged.

“Enough,” Mrs. Humphreys said. “Miss Wilson took a great personal risk by bringing this in for us.” She reached under the blankets on the bed and took out what looked to be a flat leather purse. She undid the buckle and pulled gently. The “purse” expanded into an accordioned camera the size of a shoebox.

“She tells me it’s the newest model. Should take a fine photograph.”

“And then what do we do with it?” Nora asked.

“She’ll take it back out and pass it to one of our girls on the outside, who will bring it to the
Eire
with your letter.”

Nora stood against the white wall of Mrs. Humphreys’s cell while Pidge removed her bandages.

“Your bruises are darkening,” Pidge said. “Should show up nicely.”

The OC photographed Nora’s wounds from several angles before folding up the camera.

“So I guess it’s up to the
Eire
now,” Nora said as Pidge bandaged her back up. “And the Irish people.” The OC was right: it was a long shot, but one they had to take. “How long before it’s published?”

“Might be a few days. The
Eire
is published in Scotland, to avoid the censors.”

“Someone’s coming,” Jo said. The camera disappeared. Mrs. Humphreys shoved several playing cards into each of their hands.

“Hello, Miss Higgins,” Jo said to the wardress as she entered the cell.

“Miss O’Mullane. There you are, Miss O’Reilly. I’ve a clean dress you can wear until you manage to send for one of your own.” She handed Nora a folded bundle of navy fabric.

“Ta.” Nora accepted the dress and unfolded it.

“Mother will send us another for you,” Pidge said. “Poor Nora, you’ve lost everything, haven’t you?”

Nora thanked the wardress again. “I’m going to go change,” she told the others, pushing past Jo into the corridor. She clutched the bundle to her chest as she made her way back into the gloom of the West Wing.

There was nothing to do but wait . . . and pray.