Bury the Living (Revolutionary #1) (5 page)

Chapter Six

Margaret forced another cup of tea on Nora and closed the photo album, laying it on the coffee table.

“Can I keep this?” Nora asked, still holding the photo of Thomas Heaney. She’d searched through the rest of the album for other pictures of him, but this seemed to be the only one.

“I suppose there’s no harm in it, but are you going to tell me what this is about? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Maybe I have.
“Are you sure you don’t know anything else about this man?”

“I told you, I have no idea, save for what it says on the back. But it seems to me that
you
know something about him.”

“I don’t,” Nora admitted. “It’s just . . . I saw him in a dream. Several dreams, actually. He looked exactly like this. I’m sure it was him.” The longer she stared at the picture, the more certain she felt. He had the same look of longing in his eyes, as if he were far away . . . or wished to be.

Margaret crossed herself and muttered, “Mary, save us.” She took the photo from Nora and examined it, then handed it back. “’Tis never a good sign to dream of the dead. But perhaps you’ve seen his photo before and have just forgotten.”

Nora shook her head vehemently. “No, I’ve not seen him before. Only I’ve been dreaming about him for months now. He’s even spoken to me.”

Margaret’s gray eyebrows arched. “Oh, aye? And what did your man have to say?”

Haltingly, Nora told her aunt about how the dreams had increased in clarity until the man—Thomas Heaney—had finally spoken to her and told her to find him in Kildare. “I wasn’t even supposed to come back to Ireland—I had planned to go to Kenya for my break. But the same night he told me to go to Kildare, I found out my friend had been killed. So I came home instead.”

Margaret watched her warily but said nothing.

“Then in last night’s dream, we were in a stone courtyard, surrounded by high stone walls. There was blood on the ground. There was the sound of guns being fired, and then I woke up.”

“Well, I don’t pretend to know what it means,” Margaret said slowly. “But there’s a fine museum down at Kilmainham Gaol. That’s where many of the political prisoners were kept during the Tan War and the Civil War. They might be able to tell you more about this Thomas Heaney, if he was IRA.”

Nora reread the inscription on the back of Thomas Heaney’s photo.
Killed in action, 1923
. “Do you think he was killed at Kilmainham? Is that why I had that dream?”

“I’ve no way of knowing, do I? But it’s a possibility, I suppose. The Free State executed dozens of IRA Volunteers. O’course, the IRA killed their fair share of Irishmen, too.” She shook her head and glanced up at Jesus on the wall. “A dark, dark stain on our history, if you ask me. And it’s still going on in the six counties, so it is.”

“It seems pretty far-fetched that I would dream of someone who’s been dead for decades,” Nora said, changing the subject. “Maybe you’re right; maybe I saw this photo in Da’s things when I sold the house.” But would she have remembered his features so perfectly from a single glimpse at a photo? Something told her the explanation wasn’t anything so simple.

“Why don’t you go down to the jail and see if they’ll let you have a look at the records? You can find out if he was a prisoner there,” Margaret suggested.

“Maybe . . .” Nora considered this. “But the records might not even be there. You don’t happen to have a computer, do you?”

“Me?” Margaret laughed. “I’m too old for that.”

“Auntie Margaret, you’re not even sixty,” Nora said reprovingly. “But it doesn’t matter. I can go to the library later on.”

“This has gotten you quite tied up, hasn’t it?” Margaret’s eyebrows were knit together.

Nora blushed and got to her feet. “No . . . I’m just interested, that’s all. It feels strange to know so little about one’s own history. Maybe the dreams were just a sign that I should learn about this man. He could be related to us somehow.”

“And maybe they mean absolutely nothing at all,” her aunt countered. “Why would the Lord put such things into your head?” Nora had been wondering the same thing. Margaret patted her cheek. “I’ll say a prayer for you. But don’t let it upset you too much. You’ve had a lot to deal with lately; it’s no surprise your mind is spinning.”

“I won’t. I should get going, though. Thanks for the tea. And the scone was delicious.”

“Ach, not at all, dear. Come and visit anytime. How long are you on this break?”

“It’s supposed to be a couple of weeks. But I might go back early.”

“Well, you’re welcome to stay here; I hope you know that.”

“I do,” Nora said with a smile. She kissed her aunt’s cheek. “But I’m better off alone just now. I’ll let you know if I find anything more about this Thomas.”

“You do that.”

Nora walked a couple of blocks to the bus stop but then decided to keep walking the rest of the way to the city center. It was an unusually fine summer day—and such weather begged to be enjoyed, particularly in Ireland. Besides, she needed time to think. She kept pulling the picture out of her purse to look at it. She turned it over and over in her mind as she walked, replaying everything she could remember from the dreams, as well as what she knew about the Civil War.

An hour later, she found her way to the public library and logged on to a computer. Her search for “Thomas Heaney IRA” turned up nothing. She scrolled through pages of results, but nothing seemed to match the man and date from the photo. Perhaps her aunt was right, and she’d do best to visit the Kilmainham Gaol museum. She plucked a brochure for the museum out of a stand near the entrance of the library and studied it for a moment. The sun shone on the sidewalk outside the glass doors. Tourists and locals flooded the streets. The economy was thriving, and for the first time in Ireland’s history more people were moving to the country than were leaving it.
It really is a beautiful country.
I should see more of it.

She was so close to Kildare . . .

Don’t be ridiculous.

She read the Kilmainham brochure again. Maybe the courtyard from her dream had no real-world equivalent. On the other hand, there was a chance the museum would have photos of some of the prisoners. It wouldn’t hurt to check.

She boarded a bus and a few minutes later disembarked at the gates of the jail, a harsh, ugly stone structure framed by tall, leafy trees on an unassuming street. A crowd of American tourists was just getting off a large green tour bus. She stood at the back of the group as they filed in through the front entrance. Barred windows winked down at her as she shivered in a sudden chill breeze. Carved into the stone above the open doorway were five twisting dragons with wide, rolling eyes, their necks held in place by heavy chains. She was reminded of a Chinese fairy tale she’d once read. A painter created stunning depictions of dragons for a new temple, but he refused to draw the eyes because doing so would bring the dragons to life. The emperor ordered him to draw the eyes, awakening the dragons and causing untold destruction. She could almost picture these scaled figures breaking their stone chains and taking flight over Dublin.

“Intimidating, aren’t they?” A young man wearing a red Office of Public Works shirt nodded up at the snakes.

“What do they mean?” Nora asked.

“It’s simple enough. Murder, rape, theft, treason, and piracy—the five serious felonies back when the jail was built.”

“Cheery,” Nora muttered as the line inched forward. She paid her admission fee just inside the door. “I’m looking for a particular courtyard,” she told the woman at the desk. “All right if I just have a look around?”

The woman shook her head. “Access is by guided tour only, though you’re free to visit the museum for as long as you’d like.”

“Right,” Nora said. She pulled Thomas’s photo out of her purse, already feeling ridiculous. “And I’m wondering if this man was ever a prisoner here . . .”

“You’d have to make an appointment with Archives,” the clerk said, already accepting a credit card from the next person in line. “Talk to one of the museum staff.”

Nora frowned, disappointed, then took her receipt and caught up with the American tourists. She followed them through a narrow corridor lined with books for sale, then into a large square room filled with displays and exhibits. But before she had a chance to look around, the next tour was announced and she hurried to join the group.

The young guide smiled at the guests and beckoned them closer. “Welcome to Kilmainham Gaol,” she said in a bright, clear voice that belonged on a stage and not in a prison. “My name is Liz, and I’ll be your guide today. If you’ll follow me out these doors, our first stop will be the chapel, where we’ll watch a short video.”

Nora tagged along with the group, half-listening to the tour guide and craning her neck for anything that might remind her of Thomas or her dreams. They watched a short film about the history of the jail and some of its more prominent prisoners, but Thomas wasn’t among them. Then they toured the old section of the prison, three floors of claustrophobic corridors, cramped cells, and peeling paint. As they rounded a corner, Nora noticed something written in large block letters on the wall above a barred window: “Beware of the risen people that have harried and held, ye who have bullied and bribed.”

Nora shivered, frozen in place for a moment, then hurried to catch up with the group. She listened as Liz told them about the dark, desperate years of the Great Famine, when people would purposefully commit crimes in front of the authorities. They knew they were guaranteed at least one meal a day in prison, which was better than starving to death on the outside.

How bad must it have been, to want to come to this place?

Next they were onto the East Wing, which Nora recognized from the film
In the Name of the Father
. The soaring ceiling gave it an open, airy feeling that reminded her of a cathedral. It was shaped like a horseshoe, with cell doors all around the outer edge on three levels. An iron staircase descended from the third floor down to the main level, where they stood. Liz explained that this layout had allowed the wardens to see every single cell at once. Nora craned her neck with the rest of the tourists, scanning the three floors to see if this was true. Then her eyes fell back on the iron staircase, and her hands flew to her mouth.

Dozens of women were descending the staircase, but not willingly. Soldiers dragged them by their hair, slamming their heads against the iron rails as they pulled them down. One of them landed at Nora’s feet, and she stepped back, nearly colliding with the man standing behind her. The woman on the floor looked up at Nora, blood running into her eyes. Her lips were clenched together. As Nora watched, the woman rose and charged at the staircase, only to be tackled and wrestled to the ground.

Nora spun around wildly to see if anyone else was observing the same thing. Perhaps it was a special effect, some part of the tour. But no one else seemed to notice the women piling up at their feet. They were all either listening to Liz or blandly surveying their surroundings. When she looked back at the staircase, the women were gone.

Nora closed her eyes tightly. Her breath was ragged and shallow, and she struggled to control it.
What the hell was that?
The group was dispersing to look inside some of the cells, but the tour guide came toward Nora. “Are you okay?” she asked quietly.

“I . . . I . . .” Nora stammered. “I just thought I saw some women on the staircase, that’s all. Must have been a trick of the light.”

Liz looked at her thoughtfully. “This place has a long and tragic history. You’re not the first visitor to get a glimpse of the past. I don’t often say this in my tours, but I believe some of the inhabitants of Kilmainham have never left.”

Nora smiled awkwardly. “I think . . . I’m just tired,” she said, pulling her arms close to her chest. The bright sunlight shone through the large skylights in the ceiling, but it did nothing to dispel the chill she felt deep inside. She cast a nervous glance back at the staircase, then meandered over to one of the open cells. Carved into the doorframe were the words, “The Manse.” Who had carved that, and why? She stepped inside. It looked as if it had been recently whitewashed. A small window was set into the far wall, a good distance above her head. It let in a tiny ray of sunlight. Nora stood in the beam of light, willing it to warm her.

“Creepy place, isn’t it?” asked a middle-aged woman who had entered the same cell.

“Oh, aye,” Nora answered.

“Are you a local?” the woman asked in an American accent, a delighted look on her face.

“No. I’m from Belfast.”

“Oh, I see,” the woman said, looking concerned. “Do you know anyone who’s been bombed?”

“What?”

“They told us we shouldn’t go to Belfast because of the bombs. Have you been bombed?”

“No,” Nora said, turning away.

“Well, that’s good,” the woman answered. She continued gazing around. “I wonder who was kept in this cell.”

“Annie Humphreys,” Nora answered without thinking. How did she know that? And yet it was true; she was sure of it.

“Oh, you’ve done the tour before!”

Nora turned around slowly. Her eyes skimmed over the woman’s excited face and kept turning, taking in the four walls of the cell. “No,” she said softly. “I haven’t.” What was going on? First the women on the stairs, then this. Was her mind even her own anymore? She pushed past the woman back into the open atrium, where she found Liz.

“Do you recognize this man?” she asked, showing her the photograph of Thomas Heaney. “I’m wondering if he was a prisoner here.”

Liz examined the picture closely and then turned it over to read the inscription. She handed it back, shaking her head. “I don’t recognize him, no. But there were hundreds of political prisoners here in the early nineteen hundreds. Was he a relative of yours?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Well, once the tour is over you can ask the museum staff; they might be able to help you.” Turning away, Liz called out to the rest of the group, “If you’ll follow me, we’ve one more stop on our tour.” Nora followed her through a narrow doorway and down a claustrophobic corridor, her fingers trailing the stone walls. Liz opened a door and motioned for Nora and the others to step outside.