Of Blood and Honey (Fey and the Fallen) (3 page)

Each night their cots were shoved edge touching edge in order to fit inside the old tin Quonset hut. Of course, about all that did was keep the rain off since the space heater didn’t work past the first row of cots. Built in the 1940s and intended for use as an airplane hanger, the barrack was bloody freezing and the air seemed crowded with the hacking cough of the sick.

Being the youngest in his “cage”—the term the prisoners used for the fenced compounds inside the Kesh—meant that at best he was tolerated or at worst, bullied, which wasn’t much different than the outside when he thought about it. It didn’t hurt that Liam was taller than average. He had a good three inches on Kevin and a whole foot over Tom and Hugh. Some of the older prisoners liked to joke and call him the “big man.” Although, what the others didn’t have in height they made up for in brawn, unlike Liam.

“You want a smoke, Liam, my lad?” Kevin was eighteen and as luck would have it, from Derry. He had sandy-colored hair that brushed his shoulders, and he walked with a limp, the result of a confrontation with a BA.

A blond guard in the tower above them looked down at them. Something about the way he was staring spooked Liam.

“Sure.” He accepted the cigarette, uncertain what to do with it. His mother didn’t approve of smoking—not that he’d had the money for it, anyway. As a result, he’d never smoked in his life and didn’t carry matches or a lighter. His stomach tightened in a jittery knot. He was afraid of shaming himself. He didn’t know Kevin well, having only seen him in the streets around Derry. The other two were from other parts of the country, and he didn’t know them at all, but it was easy to see that Tom and Hugh didn’t approve of Kevin’s sympathies.

“Aren’t you going to light it?” Tom squinted at him.

Hugh sneered. “Maybe he don’t got a light.”

Stuck, Liam looked to Kevin, who pantomimed placing the cigarette behind an ear. “Oh,” he said, taking Kevin’s hint. “Ah. I think I’ll save it. For later.”

Hugh laughed. “Look at him. A right cool one, he is.”

“To be sure,” Tom said. “Until someone knocks the piss out of him. Then we’ll see him crying for his mammy like a babby.”

Kevin said, “Maybe Liam is saving it for trade.”

The chain-link fences between the cages were where one went to barter with the other prisoners. News, books, food—all flowed through the fences from one cage to the next. The entire make-shift prison was connected like one big organism in this way. Some Loyalists were known to barter with Catholics upon occasion. Cigarettes made good trade because no matter the brand they crossed the divides.

Hugh asked, “Saving it for trade? What you got in mind must be special. What might that be?”

“Don’t know, yet,” Liam said. “But I’m sure I’ll think of something.”

“He’s sure to think of something,” Tom said in a sing-song falsetto. “Oh, pull me other one.”

“Knock it off yous,” Kevin said. “Let’s talk to the boys in the next cage. Maybe one of them got the paper.” Kevin played football and was among the best in spite of the leg. He liked to keep up with the Derry City team as well as Celtic—not that there would be any football news. The season was well over, but there was always the speculation about next year’s season.

The moment Kevin’s back was turned Tom’s expression changed into something that said Liam was no better than a dog’s leavings and whispered, “Going to pound the shite out of you, mammy’s boy.”

Liam was confused as to why Tom insisted on calling him that. There’d been no word from home yet, and he hadn’t had a visit either. He was starting to wonder if his mother had forgotten all about him.

Hugh gave him the two fingers and then trotted to catch up with Kevin.

Deciding it’d be best to stay behind, Liam paused and considered his options, but Kevin turned and shouted for him to stop lagging. He glanced up at the blond guard who was still watching with an intent expression. A chill ran down Liam’s back for no reason he could name and that settled it. He ran after Kevin.

Dinner consisted of a thin stew which Kevin warned him not to eat with a shake of the head. Liam put his spoon back down and reached for the slice of bread balanced on the corner of the bowl. Tom kicked him hard under the table, and when Liam reached down to massage the hurt out of his shin Hugh snatched the bread slice and glared. Taking a big bite, he paused to give Liam a toothy grin. It was easy enough to get the message:
Don’t say a word, or you’ll regret it.

Liam drank his tea in silence. A strange prickling sensation started in his fingers, shot up both arms and slammed into his chest. Breathing became difficult. The tingling grew painful. He tried rubbing his palms on his jeans to make it go away, but it didn’t work. Increasingly uncomfortable, he reached down and shifted his chair. The instant his hand gripped metal, the feeling stopped.

“Sit still, you wee shite,” Hugh hissed.

Fuck you and your fucking friend,
Liam thought and went back to his tea. He imagined giving Hugh a good kicking and the prickling returned. Experimentally, he touched the edge of his chair. Again, the sensation receded.
Interesting.

Guards strolled along the edge of the canteen, the blond man from the tower among them. Liam looked away before anyone could notice and caught the stench of bad cologne with an undercurrent of stale beer as the man moved closer. Something brushed the back of Liam’s neck when the blond guard went past. Instinctively, Liam jerked away.

“What’s with you?” Tom asked.

“Sod off,” Liam whispered.

“I heard that,” Hugh said.

After dinner Liam decided to take a walk. The others were off practicing football to keep warm and while a good runner, Liam was shite at football. The older ones were off playing cards or writing letters in the study hut. Each cage had four or five huts which included living quarters, the recreation hut with the washroom, the study hut and the drying hut where wet clothes were hung when the weather was bad. In Liam’s short experience, the weather was almost always bad. He’d heard the drying hut was where you went when you wanted to be alone. However, he was new and wasn’t sure it’d be safe. So, he pulled up his collar against the north wind and buttoned his coat. He considered what Mary Kate might be doing. It would be Christmas soon, and if they didn’t release him, it’d be his first away from home. Christmas was his favorite holiday. His mother did the baking every

year, filling up the flat with the smells of fresh bread, biscuits and tea.

His stomach rumbled.

It was no good torturing himself. He changed the image in his head from the kitchen to the sitting room. His Aunt Sheila would make a huge paper chain out of yellow construction paper with the help of the little ones. The tree would go up next week, and if he were home, the thing would annoy him something fierce—not the smell. He loved the smell of fresh Christmas tree, but no matter how small it was it would take up half the room. Now, he wished for nothing more than to be tripping over it in the dark on his way to bed. His chest ached, and he blinked back tears, taking a deep breath of cold air.

Furtive whispers to his left stopped him. Too late, he saw it was Tom and one of the other young internees. A glimpse of ragged magazine pages and a photo of a bare breast told Liam that Tom was negotiating the use of his most recent and most valuable commodity—three pages ripped from a copy of
Mayfair
. Liam had heard that Tom and Hugh were charging for five minutes alone behind the shed with the photo of your choice.

Blushing, Liam brought his shoulders up and continued walking in the hope that he’d not been noticed.

“Liam!”

Dread knotted Liam’s stomach in an instant.

“I’m feeling generous today. You can have a go at Eleanor for that cigarette you been holding.”

Liam shook his head no. The heat in his face spread out to his ears. He turned his face away.

“What’s the matter, mammy’s boy? Never seen a snap of a naked bird before?” Tom asked, retrieving the wrinkled pages. His latest customer vanished down the path in hurry.

“I have,” Liam said. “My stepfather has whole magazines. Not only a page.” At age twelve he’d stumbled upon a copy of
Mayfair
hidden in a cupboard and was found out before he’d had a chance to peek inside the cover. Patrick had nearly beaten the life out of him and had threatened worse if Liam said a word to his mother. The next day the magazine was gone, and he’d never had another chance since.

Tom said, “All right, then. One cig.”

“Smoked it,” Liam said and shrugged in an attempt to look worldly. It was a lie, of course. He’d given it away to another prisoner who’d asked for it.

“Oh. That’s a pity, that is,” Tom said. A rueful smile flitted across his face. “You know, maybe I feel a bit bad about you going hungry tonight. Tell you what, I’ll make it up to you. I’ll let you have a go at Eleanor for nothing.”

Liam blinked.

Holding the photo out, Tom said, “Well? Go on. What are you waiting for? You queer or something?”

While Liam didn’t trust Tom, he didn’t want to miss the opportunity either. He moved closer and reached for the torn magazine page. The blonde woman in the photograph rested against a mound of white fur pillows and was wearing a pale blouse so sheer that it might as well not have been there at all. Lips parted and eyes half-closed, she cupped the underside of each breast with delicate hands. Her nipples showed through the cloth as small knots of dark pink. The blouse was unbuttoned from just below her breasts down to the hem—spread to display an expanse of smooth belly and rounded hips. She wasn’t wearing any pants, and her bare thighs were parted wide enough for him to spot a dark cleft nestled in soft, sparse curls.

The image felt slick against his fingertips. His breath caught as a memory of an afternoon with Mary Kate popped to mind—the time they’d been snogging, and he’d grown bold enough to slip his hand up under her skirt. His fingertips had brushed warm yielding wetness an instant before she’d slapped his hand away. He hadn’t seen, but—

“Fuck you, mammy’s boy,” Tom said, laughing and snatching back the photo.

Liam was grabbed and pulled behind the shed. Turning to see who had accosted him, he was then shoved in the back. Icy gravel bit into his palms as he hit the ground. Rolling over, Liam spotted Hugh looming over him.

“Me and Tom,” Hugh said. “We got something to tell you.”

The ground was wet, and Liam tried to get up to prevent soaking his trousers, but Tom put a boot in his chest and pushed him back down.

“Right,” Liam said. “So, yous don’t like me. I get it.”

“Wouldn’t say that. You got your uses,” Tom said. “Hugh here gets hungry.”

“That I do.”

“Here on out, you’re to give him your bread at dinner,” Tom said. “Don’t worry, you’ll still have the stew or whatever’s on offer. It’s fine if you get hungry enough. And sometimes the screws don’t even piss in it.”

Hugh laughed.

Culchie cow fuckers, the pair of them,
Liam thought. He wanted to break Hugh’s nose for him but knew he didn’t have the strength. Best he could do was run, but here he was, flat on his back. The wet had soaked through his trousers now and the frigid ground was getting to him. His stinging palms tingled with the cold. He could feel blood oozing from the cuts. The prickling sensation flowed through his veins, up both his arms and legs and nestled in his chest fast as an electric shock. He thought of what happened at dinner and wondered what it might mean.

Tom said, “Look at me when I’m talking to you, you wee fuck.”

Left with little choice, Liam glared up at the bastard. When he did, Tom’s confidence faltered. Liam blinked.
He sees something. But what?
Startled, he didn’t notice Hugh until it was too late and took the kick full in the side. For a moment he forgot all about Tom and the tingling under his skin. Curling around the pain, Liam prepared himself for a beating.

“Get him up and hold him,” Tom said. “I want to get a few good ones in.”

When the blows stopped, Liam was left gasping on his knees—one hand on the metal shed to keep from falling face first. His bruised sides throbbed with agony which slowly faded into a dull but constant ache. The pain was bad but would pass soon enough.

“Tell Kevin we gave you a hiding,” Hugh said, “and we’ll really lay into you next time.”

The pair of them walked off, laughing.

There wasn’t much Liam could do about Tom and Hugh, but there was plenty he wanted to do. He decided to bide his time, though. There was bound to be an opportunity eventually, and when it came he’d bloody well take it.

“Kelly! William Ronan Munroe Kelly!”

The two guards calling his name stood in the center of the yard. Thinking it might be a message from home, Liam got up from the ground. Everyone seemed to be watching as he crossed the yard.

“Come with us,” said the first guard, “like a good little taig.”

Liam kept himself from reacting to the insult, but his jaw tightened nonetheless. “I’ve not done anything.”

“You will soon enough.” The first guard laughed and there was a nervous edge to it that sent a jolt of adrenaline through Liam’s veins.

“Stop it, Bert,” the second guard whispered.

Something’s not right,
Liam thought.

Each put a hand to an arm as if they were afraid Liam would rabbit, and he was escorted from the yard and the cage. He endured a search and then went through a wire tunnel and into the next cage. When they reached the infirmary the stench of death was overpowering. They took him up the stairs to an office, but the surgeon wasn’t anywhere in sight. The room was small and painted white with a barred cell to one side. No one was in it. Liam’s heart thudded in his chest like a Prod’s bass drum. He tried to think of what he’d done to be singled out. Had he committed an infraction? Nothing came to mind. “What’s this, then?” he asked.

Neither guard answered. They shoved him in front of a desk positioned at one end of the room and waited until the door slammed open. The blond guard entered and sat down in the surgeon’s chair behind the desk. He didn’t so much as gaze in Liam’s direction.