wouldn’t join them. He’s more sense.’
Cath screamed louder. Fergus, without knowing what he was doing, went and picked her up in his arms. He rushed off with her down the hall, through the kitchen, and out into the back yard. He put her down, still bawling, under the fluttering washing. Theresa was down at the shed, kicking a ball around.
‘What’s up with her?’ she said.
‘It’s Joey,’ said Fergus. ‘They’ve moved him to another block in Long Kesh.’
‘So?’
‘So–maybe nothing.’
Theresa came up and spanked Cath on the cheek.
‘What d’you do that for?’ Fergus cried, snatching at Theresa’s arm.
‘’S what they do in the movies, Ferg. To stop hysterics. Look. It works.’
Cath stopped crying. Her little hands grabbed at the corner of a sheet and scrunched it up, as if to stop the wind billowing through it. ‘Will he die, Ferg?’ she bleated. ‘Will they all die?’
Fergus put an arm around Cath. ‘Don’t be stupid,’ he said. ‘Nobody’s going to die. You only die if you starve yourself like Sands did for sixty days or more. But our Joe’s more sense. Hasn’t he?’
‘Dunno,’ Theresa said. ‘He was always fussy with his food. Not like you. I heard Mam say the other day you’d eat a load of old offal out of a dustbin.’
Cath started crying again. When Theresa tried to slap her a second time, Cath got Theresa’s plait and yanked it hard and Theresa started crying too.
‘Pipe down,’ he shouted, but they squealed and shrieked as if the sky was coming down. They lunged at each other, bringing the sheet off the line, and fell to the grass, wrangling. Fergus gave up on them. He went down to the shed and kicked the football hard at the back fence. It missed, but an army of sparrows came darting and chattering out of the ivy. He retrieved the ball and kicked it again.
‘He’s more sense,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘He has, he has.’
Ten
Next day, Sunday, was mass day. There was no further news from the prison, so the family went to church as usual.
Fergus had stopped believing in God when he was eight, after he’d seen his da come in with a Christmas stocking and realized Santa didn’t exist. If Santa didn’t exist, then God didn’t either. As far as he was concerned, grown-ups had done one big cheat about the two of them. Years went by and he hadn’t changed his mind.
But in Drumleash, you went to church whether you believed or not. Everyone, that was, except Uncle Tally, who never went near the place. Today Fergus lingered at the back near the other men. He let the old words waltz around the bright benches and big windows of light.
‘
Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world, Grant us peace
,’ the women intoned. The UFO-style church was a fling of the 1960s, before the Troubles. The place smelled of polish and tedium. He watched the hundred-odd parishioners sighing, fidgeting or praying their way through the service. The older women still wore triangled scarves on their heads. Not exactly Jackie Onassis, he thought as ancient Mrs Riley bustled down the aisle after communion with her belly slumping below the waistline of her floral dress. If she wasn’t nearly eighty, you’d think she was pregnant.
Jesus. The place is more outmoded than Des O’Connor on a bad day.
He thought of Felicity in her sharp jeans and short haircut and of Cora as he’d glimpsed her that morning coming out of the guest bedroom, in an outsized white T-shirt with a green-leaved tree pictured on the front.
After the post-communion meditation, the priest said something about remembering in prayer the starving people in the land. That’s Joe and Len, Fergus thought. Who else? He bit his lip but no prayer came. Joe wouldn’t join the hunger strikers. Not he. He’d be doing his studies and counting the days. He’d be pacing his cell and thinking about freedom. He’d be shaving in the mirror, thinking about light and refraction. And remembering the girl from
Cath screamed louder. Fergus, without knowing what he was doing, went and picked her up in his arms. He rushed off with her down the hall, through the kitchen, and out into the back yard. He put her down, still bawling, under the fluttering washing. Theresa was down at the shed, kicking a ball around.
‘What’s up with her?’ she said.
‘It’s Joey,’ said Fergus. ‘They’ve moved him to another block in Long Kesh.’
‘So?’
‘So–maybe nothing.’
Theresa came up and spanked Cath on the cheek.
‘What d’you do that for?’ Fergus cried, snatching at Theresa’s arm.
‘’S what they do in the movies, Ferg. To stop hysterics. Look. It works.’
Cath stopped crying. Her little hands grabbed at the corner of a sheet and scrunched it up, as if to stop the wind billowing through it. ‘Will he die, Ferg?’ she bleated. ‘Will they all die?’
Fergus put an arm around Cath. ‘Don’t be stupid,’ he said. ‘Nobody’s going to die. You only die if you starve yourself like Sands did for sixty days or more. But our Joe’s more sense. Hasn’t he?’
‘Dunno,’ Theresa said. ‘He was always fussy with his food. Not like you. I heard Mam say the other day you’d eat a load of old offal out of a dustbin.’
Cath started crying again. When Theresa tried to slap her a second time, Cath got Theresa’s plait and yanked it hard and Theresa started crying too.
‘Pipe down,’ he shouted, but they squealed and shrieked as if the sky was coming down. They lunged at each other, bringing the sheet off the line, and fell to the grass, wrangling. Fergus gave up on them. He went down to the shed and kicked the football hard at the back fence. It missed, but an army of sparrows came darting and chattering out of the ivy. He retrieved the ball and kicked it again.
‘He’s more sense,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘He has, he has.’
Ten
Next day, Sunday, was mass day. There was no further news from the prison, so the family went to church as usual.
Fergus had stopped believing in God when he was eight, after he’d seen his da come in with a Christmas stocking and realized Santa didn’t exist. If Santa didn’t exist, then God didn’t either. As far as he was concerned, grown-ups had done one big cheat about the two of them. Years went by and he hadn’t changed his mind.
But in Drumleash, you went to church whether you believed or not. Everyone, that was, except Uncle Tally, who never went near the place. Today Fergus lingered at the back near the other men. He let the old words waltz around the bright benches and big windows of light.
‘
Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world, Grant us peace
,’ the women intoned. The UFO-style church was a fling of the 1960s, before the Troubles. The place smelled of polish and tedium. He watched the hundred-odd parishioners sighing, fidgeting or praying their way through the service. The older women still wore triangled scarves on their heads. Not exactly Jackie Onassis, he thought as ancient Mrs Riley bustled down the aisle after communion with her belly slumping below the waistline of her floral dress. If she wasn’t nearly eighty, you’d think she was pregnant.
Jesus. The place is more outmoded than Des O’Connor on a bad day.
He thought of Felicity in her sharp jeans and short haircut and of Cora as he’d glimpsed her that morning coming out of the guest bedroom, in an outsized white T-shirt with a green-leaved tree pictured on the front.
After the post-communion meditation, the priest said something about remembering in prayer the starving people in the land. That’s Joe and Len, Fergus thought. Who else? He bit his lip but no prayer came. Joe wouldn’t join the hunger strikers. Not he. He’d be doing his studies and counting the days. He’d be pacing his cell and thinking about freedom. He’d be shaving in the mirror, thinking about light and refraction. And remembering the girl from
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