there’s visits?
We’ll see.
A thought occurred to him and he asked: How much does he weigh?
She was startled and said: No idea, love.
Approximately?
I don’t know, love. I haven’t seen him in oh I don’t know how many years. When your father and I got married, that was the last time, he was one of the ushers. All jazzed up in a suit and dickie bow and he looked good. But now, oh, I couldn’t even guess.
Approximately, Mammy.
She scrunched her eyebrows: Ten and a half stone maybe, but you shouldn’t be thinking about that, love, he’s going to be all right, don’t think that way, it’s not good.
Why not?
Ah, come on, love.
Come on where?
Young man. Don’t push it please …
You said come on.
I said enough.
Pardon me?
Enough! she shouted.
Enough what? he said gently.
She slammed her fist down on the table and there was silence.
He entered his space again and he lay on the thin yellow mattress and he put his arms behind his head, stared at the ceiling, imagined himself into his uncle’s body, his knuckles tightening white around a bed frame, knives and forks banging against a heating pipe, the sound of boots along a metal catwalk, the taunts of screws, helicopters outside the window flying over the razor wire, candles winking at a vigil outside the gate, the light slowly dwindling, prayers being intoned, his stomach beginning the first of its small and poignant rumblings. A plate of cod appeared on the table beside him, with a slice of lemon and a big heaping of chips. An apple tart with ice cream. Packets of sugar for the tea. Milk in tiny little cartons. All carefully ranged by the bed for maximum temptation. A shout went up from a distant cell and other roars began to reverberate around the prison. Word went around that a screw was coming. Someone passed the boy a cigarette from a neighboring cell, spinning it across the floor on a length of fishing wire, stopping a few inches from the cell, so that he got on his knees and used a page from the Bible to drag the cigarette under the door frame. The rollie was just thin enough to fit under the door and he lay back and snapped it aflame—by striking the match off his thumbnail—and he brought the smoke down long and hard into his lungs, made rings in the air against the ceiling, but then his mother came and broke the borders of his cell and stood above his bed.
All right young man, she said. If you’re good, I have a special treat for you.
She brought him out of his cell to the Formica table, where she had prepared a full fry, which he pushed away at first but then he speared the sausages and broke the skin of the eggs and dunked the fresh bread and ate with an anger that gave him a stomachache. When he looked at his empty plate he imagined it full and then he threw his prison blanket across it and groaned and tried to stop the hunger pains and all the quiet, necessary shiverings.
* * *
RANGED IN A NOTEBOOK in parallel columns:
* * *
AT THE TABLE he looked at his meals, pushed the food around on his plate. Every day there was news of an impending reconciliation, but always the talks broke down and even the radio announcers sounded tired. The newspapers printed cartoons he didn’t understand. He tried to read the editorials and the word breakthrough became ambiguous to him.
He was reminded of a winter thaw years ago in Derry that had raised the rot of a neglected greyhound. When the sun began to shine the stench had risen.
He decided he would not take food. When his mother wasn’t watching, he swept the chicken and rice off his plate and he stuck only to water. He lay back on his bed and tried to form a manifesto in his mind—he would not eat until all his uncle’s demands were given in to: the right to wear his own clothes, to have parcels and visits, to have remission restored, to refrain from prison work, to have free association. He didn’t understand all the demands but he whispered them aloud to the night
We’ll see.
A thought occurred to him and he asked: How much does he weigh?
She was startled and said: No idea, love.
Approximately?
I don’t know, love. I haven’t seen him in oh I don’t know how many years. When your father and I got married, that was the last time, he was one of the ushers. All jazzed up in a suit and dickie bow and he looked good. But now, oh, I couldn’t even guess.
Approximately, Mammy.
She scrunched her eyebrows: Ten and a half stone maybe, but you shouldn’t be thinking about that, love, he’s going to be all right, don’t think that way, it’s not good.
Why not?
Ah, come on, love.
Come on where?
Young man. Don’t push it please …
You said come on.
I said enough.
Pardon me?
Enough! she shouted.
Enough what? he said gently.
She slammed her fist down on the table and there was silence.
He entered his space again and he lay on the thin yellow mattress and he put his arms behind his head, stared at the ceiling, imagined himself into his uncle’s body, his knuckles tightening white around a bed frame, knives and forks banging against a heating pipe, the sound of boots along a metal catwalk, the taunts of screws, helicopters outside the window flying over the razor wire, candles winking at a vigil outside the gate, the light slowly dwindling, prayers being intoned, his stomach beginning the first of its small and poignant rumblings. A plate of cod appeared on the table beside him, with a slice of lemon and a big heaping of chips. An apple tart with ice cream. Packets of sugar for the tea. Milk in tiny little cartons. All carefully ranged by the bed for maximum temptation. A shout went up from a distant cell and other roars began to reverberate around the prison. Word went around that a screw was coming. Someone passed the boy a cigarette from a neighboring cell, spinning it across the floor on a length of fishing wire, stopping a few inches from the cell, so that he got on his knees and used a page from the Bible to drag the cigarette under the door frame. The rollie was just thin enough to fit under the door and he lay back and snapped it aflame—by striking the match off his thumbnail—and he brought the smoke down long and hard into his lungs, made rings in the air against the ceiling, but then his mother came and broke the borders of his cell and stood above his bed.
All right young man, she said. If you’re good, I have a special treat for you.
She brought him out of his cell to the Formica table, where she had prepared a full fry, which he pushed away at first but then he speared the sausages and broke the skin of the eggs and dunked the fresh bread and ate with an anger that gave him a stomachache. When he looked at his empty plate he imagined it full and then he threw his prison blanket across it and groaned and tried to stop the hunger pains and all the quiet, necessary shiverings.
* * *
RANGED IN A NOTEBOOK in parallel columns:
* * *
AT THE TABLE he looked at his meals, pushed the food around on his plate. Every day there was news of an impending reconciliation, but always the talks broke down and even the radio announcers sounded tired. The newspapers printed cartoons he didn’t understand. He tried to read the editorials and the word breakthrough became ambiguous to him.
He was reminded of a winter thaw years ago in Derry that had raised the rot of a neglected greyhound. When the sun began to shine the stench had risen.
He decided he would not take food. When his mother wasn’t watching, he swept the chicken and rice off his plate and he stuck only to water. He lay back on his bed and tried to form a manifesto in his mind—he would not eat until all his uncle’s demands were given in to: the right to wear his own clothes, to have parcels and visits, to have remission restored, to refrain from prison work, to have free association. He didn’t understand all the demands but he whispered them aloud to the night
Similar Books
