The Lace Balcony by Johanna Nicholls Page B

wash our hands and faces it must be some damned bigwig. Too much to hope there’s a woman with them. I haven’t seen a female face close up since I came here.’
    â€˜Neither you will. Best live on your memories, lad.’
    Mungo was distracted by the surprising sight of the coterie of smart new military uniforms worn by the officers surrounding a central figure who had power written on every inch of his pink, round face.
    â€˜Mother of God,’ gasped the emaciated old Irishman at Mungo’s side, ‘it’s being none but Himself – Governor Darling!’
    Mungo gave it serious consideration. ‘Right decent of him to sail five hundred miles to pat us on the back for our hard work. If I had pen and paper on me I’d present him with a petition. Replace bloody Logan with a bloke who’s more a man than a tyrant – if they can find one.’
    â€˜Hush, lad,’ the Irishman advised, ‘do ye want to be visiting the cat again?’
    Mungo had intended the words for his ears only, but he realised his voice must have carried on the wind, by the reaction from a slack-jawed officer. Within seconds Mungo felt the musket prodded into his back and he was being frog-marched away from the gathering.
    Knowing his fate, Mungo decided to have the last word.
    â€˜Have a heart, officer. I ain’t met the Governor yet!’
    The response was a whack on the back of the head that sent him flying, followed by a kick in the buttocks as he tried to stumble to his feet. Mungo felt a cold, creeping sensation as he saw what lay ahead of him.
    Floggings had failed to break him. Ahead of him was his baptism of fire. Solitary.
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    Mungo tried to concentrate. His lips were cracked, his mouth lined with ulcers, the dry biscuit bread seeded with weevils. Was this his first or second dose of solitary confinement? Moreton Bay Time had swallowed him up, having been in solitary for God only knew how long – was it weeks, months, a year? Was it 1828 or even twenty-nine?
    Using the same words he did as Sean O’Connor to his fellow prisoners in the iron gang, Mungo Quayle repeated his mantra, alone in the dank darkness of the underground cell, his voice bouncing between the walls: ‘Moreton Bay under Logan. No place for heroes. No place for cowards. No place for the living. Only the dead can hope to survive here.’
    Would Father Francis Xavier answer him? Or were his words simply a desperate attempt to create the illusion of a man’s presence?
    The echo of his voice died. He waited out of courtesy for a reply but none was forthcoming.
    â€˜No arguments, tonight, eh, Father? No promise of God’s mercy? I see. Given up on me, have you?’ The reason for the silence jolted him. Father Francis Xavier was now no more than a name on a gravestone, badly chiselled by one of the faithful, a prisoner who had later succumbed to fever but lay in an unmarked mass grave for his trouble carving the stones of others.
    â€˜So what about you , girl? Playing shy of me, are ye?’ For as long as he’d been sentenced at Moreton Bay, many months past two years, he had been able to summon her up, to comfort him during those rare nights when no other man was close enough to hear his lovemaking. He hid her name in his heart. She was as real to him as moonlight, but when he forced her to come to him, it was always a private fantasy. Mungo clung to a vestige of pride. Let other men pull themselves crazy and cry out to God the name of a long lost woman – or the substitute man or boy who gave them relief. Mungo only made love to her when he was alone.
    He was determined to show his woman respect. He had taken her many times, gently, hungrily, desperately as the need for her seized him. But always when alone. So their coupling was rare, a secret moment. A woman, no more than a girl, his equal in passion, giving him back as much as he needed to give her. No