inside of your nostrils, greasy brown and sticky. It clogged your lungs and made your eyes water. Worsethan anything I had ever experienced, though it was true that – unlike him – I did not spend my days in a merry slaughterhouse soaking in the spirit of dismembered bodies.
I peered through a barred window into the room beyond. It was large and very dark with just one small window set at the top of the far wall. Once my eyes got used to the gloom I saw movement, lots of movement, like a sea of maggots in an open wound. The room was full of men, forty or fifty of them, lying on pallets on the floor, all lined up next to each other. A bucket stood by each pallet, used to piss in and shit in, no doubt. Every man was chained. I had seen chickens boxed up like this, but never men. Chickens pecked each other’s eyes out and started to eat each other. What would men do? It was a foul disgrace. Dowling drew up beside me.
‘They pay for fire, candles, clothes and food. They can be rid of those chains if they want, but again they must pay for the privilege. Given that most of them are in here for stealing or for not paying their debts …’
Torture of the mind. ‘Is our man in there?’
‘Our man is downstairs in the stone hold, God have mercy on his soul.’
Worse. The stone hold was notorious. Tiny underground cells with no windows where they locked men up alone in the dark. My head was so giddy with the stench of shit that I could hardly stand. I tried to breathe shallow. Dowling took a deep breath and pulled a face like he was tasting fine wine. ‘This way.’
I followed him to the end of the corridor towards a small door. He pulled it open and we peered into the darkness below. A cesspit.
He shuddered. ‘I don’t think they post a guard down thereany more, don’t think any will stand for it. We’ll need a flame.’ Taking a torch from the wall, he stepped forward tentatively. Tasting the bile in my mouth I resigned myself to follow him.
The walls were damp and covered in a thin slime. All we could hear was the sound of our own steps and the occasional moaning above. Otherwise the silence was like a dirty wet blanket, the sound of a man’s heartbeat in his own ears. The smell was no longer just a smell, but a foreign body that displaced the air with something foul and evil. It was only the knowledge that men were living down here, and the impossibility of it, that stopped me from emptying my guts and hurrying back into the daylight.
‘Marry!’ a voice shouted from behind us. ‘You can’t go down there by yourself!’ One of the drunken gaolers staggered down the corridor carrying a torch of his own. ‘You follow me!’ Pushing past us, he almost lost his balance as he missed the first step. He led us the rest of the way down the twisted narrow staircase, the ceiling so low that we had to walk with bent backs. ‘He has his own room, just like you said,’ the gaoler leered at Dowling with rotten discoloured teeth.
I watched Dowling’s jaw clench. He wasn’t smiling. ‘I didn’t mean the hold.’
‘I know you didn’t,’ laughed the gaoler with his mouth wide open. The stair took us to a small square anteroom just two foot wide by six feet long. At the end was a door and two more on either side. Floors, walls and ceiling were all made of cold, damp stone.
‘The sorrows of hell got hold upon me,’ Dowling whispered. I knew what he meant for they had got a hold of me too. It was silent.
The gaoler pointed to the cell on the left. Inside there wasn’tenough room to move, let alone hide, but it still took me a while to make out the figure squatted on the floor of the cell, squeezed into a corner. Sitting with his heels dug into the stone floor, his body was pressed into the wall. Squinting, I tried to find form in the shadowed bundle of rags and pale skin. A red scabby head, translucent arms, white and rotten. He sat in a pool of his own piss and the smell was choking.
‘Open the door,’ I
I peered through a barred window into the room beyond. It was large and very dark with just one small window set at the top of the far wall. Once my eyes got used to the gloom I saw movement, lots of movement, like a sea of maggots in an open wound. The room was full of men, forty or fifty of them, lying on pallets on the floor, all lined up next to each other. A bucket stood by each pallet, used to piss in and shit in, no doubt. Every man was chained. I had seen chickens boxed up like this, but never men. Chickens pecked each other’s eyes out and started to eat each other. What would men do? It was a foul disgrace. Dowling drew up beside me.
‘They pay for fire, candles, clothes and food. They can be rid of those chains if they want, but again they must pay for the privilege. Given that most of them are in here for stealing or for not paying their debts …’
Torture of the mind. ‘Is our man in there?’
‘Our man is downstairs in the stone hold, God have mercy on his soul.’
Worse. The stone hold was notorious. Tiny underground cells with no windows where they locked men up alone in the dark. My head was so giddy with the stench of shit that I could hardly stand. I tried to breathe shallow. Dowling took a deep breath and pulled a face like he was tasting fine wine. ‘This way.’
I followed him to the end of the corridor towards a small door. He pulled it open and we peered into the darkness below. A cesspit.
He shuddered. ‘I don’t think they post a guard down thereany more, don’t think any will stand for it. We’ll need a flame.’ Taking a torch from the wall, he stepped forward tentatively. Tasting the bile in my mouth I resigned myself to follow him.
The walls were damp and covered in a thin slime. All we could hear was the sound of our own steps and the occasional moaning above. Otherwise the silence was like a dirty wet blanket, the sound of a man’s heartbeat in his own ears. The smell was no longer just a smell, but a foreign body that displaced the air with something foul and evil. It was only the knowledge that men were living down here, and the impossibility of it, that stopped me from emptying my guts and hurrying back into the daylight.
‘Marry!’ a voice shouted from behind us. ‘You can’t go down there by yourself!’ One of the drunken gaolers staggered down the corridor carrying a torch of his own. ‘You follow me!’ Pushing past us, he almost lost his balance as he missed the first step. He led us the rest of the way down the twisted narrow staircase, the ceiling so low that we had to walk with bent backs. ‘He has his own room, just like you said,’ the gaoler leered at Dowling with rotten discoloured teeth.
I watched Dowling’s jaw clench. He wasn’t smiling. ‘I didn’t mean the hold.’
‘I know you didn’t,’ laughed the gaoler with his mouth wide open. The stair took us to a small square anteroom just two foot wide by six feet long. At the end was a door and two more on either side. Floors, walls and ceiling were all made of cold, damp stone.
‘The sorrows of hell got hold upon me,’ Dowling whispered. I knew what he meant for they had got a hold of me too. It was silent.
The gaoler pointed to the cell on the left. Inside there wasn’tenough room to move, let alone hide, but it still took me a while to make out the figure squatted on the floor of the cell, squeezed into a corner. Sitting with his heels dug into the stone floor, his body was pressed into the wall. Squinting, I tried to find form in the shadowed bundle of rags and pale skin. A red scabby head, translucent arms, white and rotten. He sat in a pool of his own piss and the smell was choking.
‘Open the door,’ I
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