I want nothing to do with the world, right now, beyond what is necessary...because this is all allowed to consume me...Part 3 of A Place of Safety...where Brendan's returned home on the sly but been found out...perhaps betrayed...and has been handed over to the British to be interrogated at Castlereagh Interrogation Centre. They want information about the bombing that sent him into a psychotic break and forced PIRA to sneak him out of the country...
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I lay on the mattress, wondering what next was in store. My stomach protested. My head screamed at me. I felt nauseous. And don’t think I hadn’t noticed there’d been no official intake. Meaning there was no record I’d been brought here. I could lay on this bloody bit of sponge for the rest of my life and no one would ever know. Fear almost choked the breath from me, because I knew this had been much too easy a meeting with them. Something worse was sure to follow, but what it was -- I had no idea.
For hours nothing happened except the light kept burning and burning and all sounds remained absent. I found myself humming melodies from that old Johnstons album just to fill the void and smiling at the thoughts I’d had that night -- Christ, was it only twelve years ago, last January? Holding a child’s vision of what his life could be. Dreaming a child’s dream that a girl I hadn’t even met yet might become his partner in life. Hoping I could be the one who showed Eamonn and the rest of the PD how to avoid the trouble I’d seen coming. All had proven to be impossible, and that I’d come close to achieving them meant nothing; once again, the world had seen to it that only hatred was allowed to flourish. Understanding and love meant nothing, and my sad attempts at both had done little but lead me straight to this very cell, for I seemed not to learn from my disasters. I might have detoured here and grown a bit more aware there, but it’s the end result that matters, isn’t it?
And what was my end result? My love for two different girls had brought catastrophe to them both. My aunt now had questions about her love for her husband. I’d helped put my brother in jail. And I’d cursed my mother as she lay dying. That last was a sin -- but was it venal or mortal? I couldn’t recall, it’d been so long since my catechism. Since I’d all but rejected the church.
It was here for the first time that I wondered -- seriously wondered -- if I had the nerve to just end it. I believed that might be the only way I could fully protect my family and mates, and it’s not like my passing would cause even a ripple in the meaning of time. Joanna was still dead to me. Vangie was pursuing another life in another part of the world, where I was not welcome. I’d achieved nothing on this earth but pain and heartbreak and would leave even less behind. And it would cause embarrassment to the Brits to no end; Maeve and Aunt Mari would see to that...and maybe even Joanna. Maybe.
The idea began to take on solid appeal. So how to do it? I’d come with neither belt nor shoes, but I could use my shirt as a noose. Do it quietly so they’d have no reason to come in till I was long dead. I looked about the room but could see nothing from which to hang myself but the fixture holding the light bulb, and it was well out of reach. Same for the vent. Then I thought, I could just tie a sleeve tight around my throat and put a knot in it so I couldn’t undo it before passing out...but I had no idea if that would work. Doesn’t there need to be a lot of pressure on the throat to cut off the full flow of oxygen to your heart and lungs, and blood to your brain? Could doing it wrong merely leave me a mental defective?
Christ, wouldn’t that be perfect? Wind up simple, like Ma'd always thought.
On top of it, there was nothing sharp anywhere in the room upon which I could slice open my arms or throat...unless I was able to tear apart the chamber pot, but it was so solid, unless I had some tool nothing was going to happen there, either.
All right then -- what if I rammed my shirt down my throat to choke the life from me? Or swallowed bits of that sponge? It could become lodged in my esophagus and I could choke to death, that way. Even if I tried to vomit it out, it would only soak everything up and become more firmly in place. But how long would that take and would it cause much pain or me to -- ?
The door whispered open and four guards came in.
“Up,” said the first one.
I ignored him, so they grabbed me, one at each limb. I tried to kick them away, but they were more used to this than I was and held me down tightly enough to manacle my feet together, then they slapped a belt around my waist and shackled my hands to it, and me struggling wildly against them did nothing to stop them -- hell, to even slow them down. What was odd was, I said nothing through it all. Not one word against them or their mothers or their parentage or anything. All that escaped me were little grunts and gasps of pain as they held me in place and took complete control of me.
“Quiet one, in’nt he?”
“Fookin’ Taig dunno how to speak.”
“He’s scared ya’ll find out he loves your touch.”
“Aye, that, look-it his arse move.”
“Give it up, ye fookin’ bastard!”
“Where ya think ya’ll go if we don’t get this on ya?”
“He knows what’s comin’.”
“Some playtime, eh? Ya’ll like that, ya will.”
“Wait’ll ye see who’s come to arsk ye questions, ye fook.”
“I got me seat reserved to watch.”
“I got the ale.”
“We’ll see how long ya hold ya tongue.”
“Fookin’ Taig.”
“Papist bastard.”
They kept it up even as they dragged me back to that same interrogation room and slammed me into that same chair. But this time, the other two chairs were off in separate corners and the table was in the center of the room. And Terrence already stood beside it, no longer dressed in his ill-fitting suit but now in camouflage trousers and t-shirt to match. With him were two others dressed the same way, all of them fit and powerful, all of them with their eyes on me.
The guards left, probably to join their fellows in the room behind the mirror and drink beer and have a good craic about the stupid fucking Catholic bumbler about to be destroyed by those strong superior Brits. It’d be fun all the way around.
--------
I lay on the mattress, wondering what next was in store. My stomach protested. My head screamed at me. I felt nauseous. And don’t think I hadn’t noticed there’d been no official intake. Meaning there was no record I’d been brought here. I could lay on this bloody bit of sponge for the rest of my life and no one would ever know. Fear almost choked the breath from me, because I knew this had been much too easy a meeting with them. Something worse was sure to follow, but what it was -- I had no idea.
For hours nothing happened except the light kept burning and burning and all sounds remained absent. I found myself humming melodies from that old Johnstons album just to fill the void and smiling at the thoughts I’d had that night -- Christ, was it only twelve years ago, last January? Holding a child’s vision of what his life could be. Dreaming a child’s dream that a girl I hadn’t even met yet might become his partner in life. Hoping I could be the one who showed Eamonn and the rest of the PD how to avoid the trouble I’d seen coming. All had proven to be impossible, and that I’d come close to achieving them meant nothing; once again, the world had seen to it that only hatred was allowed to flourish. Understanding and love meant nothing, and my sad attempts at both had done little but lead me straight to this very cell, for I seemed not to learn from my disasters. I might have detoured here and grown a bit more aware there, but it’s the end result that matters, isn’t it?
And what was my end result? My love for two different girls had brought catastrophe to them both. My aunt now had questions about her love for her husband. I’d helped put my brother in jail. And I’d cursed my mother as she lay dying. That last was a sin -- but was it venal or mortal? I couldn’t recall, it’d been so long since my catechism. Since I’d all but rejected the church.
It was here for the first time that I wondered -- seriously wondered -- if I had the nerve to just end it. I believed that might be the only way I could fully protect my family and mates, and it’s not like my passing would cause even a ripple in the meaning of time. Joanna was still dead to me. Vangie was pursuing another life in another part of the world, where I was not welcome. I’d achieved nothing on this earth but pain and heartbreak and would leave even less behind. And it would cause embarrassment to the Brits to no end; Maeve and Aunt Mari would see to that...and maybe even Joanna. Maybe.
The idea began to take on solid appeal. So how to do it? I’d come with neither belt nor shoes, but I could use my shirt as a noose. Do it quietly so they’d have no reason to come in till I was long dead. I looked about the room but could see nothing from which to hang myself but the fixture holding the light bulb, and it was well out of reach. Same for the vent. Then I thought, I could just tie a sleeve tight around my throat and put a knot in it so I couldn’t undo it before passing out...but I had no idea if that would work. Doesn’t there need to be a lot of pressure on the throat to cut off the full flow of oxygen to your heart and lungs, and blood to your brain? Could doing it wrong merely leave me a mental defective?
Christ, wouldn’t that be perfect? Wind up simple, like Ma'd always thought.
On top of it, there was nothing sharp anywhere in the room upon which I could slice open my arms or throat...unless I was able to tear apart the chamber pot, but it was so solid, unless I had some tool nothing was going to happen there, either.
All right then -- what if I rammed my shirt down my throat to choke the life from me? Or swallowed bits of that sponge? It could become lodged in my esophagus and I could choke to death, that way. Even if I tried to vomit it out, it would only soak everything up and become more firmly in place. But how long would that take and would it cause much pain or me to -- ?
The door whispered open and four guards came in.
“Up,” said the first one.
I ignored him, so they grabbed me, one at each limb. I tried to kick them away, but they were more used to this than I was and held me down tightly enough to manacle my feet together, then they slapped a belt around my waist and shackled my hands to it, and me struggling wildly against them did nothing to stop them -- hell, to even slow them down. What was odd was, I said nothing through it all. Not one word against them or their mothers or their parentage or anything. All that escaped me were little grunts and gasps of pain as they held me in place and took complete control of me.
“Quiet one, in’nt he?”
“Fookin’ Taig dunno how to speak.”
“He’s scared ya’ll find out he loves your touch.”
“Aye, that, look-it his arse move.”
“Give it up, ye fookin’ bastard!”
“Where ya think ya’ll go if we don’t get this on ya?”
“He knows what’s comin’.”
“Some playtime, eh? Ya’ll like that, ya will.”
“Wait’ll ye see who’s come to arsk ye questions, ye fook.”
“I got me seat reserved to watch.”
“I got the ale.”
“We’ll see how long ya hold ya tongue.”
“Fookin’ Taig.”
“Papist bastard.”
They kept it up even as they dragged me back to that same interrogation room and slammed me into that same chair. But this time, the other two chairs were off in separate corners and the table was in the center of the room. And Terrence already stood beside it, no longer dressed in his ill-fitting suit but now in camouflage trousers and t-shirt to match. With him were two others dressed the same way, all of them fit and powerful, all of them with their eyes on me.
The guards left, probably to join their fellows in the room behind the mirror and drink beer and have a good craic about the stupid fucking Catholic bumbler about to be destroyed by those strong superior Brits. It’d be fun all the way around.
At that particular moment, I wished I’d eaten that fucking sponge.
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