On the Brinks Read online

  I was fortunate in that I didn’t smoke, but to those who did it was a windfall that was greatly appreciated knowing it may be a long time before the next one arrived.

  The monotony which seeped longevity into each day was sustained by the sheer weight of the nothingness: no radio; no visits; no reading material – except a bible; no sweets; no clothes; no tobacco. No! No! No! On the bright side, of course, having nothing meant the screws and Brits could take nothing else from you. In the interest of sanity, it’s always good to look on the bright side of life with a clear perspective.

  The Volunteer also handed-out football results each Sunday morning and made sure we received an extra few rounds of bread with our grub – what little we received. All in all, he behaved like a human being. Had he been caught, he would have been ostracised, at best, by his fellow screws. At worse, fired. He was an enigma, but as long as he supplied the cigarettes and football results, he could remain one.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Squeaky Booters

  I am escaped with the skin of my teeth.

  Job 19:20

  Rattle his bones over the stones; He’s only a pauper, whom nobody owns!

  Thomas Noel, The Pauper’s Drive

  Usually at about 1pm, the Blocks became quiet as a tomb. Most screws had gone for lunch, or for a beer in their club. We always took advantage of this either with a quick nap, or learning a bit of the Irish language.

  I was at the window, daydreaming as usual, when Finbar’s voice asked, “Sam? Can ye hear that?”

  “What?”

  “Someone’s in Cell 26.”

  Cell 26 was where the screws kept prison uniforms, just in case their wildest dreams came true: that we would all get up one morning and plead with them to allow us to go to work; and give their shoes a quick shine into the bargain.

  It was unusual for it to be open at this time of day, but Finbar was correct. Someone was moving about in there.

  The door slammed, and all went quiet, except for Cowboy snoring his head off.

  “Can ye hear that?” asked Finbar.

  “No. What?”

  “A little squeak-squeak sound. Such as …” here he paused for drama, “… that made by a new pair of prison-issued boots.”

  I thought he had been reading too much Sherlock Holmes. We’d been on the protest for over a year now, and perhaps it was just starting to get to him.

  “And? What do ye reckon?” I said.

  “Someone’s put the gear on and fucked off,” Finbar insisted.

  I began to laugh. No one had ever left the protest. Yes, men had refused to come on the protest, but no person coming on had ever left. It was inconceivable.

  “You’re talking a load of shite, Finbar.”

  “We’ll have to find out from Blade, later on. But my money says someone is gone.”

  Blade was the new OC. Finbar had resigned his position because of the stress of the job. It was a thankless task, not one for the fainthearted.

  After siesta, we attempted to wake Blade, but to no avail. He was a notoriously heavy sleeper, so we decided to wait until later in the day.

  A Derry prisoner, JCB, didn’t allow us to wait.

  “Finbar, Blade isn’t in his cell. I saw him leave about an hour ago. Oh, by the way, he was wearing the gear.”

  JCB said it so matter-of-factly that it took a few moments to sink in. The silence was tangible. Immense. No one spoke, except Finbar.

  “I rest my case,” said Finbar. Agatha Christie would have been proud of him.

  The rest of us just couldn’t fathom anyone, never mind an OC, leaving the protest. Equally as bad was the fact that he hadn’t had the courage to tell us he was going. It was a blow against our morale, and against our ironclad belief that we were infallible. After this traumatic experience, we would look at each other with a different perspective, wondering who, if anyone, would be next.

  As for Blade, he unknowingly introduced a new expression into our lexicon: squeaky-booters.

  But the day hadn’t been a complete disaster. Polar Bear was to be released from the madness. Despite threats from the screws, he came to each of our cells, wishing us all the best, encouraging us to keep at it and promising that he would do everything he could to highlight our plight.

  The look of impotent hatred on the screws’ faces was one we would savour for a very long time. Polar Bear had defied them since his first day on the protest. Their twenty-four-hour lock-up, and deprivation of all basic human necessities, had been to no avail. There wasn’t a single thing they could do about it, except stand looking with their sick smiles and angry eyes.

  Of course we were delighted for him, but also more than a bit envious. In a short while he’d be dressed, and eating real food. Tonight he’d be with a woman. God! What we’d give to be in his shoes – whenever he finally gets them!

  A big hairy grin and a thumbs-up were the last we saw of him as he disappeared, swallowed by the van.

  Little did we know that in two months he would be dead, killed in a car crash on his way home from a meeting to gather support for our protest.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Dead Heroes of Our Youth Now Breathing

  JANUARY 1977

  Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear – not absence of fear.

  Mark Twain

  It’s my rule never to lose my temper till it would be dethrimental to keep it.

  Sean O’Casey, The Plough and the Stars

  A new year. A new beginning.

  But as far as we were concerned, there was nothing new. It was just another day. We were no longer permitted by the screws to wash in the washroom, and had to make do with a basin of cold water, once a day. Slopping out had become a game of Russian roulette; we never knew what would happen next, as far as the screws’ thuggish behaviour was concerned.

  Walking up the wing to slop out was always an occasion for two or three screws to gather round, trying to intimidate. They couldn’t resist telling you that it wouldn’t be long until you were conforming, cleaning their boots and calling them “sir”. Being called “sir” by a Blanket Man was a fantasy that lived in the screws’ and governors’ heads. The foolhardy amongst us would respond to the taunts by issuing a “yellow shower” – pouring the contents of the piss pot over the screws’ heads, despite the inevitable beating that would follow.

  Outside the window, Stumpy, the paraplegic seagull with one leg and devastated beak, was fighting another, healthier bird, over a scrap of bread. Stumpy had lost its leg flying too close to the razor wire. A week after that horrendous accident, a drunken screw threw a brick at the bird, breaking its beak.

  Stumpy was giving as good as he/she got, showing great resilience despite its handicap. Finally, having succeeded in chasing away the protagonist, it attempted to shovel the bread into its mouth by scraping its bit of beak along the ground. It took thirty minutes to achieve this goal, painful to watch. But the lesson was there: it always endured, and eventually conquered all obstacles and antagonists.

  The weather was perfect outside: heartbreakingly beautiful. You knew God was getting a sly dig in at you. A collection of smells touched me as I stared out between the bars of the window: melted tar cooling in the day’s breeze; a soft, faint aroma of washing powder; eggs frying on a pan. I thought I could hear Mister Softy, and I pictured all the kids lining up for their ice cream, big solid grins on their tiny faces.

  Sometimes you hear things that make you remember days you thought you’d long forgotten, like the childhood days of November with their decaying scent of falling leaves, when time moved so imperceptibly slowly. Sometimes you hear music that makes you remember pictures hidden in some darkened corner of your mind, when everything in the world seemed perfect, less suspect and open to error.

  I was just about to call Finbar to the window for a conversation when the voice of Hippo, the wing’s latest OC, quickly spoiled the moment, staining the day.

  Hippo dived into full flow, lecturing out th
e window about heroes and martyrs who had died for Ireland. There was something patronising in his telling us that what was needed were men of the calibre of James Connolly, Patrick Pearse or Wolfe Tone. Perhaps the fact he had only been on the Blanket a couple of months, against the years the rest of us had done, was what really grated.

  Still, despite his droning voice, all in all, we were feeling buoyant. The screws had even put sugar in the porridge and milk in the tea at supper – though not both in either, of course.

  “Take Tone, for example,” Hippo lectured. “Even when he realised –”

  “He’s hardly any use to us now, is he?” I said, squeezing my head against the bars. “He’s dead, the last I heard.”

  “What? What’s that ye say?” he asked incredulously, not believing he was hearing such mocking treachery.

  “I said, they’re all bloody dead. What we need is someone like the Incredible Hulk to get us out of this mess.”

  A ten-second silence.

  “Who? What the fuck are ye rambling ’bout?”

  “The Incredible Hulk. That’s who. He could knock down these doors with one of his gamma-ray farts. Not a load of dust and bones like Tone and the rest. Unless you’ve got the dragon teeth to bring them to life?”

  Laughter from the Wing.

  “I haven’t a clue what yer slobbering about, ye buck fuckin’ eejit. I never heard of the Invinciblewhatever.”

  “I’m not slobbering. Simply stating a fact. The Incredible Hulk, a.k.a. Bruce Banner, a scientist hit with gamma rays that turned him green, so obviously he’d be on our side.”

  Hippo false-laughed, and then said, “Oh, I get it.” Then, returning to his original topic and listener, he said, “As I was saying, John, the calibre of leadership in those days was nothing less than stellar. Connolly wouldn’t even contemplate –”

  “I’m serious,” I said, squeezing my head tighter against the bars for better acoustics. “If we had the Hulk, we’d beat the Brits in a week.”

  “Lay the fuck down,” he said, anger barely under control.

  “Then there’s the Thing, from Fantastic Four,” I continued. “Not up to par with Hulky in the strength category, but a damn good second. The only problem is, he’s orange, so we’d have to keep a good eye on him.”

  There was more laughter from the cells. I was on a roll.

  “Listen,” said Hippo, voice quivering with emotion. “I don’t tolerate people makin’ fun of Ireland’s dead. Don’t push it.”

  “Ooooohhhh. Better watch yerself, Sam,” shouted Cowboy. “He’ll have ye kneecapped when ye get out!”

  “What about Superman? Couldn’t he help us?” someone asked, laughing.

  “Naw. These doors are really green kryptonite. Deadly to Superman,” I answered. “We have to ensure that when we summon help, we don’t lure them inadvertently to their doom.”

  “Wise up, the lot of ye!” Hippo shouted. “The screws are listenin’ and laughin’ their balls off.”

  “What balls? Screws don’t have balls!” shouted Joe McDonnell, bringing more laughter to the windows.

  “What about the Lone Ranger?” Cowboy asked, before answering his own question. “Naw. Trigger couldn’t get down the wing.”

  For the next three days, conversation revolved around the heroes of our childhood, bringing with it the quiet comfort of nostalgia. Then, just like us, it burned itself out.

  “Can ye imagine what the people out there would think if they heard all the crap that was talked in here in the last few days?” Hippo was talking loudly out the window for all to hear. “They’d think we were nuts. Youse should be ashamed of yerselves, republicans talkin’ ’bout superheroes on the TV. I only hope this never gets out.”

  Outside our cells, rusted rain began to fall, ripples the size and colour of burnt pennies forming in the stagnant piss rings below our windows.

  “You just don’t get it, do you, Hippo?” I said, arranged on my back, staring at the ceiling.

  “Get what? That ye’re all a bunch of headbangers?”

  “No. Far from it. Pay attention and learn,” I advised. “First: we don’t give a fuck what anyone out there thinks. We’re the ones trying to survive, not them. Second: for the last three days, we’ve escaped this place – albeit in our minds only. But escaped all the same. And it was all thanks to the Incredible Hulk. So stick that up yer arse and sit on it!”

  Cowboy chuckled. “The Lone Ranger too. He played his part, Sam. Don’t forget.”

  Forget? How could I ever? That was the day when the new order arrived. The real nightmare was about to begin.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Forced Fingers up your Hairy Bum, Really isn’t any Fun

  AUGUST 1978

  By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.

  Shakespeare, Macbeth

  I swore never to be silent whenever and wherever human beings endure suffering and humiliation. We must always take sides. Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim. Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented.

  Elie Wiesel

  “Was it just me, or did I imagine that new order, Sam?”

  I couldn’t answer Finbar, momentarily, as the contents of my stomach threatened to head south. We were to throw our excrement out the windows, now that the screws and prison governors had refused to give us an assurance that no more beatings would take place when we slopped out. It was degrading, embarrassing and dehumanising, but the alternative was more beatings and more men coming off the protest. Besides, I told myself that it would probably last only a few days, a week at most. The protest had become sedimentary, settling into a comfortable niche of complacency. This would finish it once and for all.

  One month later …

  “What do you reckon, Finbar?” I asked, looking out the window at the posse of obese rats patrolling the yard, eating the unthinkable.

  “I thought the screws would’ve given in by now,” he answered, throwing a piece of rock-hard bread to a rat named Goofy, its buck teeth protruding like tiny planks of wood. “This place is a disaster. Look at the state of it.”

  The cells were now minus all furniture, as punishment for our uncivilised behaviour. The sickly white paint had been replaced by even sicklier brown, which, unfortunately, was not paint. The screws, with their thick rubber gloves – the same rubber gloves they used to give out our grub – had thrown our excrement back into the cells, forcing us to spread it upon the cell walls.

  Next came the high-powered hoses, directed into the cells, turning the grounded mattresses into saturated sponges. If you were unfortunate enough to be at the receiving end of the hose, you would quickly find yourself on the ground, knocked on your arse.

  The never-ending stench of shit and piss made you crave the friendly smells of Old Spice aftershave, Lifebuoy soap and Cherry Blossom shoe polish, or any sort of olfactory escape. Now I knew how poor Job must have felt, sitting on his dunghill. The only consolation was that this, surely, would bring the madness to an end. There was no way even the British Government would allow this to continue.

  “Two more weeks, Sam. I reckon it’ll all be over,” Finbar said.

  “Four at the most, Finbar. You know how slow the Brits are to surrender. Stiff upper lip and all that, old chap.”

  “Yeah. Ye’re right, mate. Give them about four. Bastards …”

  Four months, not weeks, later …

  The screws, in another futile attempt to break us, had now boarded up the windows from the outside, blocking out all light and air. The cell seemed to have physically shrunk, squeezed into a bone-tight coffin. Tiny demons of panic began dancing in my head, inducing breathlessness, marrying the insufferable heat and stench into one sensory hell.

  Worse, the pipes had been turned up full blast to exacerbate the stench of piss and shit. It was an overwhelming, claustrophobic torture, not for the fainthearted. It made you want to tear skin and hair, rip them clean off, as the cell became an oven and coffin, getting small
er and hotter. The excrement that wallpapered the cells began to flake and detach itself, like a shedding reptile. It fell on your hair, and into your mouth as you slept. Miniature pyramids of decaying food granted life to maggots that found their way into your ears, nose and mouth as you tried to sleep, forcing you to listen to their never-ending munching.

  The thirty-first of July brought us a visit from Archbishop (later Cardinal) Tomás Ó Fiaich. Initially, his visit was greeted with a healthy dose of cynicism from most of the prisoners. What had the Church ever done to help our situation? Their usual cowardly response was that they were “working behind the scenes”.

  While not restoring our confidence in the Church, his visit, overall, did have a lasting consequence. What he witnessed he would never forget. He testified to the brutality and horror of the H-Blocks:

  “Having spent the whole Sunday in the prison,” he told the world media, “I was shocked at the inhuman conditions prevailing in H-Blocks 3, 4 and 5, where over 300 prisoners are incarcerated. One would hardly allow an animal to remain in such conditions, let alone a human being. The nearest approach to it I have seen was the spectacle of hundreds of homeless people living in filth in sewer pipes in the slums of Calcutta. The stench and filth in some cells, with the remains of rotten food and human excreta scattered around the walls, was absolutely unbelievable. In two of them, I was unable to speak for fear of vomiting. The prisoners’ cells are without beds, chairs or tables. They sleep on wafer-thin mattresses on the floor, and in some cases I have noticed they are quite wet. [The men] have no covering except a small towel or rough blanket, no books, newspapers or reading material except the Bible (even religious magazines have been banned since my last visit), no pens, or writing materials, or TV, or radio, no hobbies or handicrafts, no exercise or association. They are locked in their cells for the whole of every day and some of them have been in this condition for more than a year and a half.”