Bog Child (19 page)

Thirty-nine

The hum of the hotel kitchen’s extractor fan came in through the open window. Professor Taylor had closed the curtains to darken the room and they sat in two semicircle rows, watching a progression of slides. There were shots of the bog, a cross-section of the soil, a view of the cut, then of Mel’s body, first as Fergus had found it, then after it had been transported to the abattoir.

Then came the close-ups: the bangle, the spools of the fingertips, the tiny slit on Mel’s back, the bonnet with its strings, a close-up sample of her shift. The weft of the fabric was subtle, clearly a thing made by hand.

‘The bangle alone,’ Felicity said, ‘would have constituted a major discovery. It is beautifully made, slender, and of a style the expert has recognized as similar to another find, from France. Or, as it was then called, Gaul.’

There was a collective intake of breath. ‘It’s not Irish?’ the man from Dublin said, sounding put-out.

Felicity tilted her head. ‘Celtic, rather than Irish, perhaps.’

‘Celtic is an umbrella term,’ Professor Taylor interjected. ‘But in reality the swirls and spirals and crosses we think of as quintessentially Celtic reappear in designs all around the world.’

Quintessentially?
The man was on his academic high-horse. All pretence of collaboration was gone. The room bristled with archaeological rivalry. Felicity and the Belfast professor, the best of friends normally, were each trying to outdo the other and emerge as the legitimate authority on Mel.

‘The bangle is older than Mel,’ Felicity said. ‘It was a precious thing, handed down perhaps from mother to daughter. Who knows? Perhaps Mel’s own mother gave it to her just prior to her execution.’

‘You mean sacrifice,’ Professor Taylor countered. ‘And the idea of her mother giving it to her is just romantic speculation.’

‘Where do
you
think the bangle came from?’

‘I don’t make any assumptions. But I’d say it was a precious object belonging to the tribe or clan as a whole. Their putting it on the victim’s wrist was part of the ritual of sacrifice.’

‘If it was a sacrifice,’ Felicity said.

‘The stomach contents! The place where she was found. It fits the Iron-Age pattern.’

‘Maybe. But in my opinion, we’ll never know for sure. We know
how
Mel met her death. We may never know
why
.’

The next picture was of the love knot Mel had held in her hand. ‘It’s hard to resist seeing this as a token from somebody Mel loved,’ Felicity said. ‘For me, this was almost the most exciting find of all. It’s an instance, surely, of a continuity of sensibility over the centuries. Love knots such as these were popular until Victorian times. Maybe soon they’ll have another vogue.’

There was spellbound silence. The next picture on the screen was of Mel’s face. Fergus was struck again by its serenity.

‘She’s a beauty,’ Professor Taylor said, as if talking of a pet pony.

Felicity pointed a ruler to where a strand of hair had escaped the bonnet. ‘We can’t be sure of her hair colour. A quality of the bog has reddened it. But from a dissection of the hair strands, we think she may have been fair-haired.’

‘Pale-skinned, blue-eyed, fair-haired,’ Professor Taylor rhapsodized.

‘An artist colleague of mine,’ Felicity interrupted, ‘has drawn a picture of Mel, an impression of how she looked when alive.’

She shifted on to the next slide. You could have heard a pin drop. Fergus leaned forward, gripping the edge of his chair. A charcoal drawing appeared on the screen, showing a young, merry girl, bonnet half on, half off. Something of her dwarfism was apparent in the round vitality of her expression, or maybe in the way her arms and shoulders made the head seem a little larger than life. The artist had captured the essence of the dead girl’s visage.

‘Oh my God,’ he whispered. ‘That’s her. Mel.’

Cora’s hand briefly found his and squeezed it. She leaned over and whispered, ‘D’you like it?’

‘Yes.’

‘I did it.’ The words were just loud enough for the silent room to overhear.

Felicity chuckled. ‘I should say the artist in question was Cora O’Brien. My daughter.’

There was a round of enthused clapping.

Professor Taylor cleared his throat. ‘To cut to the chase,’ he said, ‘our various radiocarbon-dating procedures gave us the year that Mel was killed as AD eighty. Early Roman times, as far as Britain was concerned.’

‘But not for Ireland,’ Felicity said. ‘Tacitus reports his father-in-law, Agricola, as saying that “Hibernia” could be conquered easily, but that the collective Roman will was not there. Ireland, although a trading partner of the empire from early times, was never colonized. The borderland between our current counties of Leitrim and Fermanagh was largely unaffected by the changes under way in Britain.’

‘How accurate is the date?’ someone asked.

‘There’s a margin of error, always,’ Professor Taylor said. ‘But we did two separate tests. We dendro-dated a wooden stump found nearby, which we think may have been part of the gallows from which the girl was hanged. Remarkably, they both came out at the same year. The Iron-Age date, the noose, the burial in the bog all point to a pattern of human sacrifice, prevalent at this time.’

‘But why?’ The government man from Belfast spoke. ‘Was it some primitive religious thing?’

There was silence.

‘I don’t think so,’ Felicity said. ‘I think religion was just the façade. As it sometimes is today.’ There was a tense silence. Professor Taylor clicked the slideshow on to a final artist’s impression done in charcoal. Cora had drawn an Iron-Age village: round huts, a fire, dogs, penned animals, people walking around in simple robes and skins. He snorted as if it was the Hollywood version of the time, a far cry from reality.

‘There is probably more to Mel’s story than we’ll ever know,’ Felicity continued. ‘My guess is that some crime within the clan was committed at a time of terrible hunger and want. And Mel, by virtue of her dwarfism, was scapegoated.’

The quiet man from the North cleared his throat. ‘Interesting. But is there evidence?’

Felicity nodded. ‘Some. I looked up several ancient sources and discovered that there are reports of a severe winter in AD eighty or thereabouts–a protracted winter, one commentator said, with “fogs and red rain” across much of Europe. And Mel’s stomach revealed a poor-quality last meal. And there is other evidence of malnourishment. I am sure that her death was related to an ancient famine.’

Two sparks collided in Fergus’s mind. ‘I have it!’ he exclaimed from the back.

People whispered, turning round.

‘I should have introduced Fergus McCann,’ Felicity said. ‘He is the lad who discovered Mel and stopped the JCB from going in and destroying her. We are all in his debt.’

There was another round of clapping.

‘What were you going to say, Fergus?’ Felicity said.

Fergus’s ears burned. But he got the word out. ‘Pompeii.’

Professor Taylor flipped to the next slide, which was blank. A rectangle of plain yellow light brightened the white screen.

‘Pompeii?’ Felicity said, puzzled.

‘AD seventy-nine, the year before. Don’t you see?’

There was silence. Something dawned on Felicity’s face.

‘You mean—’

‘Volcanoes are famous for producing severe winters afterwards.’ Fergus’s voice stumbled over itself with eagerness. ‘The high content of sulphur in the atmosphere blocks the sun. If the prevailing winds brought the volcanic ash northwards, it might have been the cause of the bad winter you spoke about. The one in which Mel died.’

Felicity whistled through her teeth. ‘You mean, indirectly, Mel might have been another victim of Vesuvius?’

‘Poppycock! Mere speculation!’ exploded Professor Taylor. The room erupted, almost as if it was a volcano itself, with loud exclamations, chatterings, chair-scrapings.

Cora’s elbow nudged Fergus’s, making every little hair on his arm stand upright. ‘Now you’ve done it,’ she chortled. ‘They’re all at loggerheads.’

Arguments were breaking out everywhere. The government representatives, Professor Taylor, and the teams of student collaborators seemed to be beside themselves. Somebody turned the lights on, another person opened the curtains. Cora tugged his arm. He thought of the neat little bridges over the stream where they had kissed, then of the long, hard winter that had ended in Mel’s death, the ash spewed from the faraway volcano, wreaking havoc directly and indirectly. ‘The meeting will resume tomorrow,’ Professor Taylor bellowed over the rising din. People shifted from their chairs. Felicity sorted out her papers and put them back into her briefcase. Across the room, her eyes met Fergus’s. Her lips twitched. She winked. Then she mouthed three words.
We did it.

‘Let’s go,’ whispered Cora. ‘Before the stampede.’

Forty

There was time for a hurried kiss out by the crab-apple trees, then Cora pushed him away. ‘Mam will catch us,’ she hissed.

‘Would it matter?’ asked Fergus.

‘Dunno. Maybe. Maybe not.’

Then Felicity appeared, beaming. She invited Fergus to the archaeologists’ evening meal. He pictured the phone in the hall at home, ready to ring any time with news of Joe and nobody there to hear it. He was suddenly exhausted.

‘I’ve things I have to do,’ he lied. ‘I’ll catch the bus back to Drumleash.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Certain.’

Cora’s face was impervious, as if the kissing in the hotel garden had never been. ‘See you later,’ she said. They exchanged glances. Something unsaid flashed in her eyes, but what it was he could not decipher.

On the bus home, the road had never seemed twistier nor his fellow passengers more raucous. Three girls were taking off Abba songs with bad Swedish accents. A gang of lads shoved each other in the aisles. He’d a sense of the whole planet teetering, seesawing, nobody knowing or caring where they’d end up. The slideshow flickered in his head, image after image of Mel–her wounds, her clothes, the remnants of her forgotten life.
Click
. The spools on her fingertips.
Click
. Her love knot.
Click
. Her laughing, living face.
Click
. Joe swimming in the lough, squealing with the cold.
Click
. Joe in his prison cot, an emaciated hand hanging down. And at last the shining blank, the empty rectangle of light.

Joe
, he thought.
Don’t go
.

But in a terrible moment he felt Joe slipping from him, beyond the reach of pleas or arguments, prayers or priests. Nothing could bring him back. The bus took a tight corner. The passengers clung to the rails. There was laughter, exclamations. A grapefruit from someone’s shopping rolled down the gangway. The mountain crumbled to earth, inch by inch.

It’s only a matter of time
, Fergus thought.
For everything, everywhere
.

The lough surface shivered, as if in fear of its final evaporation. He imagined Joe’s emaciated arm rising from the water, like the hand that caught Excalibur when King Arthur died. The gleaming limb held the sword by the hilt and waved a last farewell. Then metal and flesh sank into the deep, never more to be seen in this world.

‘Oh, Joe,’ he whispered. ‘Joe.’

Forty-one

The phone call from the prison came at seven o’clock. Tea had been cleared away. Da sat with the
Roscillin Star
in his chair, tapping his foot on the lino. Mam was drying the last glass. She put it down on the draining board.

‘You get it, Fergus,’ she whispered.

Fergus went to the hall and picked up the phone. His teeth were clenched. His heart shrank into itself like a frightened animal.

‘H’lo?’ he managed.

‘Is that Mr McCann?’

‘It’s Fergus McCann.’

‘It’s the prison doctor here.’

Fergus grimaced, winding the receiver wire in and out of his fingers.

‘It’s about Joe.’

‘Is he alive?’

‘He is. But there’s been a change.’

A change of heart. A change of plan. What change?

‘He’s passed into a coma.’

‘A coma?’

Suddenly Mam’s fingers were biting into his shoulder. ‘Give it here, Fergus. Give me.’

‘Just a minute,’ he told the caller. He unwound the wire from his fingers and pressed the receiver into Mam’s hand. ‘He’s alive,’ he whispered.

‘What news do you have of my son?’ she rasped.

Fergus watched as Mam listened. Her forehead furrowed, her mouth became an impregnable line of defence.

‘Can I see him?’

The faint buzz of a reply seemed to satisfy her. ‘I’ll be there tonight.’

A further buzz seemed to be arguing.

‘I understand.’ She met Fergus’s eye, holding the receiver away from her ear. ‘It’s only the beginning, he says, Fergus. The beginning of the end.’

She turned back to the receiver. ‘I’ll come anyway.’

She set down the phone and crossed herself. ‘Fergus. You and me and Da. This is the moment. Now. We’ve got to talk.’

‘Talk?’

‘About Joe.’

‘What’s there to say, Mam? Haven’t we said it all?’

‘No. We haven’t.’

She went back into the kitchen. ‘Malachy,’ she said.

Da looked up from the paper, his eyes stricken. ‘It’s over, isn’t it?’

Mam shook her head. ‘No. He’s in a coma.’

‘A coma?’

‘The doctor says it’s the beginning of the end. He won’t wake up again.’

Da folded the paper up into neat quarters. He put it on the table and smoothed it down. ‘Then it is over.’

‘It’s never over until it’s over, Malachy.’

Da put his forehead onto his palms, shaking his head. ‘Should we drive over? Would they let us see him? Would he even know we were there?’

Mam sat down by Da’s side. ‘Fergus,’ she said, ‘make another pot of tea.’

Fergus put the kettle on and got the teapot down. He put three spoonfuls in and poured hot water in with great concentration.

‘I’ve a proposal to make,’ Mam said when tea was on the table.

Da looked up, raising his empty hands.

‘The prison chaplain called us together today,’ she said. ‘He’d spoken to everyone. Prison people. The doctors. Sinn Fein, even.’

‘So?’

‘They want the strike to end. Everyone.’

‘Sinn Fein? I don’t believe it,’ Da said.

‘The man’s a priest. He wouldn’t lie.’

‘Priests are the best bloody liars of the lot.’

Fergus poured out three cups of tea. It was strong and black. He poured in the milk, with two spoons of sugar for himself and Da, none for Mam.

‘Fergus, put a spoon in for me,’ she said.

‘But I thought—’

‘Never you mind.’

Da took a sip, then snorted. ‘What does it matter what other people want or don’t want? Our Joe’s an inch from death. He’s in his final coma. It’s over.’

Mam took her tea and stirred it again. She lifted the cup to her lips and drank. The motion was deliberate, as if the tea was a magic potion. ‘We are Joe’s family. We can say it’s not over. That’s what the prison chaplain brought us together today to say. We have the right.’

‘What do you mean?’ Fergus said.

‘We only have to say the word and Joey will be saved.’

‘Saved?’

‘He’ll have a drip put up. A drip to feed him.’

For a fleeting moment Fergus thought of Lazarus, coming out of the tomb in his swathing bands. The thought made him shudder. Da pushed his teacup away.

‘Pat, that’s nonsense.’

‘It’s not.’

‘Joe wouldn’t thank you.’

‘Maybe not. But I’m his mother.’

‘You are. But Joe’s life is his own.’ Da said the words slowly, as if to a five-year-old. ‘His own to take.’

Mam’s face crumpled.

‘Pat, listen to me. We can’t play God.’

Mam put the teacup down crooked, so that liquid slopped into the saucer.

‘It’s not playing God. And I don’t care if Joe wakes up and never talks to us again. At least he’d be alive. He’d be alive with his life before him. I could live with that. I could.’

‘Pat, I’m telling you, Joe’s life is his own. Not yours.’

‘If he’d taken an overdose–if he was on top of a building, about to jump–we’d save him, wouldn’t we?’

Da shrugged. ‘You said yourself–or that chaplain of yours said so a few weeks back–what Joe’s doing isn’t suicide.’

The anguished workings of Mam’s mind worked across her face. Fergus could see she’d been out-manoeuvred.

‘Da. Mam—’

‘What difference does it make if it’s suicide or something else?’

‘Every difference.’

A terrible thing happened. Mam stood up and made as if to strike Da across the face. Da didn’t wince or move. He caught at her hand at the last second, trapping it in his. Fergus froze, terrified he was going to strike her back. But he didn’t. Instead he held Mam’s hand close to his face and stifled a sob. Then he stroked her fingers and gave her palm a kiss.

‘Pat, love, let it go. Just let it go.’

She pulled her hand away. Grabbing a tea-towel, she pressed her face into it, sobbing.

‘I can’t. It’s Joey. How can I let go of him?’ Then, ‘Fergus? Haven’t you an argument for Da? Haven’t you?’

They waited while she cried. At last they heard her breathing calmly. She folded the tea-towel over the bar on the cooker.

‘Sit down, Pat,’ Da coaxed.

Mam sat down, her face ravaged.

‘Mam?’ Fergus whispered.

‘What?’

‘If they did feed Joe, could they really save his life?’

She folded her hands together. ‘That’s what the doctor says. But he said something else.’

‘What?’

‘The longer we leave it, the more likely it is Joe will be…damaged.’

‘Damaged? What kind of damage?’

‘I don’t know. They don’t know.’

‘Physical? Mental?’

Mam put her face in her hands. ‘He might be all right,’ she whispered. ‘God willing.’

Da thumped the tabletop. ‘This is sickening,’ he said. ‘You’d interfere with everything Joe’s done, everything he’s done for his country, everything he’s tried to achieve by this amazing, courageous sacrifice. You’d interfere, just so he’d end up a cabbage?’

Mam looked up, white. ‘It’s only a risk. And if we gave the go-ahead, here and now, the risk would be lower. Please, Malachy. We’ve only to pick up the phone. We’ve only to say the word.’

And Joe will be saved, but not healed?

‘No,’ Da said. The word came out low and soft but had the finality of a commander’s order to his troops.

‘I say yes, Malachy. Doesn’t my word count as much as yours?’

Da bit his lip and turned away. ‘If Joe was here, you know what he’d say, don’t you?’

There was no denying it. Mam raised two protesting hands.

‘So that’s two to one.’

Fergus swilled the last of his tea-leaves round in his cup. ‘Two to two,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘I’m with Mam. Sorry, Da.’

Da glared. ‘I cannot believe my ears.’ His face went purple. ‘You’re just a kid.’

‘I’m not. I’m eighteen. I voted, didn’t I?’

‘Yes, you did. For Sands. And now look at you. Turncoat.’

‘Da, I’ve wanted to be a doctor for as long as I can remember. I’ve no choice but to vote for life. Please. My vote counts.’

Da’s face was rigid. Fergus put his cup down. The sword had fallen from Joe’s grasp and his arm in the water was sinking until only the wrist, shorn of its watch, was visible. ‘Theresa and Cath, Da,’ he pleaded. ‘They’d want Joe back alive too. At all costs.’

‘They’re too young to understand. Leave them out of it.’

‘What about Uncle Tally, Da? What would he say?’

‘Leave Uncle Tally out of it,’ Mam snapped. ‘He’s not immediate family.’

Da thumped the table. ‘He
is
immediate family. And Uncle Tally would agree with me. You know it.’

Fergus stared. ‘I’m not so sure, Da.’

Da waved a dismissive hand. ‘He’d either agree with me or say nothing.’

Say nothing? Yes. That was Uncle Tally. He never wanted to get involved. But in this case, doing nothing was the same as letting Joe die. Fergus pressed his fists into his eyes.

‘But anyway,’ Da was saying, ‘it’s not a voting matter.’

‘No, it isn’t,’ Mam said. ‘It’s a matter of you, Malachy. Laying down the law.’ She got up, pushing the table away from her. ‘This house, it’s not a republic. It’s a bloody dictatorship.’ She seized the cups off the table and threw them into the sink. The hot tap gushed, teaspoons rattled. ‘I will never forgive you for this, Malachy. Not so long as I ever live. So help me God.’