Mermaid in a Bowl of Tears (Exit Unicorns Series) (61 page)

His heart she knew, the ship he didn’t want her to know in any way.

Ostensibly the governor, a hard-faced Ulsterman named Norman McDonough, was supposed to be in charge. But it was the volatile Sergeant commanding the British troops that was really in charge, and every manjack of them knew it.

Sergeant Boyce was a regular bastard with a penchant for screaming until his eyes bugged from his head, and a hatred of Irishmen that Casey had experienced once or twice in his lifetime, but never with the fervency that Sergeant Boyce evidently felt. He wasn’t averse to inflicting pain on anyone who looked sideways at him, either. During the first week there’d been a scuffle between troops and a man named Alan Kelly, who had felt it was his right—as well as that of all the prisoners—to bombard the governor and the Ministry for Home Affairs daily with protests about their arrest, treatment, and conditions aboard ship. For his pains, Kelly had been tricked into believing his lawyer was waiting for him in an interview room. Who was really waiting was Sergeant Boyce.

Kelly emerged from the interview room an hour later, staggering, bleeding and closemouthed. He’d maintained his silence from then until now and hadn’t demanded nor complained in any of the intervening days. Nor had any of his visitors received their passes, and his mail had mysteriously dried up. In the outside world Kelly was a solicitor who’d been charged with
‘scandalizing a court, and preventing the course of justice’,
for successfully defending a client. Word also came back through Kelly’s bunkmate that Kelly’s younger brother had been badly beaten and Kelly’s home ransacked while his wife stood crying in the front garden. Every man on the ship understood the message. Nothing was safe, not your wife at home in her bed, not your brothers and sisters, nor your mam and da’.

After the incident with Kelly, an uneasy rhythm set itself in motion on the Maidstone. The men retreated into their small enclaves, did their duties, and obeyed the command that came down from the committee of Republicans that were the only authority they recognized. The others they ignored, averted their eyes from, kept their heads down and their mouths shut within the hearing of the soldiers, RUC and governor.

However, an incident occurred during afternoon exercise three weeks into their incarceration that put Casey directly in the sights of the sadistic Sergeant Boyce.

It started simply enough, with Roland and Declan indulging in one of their endless spates of bickering about Roland’s habit of praying wherever and whenever he was seized with the desire to commune with God. The crowded, gull shit laden deck was no exception.

Roland often claimed to see visions of the Holy Mother’s face in windows, in the air and on one memorable occasion on the front of Declan’s Dubliners t-shirt. Today she apparently was peering out of a rather dirty porthole at him, because he dropped mid-stride while Shane was passing a ball to him, directly onto Declan, who was attempting to have a quiet walk and smoke simultaneously.

“Jaysus Christ!” Declan exploded. “Get off my goddamn foot.”

Casey turned toward the men, knowing the tension between them had been at break point for a good three days. For Roland his religion was his safe haven, for Declan it was his innate cynicism that kept his sanity intact. The two were mixing about as well as oil and water.

“Don’t blaspheme,” Roland said calmly, returning to fingering over the rosary beads that never left the sanctity of his scarecrow thin chest.

Casey winced, knowing that Roland’s very calmness was going to be the thing that drove Declan over the line. It was.

Declan simply went to shove Roland off his foot, but as fate would have it caught the clasp of Roland’s rosary on his finger. The chain, worn from years of usage, snapped, and the beads exploded out from Roland’s neck in a spray of jet.

“What have ye done?” All things considered, Roland’s tone was beautifully calm.

“I’ve broken yer wee necklace,” Declan said, and Casey groaned inwardly, seeing the apologetic route wasn’t about to be taken.

“Tisn’t a wee necklace, ‘tis a rosary,” Roland said stiffly, the red mounting his face in a tidal surge that put Casey on full alert.

“It’s just a bunch of beads an’ superstition,” Declan said, his own temper still well and truly stoked.

“Jaysus, the fool should have apologized,” Matty muttered.

Casey only had the time to get out an, “Aye but since when has Declan done as he should?” before Roland came round off his knees with whip-crack speed, the glint of something silver in his hand. Before Casey could clearly understand what was happening, Roland had Declan’s ponytail firmly in hand and was holding a knife to the base of it.

“Oh shit,” Casey and Matty said in unison.

“Superstition, is it?” Roland said, as Declan twisted ineffectually, batting at Roland with fists cuffed. “I’ll scalp ye and then we’ll see who’s superstitious.”

“Oh Christ,” Matty muttered. Declan was as certain as Samson had been that his luck lay entirely within his refusal to cut his hair. He was convinced that was what had kept him alive and relatively unharmed through years of imprisonment and interrogations.

“Get yer fuckin’ hands off me hair,” Declan howled, scrabbling for purchase on the slick deck beneath his feet.

The young soldiers standing watch had tensed up, their guns now up and pointing toward the huddle of men. It was only the glut of men on the deck that made it impossible for the soldiers to discern what was actually happening.

Casey pushed his way through the other men toward the two furious combatants. He placed a large hand lightly on the back of Roland’s scrawny neck, the implied threat unmistakable.

“Roland, stop it now, before someone gets hurt.”

He risked a glance at the observation post, casting a reassuring smile at the tense soldiers, as if to say ‘all’s fine here, lads.’ What he saw in the window though made his intestines clench. The Sergeant’s rawboned face had appeared and was trained directly on the three of them.

“Fockin’ give over the knife,” Casey whispered tersely, “the Sergeant is watchin’ the both of yez. Roland, I’ll see that ye get a new rosary.”

“That one was blessed by the pope,” Roland said, the light of real murder still in his eyes.

“I can’t make promises there, but I think I can get one blessed by the Bishop of Armagh,” Casey said, thinking Jamie was going to be scratching his head over this particular request.

“That and an apology will do.”

“Declan,” Casey said in the tone of a man who still had hold of his reason, “apologize to the man before the lot of us get shot.”

“Not to me,” Roland said primly, “to the Blessed Mary, for interruptin’ our conversation.”

Casey sighed, trying to keep a rein on his own rather frayed nerves.

“I’ll not do it,” Declan said through gritted teeth.

Casey leaned down into his face, “Ye’ll do it, or I’ll cut yer fockin’ hair off meself.” He gave Declan a long dark look that communicated volumes.

Declan swallowed, chest heaving with an angry breath, but when his lips parted, a surprisingly humble—“Holy Mary Mother of God, I am extremely sorry to have offended you,” came out.

Roland’s long nostrils flared briefly, the red slowly fading to patches, leaving him looking like he’d a bad case of nettle rash. He let the haft of the knife go and Casey took it with shaking hands.

The entire deck had stilled, the milling, tense crowd suddenly frozen in place. And Casey knew without even looking up, that the cat had come amongst the pigeons.

“It’s my understanding that even cockroaches have some base understanding of the rules by which the universe functions,” the Sergeant said, each word punctuated by the snap of the riding crop he carried hitting his leg. “So I would think that even you Irish would understand that to be in possession of a weapon on this ship, which is
my
universe, is a very, very bad thing.”

Casey felt the blood drop down below his knees as he realized he was still holding the weapon in question. He’d that horrible feeling he’d had once as a child when his father had taken him on a ferris wheel and the thing had paused at the top before starting the spinning rush downward. He had felt as though he’d lost his grip on the planet, and the bottom of his stomach along with it.

The Sergeant had fixed his ghostly pale eyes on Casey.

“I believe you have a weapon in your hands, Mr. Riordan?”

His stomach lurched a little further with the knowledge that the man knew his name. If he knew his name, he likely knew a great deal more, including his address, the names and locations of all his nearest and dearest, and what brand of briefs he wore.

“Hands up and out, Mr. Riordan.”

Casey felt the knife slip from his fingers, taken by a silent hand. The bottom of his stomach seemed to reassert itself a little. He put his hands palm up for the Sergeant’s inspection.

The cold blue eyes met his own, but Casey neither blinked nor looked away.

“What have you done with it Riordan?”

“Done with what?”

“Clear back from him now!”

No one moved. The universe was stilled to this single point, here and now, and Casey knew his very existence could well depend on how the next few seconds played out.

“I said clear back NOW!”

The Sergeant’s eyes were next to bugging out of his head and the riding crop had assumed a staccato beat that didn’t bode well for anyone.

“Do as he says,” Casey said, tone quiet but carrying with enough force to make the men move back so the deck could be inspected. The knife was likely sinking to the bottom of the lough at this point. At the very least it had been kicked down off the deck, for Casey knew there was a small gap in the fencing in the northernmost corner. He was certain the knife had made its way swiftly to that gap.

“You will not order these men. This ship is under my command and as such so are all those under it. You will mind that you are a prisoner.”

“The ship may well be yours, but these are not your men,” Casey said.

“Neither are they yours,” the Sergeant replied, with a tiny smile that pinched the corners of his eyes.

A rustle began amongst the men on the deck, a quiet stepping back to clear the deck for searching, even as somehow it became clear that their ranks had closed around Casey. The deck was searched, but it did not yield up the knife. Every man was patted down, most none too gently, but the knife, as Casey had suspected, was well and truly gone.

After they were searched, the men, one by one, came back and took their places beside and behind Casey. The Sergeant watched this proceeding with a look of mounting fury on his countenance.

“Ah, I see. Is that how it is, Mr. Riordan?”

“Aye,” Casey replied, “that’s how it is.”

The Sergeant nodded, the small smile still tucked firmly in place. There was something obscene about it. Casey fought the desire to shiver. He knew he had to hold his ground at all costs though. Any sign of weakness would give the man what he sought.

“Until later then, Mr. Riordan.”

Casey didn’t respond, merely stood tall and firm as oak in the midst of the men that surrounded him. They had given him their support and he had to face this man down on their account. Or they would all pay.

The Sergeant walked away, bending down to whisper something in the ear of a young Scots soldier called Campbell.

Once he’d disappeared into the stairwell leading to the officer’s quarters, a collective breath was released around Casey. It sounded like the sighing of a thousand leaves in an autumn wind. Slowly the men began to mill away, many stopping to touch Casey’s shoulder in passing, or to give him a nod.

“Christ, man,” Declan said, face still a starchy white, “that was a mite too close for my likin’.”

Casey gave Declan a smile of reassurance, but the bottom of his stomach had fallen out again.

“Couldn’t ye have buckled man?” Matty said in a low voice, his own countenance distinctly worried. And so Casey knew he wasn’t alone in his understanding; that today he’d made an enemy he could not afford to have.

WITHIN THE WALLS OF THE JAIL, time held no meaning. Day blurred into night, one minute could have been an hour, or an hour an entire week. Pat had no idea whether it was night or day as he’d been hooded continuously since the brutal helicopter ride. The hood was rudely shoved up above his nose, but no higher, when he was given his paltry meals. Which consisted of a sort of watery stew that he was expected to eat with his fingers. He was continually dizzy, as though his head were miles away from his body and there was a constant ringing in his ears. He knew that he and all the other men were on a deprivation diet, a tactic to keep them weak and off balance along with the interrupted sleep and regular visits to the ‘music room’.

It was what he called the room they put him in for hours on end, bombarding his senses with white noise of a variety that was designed to make a man want to blow his ears off. Which was likely the general idea. It was also ungodly hot in the room.

He’d been issued a boiler suit right after his helicopter ride. It was far too large and this too was purposeful, as was the hood, which hadn’t been removed since he’d first been beaten. The air he managed to pull in was stale and fetid and seemed lacking in the oxygen he so desperately longed to take in in great gulping lungfuls.

He understood the theory behind sensory deprivation. Take away the enormous stream of information the brain was used to processing and the brain would start to malfunction. Knowing it in theory, however, didn’t help a man greatly in practice. Particularly after being made to stand against a wall, legs spread, forehead not quite touching, hands splayed and arced against the damp concrete.

The last time they’d stood him there for what might have been a few hours or a few days, he no longer knew. There was no light, only darkness.

He eventually collapsed to the floor, no longer able to stand the pain in his legs. A doctor had been brought in to ascertain if he was fit enough to withstand more ‘interrogation’. The doctor obviously felt he was because they’d propped him back up against the wall and continued with their questions which were screamed from close range into his tortured ears.