Mermaid in a Bowl of Tears (Exit Unicorns Series) (80 page)

“I wasn’t entirely lucid to my surroundings at the time.” The lashes flicked up and the green eyes were candid in a way they so rarely were these days. “It was my first plunge into the rabbit-hole of manic depression. Father Lawrence had found me passed out in a doorway in Rathcoole in Dublin. I’d gone on a tear for several days and finally crashed, and so he brought me here—unconscious, sick and mad—to see if he couldn’t straighten me out.”

“And did he?”

“Yes, it was exactly what I needed, though I didn’t feel the least bit grateful at the time.” He fell silent, profile still as finely carved marble, the touch of a master’s hand evident in every line.

When Jamie resumed speaking his voice was very distant, ephemeral as the mist that was gathering upon the skin of the lake. The past seemed very close, as though all times might exist at once, and she felt instinctively that here Jamie was, in some part, still that anguished and confused seventeen-year-old boy.

“There were many nights when I did not think I’d live through to the morning; in fact I rather hoped I wouldn’t. But he wouldn’t let me go, every time I cried out his hand would come out of the darkness and hold my own.”

“I was terrified. I’d no idea what was happening to me, no memory of where I’d been or how I’d ended up in that doorway, filthy and bruised, reeking of stale alcohol. I thought I was going insane. In some strange way I had things so twisted in my head that I thought if I couldn’t remember anything of those days, I’d somehow ceased to exist. That I was forgotten and alone in the longest night I’d ever known. Father Lawrence kept me here until he convinced me that none of us are ever, even in the darkest hours of our lives, alone. That to believe we were alone was a transgression against God and against those who loved us.”

“Do you still believe that?” she asked, the small ache low in her belly, suddenly bearable.

He didn’t answer at once, but took her hand under the blanket and gently squeezed it.

“Some nights I do.”

The soft lament of Compline had begun. Tendrils of the night prayer reached across the open courtyard and wound their peaceful notes amongst the flickering flames and the bare-branched oaks.

O God, come to my aid.
O Lord, make haste to help me.
Glory be to the Father and to the Son and to the Holy Spirit,
as it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be,
world without end.
Amen. Alleluia.

The final strains of the alleluia drifted out across the water and filled the night air with prayer. The notes drifted upward until it seemed they must touch the face of the stars.

“When the dark night seems endless...” Jamie said softly, eyes fixed on some invisible horizon in his memory.

She returned the warm pressure of his hand and finished the thought he’d begun.

“Remember me.”

THE SHIP LOOMED OVERHEAD like a great steel leviathan that had crawled up onto the shore, to rest there breathing heavily. Pamela shivered in its shadow. Casey had been incarcerated for four months now and this was only the third time she’d managed to get through all the requisite red tape in order to see him. Or rather, Jamie had finally twisted enough arms, and promised enough favors—a fact that bothered her a great deal—to get the permission she needed to spend an hour with her husband.

Jamie had handed her the visitor’s pass the morning before at breakfast. “You can take the Bentley,” he said, “or Liam will drive you.”

Holding the pass in her hand, she felt like Christmas had come early. Last night she had barely slept, excited at the thought of seeing Casey, yet knowing their meeting was likely to be fraught. Part of the reason Jamie had pushed so hard to get her the pass was that he thought it was past time to tell Casey about the loss of their child. She dreaded telling him, yet knew it had to be done.

Now she was here and had been led to a grille which had facing it another grille. Between lay twelve feet of no man’s land. This was as close as they were going to allow her to her husband. Casey was brought in on the other side a few moments after the guard left her. His guard stepped back out of her line of vision, but she knew he would be well within hearing range.

“Sorry about the atmosphere, if I’d known ye were comin’ I’d have tidied up a bit.” He gave her a weak smile, but the tone didn’t quite come off.

Across the space that separated them, she took quiet stock. He looked exhausted, grim lines carved down either side of his mouth. He’d been thin when he was lifted, but now he was hewn down to his muscles. Against the grille her hands shook with the need to reach across that space, to touch him, to find a way to keep him whole.

“How are you?” she asked, feeling absurdly awkward, uncertain of who might be listening, even more uncertain of what to say.

“I’ll do,” he said flatly, then his expression softened slightly. “How are things at home?”

“Fine,” she said, and then told him as much as she could about Lawrence and his schooling, how much Finbar and Paudeen had grown in his absence. There was much she left out. Her job with the RUC, the fact that all of them were living with Jamie now and the reason they’d wound up under his roof. None of this information seemed designed to bring the man comfort. “But we all miss you something terrible.”

His eyes looked her over and despite the loose sweater she wore, she knew he was noting the absence of a belly. “The baby?” he asked, his words barely audible over the clanking.

She shook her head mutely, hating that he’d asked, not wanting to take this from him right now. She couldn’t lie, though.

“I’m sorry.” The lines around his mouth were like knife cuts now.

“Me too,” she said, uncertain of whether he heard her.

He rested his forehead against the bars and closed his eyes. He looked unutterably tired and grieved. “I don’t want ye to come back here,” he said, low enough so his words wouldn’t carry to the guards, but strong enough to tell her he meant it.

“What?” the disbelief was evident and yet she wasn’t surprised, this had been the main theme of the last visit.

“I said,” he repeated firmly, eyes open now and locked on her own, “I don’t want ye comin’ back here.”

“I think you’d better tell me why.”

“It’s too hard,” his voice barely carried over the muffled clanking above them, “havin’ ye see me like this. Please Jewel, don’t come back.”

“The hell I won’t,” she said angrily, not caring now who overheard. “What sort of wife do you think I am?”

He sighed deeply, as though wearied beyond reason. “The sort who might occasionally listen to reason.”

She shook her head vehemently. “You can’t stop me from coming. It’s the only way I’ve got of being certain you’re alright.”

“Do ye think I don’t know what ye’ve been through to get here?” he asked, the wire grille casting criss-cross shadows on his face. “It’s a small ship as things go, Jewel. I know what they did to ye before ye got in. I can’t be in here, helpless, knowin’ that yer bein’ subjected to those sorts of humiliations an’ there’s not a thing I can do about it. All I can do is ask ye to stay away.”

Part of her wanted to rage at him, tell him exactly what she had endured these few visits, how the guards had laughed as they fondled her in the name of searching her person for possible concealed weapons. But she couldn’t, the man was obviously coping with enough. She knew he couldn’t understand that she would endure much worse for a minute of time with him. Just to reassure herself for those few moments that he was whole and safe, for she could never really believe it until she saw him with her own eyes.

His eyes flicked to the side, as though he were watching for someone.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked, uncertain whether she wanted to cry or yell at him. He gave her an odd look she couldn’t interpret and then he unbuttoned the shirt he wore and lowered it to his waist.

“Casey, what on earth are you doing?”

He didn’t answer, merely turned his back toward her.

She stared in horror. His back was like one of Jackson Pollock’s darker works. Long weals stood out against the older silvered scars, the edges of the new ones still tinged black, the old ones limned in blue. There was barely an inch of undamaged skin left. The thought of the pain he must have endured made her sick to her stomach. The nausea was followed by a wave of rage so huge she’d the sense of being lifted off her feet.

Injustice should not surprise her anymore. He’d been incarcerated now for four months without charges, without trial, without any form of due process. And yet that they could also do this to him...it left her speechless with fury and the need to take the person who’d done it apart with her own two hands.

“Oh God,” she breathed, “why—who did this?”

He turned toward her, shrugging his shirt up, face turned away as he did up the buttons. “Doesn’t matter, it’s done. I showed ye so that ye might understand a bit why I don’t want ye here.”

She shook her head. “I just want to take you home.” She wanted more than that, she wanted to rewind their lives to the place where things had started to spiral out of control. She wanted to find a safe place and hide there with him until their lives were done.

“Ye can’t take me home, but ye can stay away. Please don’t come back.”

“Casey please—”

“Time’s up,” the guard behind her said. Pamela fought the urge to smack him hard across his stern face. At the sound of the man’s voice, Casey’s expression had gone as smooth and blank as water. She knew she wouldn’t get another word out of him.

He nodded curtly to someone out of her range of vision and with one last look, he was gone.

WHEN CASEY DIDN’T JOIN the rest of the men for evening exercise, Matty told them to leave the lad be. He knew the boy had received a visit from his wife that afternoon, and had not spoken a word since. Matty knew things had not gone well. He understood why and felt sympathy for both sides. There was no winning for either man or woman in a situation like this. She would come to visit thinking her presence and concern would help, not understanding that it only made her husband feel vulnerable and open to assault. Because he had something to lose. Something precious. The guards could and likely would find a way to use that against him. He knew that and she didn’t.

Near to the end of their two hours on deck, Matty crept off from the other men and made his way back to the cramped quarters the five of them shared.

The lad had stewed long enough; he was still fragile physically, not to mention the psychic scars that would take much longer to heal. Action of some sort was what was needed. Even if he had to be pushed toward it.

Casey was lying on his bunk, shoulders held stiffly, face turned to the wall.

“Are ye feelin’ poorly lad?” he asked quietly.

“No just thinkin’.”

“About anythin’ in particular?”

“Figurin’ out how to get the fuck off this ship,” Casey said, and though his tone was quiet, Matty heard the despair underneath. “They’ll transfer me to the Kesh soon, I know my number’s comin’ up, can’t shake the feelin’ of it. I could be there for years, Matty. This is the only chance I’ve got.”

Matty had been in prison many times and knew all about the superstitions that arose around feelings of impending doom. He’d heard it all before, nine times out of ten it came to nothing, but he’d a bad feeling himself about the lad’s chances on the next rotation off the ship. Especially now.

“Well son, if yer serious, I think I might know how it can be done. If I tell ye my plan, will ye let me come with ye?”

IN THE WEE HOURS OF CHRISTMAS MORNING, Pamela awoke to the feel of someone gently shaking her shoulder. She opened her eyes groggily, to find Jamie, clad in a heavy sweater, jeans and gloves, exuding a fresh cold that said he’d only just come in from outdoors.

“Come with me, I’ve something to show you,” he said, voice a low whisper. “Put something warm on, it’s chilly outside.”

She followed him down the long winding back stair, the smell of the Christmas trees scattered throughout the house reaching her nose at the first landing. The lights glowed softly throughout the downstairs, and she knew that Jamie likely hadn’t yet slept.

It was hushed as they went out through the kitchen. It was too early even for Maggie. Jamie handed Pamela a heavy coat and wrapped a scarf around her neck before opening the door to the long sloping back lawn.

The air was cold but clear and a melting half moon sat low in the sky. The stars were only beginning to fade into the blue velvet background of a Christmas dawn.

On the great sweep of frosted lawn stood a horse. He looked as though he’d been set down in a shaft of moonlight, his coat a pure dappled silver, the arch of his back beautifully curved and gleaming. He was deep chested, with the rippling hindquarters of a racehorse. He must have stood sixteen hands high, and had legs as straight and delicate as carved ice.

Pamela clasped her hands together with pure delight.

“Oh Jamie, he’s beautiful.”

He smiled. “He’s yours. Merry Christmas.”

“What?” She turned toward him in surprise.