their plates half full. Mam nodded absently. ‘Go down to the Caseys’ and be good,’ she said.
Da stood up. ‘I’m back to work, Pat.’
‘I’m sorry I didn’t do a roast.’
‘Never mind. We’re none of us hungry.’ He looked at Fergus. ‘You mind how you drive. Sunday drivers are the worst.’
Fergus nodded.
‘If they let you in, tell Joe—’
‘Tell him what?’
Da shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’
After he’d gone, it was time for the tart to come out of the oven. Mam cut it up, ready for examining by the prison guards, and wrapped it in foil, still warm. They set out.
The drive across the North was long and winding. The roads had a thoughtful quietness to them. Clouds scampered over the hills and valleys. Sun broke through fitfully. Mam sat beside him with the tart on her lap. It was three o’clock when they crossed into County Antrim.
They drew up to Long Kesh. The place, a converted RAF aerodrome, was like a low-lying colony for the miserable of the world. The sign at the main gate said HMP MAZE.
Herpes, Mastitis, Piles. A Maze of Misery. Fergus remembered reading how the Nazis had wanted to bomb the place out of existence in the Second World War. He wished they’d succeeded. When they got out of the car, all you could hear was wind and a distant lowing of cattle. The bleak and endless walls, topped with rolls of barbed wire, were barricades against the natural world.
At the entrance it was the usual routine: passports and driving licences to be shown, through the metal detector, hands up for the body search. The search was slow and deliberate. Every square inch of clothing was gone over, then a hand-held bomb detector was traced around them, as if checking their aura. Sniffer dogs were restrained on leashes. The uniformed guards were squeaky-clean, with chains and keys and ‘This way, sirs, this way, madams’.
Across the yard, another gate. Then down long white corridors that smelled sulphurous, almost. This way to hell, thought Fergus.
Bars caged off every doorway. The place was like a laboratory for experiments on rats.
Unlock, lock. They went through three more gates and they’d to leave all their things, including the watch belonging to Joe that Fergus wore, in a plastic tub that was put in a cubby-hole. But they let Mam keep the tart. They looked over every piece, prodding each with a knitting needle. ‘An exceedingly good pie, miss,’ one screw joked. Then they were led to a waiting room. There was a guard at the door and two other people waiting silently on a bench.
‘They let me keep the tart,’ Mam whispered, sitting down. ‘That’s a good sign.’
Fergus nodded. ‘If it makes Joey eat, they’ll be thrilled,’ he said, louder. His words hit the walls and died, echoless.
They waited. Mam’s head sank down as if in prayer. Fergus looked around him. The windows were paned with frosted glass, making the light in the room dull and strange, as if the outdoors belonged to another world. He thought of the mountain and Cora standing with her hands shielding the sun from her eyes and Felicity springing up from the cut like Olga Korbut and the mysterious figure of the child he’d named Mel, lying prone, awaiting a kind of resurrection.
‘Mrs McCann. Through here.’
A screw beckoned them. Mam grabbed Fergus by the arm. ‘They’re letting us in, Ferg. They’re letting us in to see him.’
They were taken down another white corridor, around a right-angle turn and down a long passageway and around another right angle and through another locked door, with the keys jingle-jangling and a fluorescent light blinking, and then into a long room. A line of visiting booths was divided by a glass-panelled partition.
They were brought to a table at the far end. They sat down and looked through the glass to the seat opposite. There was nobody there.
They waited again.
A visit was going on three tables down. The girl on the visitors’ side looked no older than sixteen.
Da stood up. ‘I’m back to work, Pat.’
‘I’m sorry I didn’t do a roast.’
‘Never mind. We’re none of us hungry.’ He looked at Fergus. ‘You mind how you drive. Sunday drivers are the worst.’
Fergus nodded.
‘If they let you in, tell Joe—’
‘Tell him what?’
Da shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’
After he’d gone, it was time for the tart to come out of the oven. Mam cut it up, ready for examining by the prison guards, and wrapped it in foil, still warm. They set out.
The drive across the North was long and winding. The roads had a thoughtful quietness to them. Clouds scampered over the hills and valleys. Sun broke through fitfully. Mam sat beside him with the tart on her lap. It was three o’clock when they crossed into County Antrim.
They drew up to Long Kesh. The place, a converted RAF aerodrome, was like a low-lying colony for the miserable of the world. The sign at the main gate said HMP MAZE.
Herpes, Mastitis, Piles. A Maze of Misery. Fergus remembered reading how the Nazis had wanted to bomb the place out of existence in the Second World War. He wished they’d succeeded. When they got out of the car, all you could hear was wind and a distant lowing of cattle. The bleak and endless walls, topped with rolls of barbed wire, were barricades against the natural world.
At the entrance it was the usual routine: passports and driving licences to be shown, through the metal detector, hands up for the body search. The search was slow and deliberate. Every square inch of clothing was gone over, then a hand-held bomb detector was traced around them, as if checking their aura. Sniffer dogs were restrained on leashes. The uniformed guards were squeaky-clean, with chains and keys and ‘This way, sirs, this way, madams’.
Across the yard, another gate. Then down long white corridors that smelled sulphurous, almost. This way to hell, thought Fergus.
Bars caged off every doorway. The place was like a laboratory for experiments on rats.
Unlock, lock. They went through three more gates and they’d to leave all their things, including the watch belonging to Joe that Fergus wore, in a plastic tub that was put in a cubby-hole. But they let Mam keep the tart. They looked over every piece, prodding each with a knitting needle. ‘An exceedingly good pie, miss,’ one screw joked. Then they were led to a waiting room. There was a guard at the door and two other people waiting silently on a bench.
‘They let me keep the tart,’ Mam whispered, sitting down. ‘That’s a good sign.’
Fergus nodded. ‘If it makes Joey eat, they’ll be thrilled,’ he said, louder. His words hit the walls and died, echoless.
They waited. Mam’s head sank down as if in prayer. Fergus looked around him. The windows were paned with frosted glass, making the light in the room dull and strange, as if the outdoors belonged to another world. He thought of the mountain and Cora standing with her hands shielding the sun from her eyes and Felicity springing up from the cut like Olga Korbut and the mysterious figure of the child he’d named Mel, lying prone, awaiting a kind of resurrection.
‘Mrs McCann. Through here.’
A screw beckoned them. Mam grabbed Fergus by the arm. ‘They’re letting us in, Ferg. They’re letting us in to see him.’
They were taken down another white corridor, around a right-angle turn and down a long passageway and around another right angle and through another locked door, with the keys jingle-jangling and a fluorescent light blinking, and then into a long room. A line of visiting booths was divided by a glass-panelled partition.
They were brought to a table at the far end. They sat down and looked through the glass to the seat opposite. There was nobody there.
They waited again.
A visit was going on three tables down. The girl on the visitors’ side looked no older than sixteen.
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