Shandy and two men Dunn didn’t know were playing cards. The air was thick with smoke, their jackets were on the back of their chairs. He knocked on the PO’s door. Bolton emerged in pyjamas, his glasses on, a book in his hand, his thumb guarding the page.
‘Yes Sir, just come off the white sheet and it’s my first time on night duty. Not sure what’s required.’
‘Do you not play cards?’
‘I didn’t bring any money with me.’
‘Well, I’m not going to lend you any. Good night.’
In the mess, Shandy put his pile of money under a cup and placed it precisely between two cracks in the laminate surface of the table then he pulled a hair from his head and placed it under the rim of the cup. He took Dunn over to A wing.
‘No one in B wing. Being cleaned. Your man Dougal’s on C and D wings. That’s the shaggy-haired monster of a man in there with us playing poker.’
He unlocked the gate, locked it behind them, opened the next, locked that and they were standing in the wing. There was a plastic-seated chair.
‘You park your arse there, Johnno. From ten until seven. Every hour, on the hour, you peg.’ He followed Shandy to the end of the corridor where there was a simple red button. ‘You press that, on the hour, every hour. That’s pegging. That way they know you’re awake. You’re supposed to look in on the prisoners too,’ he said, walking up to the slit in the cell door that was like the sight in a knight’s helmet. ‘I never do. They’re not going anywhere. When it’s me I bring in a transistor radio and an earpiece. That way I don’t have to hear them going on.’
He looked through the grille towards the circle, swayed a little and put a hand on Dunn’s shoulder. Standing underneath the single hanging bulb, Dunn smelt the booze on his breath; the tail end of drink deteriorating made Shandy look lovesick.
‘Listen, Johnno, there aren’t many of us who sit there the whole night through. What I do is to swap a bit with the fella on control room and whoever else is about. We carve up the evening between us, take turns to check on that lot, but mostly we play cards, watch a bit of telly, have a nap, and sometimes cook a bit of a dinner up. What you do is up to you and you’re the new boy so you’ll want to play by the rules.’
‘What about the pegging?’
‘They understand if it’s not done right. They’ve got a very relaxed attitude to these blocks, Johnno. They’re just glad it’s not them working here. Anyway. I’ll leave you to it. Night-night,’ and he took the keys from his pocket and handed them to Dunn.
Dunn looked at his watch, five to ten. He’d start the pegging at ten. He sat down. He heard the sounds of the men shifting in their cells. He felt conspicuous to himself. Like the one time he’d seen his son. There he was in his car, windscreen wipers making two rounded triangles of vision one of them squawking, the other moaning, going at each other like Punch and Judy, Curshtebong, curshtebong, enough to give him a second of sight, enough to see the boy nip up and down, in and out of the alleyways and front paths of the semis on New Street. Then back to the milk float, ducking in, too tall for his costume, too tall for the Noddy milk float; too tall for his boy’s face, a minute at the clipboard, easing along a few yards, and drawing to a halt again. Doing the job right.
That was two years ago now. He had driven away thinking that Mark
Wilson probably was his son.
At ten p.m., Dunn went to the button. As he made back to his chair he heard the sudden whoosh and splish-splash of every man pouring out his pot through the keyholes. He stood still, with urine now seeping out from under the doors and running in pools, amassing around the soles of his shoes.
‘What the fuck?’ There was no reply.
‘Is this for my benefit?’
There was no reply, and then some comment. A final splash.
As he made his way back up the corridor, the bottoms of his wet trousers clung to his ankles. He heard footsteps and saw Shandy coming between the grilles with a pair of Wellington boots in his hand and a squeegee in the other.
‘They’ve all gone and pissed at the same time, it’s come underneath the doors. I’m soaked.’
Seeing the look on Dunn’s face Shandy laughed. ‘It’s not a special welcome for you, they do it every night. Here take these.’
‘It’s bloody disgusting.’
‘I should have given you this lot before. Put the boots on at any rate. We squeegee the piss back under the doors.’
‘What every night?’
‘Aye that’s the game, Johnno, tit for tat. They build wee dams out of bread or what-have-you so sometimes you can’t get it back in. Just push it down and out the back door. Whatever you do though, don’t leave it lying about. We had a chap did that once. Cuts your eyes in the morning when you walk in, the urine does. Your man says to us, they slopped out twice, caught me short. In that cell there, the streaker says to me, at breakfast, first time he’s ever spoken to me, it’s not true we slopped out twice. See they don’t want it lying around either. Mr Rabbit put something of his own making into that fella’s sandwich box. He got the message. So to speak.’ Shandy slapped him on the back as he went. ‘So slop out like the good fella y’are!’
Holding on to the chair, Dunn took each shoe off and put on the boots, then he went up the corridor, pushing the squeegee. It smelt very strongly and he had a lump of phlegm in his throat and his eyes were stinging. As he mopped, he thought of Mr Rabbit and there came to mind a boy at school who gave him a hard time, calling him ‘pikey’, stuffing bogeys or scabs in his lunch, putting his shit in envelopes and hiding them inside Dunn’s desk or satchel. Getting the others to give him a pounding on the way home. He’d joined the boy’s gang. Been pleased to be in it.
He stopped. Fall in, cop out. He was half-way down the corridor and he could hear two men talking heatedly in Irish and then laughing together.
Frig had been talking that morning about a prison officer who’d had ‘oral sex with a handgun’. ‘What, he killed himself? Why?’ Dunn had asked. Frig shrugged. He didn’t know. It was obvious.
He checked his watch and pressed the peg when he got to the end. Eleven o’clock. He went back to the chair. They could not see him. He could not see them. The doors were locked. He decided to go back beyond the two grilles. It made no sense but that was what he decided to do. He’d need to open up the grilles every time he went to peg but so be it. He shuffled the chair back a yard or so. He could hear muted chat from the mess, the door was closed.
A hubbub arose from the wing, the moment they heard the grilles locked; they thought he’d gone, there was some talking then laughter. The noise grew until one voice overtook the others. O’Malley started off speaking in Jailic and there was a round of clapping as he mentioned the name of Sean Moran. Moran had just come off the boards. McIlvenny started up in faltering Irish and English.
Dunn put his head forward to listen. He checked behind him – the door to the mess was still closed.
McIlvenny was being encouraged to find the Irish words by shouts from other cells but for the most part he spoke in English. He was reading out a letter to them and assigning their duties by cell.
‘Seamy and Seamy.’
‘Aye.’
‘You’re on for writing to the television and journalists. Liam and
Calum, the Free State politicians.’
‘Aye.’
And so he continued, gathering assent from twenty-two cells, forty-three men. A few questions were asked in Irish concerning the content of the letter itself and if McIlvenny couldn’t follow, O’Malley would put in a word in English. There was some comment made and O’Malley replied slowly in Irish and then in English, ‘It is a combination of different assaults that wins a war.’
When McIlvenny closed some sporadic applause followed. Dunn noted that it was nearly twelve. He didn’t move to peg.
‘What else have yous for us tonight, Gerard?’ O’Malley called out.
‘Seany here’s going to give us another song.’
There was a roar of laughter and banging of piss pots. One of them started singing in falsetto. ‘Do you know the way to San José . . .’ and the laughter redoubled.
‘Am I fuck,’ said Sean Moran. ‘Gerard here’s going to give you a full account of his experience with women.’
There were too many cries at the same time; all were jumping at the easy set-up.
‘All right, all right’ said Gerard. ‘Thanks for the vote of confidence lads; I’ve got two wee boys to prove I managed the job twice. Well, if Moran won’t sing, will I do The Godfather?’
‘I’ve got a song,’ Moran called out. ‘It’s a Christy Moore!’ There was clapping, and whistling, a lot of chatter and one person kept shouting the same thing over and over again in Irish, determined it would catch on. Then a single piss pot was banged loudly and won out after a time. McIlvenny demanded quiet, O’Malley shouted out an Irish response to the repetitive demand, and then they were mostly quiet.
‘All right,’ said Moran. ‘Here we go then.’
‘Go on,’
‘Ready?’
‘Get going, Seany.’
‘As I roved out on a bright May morning
To view the meadows and flowers gay
Whom should I spy but my own true lover
As she sat under yon willow tree.’
When his voice took up the ballad it was thin and modest but as the words and meaning gathered momentum, so did his feeling for the song and his voice trembled with the timbre of another man’s regret.
‘Now at nights when I go to my bed of slumber
The thoughts of my true love run in my mind
When I turned around to embrace my darling
Instead of gold sure it’s brass I find.’
‘And I wish the Queen would call home her army
From the West Indies, Amerikay and Spain
And every man to his wedded woman
In hopes that you and I will meet again.’
There was a moment of silence.
‘Good job, Sean!’ called out the old man from the bottom cell and this was followed with various commendations and abuse.
It occurred to Dunn that Moran was the same age as his son Mark. He sang like a man on the threshold of belonging; quavering, faulty, tender, sincere.
Dunn had to do the peg and he opened the first grille and closed it, then opened the next. All about him the men fell quiet, waiting for him to be gone again. He stepped softly along the corridor in the Wellington boots, thwock-thwock, the wet-socked interloper.
After he closed the second grille once more, the voices started pitterpatter here and there, now in English, now in Irish. There was something ghastly about it; it was like listening to the voices of men who’d died together, trapped in the hull of a boat or in a building on fire, hundreds of years ago. He couldn’t hear what was being said, just heard the shimmering sibilance of their voices. Even though he was warmly dressed, it was too cold to nod off. It was no wonder they talked into the night, the low voice next door comforting like a coal fire.
When he got up to do the one o’clock peg, he heard a man say, ‘Snoring,’ and there was a lull, but before he locked the grille, the noise had resumed.