CATHY WAS DELIGHTED when she recieved Buster’s letter. It had been a long time since anyone, either in the written word or verbally, had asked her how she was. Buster had also used phrases like ‘I hope you are as beautiful as ever’, which made her feel like a teenager once again. She read his letter at the breakfast table, alone. Mick had not returned home from his late shift. Again. She read it to herself first, then she read it aloud to Pamela. Cathy’s baby daughter smiled and gurgled in the right places, and when Cathy finished reading, Pamela frowned and began to cry, so Cathy read it again, and again. Until eventually Pamela drifted off to sleep with Buster Brady’s words ringing in her ears.
Pamela’s birth had made no difference at all to Cathy’s relationship with Mick. Cathy no longer fooled herself that she was in a real marriage or that Mick would ever be anything other than the bastard he was. But where could she go? What could she do? It had certainly crossed her mind on some days to just pack up everything and move herself and Pamela back to Dublin to her mother’s. But then she would recall her best friend Cathy Dowdall and the harrowing years she had had in her late teens trying to support herself and her child alone. So the thought of leaving would quickly vanish from her mind. Instead she kept a good home and poured all of her energies and attention into Pamela. While Pamela was sleeping, Cathy tidied the kitchen and then sat down at the table and replied to Buster’s letter. She began to tell Buster of the state of affairs between herself and Mick. It was the first time she had ever told anyone what was going on and when the letter was posted she felt strangely lighter. Cathy O’Leary knew she was trapped. She knew she couldn’t change Mick O’Leary. She knew she couldn’t change circumstances. She knew the first thing that had to change was Cathy O’Leary and with an infant child she wasn’t ready for that change. Not yet.
* * *
The C-block supervisor gave permission for Dermot to walk Buster down to the administration building. It was March 24th, Buster’s release day. They strolled together slowly towards the building, Buster carrying a nylon bag containing the meagre belongings he was taking home with him. Dermot walked by his side, his hands in his pockets. When they reached the door of the admin. building, and Dermot could go no farther, they stopped. The two men turned to face each other. Dermot looked down on his chubby little best friend. He was about to speak when the admin. door opened and the new arrivals for the day were bustled through. Dermot and Buster looked at the new boys arriving.
‘Same old faces, they just keep coming back,’ Dermot said flatly.
‘Yeh. But it won’t be me, Dermo. I’m never coming back.’
They looked at each other again.
‘I hope not, Buster. Look, when I get out of here …’ Dermot began. ‘Well, yeh know.’ Dermot began to shuffle his feet.
‘Dermo, I’ll be outside that gate waiting for yeh. I will!’ Buster’s eyes were filling up.
‘Sure, don’t I know you will, Buster,’ Dermot slapped Buster on the shoulder. ‘Now, go on, get the hell out of here.’ Dermot turned and began to walk away.
‘Dermo?’ Buster called.
Dermot turned.
‘Can I write to you?’ Buster asked.
‘You’d better or I’ll kill you when I get out,’ Dermot replied with a smile. The two men burst into that laughter of sadness that only parting friends can know.
That evening as he queued for his food in Mountjoy Prison, Dermot wasn’t in the humour for conversation, but he had little choice. One of the new arrivals recognised him. Dermot wanted to tell him to shut the fuck up and allow him to just pick up his food and get back to his cell to eat his dinner in peace. But Dermot also knew that feeling of ‘just in’ and how sometimes the only way to relieve the nerves was to talk and talk. So he let the man go on. Little of what the guy was saying was of any interest to Dermot but he feigned attention. Until the man said, ‘Oh yeh, by the way an old friend of yours croaked it!’
This got Dermot’s interest. ‘Croaked it? Died, like?’
‘Yeh, overdosed on heroin!’ The man now spoke with the relish a gossip has in the knowledge that he is imparting fresh news.
‘A friend of mine? Who?’
‘Your woman from Townsend Street. What’s her name? Eh … Mary Carter! Yeh, that’s it, Mary Carter.’
Dermot instantly dropped his tray. He pushed the man aside, turned around and began to make his way unsteadily back to his cell. As he reached the top of the stairs of his own landing he threw up. Father Gibney spent that night with Dermot in his cell, the young prison chaplain listening through massive sobs to the outpourings of guilt and regret from a broken young man.