The Magdalen Martyrs (20 page)

“Jack . . . here . . . sorry I didn’t get down sooner.”

Passed me a Dunne’s bag, added,

“I didn’t want the young crowd to see these.”

And he was gone.

I couldn’t recall his name. The face had a vague familiarity, but I couldn’t say from when. Opened the bag: cigs and lighter, sandwiches, bottle of Paddy.

Wilfred Scawen Blunt was a prisoner in Galway Jail in 1888. He noted that in the jail:

There had been a pleasant feeling . . . between the prisoners and warders, due to the fact that they . . . were much of the same class, peasants born with the same natural ideas, virtues, vices and weaknesses.

From
The Women of Galway Jail
by Geraldine Curtin.

I rationed the whiskey, taking small sips, enough to ease me down. Held off on a cigarette till the artificial calm had begun. Then lit one. Ah . . . the hit. . . Was even able to contemplate the sandwiches. Not actually eat but at least consider the proposition. Stowed everything under the pillow.

When a young guard came to check, he eyed me suspiciously. If he’d come in to search, I’d have fought him. At least I think I would. Rattled his keys and marched off.

My cellmate began to stir. A series of groans, then he began to carefully sit up. Alcohol reeked from his pores. He was in his late forties, with receding hairline, a ruddy face and slight build. Wearing jeans and a sweatshirt. All Calvin Klein labels. I’d noticed when I had to turn him. He gingerly raised his head, and I could tell it hurt. He asked,

“Who are you?”

“Jack Taylor.”

“Are you my solicitor?”

“No.”

He shuffled his body, trying to find a position that didn’t ache, then,

“You’ve a suit. . . are you here to talk to me?”

“No . . . I’m nicked like you.”

“Oh.”

I waited a bit, asked,

“What would help?”

“Help?”

“Yes, right now . . . what do you need?”

“A drink.”

“OK.”

Offered the bottle. He stared in jaw-dropping amazement, said,

“It’s a trick.”

“No, it’s Paddy.”

A fit of the shakes walloped him. I found an empty cup, poured a small amount in, said,

“Use both hands.”

He did. Managed to get it in his mouth, then near convulsed as the liquid went down. I said,

“Wait and see if you’re going to be sick. Sometimes the first makes you sick enough so that the second can stay.”

He nodded as rivers of sweat broke out on his face. A few minutes and the storm passed. I could see the physical change as his body grasped at the treacherous help. He held out the cup, only a slight tremor, asked,

“May I?”

“Take it easy. This has to get us through the night.”

Poured him another, asked,

“Cig?”

Shook his head in wonder, said,

“Jesus, who are you?”

“Nobody . . . a nobody in deep shit.”

“Me, too.”

During the endless sessions of rosaries and prayers at the
Magdalen, in the days before it finally closed, the girls thought of but one thing: they thought of a day when they’d be able to have a space to breathe and associate beads with something other than punishment. When they finally left the laundry, the deliverance never truly came as, to a person, for the rest of their days, they’d link the rosary to torture.

His accent was Dublin. I’d done enough duty there to know it. I
said,

“Southside?”

“Yes . . . are you a Dub?”

“No.”

He mopped at his brow, said,

“It’s my first time in Galway.”

“How do you like it so far?”

He smiled, more due to the cure than anything else, said,

“I’m Danny Flynn.”

“So . . . what did you do, Danny?”

A bewildered light in his eyes, he said,

“I don’t know. I came down for a stag night. . . in Quay Street . . . you know?”

“I know it.”

“Jeez, I’m forty-six, I’m too old for stag parties, too old for this.”

I brought out the sandwiches, said,

“Feel up to some food?”

“What you’ve got there . . . a shop? No thanks. I haven’t
eaten for days. I remember going into Freeney’s. I can remember the name and then . . . zip. I’ve had blackouts before. You know what they are?”

“Oh, yeah. I’ve lost some years myself.”

“I’ve tried all the ways to stop. I go for a time on the dry, then bang.”

He said,

“I could manage a cigarette now.”

How could I let it slide, said,

“That’s the beast . . . accuse it of malice.”

I gave him the cigarette, the lighter, and he said,

“Yeah, fucking right.”

I yawned and said,

“I’m going to see if I can grab a few hours. Why don’t you try, too.”

I passed over the bottle, said,

“Take it slow, maybe sneak up on sleep.”

“Thanks, Jack.”

I lay on my back, fatigue flowing over me. I was about to nod off when,

“Jack?”

“Yeah.”

“This is going to sound strange.”

“I can do strange.”

He gave a laugh, said,

“I’m not sure I can say it right.”

“Just spit it out. Nobody here keeping score.”

“OK, here goes. I feel safe, isn’t that nuts? I mean, I’m in jail, with a stranger, facing God knows what trouble, but I don’t have the sense of dread that I usually have.”

“Probably the whiskey.”

“No, booze makes me numb. Not numb enough to cancel the fear, alas. Here, the last hour or so, I’m OK.”

“Enjoy it.”

“What?”

“If you have some peace, grab it for all it’s worth. My trouble has always been, if I got some grace, I analysed it to death.”

“I’ll do that. Good night, Jack.”

“Yeah.”

Much more and we’d have sounded like a jailhouse
Waltons.

I was woken by the cell door being unlocked by a guard with a tray; took me a minute to orientate. Not that I think you can ever do that in a cell. It’s going to be a constant shock. He said,

“Court at nine.”

I nodded. On the tray were tea, porridge and toast. Could be worse. I tried some, then it dawned on me.

Where was Danny’s tray? Where was Danny?

His bunk was rolled up, no sign of occupancy. How early had they moved him, and why hadn’t he woken me? I looked under my pillow. The whiskey was there and half full. Checked my pockets, found the cigarettes and lighter. I couldn’t figure it, but this was my first jail time, how much could I know?

When the guard came back, I asked,

“What happened to Danny?”

“Who?”

I indicated his bunk, said,

“The other guy . . . he’s from Dublin.”

He stared at me, asked,

“Are you in the jigs?”

“No, I’m serious. He was here. Maybe you weren’t on duty.”

He continued to stare, then,

“I don’t know what your problem is. You’ve had the cell to yourself. In the book, it’s down as single occupancy.”

Then a bitter laugh.

“If it was the weekend, you’d be jammed to the rafters.”

I let it go. So they were fucking with my head, had to be. I recalled the priest, Fr Tom, at the cathedral. The nun telling me, there was no such person. Was this a similar deal, my mind finally gone? Played it over and over till two guards appeared, said,

“Time to go.”

I didn’t mention Danny.

I’d expected to be brought in the prison van. They used the squad car. The court was busy. Barristers, guards, clerks milling about. I was brought into the court, placed beside a line of subdued men. Ages ranged from late teens to me. Nobody spoke and there was no sense of brothers in adversity. A man detached himself from the other side of the room, strolled over. He had to be a barrister; it leaked from him. He leaned over the rail, asked,

“Jack Taylor?”

I nodded, and he said,

“Brian Casey. I’m representing you.”

Before I could answer, the judge entered and proceedings began. I was number three on the docket. When I was called, the judge listened to the charge.

“Assault and battery. Wilful destruction of public property. Reckless endangerment.”

The guards objected to bail. Hearing that, my stomach churned. The thought of not getting out was terrifying. My barrister squared up, said,

“My client is well known in the community, with deep roots
and ties to his home town. He has been mentioned many times in the local press for his service to the city.”

He droned on about my outstanding character. I had no idea who he was talking about.

The judge finally cut him off, set a trial date for three months hence and granted bail on a large warranty. Then he called,

“Next.”

Carey came over, all smiles, said,

“That’s it.”

“But the bail?”

“I’ve been instructed to take care of that. Off you go. I’ll be in touch.”

I had a ton of questions but most wanted to get the hell away from there. I couldn’t believe I was actually free. Outside the courthouse, I lit a cig, my hands trembling. Began to move down the steps, heard,

“Morning, Jack.”

Leaning against one of the pillars was Kirsten. Dressed in a navy blue power suit. Dressed for business. She walked towards me, said,

“Come on, I’ll buy you breakfast.”

All my previous resolutions vanished. A night in jail makes you grab for any warmth, and she sure sounded warm. I said,

“Sure.”

Went to a new place in Woodquay. The owner was Italian, seemed thrilled to see us, went,

“Buon giorno.”

Kirsten grimaced, said,

“Whatever.”

He ushered us to a window table, beamed,

“Watch the world go by.”

Kirsten touched my hand, said,

“You’ll need something substantial.”

“Bail was substantial enough.”

She turned to the man, said,

“Espresso, twice.”

Then she released my hand, asked,

“Was it . . . what’s the term . . . hard time?”

“I think I hallucinated.”

“Wonderful. See anything interesting?”

As if I’d been to the movies, I said,

“What it was, was sad.”

“Did you mark the days off on the wall, pin up girlie photos?”

“You arranged the lawyer?”

“And bail.”

“I owe you.”

She ran her hand through her hair, then,

“You owe me big time.”

No denying that.

The coffee came. She took a sip, said,

“Mmmmm, authentic.”

I reached for my cigs, and she said,

“Light two.”

“You’re smoking now?”

“I like to revisit all my vices.”

She took one drag, stubbed it out, said,

“The guy you hit, I know him.”

“Oh.”

“A little pressure and he could be persuaded to drop the charges.”

“I doubt if he will.”

She tilted her head, said,

“You really don’t understand how things work, do you,Jack?”

“Probably not.”

She tapped a fingernail against her cup. Light enamel on the nail caught the reflection from the window. She asked,

“You know what a cluster fuck is, Jack?”

As before, the ease with which she swore took me blindside. I had to wait a moment before I answered.

“I could take a guess.”

“I thought you might. In case you’re not sure, it’s what you get when you piss off a group of powerful people. You seem to have a knack of doing that. Tourism is a vital part of our city’s income, and if you dredge up past shame, you throw a shadow over the whole deal.”

I drank some of the coffee. She was right, it was great. I asked,

“How did you know I was in jail?”

“The grapevine. I thought you’d need help.”

“Let me see if I have it right. If I drop certain investigations . . . the Magdalen, yours . . . I’ll be all right.”