This Mortal Boy Read online

  Johns tamps his pipe, his lower lip stuck out. ‘Was that your lady wife you were talking to the other night, Mr Cuttance?’

  Jack stares at him, a vein in his throat suddenly beginning to throb. ‘You listened to my conversation?’

  ‘I waited long enough to use the phone. I was standing right next to the booth and you didn’t seem to notice. Very affectionate, I thought, quite erotic in fact, all the things you’re planning to do to your lady.’

  The only sound in the room is Johns puffing on his re-ignited pipe. The smoke curls higher, drifting around their heads. Ken notices spittle running down the side of the banker’s mouth when he draws on the pipe, and the sight of it makes him feel sick.

  ‘I’ll have to go with guilty then,’ Jack Cuttance says. He doesn’t look at Arthur or Ken. His face is drained of colour. ‘I’ve my kids to think about.’

  ‘Good man, well then, we’re just about there,’ Taylor says. Ken finds himself shouting. ‘You didn’t listen. You didn’t hear anything except what you wanted to hear. You’re a bunch of narrow-minded bigots.’ And then it happens, the worst possible thing. His piss runs down the side of the chair; its smell, like citronella oil, mingles with the whole grubby atmosphere. ‘Not guilty,’ he says, his misery plain for all to see.

  ‘Not guilty,’ Arthur says. But somehow, his and Ken’s words are lost, as if they simply don’t exist in the room.

  Ken says, ‘Arthur, you can stop them.’ The faces he sees are implacable, their distaste and indifference clear, except in Cuttance who covers his face with his hands. Marcus is leaned so far over the table it’s impossible to see his expression. ‘So I’m a farm boy who’s pissed his pants. I piss you off because I disagree with you. It doesn’t mean you shouldn’t do the right thing.’

  Arthur puts his hand on his arm. ‘It’s no fault of yours. We can sit here for hours or days. Their minds are made up.’

  ‘You’ve changed your mind too. What is it? Your important job too?’ He can stand up for himself and hold his ground. But first he will have to change his pants. Perhaps he will be found unfit in his absence. It’s all over, he knows.

  Arthur hesitates and sighs. ‘Funnily enough, it might improve my standing, being the rogue juror, the man of principle. But it’s not going to change anything here. Ken, they were always going to find this man guilty. At best we can cause a hung jury, and the next jury might see it differently. Or not. I can’t deny that Black killed Jacques. Was he provoked? I think so. Was he defending himself? The witnesses say not. I believe it was manslaughter, but the judge isn’t having that. The best one can hope for is leniency.’

  Rita Zilich and her friends fall silent from their ceaseless twittering chatter as the jury is ushered into the courtroom for the last time. Only an hour and forty minutes has passed since they left. Another four minutes pass while they take their seats. The hushed quiet is broken momentarily by a crowd of girls who have rushed to the courthouse in their lunch break, two taxiloads of them. They smell of perfume and fish and chips, and hastily eaten egg sandwiches, the surreptitious sucking of Irish moss jubes. In the dock, Albert Black holds onto the railing in front of him, fingering it as if he were trying to read Braille.

  The judge asks James Taylor if the jury finds the defendant guilty or not guilty of murder.

  ‘Guilty, your Honour.’

  Paddy sways forward so that Des Ball, standing on one side of him, and a court attendant on the other, have to step up and take his arms to support him.

  ‘Have you anything you wish to say?’ the judge asks.

  After a few moments while he composes himself, Paddy says in a calm, flat voice, ‘Nothing to say, sir.’

  Mr Justice Finlay, his long patrician face grim, lifts the black cap, which is not a black cap at all but a square of black fabric, and places it on the top of his wig. There is a moment when he fumbles it, arranging it so that one point falls towards his face. ‘You have heard the verdict of the jury,’ he says. ‘The sentence of this court, therefore, is that you will be taken from here to the place from whence you came and there be kept in close confinement until the date yet to be confirmed of your execution, and upon that day you be taken to the place of execution and there hanged by the neck until you are dead. And may God have mercy upon your soul.’

  In the silence, the palpable perfumed silence of the courtroom, Paddy turns and stumbles to the trapdoor leading to the cell below. At the back of the court the pale girl who has sat throughout the trial, her eyes following every movement of the unfolding events, begins to sob, her cries becoming louder, until an attendant ushers her away.

  The sun is brilliant in the sky as the jury enters the light, leaving the court behind them. They have been excused jury service for seven years. Most of them hope they will never be back, or so they say, as they walk out beneath the pale green of the spring trees. Some shake hands before they disperse, promising to see each other before long. Ken turns to leave, his sodden trousers cold against his leg. Arthur holds out his hand to him and Ken takes it.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Ken says. ‘If it weren’t for me.’

  ‘No, not you. I gave you my word. When it came to the point I could see no hope at all. I kept telling myself Black might be spared. There’s sure to be an appeal, a bit of hue and cry. You should get along home, put it behind you.’

  ‘You listened to me. That’s something, I suppose.’ Ken’s voice is cool.

  ‘I’m as sorry as you.’

  ‘Are you? I’ve never met an educated man before. I didn’t know what to expect.’

  ‘I’m no different from you. I had opportunities, that’s all,’ Arthur says. He has taken a small notepad and a pencil from the breast pocket of his jacket. His shoes glint in the sunlight as he scribbles down a phone number.

  Ken has begun to shiver in his trousers, despite the warmth of the sun on their backs. ‘Opportunities aren’t for everyone.’

  ‘You could still make some. Carpe diem, Kenneth, my friend. It means seize the day.’

  ‘You think better of me than I deserve,’ Ken says. He is mocking the man now, though Arthur is oblivious to his undertone.

  ‘The university calendar for next year should be out any day.’ Arthur hands Ken the piece of paper. ‘Ring me if you think I can help.’ He turns on his heel, walking away towards the university. In a peculiar way, Ken wants to laugh. It occurs to him that he is no better and no worse than the lecturer. As he heads towards the bus stop, he tears the piece of paper into little pieces and dumps them in a bin.

  In the van with its darkened windows, Albert and Des sit in silence. Des doesn’t know it yet, but when he gets home his wife and children will be gone. He will understand soon enough that Marge has taken as much as she can and she isn’t going to take it anymore. It will surprise him to learn that she knows when trouble is coming, that she can read the signs from the stories in the newspapers and put two and two together. He will wish with all his soul that he had trusted her more with the grief that lies in his heart, the things he has seen. When the vehicle stops at intersections, trams clattering past make the only sounds. School is coming out for the day and children’s high voices can be heard. The van moves on, back towards the prison. Then, in the gloom, Albert begins to sing, his voice tentative at first, but rising and filling the van:

  Wallflower, wallflower, growing up

  so high

  All the little children are all

  going-to die

  Except for Albert Black — he’s the

  only one

  He can dance, he can sing

  He can dance, he can do the swing

  Fie for shame! Fie for shame!

  Turn your back to the wall again.

  ‘Shut up, Black,’ Des shouts. ‘Shut the fuck up or I’ll smash you.’

  Paddy stops just long enough to say, ‘Have you always been a cold crackers, Mr Ball? Have you never lived? You’d best make the most of it, you never know when your time will come.’

 
Later, in the long night that lies ahead of him, Des will think that the Irish boy has the second sight.

  And Paddy’s voice carries on, relentless in the dark, as the gates open to let the van through and they are back at the prison again.

  Fie for shame! Fie for shame!

  Turn your back to the wall again.

  Rita’s mother looks at her daughter as if she doesn’t altogether recognise her. She has sat up late, waiting for her. It is close to morning.

  ‘Rita,’ she whispers, ‘what have you done?’

  ‘I didn’t mean for this to happen.’

  ‘Did you lie to that court?’

  ‘I don’t know, Mum. It’s the way I remember it.’

  ‘You’re soiled goods.’

  ‘I know. I’ll make it up to you, I’ll stay home. Let you find me a nice boy.’

  ‘If your father and I can. And what of the boy who is to die?’

  Rita is wordless, her eyes suddenly full of tears. ‘He was a nice enough boy, Mum. Not a bad boy.’

  ‘May God forgive you, Rita,’ her mother says.

  CHAPTER 20

  And it is Sunday morning and her husband wants her to lie in the bed with him.

  ‘It’s the drink talking,’ Kathleen says. ‘Sure and you came in late last night.’ The sheet, raw against her cheek, needs washing, but each wash day that comes around the mist has descended, bowling in from the Black Mountain, and she will decide to leave them for another time.

  He pulls her against him, and deep in his chest she hears the rattle of his sob. ‘What’s a man to do?’ he says. ‘For a while I forgot.’ His hand runs up the length of her thigh and there was a time when she would have welcomed it, the two of them making boys together.

  ‘I can’t forget,’ she says, ‘not for a moment. I haven’t slept the past week.’

  ‘Kathleen, I know that,’ he says, and she feels the agonised clench of his fingers beneath her ribcage before he releases her.

  ‘There’s Daniel’s breakfast to be got.’ She is easing herself out of the bed, holding the wall for support. A narrow room in the thin house, two up, two down, and cheek by jowl with all the others in Gay Street that runs off Sandy Row.

  ‘You’re going to do it then?’ he says, his voice quiet now.

  ‘Get his breakfast, yes of course. You don’t want the boy to go hungry.’

  ‘The other thing? That you talked about. The idea that you had the other night?’

  Kathleen turns to face her husband as she draws on her petticoat, takes a print dress from its hanger and slips it over her head, before choosing her best cardigan, a mauve one knitted in blackberry stitch. Oh yes, and it reminds her of the times when she and the boy took a bucket and walked in the fields beyond the city belt, finding blackberries wild on the bramble, the luscious squelch of the juice running down their chins, the way the kid scrambled laughing amongst the vines as if he didn’t feel the thorns because he wanted to please her. Showing off a bit, she supposed at the time, but what did it matter, happy as a thimbleful of sunshine. That was him, her little Albert, with the blue cotton hat that she’d sewn herself pulled over his hair, black and glossy like the ripe berries, his skin the colour of milk, and now he is a grown man on the other side of the world, gone off to make his fortune. Some fortune.

  ‘Boil me a mug of water and I’ll take to the whiskers,’ says Bert.

  ‘You’re coming with me then?’

  ‘Aye. Get the boy ready.’ He sees the expression on her face. ‘He’ll have to get used to it, it’s been in the newspaper. It was spoken of in the hotel last night.’

  ‘How?’ she asks. ‘In what manner did they speak of it?’ She hasn’t shown her face in the street these past few days. The disgrace scorches her cheeks.

  ‘They shook my hand. They said they were way sorry about it all.’

  ‘But what did they say about young Albert?’

  ‘A good lad, that’s what they said. Your boy wouldn’t stop a snail on its morning walk. We know that, that’s what they said.’

  ‘We will have to tell Daniel, then. And him only ten. His brother, the murderer.’

  ‘You don’t believe that.’

  ‘That’s what they believe in New Zealand. The judge has put on the black hat. To hang him by the neck until he’s dead.’

  ‘I’ll see to that,’ he says, ‘while you’re putting out the breakfast. I’ll speak to Daniel.’

  And, for a moment, it doesn’t seem so terrible, now that she and her husband are together on this. There is hope in the air, and when she glimpses the light outside she sees that it is a blue morning, a torrent of sunlight flooding across the houses below Boyne Bridge.

  Kathleen takes out the fat pad of paper she has been hiding in the lower drawer of the tallboy. The pages are flimsy, etched with faint blue lines. The pad has cost her a whole shilling, the price of a steak. It is a big hope that it might be filled with names but it’s worth a try. Anything is worth it, and the three of them, she, her husband and Daniel, the small boy born late to them, all that remain of their family, are off to St George’s where they will stand at the door after morning service and hold out this pad of paper to the members of the congregation as they file past, full of the blood of Christ, and ask for their mercy, ask them to sign the petition she has written out, imploring the faraway Government of New Zealand that the life of her son might be spared. She imagines the names, soaring across the pages: there are forty lines to a page and fifty sheets of paper. God willing, she will need more pads, and they will starve rather than go without all the paper that might be needed.

  She dons her hat, a blue felt with a pheasant feather tucked in the ribbon, and pulls on her coat, for autumn is on them now, the sly sun now slinking between the clouds, but it has no warmth. Her husband is dressed in his white shirt and good suit that has seen better days, but what would he wear but that, for church, and on the days of the Orange Parade. She braces her shoulders as they step out along Sandy Row, tilts her chin up, eyes ahead. Clodagh calls out, ‘Good morning to you, Kathleen, good morning, Bert, and how is the wee man today?’

  Kathleen stiffens, but it is Daniel her neighbour is asking after. He has been home from school the past week with a cold while she is away at work in Jennymount Mill, where every weekday she smooths out the beautiful flax cloth cascading out of the big machine, its surface texture riffled like cream half churned. She is ashamed to have thought the worst of her neighbour, who keeps an eye on the boy so that Kathleen doesn’t miss a day’s work. There are plenty more lining up for the jobs, and the industry is going out the way of the tide. Clodagh has stiffened with age in the years they have lived in Sandy Row, her joints thick with rheumatism, the feet so swollen and crusty, the skin so split, she wears slippers all day.

  ‘He is very much recovered thank you, Clodagh. And yourself?’

  Clodagh folds her hands over her large waist. ‘I’d like to be getting along to my own church today, but I can’t make it. Will you say one for me, Kathleen?’

  And before she can stop herself, Kathleen’s face is streaming with tears. Bert takes her arm as if to move her along.

  ‘It’s all right, let her have her cry,’ Clodagh says, nodding her head. ‘We’ve heard about your troubles. We know about the young one that went over the sea. He was a good lad. I remember wee Albert, he’d go a message for me without asking for a penny.’

  There is no time like the present, and Kathleen opens her purse, pulling out the pad and the pencil. Across the first page she has written the words: A petition to the Government of New Zealand to have mercy on our son Albert Black and not to send him to the gallows.

  ‘Would you be willing to put your name here, Clodagh?’ she asks.

  And in a minute, there it is, the first name, Clodagh McGuire, Sandy Row, Belfast.

  But there is more, for Clodagh puts her hand in the pocket of her vast apron. ‘I’d been watching out for you, Kathleen,’ she says, and takes out a coin that she presses into the p
alm of Kathleen’s hand. ‘It’s the lucky coin that Uncle Niall brought back from the Somme. It was a new penny when he first got it, with a glow like firelight dancing on its face, he told me, he knew it had to be a lucky one. May it keep you safe.’

  Kathleen stares at the polished penny, and it still has that deep, dark glow upon it, as Clodagh says, its date 1916, the same year as the Battle of the Somme. It bears the words King Edward, King of England and Defender of the Faith. 1916. That battle when two thousand and more men from the 36th Ulster Division walked into the blinding death of enemy gunfire, and another five thousand wounded and the men who came back never the same. Thousands of houses in the Shankill where the women waited with dread for the postman’s knock and the pale buff-coloured envelope bearing the news. Whole families of boys gone at once. And yet they were proud, proud to be Protestant Ulstermen, wearing their Orange sashes on the Twelfth.

  ‘Thank you,’ Kathleen whispers, the words stuck in her throat. For it was not just the Orange men who had fallen but men from the Falls as well. Brothers in arms. Perhaps things will be all right after all.

  Her husband is beckoning her, impatient now. Young Daniel hurries on ahead, jumping puddles as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Kathleen thinks to herself that whatever his father said to him hasn’t sunk in. He is still a child and already the memory of his brother is blurring. They hurry along towards the town, past the terraced houses, the barbers’ shops, the grocers’, the haberdashery with a mannequin posed in the window, chaste in a loose dress that drops beneath the knee, the hardware shops, the pubs. Many pubs, closed for Sunday, just the proprietors sweeping the fronts where the cigarette butts landed, and a rising smell of spew on account of patrons who hadn’t held their beer, and then they cross Boyne Bridge. But the penny which Kathleen still clasps reminds her of the Twelfth, and the last time young Albert was there for the Parade.

  She hears again the skirl of bagpipes, the flutes and the drums, sees the arches erected over the streets, hung with orange bunting and flags of the Empire. Perhaps it was this that had driven him away, she thinks. On the day of that last Parade he seemed to have lost some of the Ulster spirit, as if he wanted to break away, be his own self. Could he be right, that the difference between the two faiths is not as important as they have been taught all those years?