Chapter 1 #3
“Oh, sure. There are cooties on some of this lot,” the fellow declared with a lopsided grin, having divined my thoughts. “But that blanket’s clean. Ye can smell the soap. And there’s no tellin’ when they’ll bring us a fresh batch.”
He was right. I could smell the abrasive stench of lye.
That and the cold stone at my back convinced me to risk it.
Though the moment I felt the blanket settle around my shoulders, my scalp began to itch.
It was undoubtedly from fear and not actual lice, for they couldn’t move that quickly, but it was all I could do not comb my fingers through my auburn Castle-bobbed tresses searching for the little buggers.
In any case, the scent of lye was preferable to that of some of the men around me, who reeked as if they hadn’t bathed in weeks.
I wondered how long some of them had been detained here, but I didn’t dare ask.
For one, I wasn’t sure I wanted to know, and such a question would only make me look like the stool pigeon.
Though an odd one, to be sure. Out of my periphery vision I could see some of the other prisoners sneaking looks at me.
“I’m Mick, by the by,” the man next to me said.
“Not the Mick, but near enough.” He chuckled at his own jest, clearly unaware that I was familiar with the Mick Collins—Britain’s enemy number one—and so I knew he was nothing like him.
At a glance, he was much too scrawny compared to Collins’s tall brawler’s frame.
Though I imagined him making light of the situation much as this fellow was.
I nodded in acknowledgment but still didn’t speak.
He eyed me with interest. “You’re bein’ quiet to a purpose, then.” He nodded, turning to look up and down the row at the other prisoners and then across the room at the four guards seated near the fire. The officer with the mustache had left. “Prolly wise.”
Though he seemed genuine, I was still leery of this being a ploy. After all, wouldn’t a stool pigeon who realizes his mark is aware of his existence say something similar to put them at ease?
“Let’s talk of anythin’ but ourselves and Ireland,” he suggested.
“All right,” I agreed, not relishing the idea of sitting here silently hour upon hour, waiting to see what would happen. A distraction would be most welcome. Though I would still have to take care with my words.
Just then, my stomach emitted a rather embarrassingly loud growl. I flushed, pressing a hand to it as Mick laughed.
“Sure, and it’s been a long time since my breakfast, too.” He announced, turning hopefully toward the guards.
“The mealtimes haven’t changed, Corcoran,” one of them replied quellingly, though his lips curled at one corner in amusement.
“Sure, but for the lady …” His voice was hopeful as he gestured toward me.
I shook my head. “I’m fine.”
“Fine? Ye sound like you’ve swallowed a tree cat!”
“A pine marten,” the man on my right explained in response to my alarmed expression. “They do have a distinctive growl when provoked.”
“I’m fine,” I insisted even as my stomach growled even louder. My face flamed.
The commander nodded to one of the other guards. “Go see if you can scrounge something up for Mrs. Kent.”
I drew breath to protest but then realized it would do no good.
Besides, I was hungry. The boxty Sidney had procured for us on our return from Mountjoy Jail had been consumed hours ago.
The potato pancake had also been the only thing I’d eaten in nearly twenty-four hours, and while at times I’d subsisted on less during the war, such a state was always less than ideal. Especially when coupled with no sleep.
One of the prisoners sighed. “We missed the barmbrack.”
This seemed to hold great significance for some of them as they ruminated on past Halloweens and whose mother’s recipe for the moist sweet bread speckled with raisins and sultanas was better.
Listening to them talk about the fortunetelling trinkets hidden inside—rings and coins and beans—reminded me of the cakes we’d always enjoyed on Twelfth Night.
In spite of our preoccupation with locating the phosgene the previous evening, I’d still been aware of the passage of Halloween.
Hollowed-out turnips with penny candles had decorated many a step and window, and children dressed in colorful clothing—most without shoes—had marched through the streets banging saucepan lids and tooting horns, demanding apples, nuts, and treats, their hair flecked with the salt people sprinkled them with to ward off evil spells.
The republicans with us had jested with the children and passed them bits and bobs of whatever they had in their pockets while Sidney doled out halfpennies.
The children had been a stark reminder of what was at stake if we’d failed to capture the phosgene and prevent it from being deployed, for many of those same shoeless children would inevitably have been among the crowd holding vigil at Kevin Barry’s execution the next morning.
I wanted to take comfort in knowing that at least that potential horror was over. But it was hard to do so when I knew another possible horror awaited me deeper inside the Castle.