The Hunger Within Read online

  “What’s her problem?” asks Bronwyn, once Mary has left.

  “Bron, I need to ask a favour,” says Rose in a small voice, dismissing Bronwyn’s question about Mary’s sudden departure. “I need some things, I’m staying at Connor’s, my mum…” She tails off. “I don’t know what happened; she hit me though. I don’t think I can go home.”

  “You’re staying at Connor’s?” Bronwyn looks between them. “Is that a good idea?”

  Rose and Connor shrug simultaneously, and Bronwyn shakes her head. Do they not know that it was their relationship that got Connor shot in the first place? Neither of them deigns to answer her. “I’ll get your stuff and bring it round to Connor’s. You just write me the address and it’ll be there.” She waits while Rose finds a pen and an old envelope in her bag. As her friend prints the address in her neat, careful handwriting, Bronwyn is aware of Connor’s gaze. She looks up, once, in his direction, but quickly glances away when he smiles at her. There is intensity in his smile, just like how Danny used to smile at her, once upon a time. It’s not how her best friend’s boyfriend should look at her.

  Rose has finished writing and now she is looking at them, flicking her gaze between the two of them. She hands the address over and shifts on the bed, taking Connor’s hand in hers and fixing a stare on Bronwyn. The atmosphere changes, suddenly and noticeably. Is she warning me? Wonders Bronwyn. All of their lives it was Bronwyn with the boys, before Danny. This is a side of Rose that Bronwyn is not familiar with. She says nothing, takes the paper off Rose and stuffs it in her pocket. She stands, ready to leave, uncomfortable in the charade of Rose claiming her man.

  *

  It doesn’t take Bronwyn long to get to Rose’s house. She’s known Kathleen James all of her life, and can easily see why Rose is so scared of her mother. There’s is the neatest house on the street. The windows are always gleaming, in fact throughout her childhood Bronwyn always associated the smell of white vinegar with Kathleen. There is never any bird shit on these windows, and the step is cleaned with bleach and a scrubbing brush every day. She raps on the door and as she waits she spies a single weed growing up through a crack in the path. It gives her a sad sort of pleasure, to see the one that Kathleen has missed.

  “I might have known she’d send you,” says Kathleen as she opens the door.

  Bronwyn thinks of the earlier phone call she made and how Kathleen hung up, and with that in mind she pushes her way into the house and immediately heads upstairs to Rose’s room.

  “I’m here for her things. I won’t be long,” she calls over her shoulder.

  As she enters Rose’s room, Kathleen is right behind her.

  “You can’t just barge in here like this!”

  “I can, and I have. I’m not Rose. I’m not frightened of you,” says Bronwyn, and pulls Rose’s suitcase off the top of her wardrobe.

  Kathleen backs off to the doorway, her mouth twisted with bitterness. Bronwyn works methodically, determined not to rush. When she turns to gather some clothes out of Rose’s chest of drawers, Kathleen has gone.

  Bronwyn packs the last of Rose’s clothes and walks back down the stairs. Kathleen is at the bottom, standing in front of the door. Bronwyn keeps right on moving until Kathleen has no choice but to move aside. Bronwyn pauses at the front door and turns back to face Kathleen.

  “I met Connor tonight. He’s a nice lad, a good lad, and it’d be a shame for you to fall out with Rose over this.”

  Kathleen clenches her fists. “Don’t you give me advice on family matters!” she hisses. “Not you! Don’t you dare.”

  “She’s your daughter; you should be helping her, not kicking her out.” Bronwyn opens the door and shoves the suitcase out in front of her. “You’ve never loved Rose, the poor cow. You act as though you don’t even like her!”

  She stalks down the road, dragging the suitcase behind her. She knows Kathleen’s story, she’s not supposed to but in Newry it seems to be an open secret, one that everyone knows but only ever discusses in hushed whispers, and never in front of Kathleen or Rose. She would even go so far as to say she can understand why Kathleen is so bitter and twisted, but it’s not Rose’s fault. A cluster of British soldiers stand smoking on the corner of Kathleen’s street. They watch her pass, whisper something and then shout an obscenity. She raises her middle finger over her shoulder and their laughter follows her.

  As she turns into Kidds Road a police car overtakes her, swiftly followed by a second. Making a conscious effort not to break into a run she walks up to the telephone box in which she stood earlier, standing behind it as two officers get out of the first car and walk up to her house. There are two more men in the second car and they remain inside. Bronwyn stands motionless, watching the men as they converse briefly. The taller of the two heads to the front door while the other makes his way up the alley at the side of the house.

  Bronwyn covers her mouth and bites at her knuckles as the door is opened. Her mother stands there and though Bronwyn can’t hear what she is saying, Alia begins to gesture. Calmly, the officer moves her aside and makes his way into the house. The door closes behind him and picking up the suitcase, hoping the two men still in the police car don’t see her, Bronwyn walks as quickly as she can down the road.

  Two streets away she stops, drops the case to the ground and sits atop it. Where is she going to go? To see Rose, to explain to her what Danny has done? No, now is not the time and besides when she explains she wants Connor to be there too. She continues walking the streets until she is too cold to be outside and finally, an hour after she left the shadow of the phone box she reckons its safe enough to head back home.

  The front door is ajar when she arrives and the doorframe is splintered. She doesn’t know why, when she was watching from her hiding place, her mother had opened the door and the officers had gone inside.

  Bronwyn’s mother comes down the hall. “Oh, Jesus Christ, Bronwyn, they’ve taken Dan!”

  Bronwyn pulls off her scarf and hangs it on the banister. Her mother, Alia, is fraught. Bronwyn doesn’t know why, she doesn’t like Dan any more than anyone else.

  Bronwyn pauses, unsure of how to act. “What for?” she asks, eventually, wondering if it is the question she should be asking.

  “It all happened so quickly,” Alia says, wringing her hands. “Dan tried to run but there were more of them in the garden, they took him away.”

  “What happened to the door?” Bronwyn glances back at the splintered frame.

  “He fought them when they took him out. Danny kicked it, I think.”

  Bronwyn’s eyes fill with tears and she balls her fists and rubs her face. Alia pulls her against her. “Don’t worry, we’ll get him out,” she whispers.

  Bronwyn pulls away and shakes her head. “I’m not upset about Dan!” She looks at the broken frame, one more thing in this house that looks like shite because of him. Now it’s an eyesore, just like the garden. She stomps into the kitchen, pulls up short. There’s a chair upturned in the middle of the room, is it the one that Danny was sitting in when they came for him? She shoves it hard and goes to the window.

  Her mother follows her in and Bronwyn turns around to look at her. She looks good, her mother. She’s slim and athletic, her hair, black like Bronwyn’s, is sleek and cut in a fashionable bob. Bronwyn’s father has never been around so Alia has never been worn down and worn out by a man. As she looks at her mother she has a sudden pang of regret about leaving home. Silly, really, she’s not lived with her mother for ten years.

  “I know the police have arrested him,” she says and adds defiantly, “I called them. I got him arrested.”

  She expects an outburst, but her mother just looks at her strangely, like she doesn’t believe her.

  “He deserved it, I don’t regret it,” Bronwyn snaps, to break the silence.

  “Do you want to tell me about it?”

  “Not really, no.” She shakes her head, feeling tears welling up again. “I’ll have to get someone in to fix
the door.”

  “Forget about the bloody door, we’ll sort it out later. Did he do something, to you I mean?” Alia’s dark eyes flash and Bronwyn sees herself, her old self in that expression. She needs to get back to her old self. She doesn’t know where the old Bronwyn went, or even really why she left. It’s that thing of being worn down again, the months and the years and the secrets, the loneliness so big like a chasm and the ever widening gap just take their toll.

  “No, not me,” she raises her voice over the noise of the kettle that she’s switched on. “Ma, do you want to stay here tonight?” She doesn’t know why she asked that, she never asks anything of her mother.

  Alia nods and steers Bronwyn to the chair. “I’ll make the tea,” she says softly.

  *

  Later, to avoid Alia’s questions which started coming thick and fast, Bronwyn takes Rose’s things over to Connor’s house. She pulls the case along, her nerves jangling as she moves further away from home into territory that she really shouldn’t be headed for. The streets look the same as hers, as do the houses. Shingle fronted homes interspersed with almost pretty white fronted terraces. The demographic here is mostly Irish Catholics, Connor and his mother are in a very small minority. She wonders if they suffer for that, if their home is graffitied and bottles of piss are thrown at their windows. She doesn’t pass anyone on the route, not even a lone dog walker. There are butterflies in her stomach and she knows they are not only because of where she is walking, but what she will do when she reaches her destination. Does she tell them what she’s done? Or wait, and tell Connor himself? She really wants to tell Connor that she got her husband arrested, she wants to see what he will say but she has no idea why. She doesn’t want to impress him, does she? He’s not hers to impress, is he? She has no answers to the questions that she is asking herself when she arrives and she stops outside on the pavement. Studying the house she can see that Mary has tried to make it nice. It’s a council place, they almost all are, but there is evidence of maintenance and care. It is like Kathleen’s house, she thinks, shuddering. Thin green shoots are poking out of the frost covered ground under the window. Next month there will be daffodils here, all in a neat row. The window frames are painted a mahogany brown, no peeling white paint here, not like Bronwyn’s own house.

  It takes her a while before she realizes that Mary Dean is standing on her doorstep, watching Bronwyn with a cool gaze.

  “Hello, Mrs Dean, how are you?” She asks, pulling the suitcase up to the house. “Have they let Connor out?”

  Mary stands aside to let her in. “No, tomorrow, hopefully.” She looks down at the suitcase, glances up and down the streets before stepping back, reluctantly it seems to Bronwyn, and opens the door wider.

  She doesn’t smile, Mary, Bronwyn notices. Her face is pinched and pale but Bronwyn can’t blame her. She knows what it will be like for Mary, Rose and Connor. Their lives are about to become very difficult.

  The suitcase gets caught on the step and by the time Bronwyn has yanked it free and dragged it into the narrow hallway, Mary is nowhere to be seen. So she won’t tell them about Danny then, not today. Disappointment pits in her stomach but she doesn’t know why, it should be a relief that she gets a reprieve.

  Bronwyn walks through, looks left into an empty lounge. Straight ahead she sees the kitchen and it is here that she locates Rose, sitting as straight as a statue, her hands wrapped around a glass.

  “I got your stuff,” says Bronwyn, and when Rose doesn’t reply she stands the case in the corner and sits down opposite her friend. “Are you okay?”

  Rose looks up at that. She doesn’t answer, but there’s an expression in her eyes that Bronwyn has never seen before. It’s not fear; she’s seen that on Rose plenty of times. It’s not anger or hurt. She can’t pinpoint it.

  Bronwyn leans back and looks around the kitchen. The beige Formica worktops are clean and neat and the brown carpet looks quite new. There’s a sideboard in the corner, crammed with a couple of dozen or so photographs. They are all of Connor.

  It seems like there has never been anyone else in Mary’s life, not for the last however many years. Which reminds her, “how old is Connor?”

  “Twenty-three,” replies Rose, blushing now.

  “Fecking cradle snatcher.” Bronwyn nudges her, trying for laughter, but when her gaze lands on the photographs again her smile fades.

  All Mary has had and all she’s got is Connor.

  Bronwyn inhales sharply. “Do they have other family, grandparents, or nieces or nephews?”

  Rose shrugs and turns slowly to look at the photos behind her. “I don’t think so, Connor’s never mentioned anyone except his mother.”

  Bronwyn breathes out and turns away from the sideboard. Where will Rose fit in here? Will Mary make space for her? She thinks of Mary’s face, sharp and bitter.

  Chapter 6

  February 1981

  I can’t believe I’ve been arrested. Fucking arrested! The police came to the house, barged their way in and dragged me out. Bronwyn’s fucking mother was there, hanging about as usual, wringing her hands as I tried to get the pigs off me.

  “What shall I do?” She was calling as they dragged me down the path, in full view of the neighbours, giving them a bloody good show.

  They want to talk to me about Connor Dean, amongst other things. I won’t speak to them, I won’t answer their questions. This is nothing to do with them. This is work, the shooting was work, and it’s got fuck all to do with the police.

  They put me in a cell and I sit there for hours. They bring me food eventually and I spit on it. They take it away.

  They bring me another tray later and I go even further; I piss on it and up the door too. The guard takes the tray away, disgust written clearly on his face.

  They bring me back to the small, airless room and I lean back in my chair, rocking on the back legs as if I’m still in school.

  I’ve not been arrested before but I know the drill. I can play these people.

  There are two men, detectives, firing questions. There’s no good cop, bad cop, these two are both bad.

  I say nothing.

  As they talk I wonder what Bronwyn is doing. Her mother would have told her by now. I almost wish Bron had been home when the police came knocking. She’d have given them her attitude. The old Bronwyn would have come back, the fiery, feisty girl I used to know.

  She’ll be here soon, and I’ll know when she arrives, I’ll hear her. She’ll have found a solicitor from somewhere, she’ll make them come here and let me out.

  Sometimes we don’t see eye to eye. She nags, but we’ve been together years, we’ve been married for a decade, of course she’s going to nag. Women do. But that’s what they are there for. We go out and sort out all the shite. The woman looks after everything else. They’re good at it.

  I smirk at the policemen and they look wrong-footed for a moment.

  I recall the shed and everything that they would have taken away. For a moment my smile almost wavers until I remember, where I’m going, I won’t need any weapons.

  I’ll be my own weapon, and I’m more powerful than any firearm.

  *

  When Rose woke she expected to be disorientated. She’s slept in the same bedroom for thirty years, but even before she opened her eyes she remembered everything. She thinks she’s been dreaming about it all night, which is why it’s so fresh in her mind this morning.

  She’s in the box room, not Connor’s bedroom, not in his bed, which to Rose seems a little callous of Mary, though not unexpected. In fact, she can’t believe she is here at all.

  Mary.

  She hadn’t spoken to Rose at all yesterday, apart from when she showed her where she would be sleeping and where the bathroom was. An atmosphere hangs heavy over the Dean household, and Rose can’t wait for Connor to come home.

  She folds back the covers and pads over to the window. Opening it, she leans out, ignoring the cold as she looks up and down the street. T
he view is not much different to that from her own bedroom window; row upon row of terrace houses, broken up by a few muddy fields. Streets that she knows so well already from sneaking around here the last six months.

  She wonders what her mother is doing this morning. Did she continue last night with her normal routine, dinner at six o’clock and bed straight after the ten o’clock news? Or did she forgo her tea last night and crack open a bottle of gin instead? Did she drink herself stupid, crying over her behaviour towards her only child?

  She hears the faint sound of a radio coming from below as a downstairs window is opened and Mary sticks her head out and glances left and right before lighting up a cigarette. The smoke drifts slowly up towards Rose.

  “Good morning,” she says.

  Her voice is too quiet, Mary doesn’t hear her.

  Rose clears her throat, closes the window softly, and crawls back into bed.

  *

  Mary Dean slams the kitchen window shut and smokes the rest of her cigarette inside. She heard the mouse saying good morning, but she’s still too angry to talk in a civilised manner to the girl. And she’s furious with Connor. Of all the people who should have known better. She sinks into a chair at the kitchen table. His father, her lover, her one, single, love of a lifetime had been killed in exactly the same situation. Connor has been so selfish, showing no regard for her feelings or the memories that this whole thing is bringing up.

  She lets out a hiss between her teeth as the cigarette burns down to her knuckles. The flare of pain doubles her anger and she roughly stubs it out in the ashtray.

  The girl, Mary can’t warm to her, can’t even bring herself to try, but she is living under her roof. And she can’t throw her out because Connor will go with her.

  Soon enough she hears the tell-tale squeak of springs as the girl gets back into bed. Lazy little bitch, does she not work? Is Mary expected to clothe and feed her? Connor doesn’t earn enough to take care of her.

  Mary stifles a scream, wishes she had a close friend or some family to escape to. But Mary’s never had anybody, only Connor.