Our Time Is Gone (16 page)

‘What have you done! Tell me! For God's sake. You look like a drunkard. A madman.'

‘Be careful,' the other son said, soft voiced. ‘You can't come here shouting and raving about money.' He saw blood on his brother's hands. He was silent then. He watched, and like the mother was afraid of this shouting brother.

‘Money! Money! Money! It's a song. A song! I heard it since I was born. Since I grew up. Since I went away. Money! We want money! More and more——' he yelled. ‘Money! Give us money! I haven't enough money. I can't manage to-day. To-morrow! Sorry the fees were late. Oh, Mr. Priest, the fees—the fees—fees—fees—fees.'

They saw him dance on the floor.

‘God! Oh, mother of God!' she cried. This one was drunk. This wretch. This youth—this priest-to-be. He was drunk. ‘Where have you been?'

They saw him sit on the floor. He dug his hands into his pocket. ‘Money! Bloody old money! Always looking for money. Hell! Here's your money! Here's the dirty, rotten, stinking, bloody money!'

He jumped up, emptied his pockets. Money rattled, notes flew into the air. A bundle dropped. He picked it up—unloosed it, threw it into the air. ‘Your bloody, crying money. Money! Money! Money! There it is.'

He threw it into the air, again, a cloud of notes, a cloud of money. He grinned at his brother.

‘There it is.' He drew more from his pocket, whirled his arms about, flung it into the air. He moved nearer, and she was afraid and drew back and cried: ‘Peter! Are you mad?'

He touched her face with his. Then he drew more notes from his pocket. ‘Here's the stuff you cry about. Here's your money.'

He spat on a note and stuck it on her face. She began to cry.

‘Here, you devil. Have you gone mad?' the other one said. He rushed at him. ‘Coming here drunk, you ought to be ashamed of yourself.'

They fought. She watched them, through fingers that tried to hide the sudden horror on her face. She watched him fling the fair-haired one to the floor.

She cried: ‘Anthony! Quick. Get somebody. Get Joe.'

He ran out. The other still shouted. He must be stark raving mad. No! He was crying. He was laughing—he was smiling. He was bent over her shouting. He spat on another note, stuck it on her eye.

‘Here's the stuff—the bloody money, money, money!' He gathered it up, threw it over her. He plastered her face with the notes. He pushed her head back, tried to force a bundle of notes into her mouth. ‘Here! Here it is.
MONEY
! Bite it, taste it, feel it, kiss it, suck it, eat it. Go on. Eat the bloody stuff. The money! Money! Money!'

She cried to herself.

He plastered her face with notes. He stuffed it down her blouse. The room was full of money. The air was full of it. He kept picking it off the floor, flinging it into the air. He smothered her with money. Yes. There it was. Money! Piles of it. Money! Bags of it.

‘Eat the bloody lot.' He stood still then, watching her.

The brother came in, a man following behind him. They did not look at the woman but at him. The newcomer saw his hands and coat-sleeve. ‘Better send for the police,' he said.

She cried: ‘Peter! Peter!' Her body threshed the bed. It turned, heaved, stretched, rose, fell. Suddenly all was quiet again. She lay there breathing heavily. The one with the bright instrument went out. The door closed. All was quiet again. Evening drew on.

She cried: ‘No! No! Not that! Not that! Peter! Not that! Not that!'

He said: ‘Remove the woman from the court.'

She fell; they picked her up, long serge coat trailing in the dust, carried her out of sight.

‘Quite rightly the prisoner's plea has been disregarded by his counsel and by this court. Gentlemen of the jury, you have heard the evidence and much besides. Remember you are only concerned with the evidence. Counsel for the defence in his admirable exposition has laid weight upon certain factors which, however, are not relevant in law. I am not sitting here either as a scientist or a sociologist. I am here simply to administer the law. It may or may not be news to you that in our day such people as the deceased could exist, let alone thrive in any civilized city. During the course of this case I may say I have received letters—four letters, all from individuals who are pleased to instruct me that an interest of eight hundred per cent. on loaned money is no exception. They inform me they know of this or that person who, duly licensed by the corporation officials, charges one thousand per cent. I dealt with those letters in the only way one can. I had them destroyed. We are not here to determine rates of interest. Nor are we here to concern ourselves with the fact that this young man was in love with his brother's wife, or that the mother was unwise to the fact. Counsel for the defence has informed you that if these pools of vice did not exist the accused would not be where he is to-day. Again it has been laid before you that he is oversexed and they instance the effect his early life has had upon him. The effect of an early life. But the youth is only eighteen. I ask you to disregard that. The evidence for the prosecution is clear and simple. He struck this woman down. I am sure, and I have felt so all along, that the witness Corkran is an honest man. From what he has publicly declared on oath you will have learned that there was not one woman, but two. Distressing as the facts are, you must, nevertheless, cast from your minds everything not entirely relevant to the case. I know that you will consider your verdict wisely and justly.'

‘Swing for it.'

‘Ten years.'

‘Too young to swing.'

‘Hot on the women.'

‘Only a kid.'

‘Listen.'

‘Here they are.'

‘Not yet.'

‘They
ARE
.'

‘Peter! Peter! No! No! Not that! God, not that.'

‘Remove the woman from the court.'

‘Listen.'

‘Hard lines.'

‘Looks only a kid.'

‘Damn! Recommended to mercy.'

‘Remove that woman at once.'

‘And I shall see that the recommendation is forwarded to the proper quarters.'

‘Clear the court.'

‘Peter! Peter!'

‘Clear the court.'

‘This woman has fainted. Carry her outside.'

‘I never deserved this. Never!
NEVER
! NEV——'

‘Stick your hand on her mouth. Poor old bitch. Who is she, anyhow?'

‘I dunno.'

‘Coat's full of mud.'

‘That's better. Fresh air do her good.'

‘
Gelton Times
!
Gelton Times
!'

‘Verdict in Ragner case! Special.'

‘Peter! Peter!'

‘Who is she?'

‘Dunno.'

‘We don't know.'

‘I don't know.'

‘Nobody knows.'

‘Special! Special! Ragner case verdict! Special! Ragner case——'

The body lunged in the bed. Turned, twisted, the lips were framed with slobber.

‘Cry! Cry! Cry, you wretch! Oh God! I never——Peter! Cry! You devil … I——'

‘I can't cry.'

The cell was square, and by the door one watched, hands jammed through a belt.

‘Go on! You wretch, cry! Oh, Peter! I'm disgraced! Oh God! Why! Why! I tried—I tried …'

‘Mother—I—I can't—cry. I'm sick. I'm going to be sick.' He leaned on the wall.

‘You must say your good-byes now,' the one fingering his belt said. He looked away.

She looked at her son, seemed to fall on him. She slobbered into his ear.

‘I'll never forget this. Never! All my life I've believed in two things. In God and in being clean. Peter, my dear son. You can't look me in the face now. It'll kill your poor father. Oh, Sacred Heart of Christ, I never dreamed this.'

‘Must go now.'

‘Bye, bye——'

‘I——'

‘Bye, bye. God help you, you poor weak creature you. You poor weak creature.'

The door banged. Winds blew down the corridor. The stones stared.

‘Peter! Peter——'

‘Please! Please!'

‘This is the woman. Put her in a cab and have her sent home.'

‘I am her solicitor.'

‘Yes, sir. I see! Remove her now.'

‘This way.'

‘Is there nobody here who knows this woman?'

‘Dunno.'

‘Have you nobody here to take you home, Mrs. Fury? Your daughter—husband—son?'

‘My name is Joseph Kilkey, and I will take the woman home.'

‘That is very kind of you. Thank you.'

The taxi rushed through sound—‘Special! Special! Ragner case verdict! Special!' The taxi lurched. He saw the huddled heap. She saw him. She cried out: ‘I loath you! You ugly wretch, I hate you!'

Mr. Kilkey remained silent. He looked out of the window.

‘Keep away from me.'

He thought she would pitch towards him. The taxi rocked.

The bed creaked, the body swayed. She was caught. Tied. She could not run.

The clock ticked, the hours fell. If she tossed much more the heart might burst. She ran, ran from all the known things. She ran from Hatfields. She ran, crying, her mind circled by two words. Filth! Filth! They carried her back to the house.

She cried: ‘Don't touch me! I'm tired.' They left her sleeping.

She was alone in the house. She woke suddenly. ‘Fifteen years,' she said. ‘Fif-teen.'

She sat up. People looked in. She heard voices. A man came in by the back door. ‘I asked you to keep away,' she began shouting. ‘I hate the sight of you.'

Mr. Kilkey remained quite calm. He knew the woman. He understood the woman. Her pride was gone. She walked round the kitchen, then said: ‘Why don't you go?'

He sat down instead. That would pass soon. She was frenzied yet, he thought. She insulted him again—suddenly said: ‘If he was here. If Denny was here.'

‘Did Maureen come?'

‘No.'

‘Did the other fellow?'

‘Who?'

‘Did Desmond come?'

‘No. Here's a letter. From your son—I think.'

‘Peter?'

‘No, Anthony. Here's another one. It's your husband's handwriting. Know it anywhere.'

‘I don't want them. Burn them. I'm going away. Why don't you leave me alone?'

‘I can't, Mrs. Fury.'

‘I'll strike you with something. I'm sick of people. I want to hide. Go away.'

Faces pressed on the window. No check on Geltonian curiosity.

A priest came in. Mr. Kilkey went away. He did not see her again. The priest consoled with her. She began to laugh. He was sorry for her.

A woman came in, then another. They put her to bed. She slept heavily.

A draught of air came into the ward. Two came carrying cloths. Bending down they wiped the sweat from the tossing twisting body. The ward grew dark. Outside a light came on. One went away, one remained seated. Watching.

‘I won't hope any more. I don't believe in people! Go away from me.'

The nurse wiped more sweat away. This would end soon. She knew. A light shone over the bed. Beyond the window darkness banked up like a black mountain. The nurse breathing, and the creaking bed. She wiped the mouth clean from which the words flooded out.

‘This is the third night. It cannot last longer. She will collapse.'

‘She will! The heart is quite sound. But she cannot remain here. It's mental.'

‘Yes. She
will
have to be moved Friday. These nightmares are weakening.'

‘The temperature is still high. Call in Doctor Tomlin.'

‘Yes! He would be able to say better than anybody.'

The body gave a final convulsive movement, then lay still.

‘She will be removed on Friday. It's nervous collapse. She is doing no good here.'

Two men came in, stood at the end of the bed. Both watched, the nurse focussed the light full upon the woman's face, they saw drops of sweat glisten on the forehead.

‘That will do.'

‘No visitors may be allowed to-morrow.'

They leave the room.

Again silence makes an arch. Beyond it lights are dimmed. Faint sounds of running water in the distance. From the river the echo of a siren swelled out, diminishing. A rush of something wheeled down the corridor. The woman's mouth opens and closes, as though mouthing this silence. The lips are dry. The hair combed out, the face washed, the hands hidden under the clothes. The bone of the nose showing under the light, a lightning ivory spread under the skin.

The hill is green and the women pass. Their veils are blue. She smiles, watching them. The soft rain comes without a sound. She listens to the distant singing. The sun comes out, and raindrops glisten upon the tips of hoods, upon sleeves, her hat. She walks along and the air is full of earth smells. She says a decade of the rosary, following them. A black mass of rebellious hair is held by the hat. They watch her following, a man winks at her. The Children of Mary at Barrymore.

Hey's Alley is narrow and one can hide there. She will go to-morrow. Where was Denny?' Denny! Denny! Don't go away any more. Please stay! Denny!'

‘I have to,' Peter said.

‘Wretch! You disgraced me who asked nothing but cleaniness of you, to remember your God.'

‘I'm sorry! I——'

‘Am I?'

‘Oh, Mother.'

‘My name is Kilkey. I will take this woman home. My name is Kilkey, Kilkey.'

‘Eat the bloody stuff. Suck it. Choke yourself with money, but don't cry: “Money.”'

‘The signed contracts, bad or good, form no part of the evidence of this case.'

‘Blood does.'

‘The knife was long.'

‘I said Jesus Christ, man! What are you—have—done?'

‘Remove that man who laughed. Silence in the Court please.'

‘Is it to be expected that people living amidst these cesspools of vice and greed …'

‘Remove that woman.'