“I tried to tell them what happened, the doctors and the police and the judges, but sure, no one ever listened to me. Not a one of them ever paid a bit of mind to what I saw, what happened to me or the women, nor any of it. They all had their spake, but they’d no use for mine. They just wanted it all swept away, like yesterday’s dirt.”

She leaned forward, her eyes sharp.

“I mind the way they looked at me in the hospital, then in the police station, then in the courthouse. Like I was some wild animal they’d found in a trap. They couldn’t get rid of me quick enough, away to that home they put me in where they wouldn’t have to look at me any more. No one cared tuppence for what I said then, and no one cares now.”

Mary got to her feet, unsteady, refusing Sara’s outstretched hand for support. She limped towards her bed, her foot still tender from the cut.

“I care,” Sara said.

“I’m awful tired,” Mary said, hoisting herself up onto the bed. “I’m going to take a wee sleep. But you can come again if you want to.”

“I will,” Sara said, standing and heading for the door.

“And here,” Mary called after her, “you can still take me to Portrush, if you want to. I’d like to go to the seaside. I never did see the ocean.”

“Okay,” Sara said, unable to hold back a smile. “Soon. I promise.”

32: Joy

32: Joy

For Joy, the days settled back into their usual grind, one much the same as the next, with Mary improving a little with each that passed. Up early in the morning, cleaning out the fires, lighting the stove, boiling water so the men could have tea with their breakfast. In the midst of it all, through the ashes and the grime, Joy saw a glint of something she hadn’t seen in such a long time. Maybe years.

Joy saw hope.

At first it seemed a foolish notion, and she dismissed it. But as the days came and went, the idea of it grew bigger and brighter, like something unearthed from the soil. So she kept picking at it, revealing more and more of its shine.

One evening, as Mary slept, Joy spoke to Noreen as they scraped the last crumbs out of the bowl of food that had been sent down. The makeshift bandage and splint had been removed from Noreen’s fingers, and they had healed crooked, gnarled like those of an arthritic old hag.

“You remember what she said?” Joy asked. “About George?”

“What?” Noreen asked, but Joy knew she remembered.

“About using him. About him being the way out.”

Noreen was quiet for a moment, then she said, “Don’t.”

“But what if she’s right?”

“She’s not, though. There’s no point in talking about it.”