Роберт Паркер - All Our Yesterdays

“Would matter to me,” the soldier said.

Conn shrugged.

There were two men in the room. One the officer who had questioned him before. The other was a captain. Conn had never seen him. He was as big as Conn, with black leather gloves on his thick hands.

“Your name is Conn Sheridan,” the major said.

“Yes.”

“Say sir.”

“... sir.”

“Where did you get the gun, that you killed John Cooper with?”

“I didn’t kill John Cooper.”

The captain hit him in the chest with his heavy right fist. Conn rocked back, steadied himself, and smiled.

“... sir,” he said.

The captain hit him a left hook on the cheek and Conn fell. He stayed down for a minute, his head hanging, trying to get it clear.

“Get up,” the major said. “Who gave you the gun?”

Conn got slowly to his feet. He didn’t speak.

“Are you going to answer?”

“No.”

The captain hit him, and his nose began to bleed. Blood dropped to the floor.

“So you are ready to suffer?”

“Sure.”

The captain began to batter him with lefts and rights. He must have been a boxer once. The punches were short, with the full drive of his legs and shoulders behind them. Conn rocked with the punches, trying to slip as many as he could.

“Turn around,” the major said.

Conn did so.

“See those photographs? Some of those men refused to speak and they are dead.”

“Fuck ’em,” Conn said, and looked at the big captain and grinned with the blood streaming down his face. “And fuck you too, bucko.”

The captain knocked him against the wall.

“Will you fight me?” he said to Conn.

“Another time,” Conn said. “When it’s just you and me.”

“You’re afraid.”

Conn’s lips were badly puffed and one eye was swollen shut. He laughed.

The major went to his desk and took a Webley .45 service revolver from the drawer. He brought it over to Conn, broke it open, and showed him the full cylinder.

“You know what this is?” the major said.

Conn didn’t speak. He saw the major through a kind of shimmering haze, as if at a distance through heat. He focused through the haze on the round brass center-fire backs of the bullets. His teeth felt loose and thick. The warm taste of his own blood filled his throat.

“You don’t know, I’m not going to help you,” Conn said.

“Stand against the wall, you swine,” the major said. He seemed nearly hysterical with anger. “I’m going to give you a count of three to name some names.”

The major raised the revolver and Conn stared at the dark mouth of it, and along the bluish barrel. His vision blurred again. There was sweat in his eyes, and maybe blood, and around his eyes the flesh was beginning to puff. One eye was nearly closed.

“One,” the major said.

Conn began to sing. The sound of the song seemed to come from no place. He could hear the words he was singing but they seemed unconnected to him.

I know my love by his way of walking .

“Two.” The major cocked the hammer back with his thumb.

I know my love by his way of talking .

Conn took in as much air as he could, as if storing it for a long voyage. He pressed his back against the wall. He thought of John Cooper for a moment.

“Three.”

The major fired. Conn saw the muzzle flash, heard the sound, and felt nothing. It was a blank. The smell of it was strong in the room.

I know my love by his eyes of blue .

“Well,” the major said. “You’ll hang anyway.”

He turned away from Conn, put the revolver back in the desk drawer, and left the room. The big captain lingered for a moment while Conn’s soldier and another guard came in. He nodded at Conn with some sort of approval.

“I’ve seen people behave worse,” the captain said. Then he jerked his head at the guards and left the room as well. The soldiers took Conn back to his cell.

The Old Gunner came into Conn’s cell.

“Where’d you get that sweet face?” he said.

“From the noble hearts in the Intelligence room.”

“Keep cold water on it,” the Old Gunner said. “It’ll heal, but you’ll not look as pretty again.”

“Pretty enough,” Conn mumbled. His lip was still swollen tight and it was hard to speak.

“We’re going to get you out,” the Old Gunner said. “There’s a gate at the far end of the yard, locked with an iron crossbar, secured with a big padlock. Are you game?”

“Sure.”

“There’ll be a package come in tonight,” the Old Gunner said. “Bolt cutters. Maybe a gun.”

Conn splashed cold water on his face from the dirty basin. The water that fell back was pink.

“Grand,” he said.

“We’re not going to let them hang the only man they’ve arrested for Bloody Sunday,” the Old Gunner said. He took the enamel basin and went for more water.

At teatime Conn’s soldier came into Conn’s cell and closed the door. He unbuttoned his tunic and took out a package, and gave it to Conn. It was heavy and Conn knew it was the bolt cutters.

“Here’s something else you’ll like,” the soldier said.

He took a revolver from his pocket. It was a Smith & Wesson.38, blue steel, with walnut grip and a three-inch barrel. It was loaded. Conn put the revolver in his belt under his shirt. The bolt cutters had two detachable three-foot handles, for leverage. He wrapped them in a shirt and tumbled two other shirts over it in a corner.

“Your sister brought it,” the soldier said.

Conn had no sister. It must have been one of the Cumann na mBan girls.

“She’s a good girl,” Conn said.

The soldier pushed his cap back on his head and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.

“I don’t hold with boxing a man around when he’s got no chance.”

“Don’t care much for it myself,” Conn mumbled.

“Don’t like to see a man hanged either,” the soldier said.

“Specially me.”

The soldier nodded.

“You ought to try boracic acid on that face,” he said.

“I’ll go right to the chemist,” Conn said with difficulty, “and buy some.”

The soldier nodded at the package hidden under the pile of shirts.

“Maybe soon,” he said.

During the day, at exercise time, Conn hung the bolt cutters over his shoulder under his shirt when he went to the yard. He padded the cutters with torn strips of underclothing so that they wouldn’t rattle. He carried the.38 in his pocket. Cells were often searched when they were empty and the safest place to hide his tools was on himself. In the yard Conn and the Old Gunner scouted the gate, studying the bar-and-padlock setup, locating the likely places where a night guard might be. They paid as much attention as possible to the patterns of night-guard behavior — when the guards slept, when they went to the jacks, how often they patrolled. There were two sets of night guards: a group of five in the cell next to Conn, and four more around the corner in the corridor next to the Old Gunner’s. They slept restlessly, their weapons beside them. But they rarely stirred from the cell they slept in after lights out.

Alone in his cell Conn rehearsed with the Smith & Wesson. He practiced quick draws from his belt under his shirt. He got his hand used to the grip. He sighted along the barrel, and felt the weight of the gun and six bullets. Everything still hurt when he moved. And he still couldn’t breathe through his nose. Conn had tea with the Old Gunner in his cell, and their soldier came in. He had his tunic unbuttoned, and his cap pushed back.

“Mick Collins said your name will go down in Irish history,” he said to Conn.

“’Specially if I’m hanged,” Conn said. “Causes love martyrs.”