Fegan Meets Ronnie

The screw sat by the woodwork room's door reading the Belfast Telegraph. Fegan had stayed after class to spare himself the noise of the Republican wing. He'd found it harder and harder to bear since his mother died. Christmas had come and gone, and the year was only a few days old. Time passed quicker away from the constant shouting and laughing on the wing.

One other man, an old boy from the Loyalist wing, worked with a router across the room. They ignored each other. Fegan had been building a cabinet for his cell. It was a plain design with a box carcase, a basic hinged door, and a drawer. His last piece, a simple bookcase, had used finger joints. Now he was trying dovetails, and it was hard going. He had cut out all but one of the tails in the top panel, and this last was proving difficult. The coping saw had cut most of the way through the delta of waste wood, but the last few millimetres resisted its blade. He held the panel down on a V-board clamped to the workbench. Despite his weight, it moved with the back-and-forth of the saw, wasting the cutting power.

Fegan cursed under his breath. The old man across the room seemed to know what he was doing. Fegan didn't, but an ugly blister of pride made him keep it to himself.

He gave it one more try, this time steadying the panel with his left hand. The saw moved an inch or so in its notch before sticking again. Fegan put his shoulder behind it, pushed, and saw a red line run across the pale wood. He stood blinking at it before a deep heat in his thumb registered.

"Ah, fuck!" he said. He kicked the workbench and the screw stirred from his paper.

"What did you do to yourself?" the screw asked as he threw his paper on the floor and went to the tutor's desk. He fished underneath it until he found the first aid kit.

"It's just a cut," Fegan said. "Fuck."

The old man looked over his shoulder. He shut off the router he'd been using and approached Fegan. "Let's have a look," he said.

"It's all right," Fegan said.

"Come on," the old man scolded. "Give it here."

The old man reached out his hand. His scalp glowed pink in the fluorescent lighting and a few days of grey stubble frosted his chin. A pair of half-frame spectacles perched on the end of his nose, and another pair dangled from his shirt's open collar. He smelled of mint and linseed oil.

The screw dropped the first aid box on the workbench. "You'll look after him, won't you, Ronnie? My knees is killing me. I need to stay off my feet."

"Aye," Ronnie said. His voice had a peculiar wheeze. "I will if he'll give me his hand."

Fegan hesitated before holding out the offended thumb. Ronnie inspected it, holding it at arm's length while he squinted down his nose and through his glasses. He had a Red Hand of Ulster tattooed on his forearm along with a Union Jack. Probably from the Shankill, Fegan thought. If the old man knew Fegan had planted the bomb that killed three in the butcher's shop on the Shankill Road, he might not have been so eager to help.

Ronnie clucked, winked, and said, "I think we can save the hand, son. Go and run it under the tap."

As the old man pointed to the big ceramic sink, Fegan noticed a tattoo on his other arm. It was the outline of a fish, like the ones he used to see pinned on people's lapels, or stuck on the back bumpers of cars. It was fresher than the other tattoos, not as blurred by age. Fegan went to the sink and rinsed the cut. Ronnie joined him and inspected the wound.

"Aye," he said. "You'll live."

Before Fegan could protest, he blasted the cut with antiseptic spray. While the old man wrapped the thumb in a sticking plaster, Fegan noticed the dozens of tiny scars on his hands. An image flashed in his mind, hard and clear, of his father's hands. They too had borne a myriad of small marks.

Ronnie's chest rattled as he breathed. "Tell you what, son, I seen some messes when I worked in the shipyard. Near every day some poor bugger got a finger off, or a toe, or lost an eye."

"Were you a chippie?" Fegan asked.

"Aye. A ship's carpenter. Thirty five years, all in."

"My father was a chippie," Fegan said. "When he could get the work."

"I doubt I knew him," the old man said. "We never got many of your sort in the shipyard."

"No," Fegan said. In its day, Harland and Wolff had plenty of work for Protestants, but not much for the Catholic men of Belfast.

"He didn't miss out on too much," the old man said. "Near every one of us got Asbestosis for our troubles. Me and all." He gave a wet, hacking cough as if to prove the point. "I shouldn't really be working in here with the dust, but what else am I going to do? Play darts with the knuckle-draggers in there? What did for your auld fella in the end up?"

Fegan held his tongue for a moment, unsure of revealing anything of himself. "Drink," he said.

"Aye," the old man said. "There's plenty of boys were lost to that cause, and plenty more will follow."

The old man extended his hand. "Ronnie Lennox," he said.

Fegan looked at the scarred fingers for a moment. They had a delicacy about them, despite the old wounds. He took the hand and shook it. "Gerry Fegan."

"Aye," Ronnie said, his grip firm and his smile warm. "I know who you are."

Fegan pulled his hand away and shut off the tap.

Ronnie patted his shoulder. "We're all here for a reason, son. None of us has anything to be proud of. Including me."