Now and in the Hour of Our Death Read Online Free PDF

“I don’t need a set-square. There’s still a bit of a bump.” He took the plane, squinted, adjusted his stance—his left foot was less than an inch from where the chisel was hidden—and made two swift strokes. “Try your square now, son.”
    The metal arm of the tool slid along the surface as if it were gliding on ice.
    Davy forced himself to smile. “You’re a quare dab hand at that, so y’are.”
    Pa grinned. “You’re no’ so bad yourself. Is it next year you’re goin’ for journeyman?”
    â€œAye.”
    Pa clapped Davy on the shoulder. “You’ll’ve earned it, but you’d two left hands when you came to me first. Couldn’t tell a fretsaw from a mallet. You hadnae a clue.”
    Of course he bloody well hadn’t, Davy thought. All his life, man and boy, in the old IRA and then the Provos, but he’d been a bloody good bomb maker. And that was all he was. No trade. No future. But he had had the Cause. He’d have died for it. And now? Shit. Davy almost spat, but he remembered that Pa was nearby. Well, anyway, he was going to see Eamon right. But for personal reasons, not for the Cause.
    â€œPay attention, Davy. You get your journeyman’s certificate, and you’ll have a good trade when…” Pa stopped. No one mentioned that in here. Men could have nervous breakdowns counting the days until they’d get out. Some had. Pa coughed. “I’ll be off now. That lad over there”—he nodded to one of the other prisoners—“thinks a dog’s hind leg is a straight edge.”
    â€œThanks, Pa.” Davy tried not to stare at the floor as the old man walked away. At least Pa was blocking the view of where Davy was working. He dropped to the floor, grabbed the chisel, lifted the leg of his trousers, tucked the handle under his sock, and secured the blade beneath an elastic band that he’d slipped over his ankle before coming here. He could feel the pressure underneath his sock.
    He rose and saw the little hairs on his forearm rise and make goose flesh. He pulled his sleeves down and made a show of returning to his work. Damn you, Eamon Maguire, you and your “Could I have a wee word, Father Davy?” Eamon wanted a favour and that favour was now cold against Davy’s calf.
    Davy shook his head. Eamon and his friends were planning to break out of the Kesh. Bloody madness. They’d not have a snowball’s chance. The screws, never mind the prisoners, couldn’t go from one block to another without a daily password. There were double air-lock gates, guards everywhere—and their fucking Alsatian dogs. One push of a button in their communications room and the Brits could shut this whole place down tighter than a duck’s arsehole. The outside walls were punctuated by guard towers full of soldiers with rifles and machine guns. Mad, the whole bloody lot of them, and yet Eamon had said that they were bound and determined to go—and that Davy could go with them.
    He wrapped a piece of sandpaper round a block of wood and started to put the finishing touches to the now-smooth edge of the plank.
    That had made him think. God knew he’d tortured himself in his first years here, dreaming of escape, of finding Fiona. Fiona, with the laughing, sloe-black eyes. Fiona, who’d promised to come back to him when he’d left the Provos but had visited him only once after they’d stuck him in here to tell him that it was no good. She was going to go to Canada, without him. Canada was a hell of a big country. He had no idea where she was. Break out? What was the point?
    The sandpaper rasped, made wood dust. Davy sneezed and wiped his nose with the back of his hand.
    What if Eamon’s lot did get out? Where would they go? Ireland was a very wee place. They’d never get out of the country. They’d be lifted in no time flat, and then God knows how much longer