'Bears in the air! Heavy gear!'
I knew just what that meant. I dived at the mattress and put it standing lengthways, in the
fartherest corner from the door, against the wall and put all the blankets behind it,
wrapping the towel around my waist, forgetting the cold and securing the remains of my
little tobacco parcel in the waist band of the towel. I heard the first splash of lashing
liquid at the cell facing me.
Heavy gear, all right! I could smell it already: ammonia-based detergent, a very strong and
extremely dangerous disinfectant. The screws were lashing it in under and through the
splits in the sides of the doors. I braved a quick glance through my little spy-hole as
the lights in the corridor were turned on.
It was a very foolish and dangerous thing to do because if the disinfectant hit me in the
eyes it would burn my eyes out, blind me in a matter of seconds. 'B____' was lashing a full
bucket of the sickening liquid in under the door facing me and shouting to the other screws
to hurry up and fetch more. I heard the chokes and coughs of the man across from me. The
boys on the other side of the wing were in trouble. Their windows were blocked up. The
fumes of the disinfectant were similar to tear gas, they cut at the eyes and throat,
bringing on fits of vomiting and temporary blindness.
I heard the hose being unraveled at the top of the wing.
'Hose on the air,' I yelled and stepped back from the door. 'B____' was lashing the
disinfectant in through the doors like a madman, laughing all the while. He had been
wearing a small face-mask which protected him from the fumes and no doubt he and his
companions were clad in their blue nylon overalls. The hose burst into life and the
thundering jets crashed against the bottom of the doors. I heard a swish and saw the
greenish coloured liquid flooding in under the door. Immediately the terrible fumes struck
me and I began coughing and spluttering, my eyes watering as I made as I made my way to the
window. My stomach was turning and I thought I was going to be sick as I fought for gasps
of air at the window, my head pressed tightly against the concrete bars.
Every single man must have been at his window coughing. That's all I could hear with the
swish of the high-powered hose in the background. The tears were tripping me. I couldn't
see a thing. Then the water came pouring in the sides of the door and came flooding across
the blackened floor. I couldn't have cared less. I was shattered and coughing, my throat
burning and dry. The water would dilute the disinfectant. I knew that. But it would be
several minutes before the fumes cleared. The water from the hose was still streaming in
under the door then it ceased as the screw moved on to another cell. I was still coughing
and spluttering but the fumes were clearing. I could hear Seán vomiting violently. The
whole wing was filled with moans and groans and coughing. 'B___' was literally screaming,
'See how yous like that. See how yous like that.' Then he began singing the only song he
knew 'The Sash'.
The screws turned the hose off. I braved it to the spy-hole to see 'B___' plodding through
the river of water, disinfectant and urine with his face-mask in one hand and an empty
bucket in the other. He was laughing like a madman. The other screw came behind him,
dragging the deflated hose, whilst the third screw hurled obscenities and abuse from the
end of the wing. My eyes were burning but I wasn't too bad. The coughing still went on in
the other cells. There was at least an inch of water on the floor, the end of my mattress
was submerged in it, but the blankets were safely tucked in behind the mattress on the
pipes. I began the long and exhausting job of scraping and pushing the ocean of liquid out
under the door as best I could.
'All right, Seán?' I yelled.
'No! I'm shattered!' he answered. The coughing in the other cells died out to be replaced
by the sound of scraping pos as the drying-up operation began. The stinking, putrifying
rubbish was floating about around my feet and clogging whatever little gap there was at the
bottom of my door. I had to keep clearing it with my hand, lifting handfuls of soggy bread,
dirt and filth and fling them back into the corner. The water level began to subside. The
fumes of the disinfectant still hung in the air but they were mild. I glanced at the window.
The snow was falling really heavy now and a soft breeze was directing it in through the
window.
Dear God, I thought, what next? My feet were numb and soaking but my exhausted body was
sweating as I continued to scrape and push the water out, I took the mattress and tried to
squeeze the water out of the saturated part at the bottom of it. Then I tore a lump off it
and began to soak up the remaining damp patches on the floor, leaving the soaking end of
the mattress against the pipes in the hope that they would dry out.
I took another peek out of my little spy-hole and gazed at the river of urine and filth and
everything else that lay like a lake outside in the wing. They'd be around in the middle of
the night with the cleaning machine to clean and dry it all up. I threw the damp piece of
foam into the corner and stood at the window to catch my breath. I was exhausted but I
couldn't stand too long on the freezing cold floor. The snow flakes were still coming in
through the window. I still had only the towel wrapped around me so I lifted the blankets
and wrapped myself up again. The floor was still slimy and damp. I would have no alternative
but to put the mattress down on it later knowing that the dampness would seep up through
the foam and attack my body. But it was either that or walk all night which I wouldn't be
able to do. It was going to be a long, freezing cold restless night. I listened to the boys
describing their predicament out the windows. Several of the lads mattresses were completely
saturated.
The blankets of others were in the same state. I wasn't too bad. At least it was only the
lower end of my bed that was wet.
All the noise had died and mattresses and blankets were being dried as best they could.
'Does anyone fancy a sing-song?' came the familiar question.
After what had just occurred we had to do something to bolster our morale, and besides
everyone would be pacing the floor. A bit of a cheer went up and the first singer was
called to a roar of applause. I paced back and forth listening to the first singer singing
The Old Alarm Clock. The next singer was one of the Derry lads. He sang My Old Home Town on
the Foyle, and after that the singers kept stepping up to their doors as they were called.
Then came my call and I braved it to the door to give my rendering of The Curragh of Kildare
and all the while, as I sang, I was waiting for 'B___' to return and slip up unnoticed to
lash a bucket of disinfectant into my face through the side of the door. I finished my song,
being somewhat breathless, to a round of applause and went back to my pacing as the next
singer was called. My feet were numb. The floor had dried very little and was still slimy.
I couldn't walk anymore, so I threw my mattress back onto the ground and crouched up on the
corner on the dry half of it. The bruises I had received in the wing shift and search
outside the visits were hurting.
I was tempted to roll another cigarette for myself and Seán but I decided against it as I
knew I might well be able to manage one 'blow' between two down the line tomorrow night and
the way things were going it most likely would be more than welcome then. The singing
continued. It broke the monotony and the tension-filled air and for a few minutes helped to
take your mind off your surroundings and situation. There was no sign of 'B___' returning.
Most likely he was lying on his back around in the screws' mess or else filling himself
with more booze. Someone was singing a self-composed song about the blanket-men which was
very good indeed. Then one of the lads began to sing Ashtown Road.
The wing went deadly silent and I sat, slightly shivering, listening to every note and word
of the beautiful rendering as the singer sang on in his very sad voice. I felt my morale
rising and once again I was glad I was resisting. Better suffering while resisting than
being tortured without fighting back at all.
© Searc's Web Guide 1997-2008
20th Century Ireland (1947-2000)
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