After she cleaned up the tea she had spilled, Meaghan opened the kitchen window, hoping that the earthy smell of the Bog Meadows Reserve would help her reset. The kettle had been only half full, she told herself. A minor thing. She breathed deeply to loosen the tightness in her chest. Two hours had passed since she last used her asthma inhaler, and if she followed the directions, she’d have to wait four more to use it again. She looked at the spot where the water had spilled, the dish towel still soaking up the mess. “It’s nothing,” she said aloud, hoping the sound of her own voice would push back the sob rising in her throat. She reached for the windowsill to steady herself, looked out over the Bog, and there in the dull pewter sky, a flock of tiny, brown skylarks flew toward Milltown Cemetery, where she had been only three days before.

She whirled away from the window and refilled the kettle. At half-seven, she yelled for the children to come down for breakfast. She lit the burner on the stovetop and then opened the refrigerator. Where were the eggs? She turned. Had she put them there, on the counter? Meaghan took two eggs and cracked them on the rim of the frying pan. Egg white dripped onto the brand-new stovetop. Her mother-in-law, Geraldine, would be cross.

The door to her mother-in-law’s bedroom creaked open, and Meaghan heard the pounding of Geraldine’s hurried steps. She was never one to miss seeing the children off to school. “You could’ve woken the dead screaming about breakfast.”

“Sorry,” Meaghan said without looking at Geraldine. “I didn’t realize.”

Geraldine picked up the wet dish towel and wrung it out over the sink. “Are you after having another accident?” she said. Grabbing the wooden matches, she lit another burner for the kettle. “I thought there’d be tea by now. You’ve been up for ages.”

Meaghan shuffled her feet under Geraldine’s gaze.

“Trouble sleeping again, love?”

Meaghan touched the Irish News on the counter and pushed it toward Geraldine, wondering where she had put the rubber band that had bound it. Geraldine liked to keep them. “I’ve been reading, that’s all.”

“It might be best not to. We’ll get word before the newspapers do.”

“Whether I read or not, I can’t get him out of my head.”

After breakfast, Meaghan walked with her children, Alanna and Connor, along St. Katharine’s Road, with the Bog Meadows on her left, a strong breeze blowing from the north. A soft mist saturated the air. Meaghan pulled her sweater tighter around her neck.

Alanna was silent as they walked, but at the gates of St. Louise’s School, she tugged on Meaghan’s dress. “Do you think Daddy will join the strike today?”

Meaghan hated the way the Troubles had seeped into the lives of her children, like a toxic spill that pollutes the water supply.

“Is that what’s been on your mind this morning, my sweet girl?”

“Isn’t he on yours?” Alanna asked, planting her feet on the cement.

Meaghan looked at her, and in the shade of the trees, Alanna seemed older than her eleven years. She knelt and held her daughter’s face in her hands. “You’re Da is always on my mind.”

With Alanna safely tucked away at school, Meaghan walked with Connor, along the Falls Road, to St. Kevin’s. Connor squeezed her hand as a British army patrol passed. Meaghan counted three more armored cars than usual. The IRA had blown up a Loyalist stronghold on the other side of town, so security was heightened. Someone had written “Brits Out” on the charred red telephone booth across the street. When they got to the huge billboard that had counted each day of Bobby Sands’ hunger strike, Meaghan wished that someone had removed day sixty-six.

Today, she was determined to talk Liam out of joining the hunger strike, but first she had to pick up milk and butter as she had promised Geraldine. It was the least she could do. Liam’s parents had taken in Meaghan and the children after she had lost her job and their flat. She checked the time as she paid. It was just before nine. Plenty of time. The first bus for the prison left at 11:00.

When she turned onto St. Katharine’s Road, Meaghan saw a crowd outside of her in-law’s home. She quickened her pace. As she got closer, she saw the BBC van and Belfast Telegraph reporters through the soft rain that now fell. Suddenly, someone grabbed her from behind, and she shrieked. It was Billy Malone. He looked as if he’d been running.

“What’s happened to Liam?”

“He joined the hunger strike this morning.”

Meaghan’s knees went weak, and she grabbed Billy’s arm to steady herself. “Couldn’t he have waited? We’re just after burying Bobby.”

Billy tried to explain, but Meaghan had heard it all before. Last year, in 1980, there had been another hunger strike to demand political status for IRA prisoners. Seven men started at the same time, but when two of them were near death, the rest panicked, and agreed to a verbal compromise with someone who claimed to have Thatcher’s support. It was a lie. The Thatcher government did not meet their demands. So in 1981, Bobby Sands convinced IRA leadership that a new strike could succeed if one man joined every two weeks. This way, only one striker would be near death at a time, he reasoned. It would extend the strike and keep pressure on Thatcher to give into the prisoners’ demands. But they had underestimated Thatcher’s resolve. During the sixty-six days of Bobby’s strike, Thatcher kept saying the same: “There is no such thing as political murder, political bombing, and political violence. There is only criminal murder, criminal bombing, and criminal violence. There can be no compromise on this matter. There will be no political status.”

Meaghan couldn’t bear any more history. “Isn’t it your job to tell the families first, before the news vultures descend upon us?”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Liam surprised us.”

“Right, well, tell that to my in-laws. They’ll be beside themselves by now.”

Billy Malone and Meaghan pushed through the crowd of reporters who thrust microphones into her face. When a journalist from the Telegraph asked her if she would let Liam die as Bobby’s mother had done, Billy shoved him. “Have some respect, you eejit. Give the lady some room.”

When they entered, Meaghan saw Geraldine peeping through the beige drapes in the front parlor window. Patrick was on the couch, a picture of the Sacred Heart of Jesus just over his left shoulder. His hands were clasped, and Meaghan wondered if he was praying.

“God bless all here,” Billy said as he locked the door. Meaghan squeezed past him in the narrow hallway and hugged her mother-in-law.

“Aye, we knew this day was coming,” Geraldine said, as if someone had died.

Billy was still standing by the door. “Come in, Mr. Malone,” Geraldine said. “Come in and have a seat next to Patrick. I’ll put the kettle on.” Billy chose the salmon-colored, overstuffed chair across the room. As he wiped his hands on his track pants, his elbow rocked the narrow wooden shelf, filled with pictures and mementos of Liam’s past.

Patrick banged a pack of Silk Cuts against his thick index finger and took a cigarette for himself. After he lit it, he confronted Malone. “Why now?”

Billy was silent.

“Bobby’s death has changed nothing,” Patrick continued. “Thatcher’s saying the same thing about political status even though three other men are starving. Making Liam join them won’t solve this.”

When Billy said that Sinn Fein had no say in who joined the strike, that the men on the inside were making the decisions, Patrick exploded. “Those boys aren’t fit to make decisions about life and death! Not after all they’ve been through.”

“Our hands are tied.”

Patrick stood up. His size compressed the air in the room. “Do you think I’m an eejit, Malone? I know how this works. Have you forgotten?”

Malone tried to respond, but Patrick stopped him. “Do you expect me to believe that your boss isn’t lapping up the attention this strike is bringing to his movement? Countries all around the world have been condemning Thatcher for letting Sands die. I read that the Iranian government will name a street after him. The Ayatollah for Christ’s sake.”

There were few men in Belfast who could talk to Billy Malone like that, and Meaghan couldn’t help but be proud of Patrick. And a little bit scared. Malone was a hard man, the former leader of the IRA’s Belfast Brigade, the most feared unit in the North. Who knew how many Loyalists he had killed? Now he was a politician, like his boss Gerry Adams, working with Sinn Fein, the political arm of the IRA, to use the ballot box to end the Troubles. It was Billy’s job to support the families of the hunger strikers. “Keep them in line,” Patrick had said when he heard about Billy’s new role.

As Patrick was yelling, Geraldine brought biscuits into the parlor. “Billy’s a guest in our home,” she said. “You’ll stop this now, you will.”

“I’ll not stop. Our son just got in line to die and you’re serving biscuits?”

They looked at one another in silence until Geraldine cleared her throat, as if she had something important to say. “I’ll want to see my son,” she said. “To hear his intentions from his own lips.”

“Aye,” Billy said, but Patrick threw up his hands. “I don’t give a fuck about his intentions. I’ll not let my son die.”

Meaghan watched Geraldine scold Patrick about his language. How could she talk about Liam’s intentions? If she had found a note expressing his plan to kill himself in eight weeks, would she smile and say, If that’s what you want, son? Suddenly, the urge to do anything but sit there and listen to Billy and Geraldine rationalize this insanity washed over her. Images of Connor and Alanna exploded into her head. They can’t hear this from their classmates. Or the nuns. She looked out the window. The rain was lashing down now, and the reporters were huddled in their vans. Meaghan grabbed her anorak, stepped into her wellies, and stormed out the door. She ran past the red-brick homes on St. Katharine’s Road and under fat gray clouds that seemed low enough to touch the tops of the Black Mountains. The wind from the north was stronger now, and she felt like she was in that nightmare, the one in which she was running in place.

Sister Genevieve had already heard the news. Belfast was too small to contain it. The nun brought her a towel, and Meaghan dried her hair as she waited in the principal’s wood-paneled office.

“We’ve missed you,” the nun said.

Meaghan smiled. She had worked at St Louise’s as a teaching assistant until her certificate was revoked after Liam’s conviction. For the first time since his arrest, she wished she could return to that state of ignorance, when she had been working, when she believed that Liam had left the IRA, when they lived on their own with their children. Then Alanna burst in.

“What’s happened to Daddy?” she asked.

“Nothing’s happened to your da, my pet.”

“Then why are you here? So wet. In Sister’s office?” she asked through dripping tears.

A chill filled Meaghan’s body, like the freeze from a fever. She shook as she told Alanna that her father had joined the hunger strike. Alanna’s tears left dark tracks on her white, freckled skin. Meaghan pushed the fine blonde hair from her daughter’s face and reached out to hug her. But Alanna shook her head and stood in silence. “Tell me love, what is it you’re thinking?”

 “I was afraid this would happen,” she said. “Bobby was his friend.”

When Meaghan and Alanna turned onto the Falls Road on their way to get Connor, another British army convoy passed. Meaghan slowed her pace under their gaze. Rather than look at them, she stared through the mist at the green hills behind Milltown Cemetery, where Bobby Sands had been buried only three days before. She remembered the press of the 100,000 bodies in the funeral procession, felt the heat of the crowd. Her arms grew leaden at the memory of the wreaths she carried, for what seemed like miles, because Liam wanted the children to lay them on Bobby’s coffin. She hated that he had dragged their children into this. Her mother had been right to warn Meaghan away from Liam. His family history was well known. But then she died, and Meaghan got pregnant.

            That night, Meaghan watched the BBC, just as she had done three years ago when Liam was arrested for bank robbery. That was when she learned he had never left the IRA. What a fool she had been. Now, the words “5^th IRA Hunger Striker” were under his picture. The news anchor was itemizing the five demands for political status: “The right not to wear prison uniforms; the right to free association with other prisoners; the right to one letter, one parcel, and . . .” Meaghan knew these as well as she knew Thatcher’s position: the IRA is not an army; they are terrorists committing heinous crimes and will be punished as criminals.

Later, as she was putting the children to bed, Alanna asked if they could pray. Although Meaghan had lost that ability long ago, she knelt with her children and faced the wall above the headboard, where a crucifix hung in the shadows. She was wondering how to start when Alanna said, “Mother Mary, you know what it’s like to lose a son, to stand at the foot of that cross and watch Him die. You know an agony of the worst kind. Please have mercy on us. Don’t let us know the pain that you felt. I lost my daddy three years ago when he went to prison. Please don’t let me lose him forever. Please whisper in Margaret Thatcher’s ear so she will save him.”

Meaghan stared at her daughter, trying to take in this new being who spoke words she could not imagine. “Where on earth did you learn to say that?”

“Sister Genevieve,” Alanna said. “She helps us pray like that before lunch, but I changed the words so they’d fit Daddy.”

Meaghan crawled into bed with them and pulled the covers over their heads. She reminisced on the beginning of her marriage when Alanna was inside her. Even then, during the early days of the Troubles, her swelling belly had given her hope, as if it could somehow push away the bombings and the killings, the fire and death all around her. Alanna felt like a confirmation of the promise Liam had made. He’d leave the IRA and they’d have a future. A steady job for him. Maybe a house in the country, away from Belfast. A small garden. Chickens even.

But the Troubles worsened. Hope disappeared and was replaced by savage discrimination, rising unemployment, and bloody violence. Catholics were burned out of their homes by Loyalists and forced to leave the better Protestant neighborhoods. The IRA hunted down the men they thought were responsible. Loyalist paramilitary groups, like the Ulster Defense Regiment, blew up pubs and set Catholic churches afire. The IRA built huge barricades and checkpoints to prevent paramilitary groups from entering Catholic areas. Riots ensued. Northern Ireland had descended into Civil war. When thirty thousand British troops arrived, they encircled Catholic neighborhoods in open-air prisons. Checkpoints and watch towers grew all over Belfast like weeds. Soldiers were everywhere, heavily armed. Tanks and armored cars rumbled through the streets. There were gun battles. Explosions. Death. The British Army enforced a new policy and arrested hundreds of men and women suspected of IRA activity. No charges. No juries. No justice. Only imprisonment. Belfast was no place for dreams.

Connor pulled Meaghan out of the past. “Is Daddy going to die? Like Bobby?”

The darkness closed in around her. She forced a word through her closing throat that sounded like, “No.”

The children refused to go to school the following morning. So all of them–Geraldine, Patrick, the children, and Meaghan—took the G1 bus to Chichester Street. From there, they entered the Ring of Steel, the twelve-foot-high fences of concrete and iron that surrounded Belfast’s commercial district to keep the bombers out. During the Troubles, the IRA had targeted businesses and landmarks, part of their campaign to end British occupation in Northern Ireland. Great Victoria Street, where they were headed, was infamous for being the most bombed quarter-mile section in Europe. 

Meaghan entered the security enclosure and the maze of gray iron gates. The smell of steel filled her nose. At the checkpoint, she emptied her pockets, and turned over her bag. Connor turned away as a British soldier frisked Meaghan. Once they were through, they walked to the Europa station on Great Victoria Street where the gray bus to Long Kesh stood idling. It was unseasonably warm, so the windows had been thrown open like screaming mouths. When they climbed onto the bus, the heat hit Meaghan full in the face. She was glad to not be chilled.

The bus was quieter than usual, but Meaghan heard the whispers: “That’s Liam Maguire’s family.” People gave them a wide berth.

After the fifty-minute ride, and two security checks at Long Kesh, they walked into the visiting room. Meaghan squinted at the bright, overhead lighting. She and her family followed the other visitors down the aisles that had been created by long rectangular tables at which the prisoners sat. The children reached Liam first, jumping into his open arms. Meaghan almost stopped them but realized that Liam had showered and shaved. With his hair cut short, he almost looked like the man she had fallen in love with. He tickled the children, and they squealed with joy. She felt almost happy watching them. A guard called out that they had to be seated and Geraldine said, “Come on now children. Off your daddy. He hasn’t eaten.”

“It’s only been a day, Ma. I hardly feel a thing.”

Geraldine peeled them away. Liam reached for Meaghan and pulled her close. At first, she recoiled, remembering his horrid stench during the dirty protest, the most extreme form of prison activism before the hunger strikes. Three years ago, when Liam and the other prisoners entered Long Kesh, they refused to wear prison uniforms. Instead, they wrapped gray woolen blankets around their naked bodies. To get even, prison officers refused to give them towels as they washed and forced them to stand naked, so Liam and the others refused to wash. The officers responded with beatings, so the men destroyed the furniture in their cells. This tit for tat continued until the prison officers refused to empty chamber pots. With nowhere to put their waste, the men smeared it on their walls and slept on thin mattresses on cold concrete floors alive with maggots. The dirty protest was born.

“’Tis yourself.” Liam said, pulling Meaghan from the past. He kissed her full on the mouth as the children giggled. “I’ve missed you.”

After an hour, the prison guards fractured their visit with loud, angry voices. After hugs, as they were walking out, Alanna broke free of Meaghan’s grasp, leapt back into her daddy’s arms, and whispered into his ear. Meaghan saw anger rise in his eyes.

Two days later, Meaghan visited him alone. There was no kiss from Liam. No embrace. All he said was, “Did you put Alanna up to that. Are you trying to put a conscience on me?”

“Did I put her up to what?” Meaghan asked.

“Don’t die, Daddy. We need you?” he sneered. “Sound familiar?”

“Are you mad? Alanna’s grown up while you’ve been here, but you wouldn’t know that, would you? She doesn’t need me to tell her that her father’s going to die.”

He was silent.

“I hope she puts a conscience on you. You owe us after all you’ve put us through.” A sob gathered in her throat as she remembered. Alanna stopped talking for two months after she learned that Liam had been sentenced to ten years. Connor started wetting the bed. And she struggled with her “duty” as a prisoner’s wife, smuggling contraband into Long Kesh wrapped in plastic and coated in gel so she could push it inside herself.

“I owe Bobby. If we stop now, his death is for nothing. Frank Hughes won’t last long. What will his suffering mean if I just give up? I owe him, and I owe my country.”

Meaghan didn’t care about his country or the eight-hundred-year-old struggle to force England out of the North so it could reunite with the Republic of Ireland to the south.

“I can’t do this, Liam. I can’t watch you—”

He grabbed Meaghan’s right arm, tight enough to make her squirm. “You have to let me see this through. Promise me.”

As she tried to pull free, she said, “Like you promised? I’ll leave the IRA. I’ll do anything for you. Do you remember those words, Liam? How long did that promise last?”

He lowered his voice and snarled, “Just be loyal.”

“Loyal? I’ve been nothing but loyal. Smuggling things in here inside myself. Sneaking messages out for you. Caring for your children. Listening to your mother telling me to honor your wishes.”

Liam was quiet.

“This’ll destroy us, Liam. Just like it did to Bobby’s family. Is that what you want?”

“Are you threatening to leave me?”

When she didn’t respond he said, “I envy the men who have only their mothers.”

Meaghan rose to leave. He didn’t try to stop her. She could feel the tears rising in her throat, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. Her legs were weak, and the room tilted. She leaned on the tables as she walked out. While she waited with other women to be frisked before leaving, a few tears channeled down her face. One of the women in line whispered, “You have to be strong for him, dear.”

On the bus home, she thought about Bobby’s mother. Just before his death, a journalist asked if she would intervene if Bobby lapsed into a coma. “It’s a sad thing to say,” Mrs. Sands said. “I love my son, just like any other mother. But I promised him not to. I can’t.”

The next day, Frank Hughes, the second hunger striker, died. At his funeral, Billy Malone gave a eulogy that transformed Mrs. Hughes into the Virgin Mary who had watched her Son die on the cross for the good of mankind. All around Meaghan, women in black bowed their heads and lightly beat their breasts. She looked straight ahead and kept her arms at her sides. Geraldine whispered, “Have some respect.”

Malone continued: “Ireland can be proud of Mrs. Hughes, and Mrs. Sands before her, for the way they have borne their heavy burdens. They have shown that the women of Ireland are the backbone of our struggle.” When applause exploded around them, Geraldine elbowed Meaghan, who had buried her hands in her pockets.

During the next few weeks, two more mothers refused to intervene to save their sons, saying the same things Mrs. Sands had said. “I brought up my son to stand by his principles. I promised him I would not intervene.” Two more funerals. More wreaths. Huge crowds. Caskets draped in Irish flags. “The mothers are the backbone of this movement,” the eulogists repeated, like it was a script. Bagpipes played as thousands marched. At the cemetery, during each funeral, the crowd suddenly parted and three men in fatigues, with balaclavas over their faces, rose into view. They stood at attention, slowly raised long guns to their shoulders, and fired off a three-gun salute. Then they disappeared. British army troops were on the perimeter of the crowd, standing on the roofs of their armored cars. Watching. Taking pictures. Helicopters flew low, trying to track the gunmen. The noise spooked a flock of skylarks which had been in the Milltown Cemetery. They rose in chaos, pumping their tiny wings, climbing high above the melee, and then they flew in unison back toward the Bog Meadows Reserve. Meaghan followed their escape and remembered that before his death, her father had caught a skylark. He put it in a cage, hoping it would sing. But it never did.

More men joined the strike to replace the ones who had died. Thatcher released a statement declaring that there would be no compromise on political status. “The IRA has played its last card,” she said. “If these men die, it is by their hands.” Meaghan visited Liam three times a week, sometimes with the children, sometimes with Patrick. Often alone. She rarely went with Geraldine. When she did, Geraldine and Liam pressured Meaghan not to intervene if he lapsed into a coma. He had been losing weight steadily, more than 3kg a week. Sometimes he complained about being cold. He was always reaching for water. After the death of each of his friends, his resolve hardened. Meaghan and Liam fought. “A prison uniform isn’t worth dying for,” she told him. “These demands,” she continued, but Liam interrupted her.

“This has gone way beyond the demands. You know how these bloody guards beat us when we were naked. Forced us into scalding hot baths. Spread our legs wide to check our arses for contraband. We’re not human to them. None of us. If we don’t fight back, we as a people will never be free. Our bodies are the only weapons we have left.”

Meaghan reached for him and held his cold hand. She knew how much he had suffered. Especially during the dirty protest. She had seen the gashes on his arms and neck, the ones he had gotten when the guards held him down in the bloody water that they had used to clean other prisoners, scrubbing him with hard bristle brushes that felt like wire on his bare skin. She couldn’t imagine how he had endured this violence, lived in his own filth, slept on the floor with maggots crawling onto his torn skin.

“I know you’re angry and how devoted you are to the movement, but someone has to stop this, Liam. You men . . .” She hesitated, searching for the right words. “You’ve been tortured. Lived in filth. Grieved dead friends. And yourself, now wasting away. You aren’t right in the head.” He got up to leave. She grabbed him and pulled him back down, surprised that she could. “Listen to me, Liam. It’s true. You can’t make this decision. And Thatcher isn’t going to budge. She doesn’t care if you live or die. There has to be another way.” When she asked him to think about his children, Liam said, “I am.” Then he put his hands over his ears and screamed at her to get out.

She waited in line to leave, listened to the empty encouragement of other women, and endured the hands of male prison officers on her body. Madness, she thought. Sheer madness. Her life had become a runaway train barreling toward a bridge that was on fire. And she had no way to escape. How had Bobby’s wife found the courage to leave?

After four weeks, Liam was moved to the hospital wing in Long Kesh. Geraldine and Patrick had stopped talking. He bought three newspapers a day, sometimes reading at home, sometimes at the pub, always searching for hope. “If hope were food,” he once said to Meaghan, the smell of whiskey hanging on his breath, “I’d starve.” As he walked away, Meaghan was sure she heard him whisper, “This is my own fault.”

When Patrick was out, Geraldine followed Meaghan around the house, trying to convince her to honor Liam’s wishes.

“His wish is to die. How do I honor that?”

“You’ll destroy him if you intervene. He’ll be as good as dead.”

“You don’t know that” Meaghan said turning to leave. She had started volunteering at Alanna’s school to get out of the house.

“You remember Declan McKenna, one of the boys who was on strike last year? His fellow strikers agreed to a compromise to save him? He’s as mad as a hatter. Hates the men who saved him. He’s so bad, his parents are thinking of putting him away.”

When Geraldine said this, Meaghan snatched her anorak off the hallway hook and dug through its pockets. She had heard the stories about Declan. He needed crutches to walk and couldn’t get far without oxygen. Where was her inhaler? She searched the inside pocket. Declan was blind in one eye and needed dialysis. But his outbursts were the worst. Screaming for hours that he should have been allowed to die. To finish what he had started.

Geraldine continued, “If you intervene, others will follow, and the strike will end. Thatcher will win.”

“You’re as mad as he is. There’s no winning here.” Meaghan inhaled two puffs and opened the front door.

“Go on. Walk away. Just like you’ve been threatening to do to my son,” Geraldine hissed.

Meaghan stood in the open doorway; her hands clenched into fists. She could hear neighbors passing on their way to work, but she didn’t care. “I’ve done no such thing!”

“You have. He’s told me. Talking about Bobby’s wife, you were.”

“You’re twisting my words.”

“I’ve heard you talking to your sister in America.”

Meaghan felt like she had been shot. White hot rage burned a hole inside her. It was the same feeling she had three years ago when the evening news revealed that Liam had robbed a bank to fund the IRA. “I’m done here,” she said.

As Meaghan closed the door, Geraldine called out. “We can get lawyers, you know.”

She needed to walk off her anger before volunteering at Alanna’s school, so she took the long way along the Falls Road. As she passed Sevastopol Road, she saw that the mural honoring Bobby Sands had been completed. It filled the gable end wall of the two-story brick building where Sinn Fein Headquarters was located. She read the caption under Bobby’s smiling face, his long brown hair resting on the shoulders of his red sweater: “Everyone, Republican or otherwise, has their particular role to play in our fight for freedom. Our revenge will be the laughter of our children.” She had the sudden urge to throw a gallon of paint at the mural. My children aren’t going to laugh, she thought.

In the days that followed, Alanna spent more and more time in her room. Meaghan started inventing excuses to check on her. One night, after bedtime, she found Alanna under the covers, a small flashlight in her hand, reading one of her grandfather’s newspapers. Connor breathing heavily beside her. 

“What are you doing, my sweet?” Meaghan whispered. She expected Alanna to be remorseful.

“I need to know,” she said.

An uneasy silence settled between them. Meaghan knelt on the carpet and pushed the blonde hair away from Alanna’s face. “Aye,” Meaghan said. “We all need to know, but you have school…”

“Why does Grammy want Daddy to die?”

Meaghan’s mouth went dry. A chill rocked her spine and rattled her ribs. She stammered, searching for an answer. Finally, she said, “You’re grammy doesn’t…”

“Don’t lie to me, Mummy.”

In mid-June, Meaghan learned about a new group called the Irish Commission for Justice and Peace, the ICJP. Five men had formed the Commission: a priest, a bishop, a Dublin solicitor, a Catholic politician, and a Protestant bureaucrat. They had begun backchannel talks with the Thatcher government in search of a compromise. Periodically, they met with the families of hunger strikers in the auditorium of St. Dominic’s Grammar school on the Falls Road, near Dunville Park. Meaghan and Patrick attended the first meeting. As he squeezed himself into an auditorium seat, he warned, “Be careful who you speak to. Sinn Fein has people here.”

“Spies, you mean,” Meaghan added.

The Commission had drafted a statement. It called for the crisis to end without concessions on either side so no one would lose face. They stressed that they weren’t negotiating but clarifying positions, sort of like mediators. Patrick shook his head and muttered, “Baby steps”, but Meaghan said, “At least they’re talking.”

Liam had been on strike for almost six weeks now. He had lost more than 25 kg. When Meaghan visited, he was always wrapped in blankets, shivering with flu-like chills. The hospital staff wanted to hook him up to a heart monitor, but Liam refused. He was convinced it was a secret device that would revive him if his heart failed. He drank only tap water and insisted on watching the nurses fill his pitcher for fear that they would add something to nourish him. Sometimes while Liam slept, Meaghan walked to the nurse’s station where a clipboard sat. It held the affidavit, the one she could sign to authorize doctors to intervene if Liam lost consciousness. 

Each time Meaghan stepped into the hospital wing, the cream-colored walls momentarily made her feel like she could have been in any hospital in Northern Ireland, but the bars over the window across from Liam’s bed snapped her back to reality. Cut into the adjacent wall was a small rectangular observation window that made her feel watched. When the other men who had joined Liam in the wing were sleeping, he cried, begging her not to intervene. “You can’t deprive me of my destiny,” he whispered. He was a freedom fighter and wanted to die like a soldier. Not live like a coward. Meaghan was sure he was going insane.

The ICJP talks progressed. In the third week of June, Bishop O’Mahony, the leader of the Commission, explained that they were engaged in positive conversations about prison uniforms. They also discussed the right to free association during recreation time. Billy Malone was at the meeting with some other Sinn Fein members. He stood and said that positive conversations meant nothing. “We’ve heard this all before. It’s a trick. The Brits aren’t genuine.”

Patrick called out, “Don’t be an impediment, Malone. Let them try.”

The next day, Meaghan boarded the bus to Long Kesh with her children. A gunmetal bank of clouds hung low over Belfast. The light had a strange silver hue to it, like an old home movie. When they walked into the hospital wing, Liam was staring into the silver light flowing through the window across the room, open-mouthed, not moving. For a moment, she thought he was dead. When she called his name, he turned slowly, wincing in pain. She bent down to kiss him, but he didn’t raise himself to meet her. Without looking at her, Liam said, “They’re meddling. The Brits won’t negotiate. You’re wasting your time at those meetings.” As he spoke, Meaghan was sure his voice had grown weaker. She could feel Alanna watching her as she tried to defend the Commission. She joined Meaghan at Liam’s bedside, but Connor hung back. He had been doing this lately, watching from the perimeter, like a scared kitten. Alanna reached for Liam’s hand and immediately pulled away saying, “It’s so cold.” Then she added, “They’re just trying to help, Daddy. Why would you be mad?”

Liam looked at Meaghan and said, “You’ve turned my own children against me.”

A week later, on July 1, at another family meeting, Bishop O’Mahony confessed that he was “perplexed.” He felt that they had been making progress but had received a letter from his counterpart in the Thatcher government. The bishop read one part of the letter. “Uniforms and free association were non-negotiable. The five demands were precisely what the government could not give.” Billy Malone shook his head and laughed.

But on July 3^rd, there was a complete reversal. At yet another meeting, the families learned that if the hunger strike were to end, the government could grant some of the demands without appearing to be under duress. “The government now says clothing had never been non-negotiable,” the bishop said. Free association was back on the table, too. The room buzzed with chatter. Confusion here. Optimism there. Billy Malone called out, “The Brits are duplicitous. You can’t trust what comes out of their gobs.”

“We think we have a framework,” the bishop said to Billy. “We’d like to meet with the strikers.”

When Billy expressed doubt, one man called out, “You can’t stand in the way, Malone.” The families had grown frustrated with Sinn Fein’s inaction, its willingness to let the men decide their fate. A mother added, “If this has a chance, let them see our sons.” Patrick stood and said, “If you won’t let the Commission in, I’ll tell the boys myself.” Others started asking why Sinn Fein was at family meetings in the first place. “Don’t come back if you’re going to act like this,” Patrick said. Many in the auditorium cheered. Billy glared at him.

It was 9:00 pm as Patrick and Meaghan walked home along the Falls Road. The sun was starting to set. The clouds were swollen with red-orange light, floating in front of a fading blue sky. There was a breeze blowing from the north again, and Meaghan pulled on her sweater.

“You have to be more careful what you say to Billy. You know what he’s capable of.”

“And he knows what I used to do. I’d say we’re even.”

By the time Meaghan met Liam, Patrick had left the IRA. She never had the courage to ask him why, and Liam wouldn’t talk about it. All she knew was that he left after unidentified gunmen had ambushed British soldiers. The driver of the IRA getaway car was shot dead behind the wheel at the top of a hill. The car rolled down, crashed through a fence and into a shed where a woman had taken shelter when she heard the gunshots. Her two children were with her.

When they got home, Geraldine had already fed Alanna and Connor. They were in the kitchen drinking tea. Patrick went into the parlor to read his papers, leaving Meaghan to tell Geraldine what the bishop had said. She shared the information like a BBC reporter.

“Do you think this has a chance?”

“As good as any chance we’ve had.”

Geraldine spread her arms and said, “Come here, love.” Meaghan stepped back. She felt Alanna and Connor watching her. “C’mon now, Meaghan. This is good news. Give us a hug.” As they embraced, Meaghan’s skin crawled. She met Alanna’s gaze. Her expression was unreadable, but Connor smiled. Geraldine whispered, “If this works, you won’t have to intervene.” Meaghan pulled away. Geraldine offered to heat up some dinner, but Meaghan wasn’t hungry.

The following day was July 4^th. When Meaghan walked into the hospital wing, Liam was staring at the window again. Was there a smile on his face? A skylark was perched on the ledge, a blue gray sky behind it. She remembered her father again and the bird he’d caught, but there was something else about the skylark that she couldn’t remember. Something about Bobby Sands. Liam started shivering, so Meaghan picked up his woolen blankets from the floor. She covered him, but he cried out. The nurse walked over and said they were too heavy on his skin. When Meaghan protested and said he couldn’t be left like that, the nurse said they were working on it. She looked at her husband’s body. His belly was more bloated than ever. His skin was flaking. He looked like he had lost some hair. She leaned in and said, “They’re close. Please hold on.” He looked at her blankly, so she added, “The Commission. They’re going to meet with you and the other men tonight. Please listen to them.”

The following morning at 8:00, Geraldine answered a knock at the front door. At the sound of Billy Malone’s voice, Meaghan and Patrick joined her. Malone was all business. He stared at Patrick as he spoke. “I wanted to let you know, so rumors wouldn’t mislead you. Although the men were suspicious, they voted to let the Commission try. The bishop has already been in touch with his contact in the Thatcher government. The prison doctor submitted a letter explaining how little time Liam has left. We should know in about six hours.”

Meaghan was waiting again, like she had been for the last three years. Six hours passed. Twelve. Then eighteen. She couldn’t sleep. By 5:00 am, she was looking at the Bog Meadow Reserve, hoping to see more skylarks. The thing that she couldn’t remember about them was pulling at her brain, like a song she couldn’t recall. When Geraldine came down, Meaghan asked her to take the children to school. By 8:00, she was on the bus to Long Kesh. When Meaghan arrived, she sat with Liam and waited for the news. His breathing seemed labored. He kept throwing off his blankets. “Can’t something be done about this?” she asked the nurse again.

A few hours later, the doctor brought a small radio into the hospital wing. The Governor of Long Kesh was giving a press conference. Meaghan took hold of Liam’s cold, boney hand. The Governor read a prepared statement that bore no resemblance to the settlement the Commission had described. The negotiations had failed. Meaghan wasn’t sure if Liam had heard, so she told him. He began whispering and Meaghan leaned in. “Hundreds of years of lies,” he said, his voice barely audible. “We’re the most lied up people on the face of the earth.” He repeated “on the face of the earth” over and over, like a record stuck in its track. She leaned in to kiss him. “I’m so sorry, Liam.” He turned away.

On her way out, the head doctor stopped her. “He doesn’t have long,” he told her. “We’ll set up a bedroom in a cell in this wing so you can be near him. His parents can stay, too.” He pointed to the clipboard at the nurses’ station. “That’s the affidavit there.” He paused, “If you want us to intervene.” Another uncomfortable silence. “His life is in your hands.”

She asked the doctor if Liam could be saved. There was a chance, he said. But Liam’s organs were badly damaged. Some, like his kidneys and liver might never fully heal. His muscles had atrophied.

“Why is he having trouble breathing?”

“His heart and lungs have shrunk.”

Meaghan moved into a cell on July 7, Liam’s sixtieth day. His parents were next door. She was shocked at how much worse he looked today. His face was almost unrecognizable. Loose skin on a hard skull. The lights had been turned down low. Overnight, he had lost sight in his left eye and the lights bothered his right one. The hospital staff had erected a metal frame over his body onto which they draped woolen blankets because the weight of them hurt his skin. He shivered constantly. His breathing was labored, but he refused oxygen. He didn’t have the strength to drink water, so Meaghan lifted his head when he was thirsty and let him sip. Seconds later, he wanted to vomit. Meaghan helped the nurse to roll him over, but he cried out when she touched him. His skin was so thin she felt like she could push through it. He retched over the pot at the side of his bed.

The following morning, the doctor woke Meaghan at 5:45 to say that Liam had lapsed into a coma. She ran into his cell, and soon Patrick and Geraldine joined her. Meaghan leaned down and kissed his forehead. “I love you,” she whispered and caressed his face.

“You have to sign the affidavit,” Patrick urged.

Geraldine said, “You can’t. You know what will happen.”

“Meaghan,” Patrick said again, but his voice was far away. She walked to the desk and picked up the clipboard. She knew what it said but pretended to read the words as Patrick hovered. Her thoughts shifted to the skylarks she had seen over the last sixty-one days. There were the ones that had flown over the Bog Meadows Reserve when Liam started his strike. And the flock, escaping the helicopter that had invaded the Milltown Cemetery, where Bobby and Frank and Raymond and Patsy were buried. There was that skylark in the hospital window, singing its lonely song. Finally, she remembered. The skylark. It was Bobby’s favorite bird. A symbol of freedom, he used to say.