rubbish bin as he left the park.
Seventeen
When Fergus got home, the house was empty. There was nobody to ask him how his exam had gone. He got a packet of Jaffa cakes out of the biscuit tin and munched through the lot, standing at the window, staring out at the washing as it dried in the wind. Mam had hung up the sheets for the twin room in readiness for Felicity and Cora’s return the next day. Then she must have gone out prison-visiting. Pegged up next to the sheets was the coverlet Cath had inherited from Joe, the one he’d loved as a kid with the 101 Dalmatian dogs plastered all over it. Fergus smiled then felt a sob threaten to convulse him.
He shut himself into the front room.
Three Bs and you’ve a place for medicine, Fergus McCann. A whole new life
. He put on
London Calling
by The Clash at top volume. He sat head in hands at the drop-leaf table where his textbooks were piled. Then he opened his Nelkon and Parker.
But after a few minutes he gave up. Instead he took a fresh piece of paper and started to write.
He tore the paper up, threw it in the wastepaper bin and restarted on a fresh page. The bin was filled with crumpled balls of paper and London had been calling three times over by the time he was done.
He looked at what he’d written.
Dear Margaret Thatcher,
My brother would not want me to do this so I cannot tell you my name. My brother is a hunger striker and I do not want him to die. You say that crime is crime is crime and there is no such thing as political crime. But there are times when we’ve no choice but to fight. My brother believes this is one of them. I don’t know if he’s right. I just don’t know. But one thing is sure. This is a time of hate and it’s getting worse.
There are no winners in this strike, just losers. My brother will lose his life. I will lose my brother. On the streets, more lives are being lost every day. You will lose votes and supporters, maybe even your place in history. And hope–we’ll lose that too. All of us. Is there no way out?
The strikers won’t budge. I have visited my brother and seen his face. He is happy to die. You are the only person who can save him, Mrs Thatcher. It may go against what you see as your principle. But you will save his life and many others, and isn’t this a better principle than not giving the strikers the special category status they want?
Every death makes peace more distant. Every funeral makes more hate. Save us from this violence, this despair. My mam prays to God every Sunday in church, ‘Only say the word and I shall be healed’. Please. Over there in Westminster. Say the one word. ‘Yes.’ You will never regret it. Never.
From a sincere citizen.
Fergus stared at the words. Death. Peace. Hate. Principle. Crime. It was as if an older, more seasoned Fergus from twenty years into the future had bent time and returned to the brain of his younger self to write this letter. Surely it was persuasive. Surely anyone would think twice on reading this. Surely—
Put it in an envelope. Address it to the House of Commons. Before you change your mind
.
Then he thought of the long corridors of power, of the secretaries screening everything, of mailbags groaning with letters from sincere citizens, the manifold pleas of the kingdom; and the grating, intransigent voice of the woman herself.
She’d never see it. Let alone be moved by it.
Send it anyway.
He frowned at the words ‘a sincere citizen’. He crossed them out, thinking of the running he was doing for Michael Rafters. What was sincere about that? And what country was he a citizen of? Britain? Ireland? Who was he? What had he become?
He dropped the pen and tore up the letter. Then he took the bin with all the drafts out into the garden and burned them to ashes. When the flames died, he upended the ashes over the flowerbeds, cursing under his breath.
‘What on earth are you doing, Fergus?’
It was Mam, back from wherever she’d been, standing at the back
Seventeen
When Fergus got home, the house was empty. There was nobody to ask him how his exam had gone. He got a packet of Jaffa cakes out of the biscuit tin and munched through the lot, standing at the window, staring out at the washing as it dried in the wind. Mam had hung up the sheets for the twin room in readiness for Felicity and Cora’s return the next day. Then she must have gone out prison-visiting. Pegged up next to the sheets was the coverlet Cath had inherited from Joe, the one he’d loved as a kid with the 101 Dalmatian dogs plastered all over it. Fergus smiled then felt a sob threaten to convulse him.
He shut himself into the front room.
Three Bs and you’ve a place for medicine, Fergus McCann. A whole new life
. He put on
London Calling
by The Clash at top volume. He sat head in hands at the drop-leaf table where his textbooks were piled. Then he opened his Nelkon and Parker.
But after a few minutes he gave up. Instead he took a fresh piece of paper and started to write.
He tore the paper up, threw it in the wastepaper bin and restarted on a fresh page. The bin was filled with crumpled balls of paper and London had been calling three times over by the time he was done.
He looked at what he’d written.
Dear Margaret Thatcher,
My brother would not want me to do this so I cannot tell you my name. My brother is a hunger striker and I do not want him to die. You say that crime is crime is crime and there is no such thing as political crime. But there are times when we’ve no choice but to fight. My brother believes this is one of them. I don’t know if he’s right. I just don’t know. But one thing is sure. This is a time of hate and it’s getting worse.
There are no winners in this strike, just losers. My brother will lose his life. I will lose my brother. On the streets, more lives are being lost every day. You will lose votes and supporters, maybe even your place in history. And hope–we’ll lose that too. All of us. Is there no way out?
The strikers won’t budge. I have visited my brother and seen his face. He is happy to die. You are the only person who can save him, Mrs Thatcher. It may go against what you see as your principle. But you will save his life and many others, and isn’t this a better principle than not giving the strikers the special category status they want?
Every death makes peace more distant. Every funeral makes more hate. Save us from this violence, this despair. My mam prays to God every Sunday in church, ‘Only say the word and I shall be healed’. Please. Over there in Westminster. Say the one word. ‘Yes.’ You will never regret it. Never.
From a sincere citizen.
Fergus stared at the words. Death. Peace. Hate. Principle. Crime. It was as if an older, more seasoned Fergus from twenty years into the future had bent time and returned to the brain of his younger self to write this letter. Surely it was persuasive. Surely anyone would think twice on reading this. Surely—
Put it in an envelope. Address it to the House of Commons. Before you change your mind
.
Then he thought of the long corridors of power, of the secretaries screening everything, of mailbags groaning with letters from sincere citizens, the manifold pleas of the kingdom; and the grating, intransigent voice of the woman herself.
She’d never see it. Let alone be moved by it.
Send it anyway.
He frowned at the words ‘a sincere citizen’. He crossed them out, thinking of the running he was doing for Michael Rafters. What was sincere about that? And what country was he a citizen of? Britain? Ireland? Who was he? What had he become?
He dropped the pen and tore up the letter. Then he took the bin with all the drafts out into the garden and burned them to ashes. When the flames died, he upended the ashes over the flowerbeds, cursing under his breath.
‘What on earth are you doing, Fergus?’
It was Mam, back from wherever she’d been, standing at the back
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