Fegan and the Psychologist

Fegan sat on an armchair in his living room, covering his eyes so he wouldn't have to look at them. It didn't help much. He knew they were there. They wouldn't disappear just because he couldn't see them.

"What do you want?" He'd asked this question ten thousand times, but no answer ever came. Until now, that is. They didn't speak; they didn't have to. The boy had made it clear, and now the pair of UDR men. Fegan took his hands away from his eyes and the two of them were kneeling in front of him, their faces stony.

"If I do Caffola, will you go away?"

The two looked to each other, then back to Fegan. They nodded in unison.

"Oh, this is fucking nuts." Fegan covered his eyes again. "I've lost it. I've cracked up."

He knew he should see a doctor. A shrink. Maybe go to a nice, quiet hospital for a while. Maybe get sober. Get away from the whiskey and the Guinness. He smacked his lips at the idea of drink. This evening, like every evening, he had promised he wouldn't touch a drop. He'd kept that promise so far, but it wasn't even nine yet. Somewhere, just beneath his heart, he knew he'd break it, just like every other night.

No, don't think about that, he thought. Think about doctors. He remembered Dr Brady at the Maze. He'd been a decent enough fella, even though he was a Protestant, and Fegan sort of liked him. He had a knack for getting you to talk about yourself. Fegan had little use for words, but somehow Dr Brady had drawn them out of him. Probably some shrink's trick.

The prison's counselling room had been a strange place. It reminded Fegan of a hotel suite without the beds, full of comfortable furniture that belonged in no one's home. He and Dr Brady sat facing each other every Tuesday morning after he got his release letter. A low coffee table with a leafy plant between them; prints of soothing watercolours on the walls; a prison officer on the other side of the door, just in case; the twelve wandering around the room, hanging on every word.

"Do they talk to you?" asked Brady.

"No, never."

"Do they communicate in any other way?"

"No. They just stare at me. Except at night."

Brady scribbled on his pad. "What happens at night?"

Fegan shifted in his chair. "They scream."

"Scream?"

"Yeah, when I'm trying to go to sleep. They scream." Fegan felt something strange in his throat. "Sometimes the baby starts crying."

"The baby you saw in the butcher's shop."

Fegan looked to the floor. He didn't want to see the mother's accusing glare. "Yeah."

"And his mother and the other man who died there."

He covered his eyes. "Yeah."

"Who are the others?"

Fegan spared Brady a quick glance. "No one."

"What you say in this room is confidential, Gerry. You don't have to lie to me."

"You know who they are." Fegan was shocked at his own sudden anger. His cheeks burned.

"All right." Brady's voice was warm and gentle. "Why do you think these people appeared when you got your early release notification?"

"Dunno."

"Come on, Gerry. You're smarter than you let on. Tell me what you think."

Fegan struggled with himself, part of him wanting to show the doctor his heart, part of him needing to keep it hidden. "To punish me," he said. "I'm getting out of here early, so they're punishing me themselves to make up for it."

"They're punishing you?"

"Yeah."

"Or are you punishing yourself?"

Fegan snorted. "Oh, for fuck's sake. You always do this. You always turn it round so it's me."

Brady held up his hands. "Who else is there?"

"Them!" Fegan pointed at the followers. "Those fuckers!"

The mother stopped pacing and glowered at him.

Fegan held his hand up. "Sorry."

She gave him a withering stare as she rocked her baby.

Brady leaned forward in his seat. "You know they're not real, don't you?"

Fegan laced his fingers together in his lap.

"They're a manifestation of the guilt you feel. You know what you did was wrong. If you can forgive yourself for what you did, then--"

"I did what I had to." Fegan sat forward too quickly, knocking the table with his knee. The plant tumbled to the floor. "You don't know. You lot, you don't know what it was like for us. There was no other way."

There was a soft tap at the door and the prison officer peeked through the small window.

Brady gave him a wave, telling him it was all right. "There's always another way, Gerry. I can help you come to terms with what you did. I can help you forgive yourself, when you're ready for it. But I'm never going to tell you what you did was all right. Tell me something, and tell me honestly."

Fegan breathed deep. "What?"

"Forget the politics, forget the history, forget the blame." Brady reached over and took Fegan's hand. The doctor's skin was soft. He asked, "If you could take it back, would you?"

Fegan didn't realise he was crying until he tasted the salt on his lips. Shame swallowed him whole and he pulled his hand away. "Yes," he said. "Christ, yes."

"But you can't," said Brady, sitting back in his chair. "You can never undo what you've done. But you can apologise."

"What?" Fegan wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.

"Apologise to them. One by one. When you go back to your cell, when you're alone, tell each of them how sorry you are. Out loud."

"What good will that do?"

"Maybe they'll leave you. Try it. Can't hurt, can it?"

So later that day, when he was alone in his cell with them, Fegan tried it. He decided to start with the woman and her baby. He picked his words carefully before he spoke. He inhaled, ready to tell her face-to-face how sorry he was. Even now, years later in his quiet living room, he could still feel the burning sting of her palm on his cheek, the one time any of them touched him.

Fegan raised his fingers to his face. Yes, it did hurt. And no, they didn't leave him.

But now there was a way; a way to take his life back. He stood and went to the mirror over the fireplace. He was forty-five years old. Twenty-six when he went inside, thirty-eight when he got out. The seven years since were a drunken blur.

Nearly half a lifetime wasted.

Shame pricked his heart at that lump of self-pity. At least he'd had the choice. The eleven reflected in the mirror didn't. He'd stolen it from them.

He turned to face them. The UDR men were closest, their stares the hardest.

"I'll do it," said Fegan. "Christ knows how, but I'll do it."