make it different.”
“It’s a lie,” he repeated, but there was no belief left in his voice, only anger and hurt and confusion. “It can’t be true.” She fished in her pocket and brought out the newspaper clippings. She pushed them at him without letting go of them. “Look fer yerself. Can yer read?”
“Of course I can read.” He stared at them without touching them. “We’ve known all about it for years! Everybody knows!”
“Everybody knowin’ don’t make it true,” she argued. “They only know it ’cos someone said so. They weren’t there, were they?”
“No, don’t be stupid!” he said with scalding disgust. “That’s an idiotic thing to say—”
“Then ’ow could they know?” Her reasoning was impeccable. “They know ’cos them Doyle brothers said so. Drystan O’Day must a’ thought it were them, or ’e wouldn’t a’ gorn an’ attacked them, would ’e?”
“He was a Protestant,” he said with vicious logic. “Of course he would.”
“No, ’e wouldn’t! Not if ’e thought it were Chinnery. ’E’d a’ gorn after Chinnery. Be honest! Wouldn’t you?”
“I’m not a Protestant!” His chin jerked up and his eyes blazed generations of loathing.
“Yer just the same!” she retorted with agonized conviction. “There in’t no difference, lyin’ and ’atin’ and killin’ each other—”
His reaction was instant.
“There’s all the difference in the world, you stupid girl!” he shouted thickly. “Don’t you listen to anything? You’re so … English! You can’t see Ireland at all.” He took a step forward, jabbing his finger at her. “You’re just typical, arrogant English, thinking all Ireland is the same, there for you to rob and plunder and then rum your back on and ignore when the people starve and die and the hate goes on from generation to generation and century to century! You make me sick! No wonder we hate you!”
Suddenly she saw the tragic stupidity of it, and the rage disappeared out of her, leaving her choked with grief.
“I in’t sayin’ we’re right,” she answered him with a quiet level voice, completely in control. “I’m sayin’ Alexander Chinnery din’t kill Neassa Doyle an’ you bin lyin’ ter yerselves all them years because the lie served you better than the truth, ’cos yer want ter blame somebody else, an’ best be it’s the English.” She shook her head. “Yer’d sooner live in a dream. An’ yer in’t never goin’ ter get peace wif each other long as yer’d sooner feed yer old ’atreds ’cos yer think yer some kind o’ romantic victims o’ somebody else.”
He made as if to fight back, but she drew in her breath and shouted over him. “I don’t know why yer want ter be somebody else’s victim! If it in’t yer own fault, yer can’t even fight it! Can yer? I don’t want all me troubles ter be someone else’s fault. Wot do that make me but an ’elpless little article pushed all over the place? I in’t ’elpless. I makes me own mistakes an’ I takes the truth an’ I puts ’em right or I lives wif ’em.” And she turned on her heel and ran out, gasping for breath, throat aching, hardly seeing where she was going for the tears, the cuttings still clutched in her hand.
She was running down the corridor towards the women’s stairs when she pitched full tilt into Tellman. He caught hold of her to prevent her from falling.
“What’s the matter?” he said immediately.
“Nuffink!” she shouted back, but her voice caught in a sob. Tellman was the last person she wanted to see just then. “In’t nuffink wrong! Let go o’ me!”
He kept hold of her, searching her face. “You’re upset. Something has happened. What is it? Did someone hurt you?” He sounded anxious.
She snatched at her wrists, trying to drag away from his hand, but he refused to let go. Surprisingly for the firmness of his grip, he was quite gentle.
“Gracie?”
“Nobody ’urt me,” she said desperately. She knew the tears were running down her cheeks. She could hardly see him through them. She was bursting with rage and grief and loneliness over Finn and the whole idiotic business. She did not want Tellman to know that she could ever be hurt, let alone see it in her. He was a useless creature, full of anger and resentment himself. “And it in’t nuffink ter do wif yer if they ’ad. It in’t p’lice business, if that’s wot yer thinkin’.”
“Course it isn’t police,” he said awkwardly. “Are you frightened, Gracie?”
“No, I in’t frightened.” She managed to snatch her hand away at last. She sniffed fiercely and gulped.
He produced a handkerchief, quite a nice, clean white one, and gave it to her.
She took it only out of necessity, poking the cuttings into her pocket first. She really did have to blow her nose and wipe away the tears.
“Thank you,” she said grudgingly. She would not let Tellman, of all people, catch her out in bad manners.
“Do you know something, Gracie?” he persisted, grasping her again. “If you do, you’ve got to tell me!”
She glared at him and blew her nose a second time. It was infuriating not to be able to control tears. She hated having him see her weakness.
“You have to!” His voice rose, as if he were frightened himself. “Don’t be so stupid!”
“In’t stupid!” she burst out, pulling away from him. “You watch ’oo yer callin’ names! ’Ow dare yer—
“How can I protect you if you don’t tell me wot the danger is?” he said angrily, and suddenly she knew it really was fear in his voice, even in his face and the locked muscles of his body as he braced himself to hold on to her against her will. “Do you think they won’t blow you up too, or push you down stairs, or just wring your neck, if they think you know enough to get them hanged?” He was shaking now too.
She stopped abruptly, staring at him.
