Delaney. Part XI

Tonight, the Rourk brothers sit at a corner booth in the Corporate Arms with their distant cousin. Their hushed conversation must be kept out of public earshot.

“It’s kidnapping,” Shelly is telling them. “Pure and simple kidnapping.”

“I’d rather think of it as liberation.” Ash says.

“Bullshit. You don’t even know if the woman wants to go.” Her jaw tightens.

“Wouldn’t you? I mean they’re slaves in there, aren’t they?”

“Don’t you go getting all high and mighty Ash Rourk!” She leans in across the table at him, nearly knocking over her beer. “We’re all of us slaves here in Ireland. Least those of us living under the boot of the corporation. You think you can come here from your high tower in west London and judge what’s happening here? All you have was built on the backs of others. Built upon the sweat of people like Magdalene. People like me!”

“High tower? You don’t know anything about us! Our parents … our parents …” Ash is stammering in a fit of offense. “They were working class stiffs. Practically peasants!”

“Peasants? Working class?” She spits back at him. “You don’t have a clue about the lives of the working class.”

“Now, Ash and Shelly.” Jackson butts in. “Let’s just take a breath. Keep things civil.”

“Damn your civility?” Shelly barks. It is as much the bitterness with which her words are delivered as the words themselves that stab at Jackson’s heart. “You speak of civility; buying whatever you like with your corporate stock while the rest of us live off the worthless scrip of the corporation. The paper you use to wipe your arses is more valuable. The schools you went to. The neighborhoods you grew up in. Your class can afford to be civil because you get to define it, get to set the rules for civility, get to distance yourselves from any who don’t meet the definition and lock them out of power. Give us justice, the we can talk of civility.

“Tell me,” she continues. “How many Bengali workers do you employ at your gardens and cooking your meals?”

Ash is tempted to say that they only have one Bengali servant and that the house they live in is humble by corporate standards. He wants to tell her that his dad worked hard as a simple mail clerk in corporate headquarters until the day his heart gave out, and that his mother has nothing that remotely resembles the privileges afforded corporate officers as a receptionist. But he realizes this is a weak defense, realizes it if only at a superficial level. Ash knows their Bengali maid couldn’t hope to rise to their level of corporate “poverty,” not in her lifetime nor the lifetime of her children.

“Have you even been inside the homes of your Bengali servants? Looked into their substandard schools? I hear how they live in the hovels of east London. And how the corporate employees in west London live. Talk to me about civility after you’ve lived in a home without the slave-powered running water you have in west London. Talk to me after you’ve spent your life pissing into a bucket in the middle of the night because the neighborhood loo is too dangerous or is overflowing with shit.”

Now her emotions are rising, and her voice is trembling. “Talk to me after you’ve watched your mother miscarry for the third time all for lack of decent nutrition, hauling out the bucket of piss and shit and baby to empty it into a ditch.” Tears spill onto the table as she chokes out more of her pent-up anger for the disparities which are so present to her and seem so foreign to these men.

“And don’t you dare judge me for working where I do. I keep my brothers and sisters clothed in the few rags they wear by working long, thankless hours at a Murder Factory. You think I have options? Think I could’ve chosen where to work? That godforsaken place is the only thing that keeps me out of the whore house. And I don’t blame the women who work there for making that choice, either.”

She stops to wipe her nose on her sleeve and take a long pull from her beer. The beverage and the stunned silence extinguish a little of the fire raging in her belly. She feels regret for her vomitous tirade, but it felt good to get it out of her. She hadn’t realized how much bile had built up from the classism she’s been swallowing all week, so there is relief. But there is also regret for the harsh words spewed out upon the table at her kin.

Ash sits tight-lipped with his head turned toward the crowded pub. Jackson is staring down into the black eye of his Goat Milk Stout which stares back out of the half-empty glass.

Shelly yanks herself from the booth and goes to the bar for another beer. When she returns and sits down Jackson says, “You’re right, Shelly. We have no idea what life is like outside our bubble. And to be honest, I feel overwhelmed; not sure what to do to make a difference with all that’s wrong in this world. But if we can’t make a difference for everyone, at least we can make a difference in the life of one person.”

“Listen, Shelly.” Ash speaks with a measure of contrition from the brow beating they have received, though he’s still defensive. He feels she’s been unfair to his family, maybe unfair to the corporation which employs so many in the world emerging after the Struggles. “We can’t do this alone, can’t help Magdalene without you.”

Shelly sighs, arms folded on her chest. “If I get found out then I will be working in the whore house.”

“I would never let that happen,” Jackson utters these words so gently and with such naive sincerity it is barely audible above the racket of the pub.

“If we do this thing, we do it my way.” She says. “Understand? I get the girl out by myself. I don’t want you two buggers anywhere near that place. You’ve already raised suspicions and created enough trouble. A corporate ship is set to leave from Drogheda for Cardiff on Thursday, you can make your way to London from there. You take care of getting papers for Magdalene. And buy passage for the three of you on that ship. You’ll leave the very morning I get her out. I’ll bring her in the dark hours to the dock just before ship is set to sail. There’ll be no getting her out early and hiding her until Thursday. They’ll send the dogs to look for her the second they notice she’s gone.”

“Thank you, Shelly.” And with this Jackson reaches across the table to put a hand on hers arm. It falls away as she stands abruptly.

“I can’t be seen with you until then. The next time we see each other will be at the dockyard early Thursday morning.”

She grabs her glass and quaffs down the rest of her stout. Ash and Jackson slide out of the booth to wish her off, but she turns and weaves her way through the busy pub without another word.

****

On Wednesday morning Shelly comes into one of the rooms in the woman’s quarters to strip the beds. By some miracle, Magdalene’s three roommates have gone to wait in line for the loo and Magdalene sits alone on the edge of her bed.

“Have you come to lead me to my workstation?” She asks.

“Listen.” Shelly says. “Do you remember some English men who came here a few days ago? They said they were inspectors.”

Magdalene nods.

“They’re leaving tomorrow morning for England. They want to take you with them.”

“With them?” Magdalene replies. “For what purpose? Transfer to another Care Home?”

“No. Nothing like that.” Footfalls down the hall stop her mid-thought, and she busies herself stripping one of the beds until the clacking of heels upon tile fades.

“They just thought you might want to leave here.”

“To do what? Go where?”

“Look, I have no idea. I just told them I’d help you get out if you wanted to go. They leave aboard a ship bound for Cardiff tomorrow morning. If you want to go, I promised to help.”

“Are they trustworthy, these men? Would you trust them if you were me?”

The length of Shelly’s pause strains the tension building like a storm in the room.

“Yes. I would trust them.”

“Then, yes. I’ll go. But only if we bring Adrienne with us.”

“Who?” Shelly asks sharply.

“Adrienne. We came together. She’s in the infirmary. She’s only eight.”

“Shite! I didn’t sign up to get two of you out.”

“Then, I’m afraid my answer is no. I won’t go without her.”

Shelly sighs deeply. “I can’t make any promises. I will try. But she may have already been sent to the floor for cleansing. Just be ready tonight. Do you have a way of telling time?”

Magdalene nods as she reaches to her wrist. A beautiful silver watch adorns her arm and she lifts a glass cover, passing her finger over the face of the watch. Magdalene was clearly born into a family with means.

“Good. At four in the morning I want you to slip out of your room and head to the loo. I’ll be waiting for you there.”

“And Adrienne?”

“No promises. If she’s still alive I’ll see what I can do.”

****

At the infirmary, Emily the receptionist, is away from her desk and at a Bunsen burner tending a tea kettle. Shelly reaches over the desk and picks up the patient log.

“Hey! Says Emily. Put that back.”

“Just seeing which rooms need the linens changed.”

“I’ll do that.” Emily says, and she walks to the reception desk and snatches the logbook from Shelly, but not before Shelly has noted the girl’s room number, and the fact that she is scheduled for the floor to be cleansed.

“Rooms three, seven, eight and ten.” Emily snaps, exerting the little authority a receptionist has over a laundry worker. In the lower ranks even a fraction of elevation over another must be guarded.

“I know. I saw.” Shelly says, pulling her status just a fraction above the bottom rung of the Murder Factory org chart.

After changing the linens in rooms three, seven, eight and ten, Shelly slips into the child’s room and shuts the door. She is surprised to note that the girl is dark skinned and wears a hajib, though it has been loosed from her head and neck and lies limp on the pillow. The girl is strapped to the bed, her bedsheets are soiled since she has not been tended to for a day.

“Adrienne, my name is Shelly,” and the woman is removing the child’s restraints. I’ve come to take you out.” She pulls the girl out of bed. She is much smaller than any eight-year-old Shelly has seen.

“My crutches.” Adrienne says, with a hint of anxiety. Shelly looks around the room and spots them leaning against the wall. She hands them to the girl and Adrienne slips her forearms into the wooden grips.

“But, first we should get you cleaned up.”

“The doctor said they were going to clean me. I’m sorry. I couldn’t wait.”

“Yeah, what they mean by clean and what I mean by clean are two different things.” Shelly doesn’t explain herself, just pulls the hospital gown off the child, removes her underclothes and brings a rag and basin of water over, all the while looking nervously to the door. She helps her on with some clean clothing and hands Adrienne her hajib.

“Sorry, I don’t know how to …”

“That’s alright.” Adrienne says, and she pulls her forearms out of her crutches and manages to balance on her small legs and clubbed feet. With a single swish she is firmly embraced by the head covering.

“Now,” says Shelley, lifting her into the laundry cart, “time to go.” The girl weighs less than the pile of linens that Shelly is covering her with.

“Wait. In the laundry?” Adrienne protests.

“Just be quiet. You and Magdalene are leaving tonight.”

“Magdalene?” Adrienne claws the linens from her face and peers up at Shelly. “Magdalene and I are leaving together.”

“Yes. Tonight. You’re going back to England.” And at this Adrienne appears to have not the slightest care in regard to the bizarre situation. She pulls the linens back over her head and sinks into the cart.

As Shelly wheels the cart through reception, Emily is busy flirting with one of the doctors. Shelly stops to pick up the log and marks “completed” next to the note indicating Adrienne is scheduled for cleansing that afternoon.