No Turning

As we cross the crest of the hill, the side of the old Jail choked with dead ivy greeted us, the air dead and old and damp in our nostrils. The tower of an old cathedral lies silhouetted against the sky on the way down to the river valley, and shafts of yellow dusky light break through the gloaming. We entered silently through the front gate, the echoes of forgotten hooves in our minds and our blood hot and violent with the memories of injustices. The courtyard too was empty and the Jail stood like a cruel castle stretching across our eye line on its plateau above. I could see crows on the surrounding trees, but the flap of their wings made no sound against the dead air. The hollows on the open ground smelled of blood and countless dead no doubt buried beneath.

We climbed the steps up to the main building and eyed the open door with suspicion. We were not going in. A figure stood within the doorway, beckoning, but upon closer inspection faded into a table and leaflet stand. We declined to enter, instead turning to our left and circling like an animal stalking its prey. The crisscrossed barricades were not that old, the Jail was not closed long enough. An old telephone box lay on its side as though shot by a sniper, the flat leaves of the weeds converting it into some sort of tragic hero's grave. The buildings at the back were all open. Not like normal. Old peeling doorways framed by decaying paraphernalia such as splintered damp baby's cots and torturous looking wheelchairs, their rusting skeletons reminding us again of the relative recentness of use.

The final building was composed of tiny cells, the bars on the windows thick and grmiacing like mouths full of bared teeth. Holes in the wall provided little reprieve for the complete absence of light. Yet still something made our hair stand on end and gripped our stomachs unrelentingly. Something raised our blood in defiance and gave us the strength to walk to the pit of this crime against our heritage and our people. We found an old piano stripped naked in the last room and turned to face each other, aware of all the souls screaming at us. Suddenly, an organ sounded terrifying chords, and we were rooted to the spot. It sounded as though it came from right next to us, from this time. When the choir started I don't know if we were more relieved or disappointed that it was the New Year's Day concert in rehearsal.

Walking down the hill again towards the docks we passed a huge house with a strange sign in the driveway: "No Turning". We walked on, but after a few minutes we were obliged to give in. We returned to the driveway and spent a good ten minutes performing jerking 3-point-turns and spinning until we were filled with laughter and had shaken off the chills of Cork Jail.