Eden Burning

by Deirdre Quiery

  “Thank you.”

  She passed the towels to his friends and moved the basin closer. She saw the small black hole in his chest. There was blue bruising spreading around the hole with only a small trickle of blood running down his body towards his trousers.

  Margaret soaked a towel in the warm water and pressed it to his chest.

  “There may be internal bleeding,” one of his mates whispered lifting a second towel, dipping it into the water and ringing it out for Margaret.

  He moved onto all fours and put his lips close to his mate’s ear.

  “Don’t give up. Stay awake. Don’t go to sleep.” The wounded soldier’s eyes rolled back in his head. He took one large breath before his head moved and fell to the left of the pillow.

  “You know you can’t sleep.” The soldier shook his shoulder gently.

  Margaret held the boy’s hand and searched for a pulse. She bit her lower lip and shook her head.

  “He’s dead?” His friend knelt on the ground, resting his head on the pavement, his arms stretched out in front of him.

  The silence was only broken by the almost inaudible sobbing of his friend.

  “Will someone say a prayer?” Margaret whispered.

  “Will you? He’s a Catholic.” His friend knelt beside the dead boy with his hands joined.

  Margaret, blessed herself and then blessed the dead soldier’s forehead with the sign of the Cross as she said, “Oh Angel of God, my Guardian dear, to whom his love entrusts me here, ever this day, be at my side to light, to guard, to rule and guide me home.”

  Ciaran lit a second cigarette, watching Margaret bend over the soldier in prayer. He lit a third cigarette as a soldier arrived with a stretcher and he saw the body being trundled into the back of a Saracen tank. He watched Margaret rest her hand on his friend’s shoulder before he handed her the white towels covered in blood, the pillow and empty basin. Ciaran lit a fourth cigarette, leaning against the railed garden of the house facing Margaret’s. He didn’t notice the bare oak tree. He didn’t see Smokey her white and grey cat sharpening his nails against the lower bark, or Dennis’s bike on the ground under the window sill. He didn’t see Margaret walk slowly up the path towards the front door with her head buried in the pillow. Ciaran kept his eyes on the Saracen tank until it turned right at the bottom of the street.

  • • •

  That same afternoon, Peter sat in his bedroom in a terraced house off the Shankill Road, strumming Van Morrison’s ‘Tupelo Honey’.

  “She’s as sweet as Tupelo Honey. She’s an angel of the first degree.” The walls of his bedroom were papered with woodchip painted deep primrose yellow and orange hopsack curtains hung from the windows. His bed was covered with an orange and cream crocheted quilt made by Eileen for his sixteenth birthday. As he strummed, Peter searched his mind for a strategy to save Rose.

  “Are you coming for a pint?” asked William, peering through the open door, expecting ‘No’ for a reply.

  “OK. Give me ten minutes.”

  Peter looked at himself in the mirror in the bathroom. He hadn’t shaved that morning. He had a stubbly gingery blonde beard, long and bushy sideburns, almost non-existent eye lashes and eyebrows. He looked as though seeing himself for the first time. He saw a broad face; square shaped with wide elongated eyes. He moved closer to the mirror, peering intensely as though trying to find out who was behind the face that looked back at him.

  “You’re an ugly looking sod. Why would she look twice at you? She deserves better.” His intense blue eyes looked back at him. “Save her life you ugly brute. Do something to make up for the disaster of a life form that you are.”

  • • •

  “What are you having?” William asked, scratching at a spot on his chin.

  “A pint of lager.” Peter slid onto the bench beside the window.

  “Why do they call it the Black Beetle?” Peter rubbed his hands on his jeans.

  Cedric wearing a navy blue polo neck jumper and jeans threw his hands into the air and spluttered.

  “The cockroaches.”

  “Are cockroaches not brown?” Peter shuffled on the bench.

  “Who bloody cares whether they’re black or brown or what they call this place. It’s a drinking hole, isn’t it, not a fucking art exhibition of brown and black cockroaches. Make mine a pint of Guinness with a whiskey chaser.”

  “Cheers.” There was a few seconds of silence before Peter lifted his pint and gulped half of it down without speaking.

  Cedric nudged William with his elbow. “He’s getting the hang of it at last.”

  Peter placed his glass on the table, wiping his lips from left to right with the back of his hand.

  “I’ve been thinking about what you were saying about that bitch on the Crumlin. She’s a bit of a lightweight, don’t you think? Why don’t we go for one of the big boys, one of the big hitters in Ardoyne?”

  “Who do you have in mind?” asked William, raising an eyebrow to Cedric.

  “Well, what about Ciaran McCann? We could go for him.”

  “Could we now,” Cedric drawled sarcastically. “You’re an expert now are you? You’ve been on two jobs and now you’re ready to give orders. That’s a good one. We couldn’t get you started but now you want to take over. Let me tell you something,” Cedric leant across the table, pointing his right index finger at Peter’s right eye, “Just in case this isn’t clear, you do what you’re told. You’re only a fucking apprentice. You’re not telling the professionals how to do their job. When you’ve earned the right to do it, we might listen to you or we might not but you will still do what we tell you to do. Do you get it? Or do you need to hear it in a different way?”

  “I’m not telling you what to do.” Peter insisted, “I’m only saying that if we go for one of the big shots, we’ll make an impact. It’s the same effort. Who cares about whether we kill that bitch. She’s nobody.”

  “How come I’m not convinced?” William nudged Cedric knowingly. “Somehow Peter, I get the feeling that you’re not committed to this – if you know what I’m saying. Maybe we need to sharpen up your commitment a little. Fancy a drive?”

  William stood up, leaving half of his Guinness unfinished and downing the chaser in one. Cedric hit Peter, who was still sitting, across the head.

  “After you.”

  Peter slid out from the bench, stood beside William who grabbed him by the elbow. Cedric took his other arm.

  “Let’s go.”

  William drove the taxi in silence up the Crumlin Road. A black cat ran in front of the car from an alleyway. William hit the brakes. The cat scampered into the Grove. He muttered under his breath.

  “If that cat had been a dog, it would have been a dead duck.”

  “Shut your mouth.” Cedric snapped at William.

  “Why didn’t you kill the bloody cat anyway?”

  William shook his head. “I’ve told you before that cats are honourable creatures.”

  Cedric turned to Peter. “We’re going to show you something that I think will make you wise up.” He moved his lips close to Peter’s ear. “Brother or no brother, you’re going to play the game the way we play it.”

  The black taxi turned left off the Crumlin Road, into the street parallel to the Grove. William parked on the left hand side of the road, opened the driver’s door, climbed out and walked towards a small metal gate leading into the Grove. Cedric and Peter followed behind. The light was failing. Rain began to fall, gently at first and then as the wind increased it swept horizontally through the trees, whipping the empty branches and stinging the faces of William, Cedric and Peter. Peter pulled his Parka hood over his head; his jeans darkened with the heavy rain.

  “Of course maybe you were only joking about us not killing the bitch.” William pinched Peter’s face. They walked in single file along a small overgrown pebble path winding its way towards Holy Cross Church. The trunks of the trees were steady, unmoving, as the branches continued to sway in broad circles.
Peter walked slowly with his head down. Cedric pushed him forward jabbing his hand into his back.

  “It’s here.” William limped more quickly a few steps ahead. He stepped onto the wet grass, making his way determinedly towards a holly bush. Peter could see that to the left of the holly bush was a rectangular hole in the ground. It seemed to be an empty grave with a pyramid of mud beside it.

  “Get in.” William ordered.

  Peter raised his head. “You can’t be serious?”

  “Get in.” William repeated. Cedric pushed Peter towards the grave.

  “Do as he says. We were keeping this for one of the priests. We thought they might like to be buried on Holy Ground.”

  Peter looked at Holy Cross Church in the distance. The sky was clearing of clouds. The twin spires pushed towards the moon. The door of the Church opened. There was a warm light falling on the steps. Peter saw the silhouette of a tall man dressed in black. His cloak fluttered in the wind. He seemed to register them. Pulling a torch from his pocket he shone it in their direction, the light swallowed by the darkness of the undergrowth. William and Cedric, with their backs to the church, didn’t see Father Anthony. Peter knelt on the wet grass and lowered himself into the grave, swinging his legs over the edge and jumping into the pool of water at the bottom.

  “What next?” Peter shouted.

  Cedric pulled a revolver from his inner pocket. “Turn around.”

  Peter turned his back on his father and Cedric. He felt the cold metal press against the nape of his neck.

  “Remember what this feels like. Take a good look around you. This will be your last view if you don’t do as you’re told. You’re not giving any orders.”

  Peter rested his chin on his chest, he breathed deeply.

  “OK. That’s enough!” William barked at Cedric. “He’s learnt his lesson. Let’s go.”

  “What are you talking about? Have you gone soft? Let’s hear him.” Cedric pushed the pistol hard against Peter’s temple. “Tell us what you have learnt Peter?”

  “For God’s sake Cedric wise up. Get a grip.”

  William leant over the grave and reached a hand down to Peter. Peter felt an unfamiliar softness in his father’s hand.

  “Quick, give me your hand. Let’s get out of here.”

  “Cedric, hold onto me.” William shouted as he slid on mud.

  Cedric put the gun in his pocket and held William around the waist as Peter, gripping William’s hand, scrambled out of the grave.

  Peter looked towards Holy Cross Church. The priest had gone. The doors were closed, the lights out.

  They walked in silence along the pebbled path to the gate. William opened the back door of the car. Peter climbed in and lay on the back seat. As they turned right onto the Crumlin Road, an unmarked police car, its siren blaring, swung left, heading for the Grove.

  “I wonder where they’re off to in such a rush?” Cedric looked at William. “Do you want to follow them and see what the craic is?”

  “Eileen will have dinner ready. Let’s go home.”

  • • •

  Father Anthony sat underneath the picture of the Sacred Heart of Jesus in the reception area of Holy Cross Monastery with Inspector Quinn sitting beside the white marble statue of the Virgin Mary and Police Constable McGuigan beside a statute of The Little Flower.

  “Would you like a cup of tea Inspector?” asked Father Anthony.

  “No thank you.”

  “So you found no-one in the Grove?”

  “We found an empty grave. There were recent footprints around it and in it. It appeared to be three men which confirms what you saw.”

  “It looked as though they were about to kill him.”

  “They may have seen you and taken him elsewhere to execute him. That’s a possibility.”

  “Is there anything we can do?” asked Father Anthony.

  “I don’t think so. We’ll keep a few soldiers around for a few days.”

  “Thank you for that.” Father Anthony stood up and walked slowly to the main monastery door and pulled back the heavy lock. “Do you think the footprints will help you to identify who they are?”

  “The footsteps are distorted with the mud and rain. Unlikely I’m afraid.”

  • • •

  Cedric opened the door for Jenny as he guided her into the Queen’s Head. She walked ahead of him and he took a deep breath. She wore a flared pink velvet skirt with blue silk bows around the hem and a long pink angora jumper with a flowery blue and pink silk scarf. Her hair was tied up in a ponytail. She carried a cream duffle coat on her right arm. His heart pounded. He followed her into the bar, pulling out a seat for her sit.

  “They do a great lasagne.” He noticed the softness of her skin on the nape of her neck, the curly golden downy hair above her scarf. He hovered a moment, breathing in the fruity sweetness of her hair.

  “Are you warm enough?” Cedric hung the duffle coat on a stand in the corner.

  “Yes thank you. I’ve got four layers on and these.” Jenny pointed at the furry boots and leg warmers.

  “What would you like to drink?” The waiter handed out the menus.

  “Orange juice please.” Jenny twiddled with a small golden cross around her neck.

  “Me too.” Cedric then pointed to the specials on the blackboard. “There’s no holding back. You can have anything you want. Don’t pick the cheapest.”

  As Jenny studied the menu, Cedric watched her. Her face seemed to change constantly in front of him like a waterfall where the water dropping so rapidly gives the impression of staying in the same place.

  “Don’t rush. Take your time.”

  “I’ve decided.” Jenny set the menu to one side. “Now you have to tell me all about yourself. All I know is that you have a taxi business with William.”

  “I have other plans.”

  “What kind of plans?” Jenny looked into his eyes. He stared at her without breathing for a few seconds.

  “Dreams. You know. Dreams.”

  “Don’t be so mysterious. What kind of dreams?”

  “What kind of dreams do you like?” Cedric laughed and took a deep gulp of orange juice.

  Jenny curled a strand of hair around her finger and it fell into a ringlet on her shoulder.

  “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if the Troubles would end and we could enjoy a normal life – like being able to go for a walk along Portstewart beach.”

  “You can go for a walk on Portstewart beach. What’s more I know a highly recommended taxi driver can you take you there for a good price.”

  Jenny smiled weakly, feeling slightly uncomfortable and not knowing why. Maybe it was because Cedric seemed to not so much smile at her but rather to leer at her. His voice was unusually sugary sweet. She began to wish that she hadn’t said yes to this date.

  “You haven’t told me about your dreams. Tell me more.”

  “I’d like to take care of Eileen, find a house in the countryside, maybe by the sea. Eileen’s a good person. She deserves better than Elmwood Terrace. You remind me of her.”

  As Cedric looked at Jenny he felt his heart thumping wildly. He wanted to reach across and take her hand. His face flushed. ‘Don’t do it’ – he repeated the words silently as he dropped his head to stare at the menu.

  “In what way do I remind you of Eileen?” Jenny tried to sound more relaxed than what she felt.

  “She’s different from most people. She’s a kind person. You seem a kind person. She wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  “She doesn’t come with you to the Black Beetle?”

  “No. That’s not her scene. She’s an artist you know.” Cedric searched in his wallet for a photo. “That’s one of her paintings. She has her first exhibition on Saturday.”

  Jenny took the photo and looked at it closely. It was a painting of a woman holding a baby. The woman wore a green skirt, a flowery blue, pink and white patterned blouse. It was hard to see the features of her face apart from a small rose titian mouth, a broad
nose and very little hair – more a shaved head, or an African short tight curl. It was hard to tell from her eyes in which direction she was looking. At first Jenny thought that she was looking over her shoulder to her right towards a threatening shape – only slightly defined in purple against a blue background. You couldn’t tell if the shape was of a man or of a woman or even if it was human at all. A second look suggested the woman’s eyes were looking to the left as though she was anticipating danger and was protecting the baby. Her arms were holding the child tight to her chest.

  “Who is the baby?” Jenny stroked the image as though trying to feel the textured paint of the original.

  “Don’t put your fingers over it. Hold it by the edges.” Cedric grabbed the photo back and held it between his finger and thumb. “Hold it like this.” He showed it again to Jenny.

  “Sorry.” Jenny shrugged her shoulders. Cedric replaced the photo in his wallet. “Who is the woman?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “The baby?”

  “I don’t know.” Cedric wished he hadn’t shown Jenny the photo. He closed the menu and looked around for the waiter.

  “The painting is a bit scary.”

  “Life’s scary, isn’t it?” Cedric put his hand in the air to attract the waiter’s attention. “How about Thursday for Portstewart Beach? I’ve a day off.” Cedric loosened his pink silk tie and opened the top button of his blue cotton shirt.

  “I haven’t been to Portstewart since I was on holiday when I was six.” Jenny finished her orange juice. “I loved it. It would be good to see it again. I’m working Thursday evening. I would need to be back for around three o’clock. Would that be OK?”

  Jenny didn’t know why she was making this happen. As soon as the words were out, she wanted to gobble them all up.

  “There’s still time to have a day to remember.” Cedric played with a gold ring on the little finger of his left hand, twisting it clockwise.

  “Why not bring Eileen along?” Jenny asked quickly.

  “She is busy getting ready for the art exhibition. There will be another time.” Cedric closed the button on his shirt and tightened his tie.