She pushed herself up off the street. Her hands were wet and sticky with blood; the copper and salt stink of it rising from her skin like a vapor. There was a pub with which she was familiar just up the street. It was a pub where Catholics drank but it had never been sectarian in nature. She thought she might be able to persuade the owner to call an ambulance.
Inside the lights were low and at first she thought the place was empty but then she saw the men sitting in the corner, eyes to the door, checking her out, looking for weapons. She didn’t make eye contact, she didn’t want to know if any of them had been out there circling that poor boy like wolves might circle a wounded deer.
She leaned across the bar, her belly rigid, baby kicking up a fury, sensing her mother’s upset.
“There’s a young man out in the street, he’s been shot and he needs medical attention. Can you call an ambulance please?” She kept her voice low, not wanting to get the publican in any sort of trouble. She kept her hands tucked inside her sweater and tried not to look desperate.
The publican leaned over and smiled, as though she had asked him simple directions and he hadn’t quite heard her. “I think ye mean the wee soldier. I’m goin’ to get ye a glass of water, an’ ye’re goin’ to hop up on the stool there an’ drink it like it’s the best drink of water ye’ve had in yer life. I can’t call until the lads in the corner—don’t look—have left, but once they’re gone, I will. Sit ye tight until then, lass.”
He came back with the water and a map, which he laid out carefully on the bar and began pointing out directions to her, and she nodded, asking the odd question so that it looked like she was genuinely lost. Should the men in the corner ask, her American accent would help to lend credence to the story that she had gotten herself hopelessly turned around in Belfast and was trying to make her way to visit relatives in Ballymena. She sat, looking earnestly at the map, even though it was just a blur of snaking lines and blobs of color, and sipped at her water. There was little else she could do; there was nowhere else to go to plead for help and the street was too risky.
With every minute that ticked by, the likelihood of the young soldier dying out there increased. And there was nothing she could do but sit here and drink her water, unless she wanted to die in a much less peaceful fashion than he had. The men continued to sit at their table in the corner, chatting in low tones, occasionally laughing as if a dying boy wasn’t lying out there in the street.
Once they left, the publican went out immediately and then came back in a minute later. He shook his head. “He’s gone, Army must have come an’ collected him. There’s a lot of blood on the street.” He shrugged, a gesture of great eloquence that summed up the night. “It’s not likely he survived losin’ that much blood.”
She nodded. There was nothing to say and it was far past time to be gone from here. She slid down from the stool, so tired that her blood felt like it had turned to wet sand while she sat.
“If ye give me a few minutes, I’ll lock up an’ walk ye to yer car,” he said.
“No thank you,” she said. “The car is only a block down, I’ll be fine. Thank you for the water and for being decent.”
“I’m only sorry it wasn’t quick enough for the lad. Poor bugger,” he said and shook his head.
She would be fine, for in the strange ways of Belfast, the streets had emptied entirely following the violence. Everyone had withdrawn to their various tribal enclaves and closed their curtains if they were fortunate enough to have them. Nevertheless, the publican stepped out into the evening and watched her walk down the block.
A cold wind carrying sleet, blew through her hair, depositing icy rain on her skin. The street was empty but hate still pulsed in the air, soaked into the very stones beneath her feet and the decaying façades of the buildings. Sometimes it felt as if all the hate and pain had maimed this city in its very heart, twisting it into something deformed which now bred violence and hate from that very deformity. It was a vicious cycle and one that looked to be unending in this wee city by the Lagan.
The poet had said it best, long ago, because so much in this country was part of the blood cycle, so that all things true became true once again on the sacrificial wheel. As she unlocked her car, she looked down at her hands and saw that the rain was washing away the blood which she had clenched her fists around only a short hour ago. But no amount of water would ever truly wash it away, for even the ceaseless and sweeping rains of this city were tinged with red.
Out of Ireland, have we come,
… great hatred, little room, maimed us from the start.
Chapter Eighty-four
There Will Always Be Blood
THERE WERE ONLY TWO weeks left until the wedding. Father Jim, after much convincing on her part, had agreed to marry them, though Pamela knew that he wasn’t happy with the idea of her joining in matrimony with Noah. It would be a simple ceremony, or as simple as the special circumstances allowed. It would be just the two of them along with Patrick, Kate and Vanya. Gert and Owen had begged off saying they had commitments that day which could not be avoided. The truth, as Gert later told Pamela was that they could not bear to watch her marry ‘that man’. Tomas had said much the same, only nowhere near as politely.
All that remained was to finish packing up the house. For the most part it would stay as it was, for Vanya was going to continue living in it. She was glad it would not be empty, and that he had agreed to keep Paudeen and Rusty here, as she didn’t think they would be happy at Noah’s, what with the several hundred cattle, barn cats, shepherd dogs and the flock of sheep. She wasn’t certain what Finbar was going to make of it either, but she knew the children would not be able to leave him behind, not even in Vanya’s loving care. As it was, Conor had suggested that he stay and live with Vanya. She had explained patiently that it was not possible, that he could not live away from her or Isabelle. To which he had said, looking as much like his father in a temper as was possible, that he liked living with them just fine in his own house, not Noah’s, and stormed off to the byre. Isabelle, on the other hand, was happily rolling things up in blankets to bring ‘wif me to Noba’s homes’. Pamela feared that she thought it was just an adventure and that they would return to this house and to all their own familiar things, much as they had once done with Jamie. Only the children loved Jamie, and she feared that might never be the case with Noah. He was kind to them, talked to them, brought them wee gifts that he thought they might like and yet she knew there was a great reticence in their hearts, particularly in Conor’s case. She couldn’t blame them; life had been confusing for them since their father’s disappearance. They had accepted Jamie into their hearts and lives, only to have him, for all intents and purposes, disappear like their father had.
She had packed three boxes that day with things she was taking to Noah’s house. She supposed she would have to quit referring to it as ‘Noah’s house’ and come to the realization that, from here on out, it would be her home, too. Today had been an especially hard day, because she had packed away some of Casey’s things, put lavender in with his clothes and asked Vanya to put the boxes up in the small attic of the house. She had spent an hour sitting in the midst of the clothes first, smelling each garment of his, imagining that she could detect his particular scent in the weft and warp of every sweater and jersey. She knew it wasn’t true, knew that the clothes were just wool and cotton, and that they didn’t hold him anymore and that there was no essence there for her to take into herself and hold against the days to come.
Early that morning she had stood quietly in her kitchen and looked around her. The house was the same as it had always been from the day Casey had finished it until now. The only changes were those of life and the soft wear of a home which was well loved. It was strange to her that the house hadn’t changed; that it could still have the same mellow patina to the floorboards, the same broad capability of counter and windowsill, that the same plants spilled greenery, the same mugs glowed warmly from the sideboard, that
the level in the whiskey bottle was right where Casey had left it oh so long ago. As if even the inanimate objects were held in some thick amber, and waited upon his return. She knew for her it was true, that some part of her, particularly when she was here in their home, still strained for the sound of his step in the yard, his presence in the doorway, the comfort of his arms after a long day. The expectancy was not as sharp as it had once been, but it was still there, and she knew that it always would be to some degree. Perhaps it would lessen when she left this house and would become something other, something more like yearning and less like believing. She would live within walls that Casey had never seen, floors upon which he had not walked, a bed in which he had never slept, and she would roam fields which he had not tilled. But she was not naïve, and knew that wherever she went, however she lived, whomever she loved, some part of her, a ghost of a living woman, would still be standing here in this house, with this floor beneath her feet, waiting and hoping.
She’d been quiet through the evening after that, causing Vanya to ask her if all was well. She’d nodded, feeling weary and achy in all her bones. She’d been out of sorts ever since she had witnessed the killing of the young soldier.
“I’m fine, just need a warm soak in the tub,” she said.
Which was exactly what she was doing, now that Isabelle was asleep and Vanya and Conor were reading together. She lay back in the lavender-scented water, feeling the ache ease out of her slowly as the warmth penetrated to her marrow. Her tub was one of the things that she was going to miss. It was an old Victorian, claw-footed monstrosity which Casey had recovered from some building before it was demolished. It was one of the few tubs in which the man could comfortably lie. She herself could wallow in decadent comfort with plenty of room to spare. She remembered when Casey had installed it and told her with a grin, that it ‘was of a size for the both of them.’ They had tested the idea out more than once and found that he was right, even if the floor was often soaked by the end of the bath. She sighed and closed her eyes, breathing deeply of the spicy lavender oil; it wasn’t likely she would be frolicking in tubs in her new marriage.
She smoothed her oiled hands over the round of her belly and thought about the baby that floated inside, safe in her watery world, her whole universe warm and fluid, with the echoing assurance of a strongly beating heart. She wondered if she would look like Jamie. Considering the resemblance between him and Julian, she thought it was likely that the baby would bear his genetic stamp strongly. She would like that, a child who looked like Jamie, only she did not want anything that would make Noah resent the baby in any way, shape or form. Then there was the issue of Jamie and custody. She did not take his words lightly, and knew he was very serious about not wanting Noah around his child. Tomas had already cautioned her about the advice he was likely to provide Jamie as the baby’s birth approached. She suspected his motive had been to scare her off marrying Noah, whom he referred to as ‘that murderin’ bastard.’
The baby, as if sensing her future was being fretted over, poked a tiny fist just under her mother’s ribs. She lay her own hand over it, cupping it slightly and rubbing in reassurance.
She was half-drowsing, still stroking the tiny moving form, when Vanya’s voice, sharp with anxiety, pierced her fog.
“Pamela, Noah is in the yard, something is not right with him. He is wanting you, but I do not like you to go to him.”
“Why won’t he come in?” she asked, getting up out of the water and wrapping a towel around herself. “Vanya, come in, and tell me what’s going on. Why can’t Noah come into the house?”
“He is all blood,” Vanya said, poking his head around the door. His normally snowy skin sported a slightly green cast. While Vanya took most things in stride, blood was not one of them.
“Is he hurt?” she asked, frightened suddenly.
“I am thinking no; I am thinking it is someone else’s blood he is wearing.”
She dressed hastily as Vanya ran back down the stairs. The clothes clung to her bath-damp skin and her hair was still dripping as she followed Vanya down the stairs.
She was surprised at how calm she felt. If this country had given her one thing, it was this—a somewhat impervious attitude toward blood and injury.
“Pamela,” Vanya was behind her as she opened the door, worry making him sharp. “I do not wish for you to go out there, he is not himself. Let me go, I will ask what he wishes to say and tell it to you.”
“No, please just stay here with the children. Isabelle is asleep but I don’t want Conor following me out. If it’s me Noah wants, there’s reason for it. Vanya, I’m not afraid of him. He would never hurt me.”
“He might not mean to, but…” Vanya shrugged. She shook her head at him, to indicate that she was going. Vanya had never liked Noah, and he wasn’t about to start now. It was just one more part of her life she would have to partition. Her life was starting to resemble Belfast’s own tribal map, what with all the people she couldn’t afford to have intersecting.
The moon was sharp tonight, but it shed enough light that she didn’t need to wait for her eyes to adjust. She saw Noah at once, sitting on a stump, strangely still, his hand over his chest as if something pained him terribly.
“Noah?” she said, her voice low so as not to startle him. He looked up but his face was a pale blank, like someone moving through water, seeing the world through a clouded scrim. She recognized the signs of shock all too well.
She crossed the yard, a dreadful foreboding building low in her belly. Shadows rippled across him as clouds drifted over the face of the moon. She couldn’t see the blood on him, but she could smell it.
“I couldn’t think where else to go,” he said, voice little more than a whisper. She touched his shoulder, gently, her heart hammering at the thought of what it would take to put him in this state.
He put his arms around her hips, startling her, his face to the round of her belly; he was shaking like a leaf in a gale. To her horror she felt something cold and slick soaking through the thin material of the shirt she had thrown on.
“Are you bleeding?” she asked, wondering if Vanya had been wrong in his assessment of Noah’s physical state.
“No, it’s not my blood,” he said.
“Noah, whose blood is it?” She wanted to push him off of her but knew he had to be handled carefully. He felt like a tamped powder keg.
“There was…there was a little girl…” he sounded like he was choking on the words, as well he might. She understood now, for even though he was a man of blood and violence himself, children fell outside what he deemed acceptable.
“Noah, what little girl? Where were you?”
“I was at the church, I had a few details to discuss with the priest, before the weddin’…” he trailed off. “But the priest wasn’t there.”
“No, he’s away just now,” she said, “gone to visit family in the States.”
“I was walkin’ out the path an’ there was a wee girl an’ her da’ gettin’ in a car,” he paused and pulled his head away from her. He swallowed and she could see his face stark in the moonlight, the bones taut to the skin, the blood black against it. “Some bastards came along in a car, an’ they sprayed the car with the little girl an’ her da’ in it. The car looked just like mine, I am sure it was meant for me. I ran to the car, the father was already dead, the wee girl was still breathin’, but she was drownin’ in her own blood. It was everywhere. Everywhere, Pamela. She was gaspin’ for air an’ the look in her eyes…” he swallowed and she could feel the tremor that ran through his body, shaking him to his core. “She died right there in my arms. The ambulance came but it was too late.”
Noah had seen more than his share of blood, but that it was a child was what appeared to have put him in this state of shock. It made sense, in the way that all the terrible things in this country made a terrible sort of sense.
“Just give me a minute,” she said gently, “and I’ll take you home.”
He too
k her hand and put his face to her palm, as if seeking grace through her touch. She could feel the terrible tension in his jaw and the rasp of his whiskers pressing into her skin.
“I need ye,” he said plainly.
“I know,” she replied, and wondered that two simple words could be built from such sorrow.
Inside, the house was surreally cozy, as if such shelter and sanctuary could not be real but only an illusion—which it had proved to be; a lovely illusion for a time, but that time, for her, was now over. Vanya stood waiting, face pensive, arms crossed over his blue-shirted chest. She was relieved to see that Conor had not made his way downstairs.
“Vanya, will you please watch the children for me? I don’t think I will be back tonight.”
The amethyst eyes looked at her without blinking. “What are you doing, Pamela?” he asked in his usual forthright manner.
“I’m going to take him home,” she said, grabbing a sweater that was hanging over the back of the sofa.
He nodded, though he looked suddenly sad. “Be certain, moy podrooga, of what you are doing and of what you want.”
“Want doesn’t have any bearing in this,” she said and went back out into the night, where a man who needed redemption waited.
Noah got in the car with her and she drove the narrow, dark laneways to his home. It was silent and the night was held still and silver within the universe’s hand. She did not speak, because there were no words to give him.
The farmhouse was dark and silent and there seemed to be no one about. She could hear the cows lowing far off in the pasture as she got out of the car. She stood for a moment in the moonlight, letting it touch her, wishing it could wash her clean, wishing it was like the hand of a priest filled with absolution. But there was no absolution, there was only life, and step after step on a road that led somewhere completely unfamiliar. She went around the car and opened the passenger door for Noah. He half-stumbled getting out and she grabbed him, then put his arm around her, the blood on his clothes filling her nose with copper-salt and something far darker; it was, she thought, the smell of butchery and the touch of it was a cold wind across her soul.
In the Country of Shadows (Exit Unicorns Series Book 4) Page 95
