Hettie embraced Samuel.
“Thank you so—”
“You should go,” he whispered. “Take good care of Violet—and yourself.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, “about Colleen White.”
“Go on, Hettie,” he said.
Samuel took a step back and repositioned his rifle on his shoulder. As she looked into his face, she realized despite everything that had transpired between the two of them, Samuel was a good man. She hoped she would see him again. Hettie turned around and followed Liam, and Violet ambled after her. Over the modest hill, multiple homes had been reduced to piles of rubble and ash. The Thompsons’, the Smiths’, and the Longeleys’. Farther down the road, Mr. Wilson hammered away, boarding up the broken windows of his house. In the distance, Hettie heard a whistle. She was certain that it was the constable and the sergeant right behind them, but when she turned around she saw only Samuel Greene standing on her street with his rifle slung across his back.
“This way, Hettie,” Liam said.
From the Whitewell Road, they turned left on to the Longlands Road and then down the Church Road. Hettie noticed with some trepidation that they were crossing over into the Catholic section of her neighborhood. Irish tricolors were hanging out from the windows of many of the row houses, and she spotted a republican slogan—ERIN GO BRAGH—painted on one of the gable walls. Hettie surmised that Liam was probably taking Violet and her to one of his friends’ houses who was also involved with IRA-related activities. Fear radiated throughout her system as she thought about the gun in Liam’s pocket and what had just happened in her mother’s bedroom. Hettie turned around and stared up the street. A broken water-main pipe gushed like a fountain into the air. A young boy in velvet trousers waved. A part of Hettie wanted to return home and determine the best strategy of finding her mother, but she knew that if she returned to her house, it was likely that the constable and the sergeant were already there, questioning Samuel Greene. Hettie imagined the officers would question Mr. Brown, Mr. Reynolds, Mrs. Lyttle, and perhaps the children, too. Her stomach turned again. Violet released another trumpet call.
“Easy there,” Hettie said. “Easy, me girl.”
The elephant reached her trunk up into the air, the loop and curve seemingly forming random letters of the alphabet—first an S and then a U. Violet appeared to be growing more agitated. Hettie felt in her pocket for something to feed her. She pulled a stale roll out and gave it to Violet. She munched on it and seemed to calm as they continued along the street. A few strangers collected along the curb, taking in the bizarre sight of Violet marching down the road. An enormous crater filled the front yard of one of the homes, making the neighborhood look like a foreign landscape, a place that was no longer welcoming for humans and animals alike.
“Almost there,” Liam said.
Suddenly a mangy dog appeared in front of Hettie and Violet. His coat was a ratty gray brown, and there was a pair of bite marks on one of his ears. At first the dog cocked his head to one side, as if he was merely curious about the presence of the young elephant. Then the hairs on the dog’s neck bristled. Hettie looked around and noticed several other stray dogs sniffing, combing, and roaming through the yards. At least a dozen or more. Hettie wondered where they had all come from. The dog in front of them began to growl, baring his teeth. He moved closer to Violet’s feet and barked. Violet unfurled her large ears and released a hostile cry. Liam turned around. The elephant lowered her head and barreled toward the dog.
“Oh, no,” Hettie said. “Vi—”
The dog retreated, whimpering and skittering underneath a broken fence and disappearing into the next yard. Violet still charged after it at full speed and smashed through what remained of the fence, snapping the boards like brittle twigs. Then Hettie heard another crash. Liam ran toward Hettie from the road. The other dogs ceased their scavenging and stared on.
“What the bloody—”
Violet emerged from behind the broken fences, carrying a large turnip the size of a cricket ball in her mouth. Stringy roots with clumps of dirt hung from her mouth. The dog was nowhere to be seen. Hettie pressed her fingers against her temples. Her head throbbed with greater intensity. Her ears started to buzz, as if insects were caught inside them. Meanwhile Violet happily munched on the turnip.
Just then two elderly women stepped outside their homes. Right away, Hettie recognized them from the neighborhood and her aunt’s corner store: It was Mrs. Sloane and Mrs. Kilduff. Mrs. Kilduff’s silver-and-chestnut hair was tightly wound in a set of plastic curlers, with most of the stiff rollers hidden under a floral kerchief. Blotches of cold cream dotted Mrs. Sloane’s pale, wrinkled face. Aunt Sylvia had always been that way, catering to both the Catholics and the Protestants along the Antrim Road.
“That elephant ruined my garden,” Mrs. Kilduff screamed, brandishing her wooden cane in the air.
Hettie looked around at Mrs. Kilduff’s garden in disbelief. It was clear that much of it had already been destroyed during the bombing. A large crater hollowed out a corner of her yard, and a small dog yapped from the other side of the enormous hole. The other dogs—mutts, German shepherds, Labradors, and collies—gathered around the gaping hole, standing like a vigilant company of soldiers awaiting their orders. Some wagged their tails, others had their ears pinned back. No longer paying attention to the dog, Violet fed on another turnip she had just yanked from the ground.
“Where did all these dogs come from?” Hettie asked Liam, ignoring the old woman.
Hettie and Liam took in the sight of the burgeoning pack of dogs.
“They’ve lost their owners during the attacks,” Liam said, pausing for a moment, “or they’ve been abandoned by their owners who have fled the city.”
Many of the dogs perked their ears up as they stared at the spectacle of Violet munching on the turnip. A few of them issued sharp barks and low growls.
“That wild animal belongs behind bars. He’s a dangerous-looking bastard,” Mrs. Kilduff continued. “I’ll get that constable to come here, I’ve heard he’s shooting all the animals up at the zoo.”
At the mention of the constable, Hettie’s chest tightened again. Violet kicked her feet through the piles of dirt and fallen flowers.
“Vi, stop,” Hettie said, clucking her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “Stop it.”
Liam took the crop from Hettie. “Here, Vi,” he said, walking around the rim of the crater. “Let’s not create any further wreckage.”
“What about my garden! What about my yard!”
“I’m sorry for the damage, Mrs. Kilduff,” Hettie said.
“I know who you are,” Mrs. Kilduff shouted. “You’re Thomas Quin’s daughter. Everyone knows about your father, how he cheats and lies. Your poor mother. You’re just like him.”
Hettie held the stare of Mrs. Kilduff’s steely gray eyes. A few wisps of wiry hair flew out from her curlers. Her skin was thin and papery, like a ghost.
“Mrs. Kilduff,” she said in a steady voice. “I’ll pay for the damages. I’ll fix your fence.”
Mrs. Kilduff’s expression remained blank and empty, but then her face crumpled into tears, and Hettie realized she wasn’t angry at Mrs. Kilduff, or even Violet. She was angry at the Germans. She was angry at Hitler. She was angry at the war.
“Hettie, we’ve got other things to worry about,” Liam said.
He was leading Violet toward the street with a pack of stray dogs scampering after them. Hettie walked toward Mrs. Kilduff. The elderly woman stared at her with a bewildered expression. Hettie took a few pound notes from the front pocket of her trousers and handed them to Mrs. Kilduff.
“I’ll bring more later, I promise.”
Mrs. Kilduff sniffed, accepted the bills, and rubbed her nose with the sleeve of her housecoat.
Hettie sprinted down the road and caught up with Liam and Violet. The dogs followed them, howling and barking as they surveyed the ruins of the street. Liam turned right before heading down a dirt
driveway that led to a series of row houses. Hettie nervously glanced behind them. The dogs lingered, now rooting through the charred shell of a neighboring house. Liam opened the gate and guided Violet into the rear area. The courtyard of the row house didn’t look much different from her own on the Whitewell Road: a bare square of concrete surrounded by high redbrick walls on three sides. A young, slender man stood near the back door of the house with his arms crossed over his chest and a grin of bemusement on his face.
“Is this your idea of an offensive strategy, Keegan,” said the man with a harsh laugh. “A goddamn elephant. What are we going to do with that beast?”
The man started to pace around Hettie and Violet as if he were a vulture circling a plump rodent. Hettie took a few steps closer to Violet, feeling worried again. The stringy roots of a turnip still hung from the corner of the elephant’s mouth.
“Sell her on the black market? If we keep that bloody thing, the security forces will be crawling all over this neighborhood in no time looking for her.”
Hettie stared at Liam. He walked over to the young man and smacked him against his arm. The sight of her mother’s opened rosewood chest flashed through her mind. Why hadn’t she tried harder to take all the valuables with her? She fingered her mother’s wedding ring in her pocket and glanced at the gate and back to Violet, and wondered if the constable and sergeant might have already come and gone from her house.
“Why don’t you ever know when to shut the fuck up, Éamon—”
Liam shoved the man against the brick wall of the house.
“Calm down, Keegan,” he said, stepping to the side. “I’m just wondering how the hell an elephant figures into our plans is all.”
“I’m trying to help Hettie out here. She’s my sister-in-law for God’s sake,” Liam said, releasing Éamon from his grip. “She works at the zoo. Because of the air raid, the government has ordered all of the dangerous animals to be shot and sent the constable to do it. Bombs fell close to the zoo during the attack, and the locals want the animals put down.”
“The constable,” Éamon said. “I don’t understand.”
“I know, I know,” Liam said.
Éamon paused and then studied Hettie more keenly. “Aye, I knew I knew you from somewhere,” Éamon said, a smirk playing on his thick lips. “You’re Anna Quin’s kid sister. You look just like her.”
Hettie’s cheeks reddened. Suddenly she was reminded of the reality that she had just lost her virginity to her sister’s widower. She felt guilty, foolish, and embarrassed about what had happened between Liam and her. How could she have been so daft to fall for Liam? Clearly he had been stealing from Rose and the only reason the two of them had ended up in her mother’s bed was because he was attempting to cover up his illicit actions. Still, some part of her wanted to believe that their encounter would amount to something greater, that Liam might love her in a more permanent way.
“Tell me her name,” Éamon said, his tone becoming more menacing. “The elephant, what’s she called?”
“Violet,” Hettie offered.
“Violet,” Éamon repeated, tightening his circle around Hettie and Violet. “I like that name. How old is she? Where does she come from?”
“She’s three,” Hettie responded guardedly. “She’s from Ceylon.”
“An exotic creature from a distant land,” he said, and Hettie could practically see the cogs whirring in his mind. “Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe there is a way Vi could assist us in our efforts. What do you think, Keegan?” As he said this, Éamon retrieved a pistol from the pocket of his jacket. Hettie stared at Liam. Perspiration glistened along the top edge of his forehead. His right eye twitched.
“Come on, Éamon,” Liam said. “Don’t do this. Violet needs a safe hiding place until the constable loses his interest in the zoo and its animals. It won’t be long.”
“Well, you never know,” Éamon said. “We want the constable, and the constable wants Violet. Maybe we could work something out.”
“Liam, what is he talking about?” Hettie asked sharply.
Ignoring her question, Liam retrieved a bucket from the side of the row house and placed it next to Violet. She unfurled her trunk and sucked the water into her trunk, and then sprayed it into her mouth. Éamon watched, transfixed, his finger resting on the gun’s trigger.
“Poor thing,” Liam said. “She’s dying of thirst.”
Hettie pulled out the last remaining roll from her coat pocket and extended it to Violet in the center of her hand. The elephant swiftly slurped it up.
Suddenly, Éamon pointed his pistol up into the air and fired. Hettie jumped violently, and Violet released a throaty cry.
“What are you doing?” Liam yelled.
“Just testing it out,” Éamon said with a deranged smile. “I stole it from my uncle. I wasn’t sure if it worked.”
“You’re a fuckin’ crazy eejit,” Liam said, taking a step closer to Éamon. “You know what your problem is? You never know when to stop. That’s why I had to come back to Belfast. That’s why Billy Foyles is dead.”
Hettie felt confused. Why were they talking about all this when all she wanted was somewhere to hide Violet for a little while?
Éamon’s dark eyebrows furled, and his eyes lit up. He was like a child and an adult, mischievous yet dangerous. Slowly, Éamon turned the pistol’s barrel from the sky toward Liam. Hettie held her breath.
“I’ve never liked you, Keegan,” Éamon said.
Éamon walked toward Liam. Hettie looked around for the crop and saw that Liam had leaned it against the wall, near the gate that led out to the street. She retrieved it and slowly started to guide Violet along the narrow pathway that led to the front of the house. Éamon thrust the pistol’s barrel against Liam’s chest, but Liam just stared him down.
“You’ve always been the one with the big ideas, but nothing ever gets done,” Éamon yelled, the pistol shaking in his hand. “I should have listened to my instincts in the first place. Neal was always saying that Liam Keegan was good for something, but it turns out that you’re good for nothing. You’re all talk. You don’t really give a damn about Ireland. You’re never willing to make any sacrifices for the cause. You’re using Maeve as an excuse now to run away to the country and do nothing. You don’t care what we’re doing here in Belfast. You’re too concerned with de Valera and his so-called causes.”
Suddenly Liam pummeled Éamon alongside his right cheek. Hettie stopped for a split second. She felt as if she were witnessing the violence in slow motion—Liam’s arm swinging back and then moving forward with a terrible powerful force, the impact sending Éamon clear across the pavement. A bullet accidentally discharged from the gun, swishing over Hettie’s head and piercing the wooden rear gate.
“Jesus Christ,” she screamed, ducking down to the ground. “Jesus bloody Christ.”
She scrambled to unlatch the gate and started for the street. Violet followed right behind her, swinging her trunk, agitated again after the blast from the pistol. Hettie didn’t know where to go. She imagined that the constable and sergeant were still at her house, interrogating the neighbors about her whereabouts. Then she heard another gunshot behind her. The fine hairs on her arms pricked up. Hettie whipped around. There Éamon stood, panting, his pistol still in his hand.
“Hettie and Violet,” Éamon said, “where are you going now? Aren’t you going to let me help you? I think I can help you.”
Hettie swallowed. As she stared into Éamon’s eyes, she realized she had run out of ideas. For a moment, she wished that Ferris were here with her, that he could help her decide what to do next.
Then Liam appeared behind Éamon and tackled him to the pavement. More fists flew, and the pistol skittered across the ground toward Violet’s feet. Hettie rushed to pick it up. She had never touched a gun before. The handle felt warm and sturdy and solid. Liam threw another forceful punch before standing up, brushing the dirt off the front of his shirt and leaving Éamon behind, limp on the pavement.
A thin stream of blood traveled along the side of Éamon’s cheek. He looked up at Liam.
“Keegan, this isn’t going to end well for you,” he rasped. “You’re going to be sorry.”
Liam spat into Éamon’s face, and Éamon flinched, wiping away the spit from his cheek.
“You’re a bastard, you know that,” Éamon said. “You’re a goddamn bloody bastard.”
“Come on, Hettie,” Liam said, putting his arm around her shoulder and turning her away.
“Don’t you worry: I’ll call in at the zoo and let that constable know where you’re headed. I know where you’re going,” Éamon yelled, finally pulling himself off the pavement. “You and the elephant aren’t going to get away.”
“This way,” Liam said, and they started walking.
The last glimpse Hettie had of Éamon was of him wiping away the blood on his face with the sleeve of his uniform. He looked like one of the injured patients that Hettie had encountered early that morning at the Royal—bloody and disoriented.
Liam led Violet and Hettie down the hill toward the shoreline, in the opposite direction from the Whitewell Road and the Bellevue Zoo.
“I wish we could return home,” Hettie said.
“We can’t go back there,” Liam said sternly. “The risk is too high.”
Violet paused for a minute and sniffed the end of her trunk across the gritty pavement. Tumbleweeds of trash and other debris tripped down the street. Hettie noticed a few wrapped presents buried under a pile of rubble near the concrete foundation of what had until recently been someone’s home. Most of the badly damaged and dangerously unstable houses had been taken down by the rescue squads and soldiers, their bricks and masonry roughly scattered over their front gardens. Violet gave out a soft chirp, like a bird or a cricket, and Hettie stroked behind one of her ears.
“I’m sorry, Hettie,” Liam said. “I thought he was my friend. I didn’t think he’d see Violet as some kind of weapon.” He shook his head, looking almost bewildered about Éamon’s behavior. Hettie nodded wearily, too exhausted to respond. “I know a better place, I promise,” Liam said. “Give me his gun. I’ll keep it safe.”
The Elephant of Belfast Page 24