Eden Burning

by Deirdre Quiery

  eden

  burning

  Deirdre Quiery

  urbanepublications.com

  First published in Great Britain in 2015

  by Urbane Publications Ltd

  Suite 3, Brown Europe House, 33/34 Gleamingwood Drive,

  Chatham, Kent ME5 8RZ

  Copyright © Deirdre Quiery, 2015

  The moral right of Deirdre Quiery to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978-1-909273-90-0

  EPUB 978-1-909273-91-7

  KINDLE 978-1-909273-92-4

  Design and Typeset by Julie Martin

  Cover by Julie Martin

  Printed in Great Britain by CPI Antony Rowe, Chippenham, Wiltshire

  urbanepublications.com

  The publisher supports the Forest Stewardship Council® (FSC®), the leading international forest-certification organisation. This book is made from acid-free paper from an FSC®-certified provider. FSC is the only forest-certification scheme supported by the leading environmental organisations, including Greenpeace.

  Door to Silence – John Main

  “The purification that leads to purity of heart … is a consuming fire. We must not be afraid of the purifying fire.

  We must have confidence in the fire because it is the fire of love … It is the fire who is love”.*

  *reproduced with the kind permission of the World Community for Christian Meditation

  For Martin – my Guardian Angel – always by my side dancing along the slippery path of life.

  Contents

  Chapter 1 Friday 31st December 1971

  Chapter 2 Saturday 1st January 1972

  Chapter 3 Sunday 2nd January 1972

  Chapter 4 Monday 3rd January 1972

  Chapter 5 Tuesday 4th January 1972

  Chapter 6 Wednesday 5th January 1972

  Chapter 7 Thursday 6th January 1972

  Chapter 8 Friday 7th January 1972

  Chapter 9 Saturday 8th January 1972

  Chapter 10 Sunday 9th January 1972

  Chapter 11 Monday 10th January 1972

  Chapter 12 Wednesday 12th January 1972

  Chapter 13 Thursday 13th January 1972

  Acknowledgements

  Gosh – where to begin? Maybe I start with my parents George and Doreen from whom I learnt so much about love. They asked so little from me – well nothing from me and gave so much without any expectation or demands. You will see their essences in my second novel “Gurtha”. I also want to thank Martin’s parents Elsie and Hooksie for welcoming me into the family and giving me a haven of peace only a few years after the setting of “Eden Burning” in 1972. What a joy it was to see the waves pounding Portstewart Strand compared to watching the petrol bombs explode on the Crumlin Road. That beauty inspired me to write the scene about Cedric and Jenny towards the end of “Eden Burning.”

  Then it has to be Martin. How I loved those morning walks in the mountains when we would talk about what might happen to Tom and Lily. Martin would always come up with great ideas and twists for the story. So together the characters were born – Eden Burning is our baby!

  Rachel Connor has been a source of inspiration and motivation with the quality of her feedback and encouragement. She knows that writers need to write badly if they are to improve and so enormous thanks to Rachel for persevering with all of the early drafts and helping to carve a way forward towards the final full stop.

  A special thanks to Matthew Smith from Urbane Publications whose Monday evening email changed my life! Since that email, I’ve grown to respect and to be fascinated by Matthew’s true collaboration with the writer. He never fails to amaze me.

  To allow you time to read the book – let me briefly mention others whose contributions were so significant either in providing me with the motivation to keep going or in practically providing editing and feedback. There has to be a special thanks to Alan and Agnes McLaughlin and Peter and Liz Richardson who provided financial support during the economic crisis in 2009 which allowed me to start writing “Eden Burning”.

  Thanks also to Cornerstone Literary Consultancy, David Walker, Mary McMenamin, Mark and Heather Quiery, John and Linda Burridge, Natascha Czech, Ivo and Rose Van Der Werff, Marie-Claire Primel, Bill Hoagland, Elspeth Bannister, Mary and David Smith, Lilo Heine, Janice and John Brooke, Diamantina Messaris, Deirdre Shannon and Michael Boyce, Penny and David Lee, Caroline and Ben Warner, Pep and Maria Vicens, Catalina and Paco, Ingrid and Kike, Natalia, Ricardo, Marga (1) and Bernardo, Doris, Walter, Miguel, Kike, Bettina, Joachim, David and Nuria, Marga (2), Monica, Lucia, Nadal, Rebecca, Loli, Rosa, Jose, Shinzen Young, Geraldine Glover, Dolores and Paul McCloskey; and of course the cats – Paloma, Ulysses, Jemima and Bumper.

  * If I Loved You lyrics reproduced with the kind permission of Reprise Records.

  **Song for Ireland lyrics copyright Phil and June Colclough

  prologue

  Wednesday 12th January 1972

  A velvet purple curtain glimmered golden at the edges of the Confessional box like a total eclipse of the sun. Tom sat on the bench, feet perched on the kneeler with hands joined in prayer. He listened to the hum of voices inside. It was surely Mrs McLaughlin with Father Anthony. He couldn’t hear the content of what she was saying, but her voice rose and fell with a fingerprint rhythm. He raised his eyes towards the main altar where a familiar red light flickered beside the tabernacle, indicating the presence of God. He closed his eyes and prayed.

  “Don’t let them murder Rose.”

  Thunder rumbled, then crackled in the distance over Black Mountain and the lights of the Church momentarily flashed on and off. Tom felt the sweat on his hands as the brass knob turned sharply and the Confessional door squeaked open. He rubbed them on his brown corduroy trousers.

  Tom listened to Mrs McLaughlin’s brogues briskly clump across the marble floor towards the exit at the rear of the Church. When the wooden door thumped closed, he looked around to make sure that he was alone, then heaved himself to his feet, opened the Confessional door, blessed himself, and in the darkness whispered to Father Anthony, “Father, get me a gun.”

  Father Anthony pushed open the confessional grill, stuck his curly black head through the small window and looked Tom in the eyes.

  “What on earth are you talking about Tom? What do you mean a gun?”

  “They’re going to kill Rose.”

  “Who in God’s name?”

  “Cedric and William.”

  “Who are they for Christ’s sake?”

  “Paddy’s killers.”

  Father Anthony pulled his head quickly back through the window. He leaned forward and clasped his hands together, bit his right knuckles before sitting up and resting his head against the back of his chair.

  “Christ Almighty,” he whispered. “Christ on a bicycle. Not Paddy’s killers. Not Rose.”

  Tom leaned forward, peering into the Confessional through the wooden lattice window. Father Anthony pulled at the white collar around his neck, sat forward and looked directly into Tom’s eyes.

  “We can’t stop them with a gun, Tom.”

  Tom slowly shook his head. “This is not murder.”

  “Tom, you know it is.�
�

  Tom squeezed his hand into a fist and hammered on the lattice. He pushed his face against the wood. His lips pressed slightly through the lattice like soft putty. His teeth touched the pinewood as he rasped.

  “Have you not heard a thing I’ve said? They’re going to kill Rose. How many times do I need to say it before you hear it?”

  “What has happened to you Tom?” Father Anthony asked in a soft voice.

  Tom stayed on his knees and slowly took a white cotton handkerchief from his trouser pocket. He opened it carefully, removed his glasses and wiped them. Holding the glasses in his hands he raised his eyes to plead with Father Anthony.

  “Have you forgotten what they did to Paddy and Michael?”

  Father Anthony was the right person to find him a gun. He approached Father Anthony because he knew that one of the other priests – Father Martin – had a gun which he used when he went hunting rabbits up Cave Hill in the summer. Tom thought that Father Anthony could be persuaded to get hold of Father Martin’s gun. He didn’t expect Father Anthony to pull the trigger or to aim the gun at Cedric. Tom was prepared to do that. If Tom had to kill Cedric to save Rose’s life that was the way it would be.

  Anyone who had known Tom before the evening of Wednesday 12th January would never have believed that he was capable of contemplating murder. It was no wonder that Father Anthony felt totally confused. Tom was the most saintly man he had ever met; in or out of Confession. Saintly in Father Anthony’s mind did not mean “perfect” but someone who imperfectly struggled to put God’s will first in their lives.

  Tom understood that the natural world worked within preordained rules and within a primordial order, annihilating and creating simultaneously. The sun rose and set at its prescribed times with each passing allowing light to flood the earth or darkness to cloak it. Seasons came and went in a disciplined manner. There was beauty in this order. Tom heard conkers thump onto the sodden ground or patiently watched a sycamore leaf flutter in an autumn breeze and settle into the moist earth, before disintegrating to nourish the tree from which it came. Tom felt familiar in the rhythm of this natural world where a fuzzy cloud appeared from nowhere and held form on a still day before morphing, dissolving, reforming, moving and disappearing. He knew the importance of touching cherry blossom on the tree as it burst into life. Nature, apart from man, was at home in its rhythm, in harmony with God – the “prime mover” setting the world in motion.

  For Tom, man was different – thirsting for water like a fish in the sea, trapped in time and space, restless to escape his sentence of movement on the earth, looking for stillness within an incessant burning, twisting desire for life and a fear of death. It was Tom who knew how to find stillness in silence. It was Tom who could feel his thoughts settle like waves swishing onto sand after a storm or slowly rolling like a billiard ball to a halt on a velvet table. It was Tom who had shown Father Anthony what it meant to be a man of peace, patience and forgiveness. It was Tom who had helped Father Anthony to recover a sense of hope and faith in the living.

  Yet this same Tom was asking the impossible. “Will you help me? Get me a gun.”

  Father Anthony rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands and lowered his head, grasping the crucifix around his neck.

  “What’s going on Tom? Tell me everything you know.”

  Tom sighed with relief.

  “On Tuesday Paddy’s killers spotted Rose walking home from school. They were in a black taxi driving along the Crumlin Road, looking for a target. She caught their attention. They had seen her before coming out from Mass.”

  Tom removed his glasses and gulped at the air like a fish on a hook. He placed the glasses on the floor beside the kneeler. He laid his head on crossed arms and sniffed tears to the back of his throat.

  “She was in the wrong place at the wrong time. They only had to see her to add her to their list.”

  “What list?”

  “The list of people they plan to murder. That’s what happened to Paddy and Michael. They were on the list.” He raised his head, took a deep in breath and sighed. “I’d rather die than have what happened to Paddy happen to Rose.”

  “Tom, Rose isn’t going to be murdered.”

  “How do you know? How can you be so sure?”

  Tom raised his head and stared into Father Anthony’s eyes. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand. He wiped it again with the sleeve of his jacket.

  “There were three of them in the taxi – Cedric, his brother Peter and his father William. When they saw Rose, Cedric and William joked about her being their next victim. Peter was in the back seat of the taxi. Peter then heard what they were saying – about their plans to kill her.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “Tonight Peter came to see Rose after Mass, to warn her.”

  “I’m confused. Why did he do that? Is he not one of the murderers?”

  “I don’t know why.” Tom shook his head. “It seems that he is terrified of his father and brother. Rose said that he didn’t want to be involved in the killings. He wants the murders to stop. He wants out.”

  “Are you sure Peter is to be trusted?”

  “Rose thinks so. I don’t know what to think.”

  Father Anthony pushed open the half door of the Confessional which led onto the side aisle. He turned the knob on the heavy wooden door on the Confessor’s side, gently opening it. Tom slid onto the floor and curled up like a snail, holding his head in his hands.

  Father Anthony knelt in the darkness and pulled Tom towards him, holding him in his arms. “Tom, let’s go to the Sacristy. It’s easier to talk there.”

  He placed his arm around Tom’s shoulders. They leant against each other as they edged up the side aisle towards the Sacristy door. Once seated and with a cup of tea in his hands, Tom explained.

  “This evening Peter gave Rose Molly’s engagement ring. I recognised it immediately. Paddy had it with him the night he was murdered. I saw it with my own eyes. It’s proof that they killed Paddy. They took Molly’s ring. He had it in his trouser pocket that night when he left me.” Tom slurped mouthfuls of hot sweet tea. “What do we do now? I’ve told Rose and Lily to stay indoors and not to open the door to anyone.”

  “Shouldn’t we call the Police?” asked Father Anthony.

  “How do we know that Cedric and William haven’t got connections with the Police? Can we risk that?”

  Tom’s voice was a little stronger. He placed the china teacup firmly on the saucer and rubbed his hand on his sleeve.

  “Once we know that Rose is safe we’ll make sure that the Police know who killed Paddy and Michael. Let’s make sure that Rose is safe first. Do you remember the prison guard in the Crumlin Road jail who poisoned Roger Cochrane? You have to be careful who you trust. Wouldn’t you have thought that Roger would be safe enough behind bars? Can you believe that it was a guard who put the arsenic in Roger’s custard?”

  Father Anthony got to his feet. He brought his hands to his face and mumbled through his fingers. “I’ll speak with Father Martin.”

  “Don’t be long. I have to get back to Lily and Rose.” Tom sat with his hands joined on his lap. His breathing had returned to normal, the clamminess on his hands had gone. He felt momentarily calm now that he had taken some action, no matter how small. He took a deep breath and tried to allow the fledging peace within him to grow.

  • • •

  Father Anthony couldn’t believe the difference that twelve hours had made to his sense of well-being. Only that morning he had been meditating in his cell, experiencing the deepest peace and tranquillity of his life, naively believing that he would never again give in to temptation. He truly believed this morning that he had an epiphany during his meditation that returned him to a state of innocence, wiping clean his fifteen year old sin. This same state of grace would now enable him to be eternally faithful to his vocation. Yet here he was, standing in front of Father Martin making plans to be party to a murder.

  Fat
her Anthony watched Father Martin scratch his head and then rest his joined hands on top of his stomach, sticking the thumbs through the cord twisted around his waist.

  “Shouldn’t we inform the Rector?”

  Father Anthony vigorously shook his head.

  “He’s not here. Remember he’s giving a retreat at Mount Argus.”

  “I still think that we need to talk to him. He needs to know.”

  Father Anthony’s right eye twitched slightly.

  “We haven’t time to waste tracking down the Rector. What do you think Christ would do? Slouch in a chair and think about the best protocol to follow?”

  “I don’t think he would look for a gun – do you?” Father Martin’s face was slightly twisted as though he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “What about your sermon on Christmas Day about the meaning of the “powerlessness” of Christ and how we were meant to imitate it? How come you’ve changed your mind?” Father Martin crossed his legs at the ankles and moved his toes up and down in his sandals. He removed his hands from his waist and tapped the leather arms of the chair as though to hurry a response from Father Anthony.

  Father Anthony jumped to his feet, rubbed both hands through his curly dark hair and responded in a strained but powerful whisper.

  “Rose’s death isn’t going to bring peace to Northern Ireland. If it was as simple as the powerless dying creating a change of heart in the killers, we would have had peace years ago. We don’t need another murder on our doorstep. Christ had a mission to fulfil. What’s Rose’s mission in life? Do you know? I would like her to live and find that out.”

  Father Martin shook his head. “I still see an inconsistency in what you are saying, but I can see that there’s no stopping you. Let me show you how the gun works.” Father Martin pulled himself heavily from the armchair. “It’s only ever been used for rabbits.”

  Father Anthony took the rifle out of Father Martin’s hands.