Eden Burning

by Deirdre Quiery

  He looked to his right where the wall of clouds stretched out not only in front but also to his right, rolling into the distance towards Downpatrick. He knelt on the ground and breathing deeply he leant forward and carefully placed a handful of twigs into the crackling smoke. The damp twigs threw a larger billowing cloud into the sky. He shivered and the coughing returned as he buttoned up his tweed jacket and tucked his scarf into his v necked jumper. Clasping his hands together he stared at the jumping flames, not noticing that the sun was setting and that the moon was cutting its way through the velvet darkness. A robin settled onto the handlebar of his bike, cocking its head to one side, looking at him inquisitively. It then hopped onto the stony path, stopping at his rucksack, jumping deftly onto his left strap and stared with Tom into the orange and cadmium yellow flames.

  “Don’t let it happen.” Tom prayed, watching the flames collapse into the fire’s final embers, burning a small hole into the thawing circle of earth. He looked at his watch. He was going to be late home. Lily and Rose would be worried. It was six o’clock.

  • • •

  At five o’clock in the evening of the 6th January, the Feast of the Epiphany, Margaret laid the table for dinner – cod poached in milk, boiled potatoes with peas and a pot of tea. Danny knocked at the front door. Dennis, Margaret’s oldest boy aged fourteen, opened the door. Danny, Sean and two women pushed Dennis against the wall, forcing their way inside. Danny and Sean watched Margaret finishing pouring white parsley sauce over the cod in a Pyrex serving dish. Margaret swung around, saw the guns and screamed. Danny lunged at Margaret, dragged her away from the serving dish which fell onto the floor, the milk splashing onto her legs and the dish shattering into tiny jigsaw pieces. She was pulled from the kitchen into the sitting room. Thomas and Dennis grabbed hold of both her hands and screamed, “Don’t let them take you Mummy. Don’t go.” One of the women put a gag into Margaret’s mouth although Margaret hadn’t said a word. Dennis tried to pull the gag out of his mother’s mouth, “Leave her alone. Leave her alone. Get out of here. Don’t hurt her. She hasn’t done anything.”

  Margaret’s small frail body now started to shake uncontrollably. The woman who gagged her, spat into her face. “Soldier lover!”

  Margaret felt the spit on her face as Danny pulled her hands behind her back, to allow Sean to bind them together with thick twisted cord. The two men then marched her into the hallway. The front door was open. Margaret stumbled down the garden path, past the oak tree towards a waiting green Vauxhall Viva. Ciaran was inside the car. Danny opened the back door and pushed Margaret inside, bending her head with his hand and nudging her over on the seat with his thighs.

  Ciaran drove towards Downpatrick. He parked in a lay-by half a mile from Ballycutter Lodge. Frances got out first and took Margaret’s arm, this time gently, helping her from the car. He removed the gag from her mouth. She took three deep breaths as though tasting the air for the first time. The coldness made her cough. Sean and Ciaran walked ahead through the gateway. There was no-one in the Lodge. Danny turned right walking along a path through the small woodland. Margaret staggered beside him, her hands still tied behind her back, shivering in her thick brown woollen tights, her swing purple woollen skirt catching in the thorn bushes along the path. Danny kept pulling her on, ignoring the fact that her skirt was getting plucked around the hem.

  Margaret was wearing the brown Pringle cashmere turtle neck jumper which Dennis had saved up for as her Christmas present. She felt its softness against her neck. She struggled to stay on her feet as her flat black leather shoes slipped on the ice at the edge of the Lough. She went over on her ankle. The temperatures were now barely above freezing as she listened to the gentle squish of the waves, feeling the spray touch her face, her lips tasting its saltiness. She noticed the ivy creeping around the trunk of the lime trees reaching high into the darkening sky. She saw the evening star appear in the sky as Danny guided Margaret to the small frozen lake where the slithered moon shone on the frozen surface. She compulsively took another three gasps of cold air, seeing for the first time a tree sticking out of the water like a petrified swan.

  Danny and Sean took a few steps towards the lake. She heard them muttering to one another. Were they changing their minds? She heard a heavy tread and crunch of boots against the frozen pebbles. She glanced again at the petrified swan, with its wing half open. She was aware that her breathing was becoming deeper. She felt the cold air enter her nostrils, her chest expanded, her stomach pushed against the elasticised waist of her skirt. She felt a trace of warm air at the tip of her nose. She took another cold breath of air, hearing Ciaran move closer. Margaret turned around and stared at the Lough and twinkling stars over Ciaran’s shoulders, hearing him take several deep breaths. She heard again the tread of Ciaran’s footsteps on the frozen grass. Ciaran walked towards her, a knife in his right hand, his beard jewelled with droplets of water from the spray of the Lough. He looked directly into Margaret’s eyes.

  “I don’t want to die.” Margaret whispered quietly. “I would like to be brave, but I’m not. I’m afraid. I’m terrified. I don’t want to die. Do you know what it feels like to be scared out of your mind?”

  “This is a war. You shouldn’t have done what you did. You know the consequences. You helped the enemy. This has to be a lesson to others.” Ciaran replied.

  “Don’t you want to see your own children grow up? I want to see my children grow up, get married. I want to see my grandchildren.”

  “You interfered with a military operation.”

  “I helped a man who was dying. How will it help Ireland to leave five children without a mother?”

  “You brought this on yourself. You are a traitor to Ireland. Why didn’t you think about your children before you helped the enemy?”

  “Do you have children?”

  “I do. I am fighting for them, for the future of the children of Ireland.”

  Ciaran, held her wrists as the knife sawed slowly through the rope.

  Margaret looked down at her hands now hanging by her side, mottled blue with the cold. She felt the cold air moving again through her body. Her feet were freezing as the melting snow seeped into her shoes.

  Ciaran passed the knife to Sean who had taken a few steps closer. Sean handed him a pistol.

  Margaret straightened her back and rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand for the last time. “Will you do something for me? Tell my children that I love them. Tell them to be kind to each other and to take care of each other. Tell them to be gentle and to forgive you. Tell them that I will look over them and love them always. I’ll never leave them. Will you do that for me?” Margaret asked, looking deeply into Ciaran’s brown eyes. She then looked beyond Ciaran towards the Lough, where the moon hung low on the horizon with a silvery halo and a mist skidded across its surface. She brought her hands together, bowed and turned to face the petrified swan in the frozen lake as the cold metal of Ciaran’s pistol touched the nape of her neck.

  “May God forgive you.” Margaret whispered. “You call yourself a Christian? It’s easy to kill an unarmed woman isn’t it soldier?” Margaret’s voice was low yet confident.

  “It’s war. You follow orders.” Ciaran’s voice for the first time trembled.

  Margaret questioned again. “Whose orders? Isn’t it you who gives the orders around North Belfast?”

  Ciaran pressed the pistol deeper into Margaret’s neck. “Shut up. Save your words for your bloody prayers.”

  • • •

  Tom had packed his rucksack when he heard footsteps to his left. He saw the black outline of Margaret, Danny, Ciaran and Sean walking two by two along the path passing Potter’s Cottage. He saw Margaret stumble, and being caught by Danny before falling on the ground. He watched Danny and Sean talking together, while Margaret stood alone and Ciaran took a few steps towards her. The moonlight glistened on the barrel of the pistol in Ciaran’s hand.

  Tom dropped the rucksack on the grass and ran towar
ds Margaret. Ciaran swung round and pointed the gun at the approaching stumbling shape while Danny and Sean remained motionless beside him. Ciaran pulled the trigger. A loud crack of gunfire rang across the Lough. Tom fell to the ground. A second shot followed. Margaret collapsed face first into the frozen lake, the ice cracked open and the dark water below swallowed her.

  From the ground, Tom saw Ciaran, Danny and Sean run towards Potter’s Cottage. He tried to move into a sitting position. A stabbing pain shot down his right arm. He could see a hole from the bullet in his overcoat. He unbuttoned the coat. There was a hole in his green woollen jumper but no blood. The bullet had deflected off the medal of Our Lady of Mount Carmel. Tom fingered the medal. It was slightly dented and his chest was bruised, but the skin on his chest hadn’t been broken. He staggered to his feet and walked quickly towards the side of the lake. Margaret’s body had surfaced and was bobbing face down in the water with arms are outstretched. Tom jumped into the icy water. He only needed to swim a few feet to reach Margaret. He pulled first on her woollen skirt and then was able to grab her shoulders, turning onto his back, swimming, kicking his feet into the air, Margaret now on top of him. As he reached the edge of the lake, he pulled Margaret onto the grass. Margaret’s eyes were open. She stared at him, a steady unblinking stare, and blood trickling from the corner of her mouth. He felt for a pulse. Nothing. He took a deep breath and breathed into her bleeding mouth, pumping her chest with his hands one on top of the other. Tom stared into Margaret’s eyes for a minute before closing them gently with the tips of his fingers.

  • • •

  “Can you give me a description of the men involved?” A policeman asked Tom in Holywood Barracks.

  “Sorry. It was dark. I saw a gun and a woman. It all happened very quickly.”

  “There were three men?”

  “Yes. One had a gun. He pointed the gun at the woman. When he heard me, he swung around. I took him by surprise. He shot at me first and then he shot the woman.”

  “What were you doing in Castle Ward?”

  “Trying to find peace and quiet.” Tom held his head in his hands. “Is it alright if I go now?”

  “If you remember anything else – ring this number. It’s confidential.” The policeman passed a piece of paper to Tom. “You can speak with Sammy if you feel easier.”

  “How do you know about Sammy?” Tom folded the paper and placed it in his trouser pocket.

  “It’s a small world. It’s hellish at times, but small.”

  chapter 8

  Friday 7th January 1972

  “I’d love to know who that fuckin’ bastard was who nearly messed things up.” Danny rolled a cigarette, licking the paper before sticking it, saying,

  “How the hell did you miss him?”

  “Don’t know. I aimed straight at him.”

  “Let’s hope that you do a better job than that this afternoon.”

  “Have you got the machine gun?”

  “It’s in the car.”

  “The tripod?”

  “Yes. Let’s go.”

  • • •

  Rose opened the gate and as she pushed the key into the front door lock she noticed an unfamiliar shape behind the lacy curtain. A hand moved towards the snib and the door slowly opened. Rose glimpsed dark brown eyes staring at her from inside a green balaclava.

  “Get inside now.”

  Rose’s heart beat quickly as she hoisted her schoolbag onto her left shoulder and walked slowly along the hallway. On her left the parlour door was open. She saw two men also wearing balaclavas assembling a machine gun onto a tripod. The metal slithered, slid and clicked into place. Danny and Sean glanced quickly at her and continued.

  “Upstairs. Your aunt is in the attic.” Ciaran instructed.

  Rose ran up the first set of carpeted stairs. She walked quickly past Lily and Tom’s bedroom.

  “Upstairs. The attic.” Ciaran repeated behind her.

  She slowly climbed the second set of uncarpeted stairs to the back attic. She opened the bedroom door. Lily was sitting on the bed. She jumped to her feet as Rose ran towards her and threw her arms around her.

  “Oh my God, Rose. I’m so glad to see you.”

  Ciaran was watching from the door. “Stay here until it’s over. Tom has fifteen minutes to get home. After that we’re going ahead whether he is here or not.”

  “Please don’t.” Lily moved towards Ciaran. “Don’t do it.”

  Ciaran closed the door heavily. His boots clunked noisily as he descended the first flight of stairs, fading to more muffled tones as he reached the first floor landing.

  “They arrived half an hour ago.” Lily sighed deeply. “I shouldn’t have opened the door.”

  “You couldn’t have known who was there.” Rose took off her blazer and hung it over the back of the chair.

  “I could have asked who it was.”

  “They could have told you a lie and you would have opened it anyway.”

  “There must be something we can do.”

  “What?”

  “I could pretend to have a heart attack,” suggested Lily.

  “If you go downstairs they might shoot you. They’re going to be nervous and trigger happy. You heard them say that they’ll do it in fifteen minutes.”

  Rose dragged the chair from beside the bed over to the skylight window and climbed onto it. She could see into the back yard. The back yard door leading into the entry was open.

  “They’ve set it up to escape through the back door into the entry.”

  “Is that Tom now?” Lily asked, hearing new footsteps on the stairs.

  “What’s happening?” Tom’s question could be heard in the attic.

  “It is Tom.” Lily held Rose’s hand and squeezed it tightly.

  “What’s he saying?” Rose whispered.

  Ciaran mumbled something in reply which Rose couldn’t hear.

  Heavy footsteps climbed the last set of stairs.

  Ciaran threw open the attic bedroom door. Tom stepped inside.

  “I think I’m having a heart attack.” Lily threw herself onto the lino floor and started breathing heavily, clutching at her chest.

  “Get an ambulance. You don’t want another death on your hands.” Lily whispered hyperventilating. She stuck her tongue out and shook her head from side to side. “Aaagh. This hurts.” She clasped her right fist against her breast. Tom dropped on his knees beside her.

  “Are you OK, Lily? Speak to me.”

  “Would you stop fuckin’ about? None of you move from here.” Ciaran said firmly, slamming the door closed.

  The room was silent as they strained to listen to what was happening. In the distance, they heard the unmistakable although faint sound of a Saracen tank rumbling at its slow familiar pace up the Crumlin Road. Lily and Tom sat on the bed, Rose on the chair, and Lily started praying the Rosary.

  “Our Father who art in Heaven …” Tom and Rose joined in, “Hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done on earth as it is in Heaven.”

  The sound of the Saracen tank was louder now. It was only a few doors away, then one door away.

  “Holy Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee; blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.”

  As the Saracen drew parallel with the house Lily, Tom and Rose stopped praying. The thick silence ruptured by heavy machine gun fire, smashing glass, single deliberate return fire …poom…poom…poom. There was a second blast of machine gunfire and a loud piercing scream from a girl filling the room, hanging in the air before it too disappeared into silence.

  It is hard to say how long it was before Tom, Lily and Rose opened the door and made their way downstairs. All sense of time disappeared. Tom made the first move, drawing himself wearily to a standing position from the bed, running his hand slowly up and down Lily’s back, patting Rose on the head before opening the door and descending the stairs. Reaching the parlour, he could see that the gunmen had gone with the machine
gun and tripod. The net wire on the windows was blasted with large holes. Glass was shattered on the carpet, together with twenty spent cartridges. He joined Lily and Rose in the hallway and opened the front door. On the other side of garden wall there was a large pool of blood and long strip of blood-soaked white cotton wool. There was no-one around – no body, no ambulance, no soldiers, no police. Everyone had gone, vanished, disappeared. How long had they been upstairs after the shooting?

  Mr Langley, who had been watching from behind the curtain, opened the door.

  “Are you alright?”

  “Yes, but someone has been hit. We heard a scream. Who was it?”

  “Clara McCann. She’s dead. She got caught up in the cross-fire.” Mr Langley pointed up the road. “She turned the corner from Brompton Park onto the Crumlin Road and walked straight into it. She didn’t stand a chance.”

  “She was in the class above me at school.” Rose whispered.

  “She was Ciaran’s eldest girl.” Mr Langley shook his head. “Just on her way back home after buying a loaf of bread.”

  The police arrived ten minutes later, pulling up outside the front door in a grey jeep.

  “We need to take a statement.”

  “Let’s talk in the kitchen. Would you like a cup of tea?”

  The two policemen sat on the battered green sofa in the parlour. One pulled out a small notebook and ballpoint pen and started taking notes.

  “Did you see their faces?”

  “No. They were wearing balaclavas.”