Eden Burning

by Deirdre Quiery

  “Did you recognise any voices?”

  “No.” Lily replied. Tom was silent. He crossed his legs and scratched the back of his head.

  As they talked over tea, Rose couldn’t forget Clara’s scream. It kept repeating in her head. A scream rolling on and on and when it was about to end, Rose imagined it starting over again. She didn’t hear what the policemen were saying. She didn’t see them place the empty mugs of tea and the untouched plate of biscuits on the small table, straighten their caps and leave the room.

  “It mustn’t ever happen again.” Rose said as they sat together again on the sofa, later that evening, sipping tea.

  “Maybe I could have tried to talk them out of it.” Lily whispered again. “I was with them for more than half an hour on my own. I tried but I could have done better.”

  Tom put his arm around Lily’s shoulders. “You know Lily, I think it was Ciaran McCann who took the house over today. He also killed Margaret last night in Castleward. I wasn’t sure but today I recognised his voice.”

  “God Almighty. Are you going to tell the Police?”

  “I don’t know. Look what they did to Margaret Mulvenna. They would stick a bullet in your head or Rose’s without even thinking about it.”

  “Tom, we have to do the right thing – don’t we?”

  Tom held his head in his hands, staring at the emerald green carpet. Lily saw his shoulders heave. Tears rolled along the inside of his glasses gathering into a pool before cascading over the gold edge rim and seeped gently into the carpet. “For God’s sake, Lily, how do you know what’s the right thing to do. If I had only told the police about my suspicions that it was Ciaran who killed Margaret last night, Clara might still be alive. If I tell them now you and Rose could both be killed. It’s not what happens to me that matters but it’s what could happen to you both.”

  Lily squeezed Tom’s shoulder. “Let’s sleep on it.”

  That night Rose lay in bed, her heart thumping, placing her fingers in her ears in an effort to blot out the noise from the cursing and stoning, the blast of the rubber bullets, the single sniper shots and machine gun fire as the riot intensifies. That night she couldn’t find the space between the shots, or listen to the contour of the noise. All she could hear were the sharp punches of rubber bullets into the air, the piercing narrow replies of arrow like rifle fire, the shattering of glass, the swishing of petrol bombs. Her throat closed over. She struggled to breathe. Her stomach felt as though she had swallowed a ball of fire. She was conscious of the breath entering her nostrils, fine and smooth, but there was not enough oxygen. She panicked, opening her mouth and gulping at the air. Her heart alternately fluttered and thumped against her breast bone like a butterfly in a jar.

  In the darkness she felt a presence, a shadowy essence, as though someone was looking at her, standing over her, watching her. She turned her head on the pillow to look. She could make out the faint outline of a bookcase, a table with a statue of Our Lady, on the wall a picture of the Sacred Heart and beside the table a small white wicker chair. There wasn’t anyone in the room. She sensed – didn’t see – an invisible outline which seemed to be of a man, bending over, watching her. Then she sensed him in the bed beside her. He pulled back the sheets back slowly on her left and slipped gently into the bed beside her. As he rested his head on the pillow, her heart beat slowed down, her breathing became more regular, and she felt waves of peace flow over her.

  When she did fall asleep, she had a dream. She dreamt that she was looking into space, into a deep blackness into which emerged a huge planet. It was dark blue and studded with jewels of different shapes, sizes and vibrant colours – orange, crimson, emerald green, violet. It sparkled radiantly, spinning slowly in a velvety blackness. It drew closer and closer and was embraced and then absorbed into Rose – nothing existed except the glittering planet revolving gently within Rose’s darkness.

  When Rose awakened it seemed as though for a few seconds everything had reversed and she was now the planet, swirling within the darkness of her bedroom. She was a deliciously peaceful being turned and turning, shining in the dark. Rose didn’t need to understand the dream. It was how the dream made her feel that mattered more. She knew that this feeling of peace and calm could fill the sense of fear she felt, alone in her bedroom listening to the cursing in the street or shuddering as yet another bomb blasted apart sending nails screaming through the air. She thought of Matt as she lay in bed and the darkness began to lighten, allowing the familiar shapes of the dressing table, the oak chair, to re-emerge. She knew what she had to do. She had to see Matt. Fear shouldn’t stop her from seeing him. Fear should never stop you doing what you know is the right thing to do.

  She opened the drawer beside her bed and removed Matt’s letter. She crawled back into bed and read it again in the fading silvery moonlight. She placed it beneath her pillow and buried her head deep into the pillow’s feathery softness. It was comforting to feel the heavy blankets on top and she turned on her tummy, stretched her arms out to both sides and pressed herself into the mattress as though she was rooting herself in the solid earth. The rioters had gone home. There was silence in the room and outside on the Crumlin Road, not a whisper. There was only the weekend to get through and then she would see Matt on Monday.

  chapter 9

  Saturday 8th January 1972

  On Saturday 8th January Eileen woke with a sense of anticipation. It was the day of the inauguration of the art exhibition. She pulled back the floral cotton curtains in the bedroom and looked out into the dark January sky. Three sparrows chirped loudly to each other on the empty branches of the cherry tree. William slid from the pillow like a slug down the blankets. He rolled onto his right side, his head no longer visible and his snoring muffled. There were a few grunting noises before he wriggled back up onto the pillow, swung his arms to the left and heaved his body towards Eileen’s side of the bed. The acrid smell of stale lager hung like a cloud over the bed. Eileen picked up the alarm clock from the bedside table as William’s hand moved closer towards her. She inched towards the edge of the bed. It hadn’t gone off yet. It was quarter to seven. She quietly slid from beneath the sheets, her feet touching the sheepskin carpet beside the bed. She pulled the sheets over William, shivering slightly in her pink brushed cotton pyjamas. What to wear? She opened the wardrobe door slowly without waking William and removed a hanger holding beige polyester trousers. She rummaged for an orange Pringle jumper from the shelf and extracted black boots from the floor of the wardrobe. She tiptoed to the bathroom.

  Eileen looked in the mirror. She liked doing that each morning and trying to spot what had changed from the day before. Today her eyes looked slightly baggier. She leaned forward to make sure. Her eyes were definitely baggier. Not surprising, it would be her fiftieth birthday in May. Her hair was greying at the temples but still quite blonde. She hadn’t resorted to the help of a dye. She couldn’t make up her mind if she should go grey gracefully? She was undecided. Her skin was still light and translucent. She was little bit overweight but people told her that ‘it favoured her’. Her face was plumped out and hydrated rather than shrivelled and wrinkled, which made her look much younger than forty nine. She poured the almond beige foundation onto her left hand and patted it over her face before smoothing it in. With a tissue she removed the foundation from her hairline before brushing on a salmon pink blusher over her cheeks, drawing black eyeliner along her eyelids, smudging a light green eye shadow and thickening her lashes with mascara. She caught her fine blonde hair into a ponytail. Tiptoeing back into the bedroom in the bottom drawer she found a silk scarf with exactly the right shade of orange, a hint of beige and a scattering of cornflowers. She tied it loosely around her neck. She glanced at William still lying on her side of the bed, now with his back to her. She opened a jewellery box beside the bed and removed the diamond solitaire which Cedric had given her a few days before. She placed it on the fourth finger of her right hand.

  Walking downstairs to mak
e a cup of tea, Eileen looked at the ring as her hand slid along the banister. It was dark outside with at least another hour to go before sunrise, but the light from the hallway caught the diamond and it glowed rather than glittered. As she sat alone at the kitchen table gazing at the diamond, she wondered if it was it a bit flashy to wear with the Pringle jumper and polyester trousers. Was her hand too old and wrinkly for a solitaire? Forty years of scrubbing, hand washing clothes, washing dishes, planting flowers in the garden, had left them looking decidedly more worn than her face. She removed the ring, rubbed Nivea cream into her hands and replaced it. The ring sparkled brightly under the kitchen light.

  She sipped on her tea and planned the day. At nine o’clock the art exhibition would open in a small gallery in Bedford Street, not far from the City Hall. Eileen’s painting ‘Sunrise over Belfast’ was now hanging with over two hundred and fifty exhibitors from all over Northern Ireland. Shankill Arts were exhibiting her work along with nearly twenty other art groups throughout the Province. The Belfast Mayor would be there to open the exhibition. They were going to be serving coffee, tea, biscuits and a glass of sparkling wine from nine o’clock. Eileen laughed when her art teacher told her that. Who in the name of heavens would drink wine at nine in the morning? They were expecting more than five thousand visitors. Would she sell her painting? What would she do with the money? It would be useful for Peter going to University next year. There were lots of books he would need to buy.

  Eileen laid the table for breakfast. Peter would be up soon. He had rugby this morning. William and Cedric probably wouldn’t waken before lunch-time. She changed the water in a vase of roses before gently closing the door and walking to the bus stop to catch the eight thirty bus for the city centre.

  As she walked down the garden path the sky was brightening. Three crows flapped against each other in silence overhead. The wind growled around the empty branches of the lime trees in the neighbour’s garden. A wind chime placed in the cherry tree in the garden tinkled, first gently and then louder. The wind dropped. The chime was silent. As Eileen stepped onto the bus for town, she failed to see Mr McCabe struggle with the lock on the garden gate, pull his cap over his eyes, wrap his scarf tightly around his neck and walk briskly to the front door of 18, Elmwood Terrace.

  Peter opened the door, still in his pyjamas, rubbing his eyes. “You’re early. You nearly bumped into Mum.”

  “I saw her leaving. I discreetly stayed out of sight. She seems a charming woman. Have you spoken to her yet?”

  Peter whispered, as they walked into the kitchen, “Not yet. I have a two part plan. She gets told after part one.” He pulled out a chair for Mr McCabe. “What will we say to explain why you are here, if Dad or Cedric come down?”

  “Don’t worry. Leave it to me. Your father doesn’t frighten me. I’m used to dealing with bullying types.” Mr McCabe put his elbows on the table and leaned towards Peter. “Let me update you. I have spoken to that friend I told you about in Portstewart. He has agreed that Tom, Lily and Rose can stay with him in a safe house for a while until we tell the police and stop the killings, if that helps. It’s immediately available. It a beautiful house down by the sea – a few yards from the golf course. They will be safe there. We need to speak to Rose and her family as soon as possible.”

  “Did you see the news last night?” Peter asked in a low voice.

  Mr McCabe shook his head. “I’ve given up watching the news.”

  “The IRA took Rose, Tom and Lily hostage. They shot from the house and there was a girl killed.”

  “Rose?” Mr McCabe pushed the chair back.

  “No. It wasn’t Rose. They said that it was the daughter of Ciaran McCann. She walked into the cross-fire.”

  “It’s out of control. We are spiralling into greater insanity. It’s even more urgent that we talk to Rose.” Mr McCabe held his two hands together and allowed Peter to continue.

  “I will talk to Rose. That’s part one of the plan. Part two is that after talking to Rose I will talk to Mum about William and Cedric. She is the only person I know who can persuade them to stop the killing.”

  “When are you planning talk to Rose? Tell me exactly when. You can’t do this alone and it needs to happen now. The police can be here in fifteen minutes. William and Cedric can be safely behind bars by lunch-time today.” Mr McCabe’s fingers pressed into his hands creating four small indentations as though his skin were made of putty.

  “You don’t understand, Mr McCabe.” Peter rubbed his face. “They can still have Rose killed from behind bars. We have to make sure she is safe. I will talk to her next Wednesday. Afterwards I will talk to Mum.” Peter looked anxiously over Mr McCabe’s shoulder towards the door.

  “Why wait until next Wednesday? Why not tonight? Every minute counts in a situation like this. Wednesday is a long way off.” Mr McCabe spoke in a calm soft voice but there was no mistaking his sense of urgency.

  “Cedric has met someone. He was talking about her last night. She’s a student nurse and she starts back to her nursing next Wednesday. He won’t do anything before Wednesday. I know from the way he was talking to William. Next Wednesday he will drive Jenny down to Lurgan. That has to be the best time to see Rose. There is no chance that he will go to Ardoyne. It’s perfect timing.”

  “But if he is going to be so taken up with Jenny between now and Wednesday, it would seem to me dear boy that you can act now not later.” Mr McCabe’s cheeks were slightly rosy but his voice was even more gentle and tender.

  Peter glanced again at the kitchen door. “Don’t you see that I have to be certain that he isn’t around? I don’t know what he is doing between now and next Wednesday but I do know for certain what he is doing on Wednesday. That’s when I can visit Rose and know that he won’t turn up.”

  “Your logic eludes me. If Cedric is going to be with Jenny between now and next Wednesday – why would he suddenly turn up?”

  Mr McCabe stroked Bouncer who had jumped onto his knee and who was curling around and settling down with a continuous purr.

  “I don’t trust him, you see. He might follow me if I go to see her before Wednesday. I know the way his mind works. He would like me to look over my shoulder and see him standing where I am not expecting him. He’s not in a killing frame of mind when he is with Jenny. But he still could stop me talking to Rose. So I have to act normally in order not to give anything away. I will only have one chance to get it right and so … Sssssh. Footsteps. Someone’s coming.”

  Peter pushed back the chair, jumped to his feet and reached for the radio sitting on the shelf as William stuck his head around kitchen door. A long strand of black hair had fallen down the right side of his head reaching his shoulder. His eyes were bloodshot; his face had a jaundiced look to it. He gave a forced smile.

  “Who’s this then?” He pointed at Mr McCabe before limping into the kitchen in his pyjamas, heading towards the table.

  Mr McCabe stretched out a hand, continuing to stroke Bouncer with the second hand. “Pleased to meet you Mr McManus, I’ve heard much about you. I’m Donald McCabe, Peter’s history and English teacher.”

  Peter turned the radio on behind William’s back and shook his head vigorously to discourage Mr McCabe from saying more.

  William looked over his shoulder at Peter. “What is he doing here on a Saturday morning? It seems an odd time to get help with your history?” William slithered uncomfortably in his seat. “Where is Eileen?”

  “She caught the bus into town for the art exhibition. You remember the exhibition, don’t you?” Peter looked at his father in disbelief.

  “Of course I do. Didn’t I bring the painting over to the exhibition for her yesterday?”

  Peter filled a kettle with fresh water. “Mr McCabe offered to drive me to rugby training this morning. We’re collecting Bryan and Simon on the way. Is that not right Mr McCabe?”

  William sniffed, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. He looked at Mr McCabe and then Peter, pointing to the
teapot. “Be Mother – pour me a cup of tea.”

  Peter filled William’s cup and passed him the milk jug, looking nervously at Mr McCabe. “Sorry, Mr McCabe, I forgot to ask. Would you like a cup of tea?”

  “Delighted, my boy, and then we had better be off. You need to get dressed I imagine or we will be late.”

  “How’s history going then?” William heaped a spoonful of raspberry jam onto the wheaten bread and pulled a long strand of dark hair across his bald spot.

  “If he doesn’t get an ‘A’ I’ll be very surprised.” Mr McCabe removed his cap and sat it on the table. “More than surprised – I would be astounded. He has the brains for Oxford. He has a great head on his shoulders. You should encourage him.”

  “I’m always pushing him. Has he not told you that?”

  “Indeed. Indeed. This is a marvellous cup of tea Peter, if I may say so. You can tell a lot about someone in the way they make a pot of tea and even more in the way they pour it. You excel on both counts.”

  “It doesn’t take much to impress you.” William munched on wheaten bread. “I’ll have Bouncer over here if you don’t mind.” William’s chair screeched on the tiled floor as he pushed it back and then shuffled towards Mr McCabe, lifting Bouncer from his lap. Bouncer didn’t resist. His legs floppy, his large tiger head turned towards the floor, eyes opened and tail curled between his legs.

  • • •

  At nine thirty, Lily ran up the steps leading into the gallery. Her fake leopard skin coat flapped in the breeze. Following the takeover of the house and Clara’s murder, she had no desire to go to the opening of the exhibition but Tom and Rose had insisted.

  “You have to go. It’s important to keep a shred of normality alive,” Tom said as he helped her on with her coat. “Rose and I will be along later.”

  Outside the gallery scrolls announcing ‘Exhibition Inauguration’ quivered in gold. As Lily reached the top step she almost collided with Eileen as they simultaneously made for the revolving door.