Eden Burning (22 page)

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.”

“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.