Eden Burning Page 5

  Paddy was in a place beyond fear, beyond courage – a place of surrender. Inside the garage, Cedric smiled to himself. He hadn’t finished with Paddy yet. Paddy was hanging naked, upside down from a rafter. Cedric’s rough hands twisted the rope ever tighter around his neck, reducing his panting and intermittent screams to a harsh rasping choking. Cedric tightened and loosened the rope as he lounged back in a rickety chair, lighting a cigarette, resting it hands free on his lips for a few seconds, inhaling; before leaning forward, slowly puffing out hoops of smoke, drifting them towards Paddy. When he was about to die, Cedric loosened the noose again. Paddy gasped. He didn’t want to breathe. His body wanted to survive, Paddy wanted to die.

  When a cat chases a mouse, the mouse tries to escape at first. Even if it finds itself in a corner with no obvious way out, it will run around the skirting board, searching. The cat will follow, jumping into the air then falling with its full weight in a pounce. It draws the mouse into the air with its two paws, throwing it even higher towards the ceiling. It watches it fall onto the ground then rolls it with its paw from left to right, from right to left. The mouse still thinks it can escape, it makes a dart north-east but the cat has north-east, north-west, south-east, south-west covered. With a swipe of the paw the mouse is brought back to the centre. There is a moment before the kill, when the cat looks at the mouse, alone on the ground, eyes wide open, brown, bright, sparkling. The look they now exchange is different. It is intense, magnetic, absorbing, hypnotic. It might almost be mistaken as a look of love. In that moment before the kill, the mouse knows how to die. When the mouse lies dead on the cold tiles of a kitchen floor, the cat is no longer interested. It walks away, head in the air, without looking back at the still warm but lifeless body of its prey.

  An hour and a half later Cedric decided that Paddy would be allowed to die. What went through Cedric’s head as he looked at Paddy hanging naked upside down from the ceiling? As Cedric cut the rope and Paddy thumped heavily onto the concrete floor, Cedric muttered to Paddy, “Why did you make me do it? You gave me no choice.” He shook his head. “I had no choice.”

  Cedric stroked Paddy’s hair as he loosened the noose for the last time.

  Dawn broke over Belfast Lough, a thread of gold tracing along the horizon, a misty orange veiling the fading stars. Blackbirds sang energetically, hopping along the top of the yard wall then swooping gracefully onto the pavement. The grass growing through the pavement cracks frozen white. Even the hairs on the inside of Cedric’s nose bristled and froze as he breathed in, dragging Paddy’s dead body from the garage, dumping it in the entry, leaning against a neighbour’s back yard door. Paddy was doubled over like an unwanted scarecrow left for the bin men.

  Cedric pulled on black leather gloves, exhaled deeply, blowing white puffs of vapour in front of his face. He rubbed his arms to warm them as he approached the black taxi. He lifted a small heart shaped solitaire diamond ring out of his pocket. He looked at it under the street light – sparkling, a star fallen to earth, bound in gold. He slipped it into his trouser pocket.

  chapter 4

  Monday 3rd January 1972

  “Mum – where are you?” Cedric opened the door into the kitchen. There was no sign of Eileen. He raised his voice and there was a slight sound of anxiety in the second call. “Where are you Mum?” He looked behind the door, remembering how she had hidden behind the door when he was three and how he had cried thinking she had disappeared and that he was alone in the world. He remembered how she laughed at him to see him in such a panic, with his mouth wide open screaming, tears running down his face.

  “You’re OK Cedric. Don’t be silly. I’m here.”

  She knelt down on the floor and hugged him and he felt the fear subside and he looked into her face and mimicked her smile.

  She smiled even more broadly. He felt the warm peace return to his belly, melting the ball of fear. He knew that warmth as Eileen, his Mum.

  Eileen opened the back door with the empty can of cat food in her hand.

  “Cedric – what are you doing up so early?”

  “I have a present for you.”

  “Don’t be mad. You’ve given me too many presents for Christmas and then the lovely pearls. You must stop. You’re spoiling me. What’s all this about?” Eileen looked a little puzzled as she peeled the sellotape carefully from the pink and white hearts wrapping paper.

  She then slowly opened a small white box in which lay a heart shaped diamond solitaire ring, glittering in the light from the chandelier dangling over the table. Eileen tried the ring on her right hand, fourth finger. It was a perfect fit. She moved the ring towards the chandelier watching the diamond sparkle even more brightly – a kaleidoscope of dazzling blue, green, pink and yellow. The light shimmered and sparkled like flames in a roaring white fire.

  “It’s beautiful Cedric. But it must have cost you a fortune.”

  “I won it in a game of poker last night.” Cedric opened the top button on his shirt and loosened his tie. “It didn’t cost me a penny.”

  “You can’t take that from someone because you’ve won it at cards. You must give it back. Someone will be missing this. It belongs to someone else. It meant something to them. I can’t take it.” Eileen handed it back to Cedric. “Give it back to the person you won it from. Who was it?”

  “It was no-one you know Mum. He was a stranger passing through who knew the rules. He played the game and lost.” He closed his hand around hers. “It’s yours.”

  Eileen clipped a strand of hair which had fallen across her face into her French plait. She raised her head to look into Cedric’s eyes. His lips were smiling but his eyes were disconnected from the smile which gave the impression of his face being divided into two parts. It was hard to know which half to believe – the red, spider-webbed and anguished eyes or the broad smile with its ivory white teeth. Eileen settled on the lower half of his face, mesmerised by the evenness and whiteness of his teeth – her eyes scanning right and left as though to discover a flaw.

  “How did he take it?” Eileen kept her eyes on Cedric’s teeth.

  “Take what?” Cedric smiled even more broadly, tapping Eileen on the nose with his index finger.

  “Losing the ring of course.” Eileen instinctively twitched her nose twice like a rabbit.

  “How would I know?” Cedric reached for a chair at the kitchen table.

  “You could tell from his expression couldn’t you whether he was upset or not?” Eileen filled the kettle for tea.

  “That’s what I would expect a woman to say. A man plays by the rules. It was only a game of poker remember? You’re meant to keep your face straight.”

  “Men have hearts too you know.” Eileen topped the teapot up with boiling water and didn’t look at Cedric as she whispered. “It isn’t only about your friend playing poker, what about her?”

  “Who?” Cedric drummed his fingers on the kitchen table.

  “The person the ring was meant for … who it belonged to.”

  She poured his tea into a china cup. Cedric twisted a small band of gold on his left pinky finger. “That’s the kind of thinking that would do your head in if you let it.”

  • • •

  Cedric, William and Peter returned to the Black Beetle the afternoon after Paddy had been murdered. The pub looked neglected from the outside with black paint curling on wooden window frames. There was a worn, muddy Guinness mat at the front door to wipe your feet and the door itself was riddled with woodworm. The windows were dusty and finger stained.

  Cedric swaggered through the open front door, followed by William and Peter. A faint shaft of sunlight fell through the open door onto the wooden boards by the bar. Cedric strutted into the rectangle, as though into a spotlight on stage, as the cigarette smoke swirled in clouds around him. Frank, the bar owner, immediately jumped to his feet and rushed behind the bar, pushing through the groups of men huddled in the darkness around tables, playing cards, dominoes or talking in whispers.

&nbs
p; “Get them whatever they want. It’s on the house.” Frank shouted at Richard the barman.

  There was a steady background hum of talking. To the right of the bar there was a television showing the Chester horse races. At the table closest to the television, two men compared betting tickets.

  “Another beaten docket Sammy P?” shouted Cedric across the bar. Sammy P smiled back, waving his ticket in the air, rolling his eyes to the ceiling. Richard scurried to Cedric seated beside the billiard table in an enclosed booth. “What are you having? Frank says it’s on the house.”

  “Let’s have three pints of the black stuff and three whiskey chasers.”

  Richard wiped the table with a damp cloth and hurried back to the bar. He piled the drinks onto a small circular tray and breathing heavily moved quickly towards the booth. As he approached Cedric’s table Richard’s feet seemed to tie themselves in knots and he lurched forward – the tray leaving his hand and causing a wall of black liquid to cascade on top of Cedric and William.

  The bar filled with silence. All eyes were on the small booth, waiting for someone to break the silence.

  Richard took a deep breath. “I’m really sorry.”

  Cedric mopped his face with a handkerchief. Cedric looked at Richard who trembled in front of him, shoulders bent over, wringing his hands.

  “I’m really sorry.”

  Frank had dropped to his hunkers behind the bar, looking over the top, with his hands over his ears.

  Cedric coughed, looked at William and then Peter. William nodded. “We’ll have the same round again. This time throw a towel in if you don’t mind.”

  Richard sighed. “I’ll get you that right away.” Minutes later he carefully balanced the three pints and whiskey on the small circular tin tray.

  “How long did it take you to finish the job last night?’” asked William knocking back a whiskey.

  “I took my time. No need to rush these things if you want to do a quality job,” Cedric smirked.

  “What are you talking about?” Peter asked. “He didn’t look as though he was long for this world when you took him to the lock up.”

  “Well, there you go. Out of the goodness of my heart, you might say that I let him live a little longer. Oh by the way – well done Peter. I forgot to offer you my congratulations. You’re no longer a Mammy’s boy. You’re in it now with us. I didn’t think you had it in you.” Cedric slapped Peter across the head.

  “Put a notch in your guitar to remember your first one. You’ll never forget it. You can be proud of yourself,” William quipped.

  Peter wiped away the beads of sweat, rolling through his strawberry blonde sideburns.

  “I didn’t do anything.”

  He breathed heavily. His legs splayed open, the neck of his rugby shirt showed thick curly red hair. He rubbed his right hand over the matted curls, pushing to one side the pint of Guinness in front of him. He scratched a scab on his left hand. Cedric leaned forward and stared into Peter’s eyes.

  “Try telling that to the Police. I don’t think it will hold up in the Crumlin Road Courthouse, do you? You’re the intelligent one in the family after all.”

  Peter felt his stomach and throat constricting, his breathing getting shallower, his eyes narrowing. He struggled to get the words out. “You might be in there yourself soon watching the paint flake off the walls.”

  “Boys, boys, let’s not start fighting. Let’s stay focused.” William signalled to the barman. “Same again.”

  “Not for me.” Peter pushed his almost full pint across the table.

  • • •

  On the afternoon of the Tuesday 3rd January while Michael McGuckin played bowls in Ardoyne Hall. Tom, Rose and Lily were at home. Lily was painting, Rose was in her bedroom studying and Tom was fixing a leak in the bathroom toilet. He had screwed in a metal tray to catch drips from the cistern and a tube from the tray ran into the back of the basin beside the bath. It was a temporary measure until how he could find out how to fix it properly.

  While he adjusted the tubing into the basin, Lily went into the kitchen and poured an inch of turpentine into four clean jam jars. She carried them into the sitting room, placed a fifth empty jar for the paintbrushes on a small table. She touched the brushes with her fingers to see if they were soft. She lifted a wooden palette and pressed a line of Prussian blue, Titan Rose, Cadmium Yellow and Platinum White, Black, Violet Blue. She mixed cadmium yellow with blue to make her favourite turquoise green, adding white to make it shimmer. She placed a postcard of Belfast Harbour at sunset on one side of the table. With the canvas on the easel, she mixed more blue with violet, thinning it with the turpentine. The Lough glistened with the lights from nearby Whitehouse. It was difficult to distinguish the dark blue water from an almost black sky. Streetlights and house lights twinkled like golden stars, studded into the hills. After Lily had finished mixing the colours, she traced the first line between the hill and the sky and the second line between the disappearing land and the beginning of the Lough. On canvas the land and sky merged. Lily placed her brush back into the turpentine and make circles in the Prussian blue on canvas with her fingers. She was not aware of time passing. There was only now, only the mixing, the movement of her hand without thought, the creation of shadows and light. Without thinking her fingers scooped up and mixed on canvas blue with yellow, red with violet, her breathing relaxed, her gaze intently disappearing into the painting.

  “British bastards! Go home!” A clatter of stones hit metal.

  Tom shouted down to Lily, “They’re at it again.”

  Tom ran downstairs into the hallway and placed the metal bar on its hooks. A handful of rioters gathered at the top of Brompton Park hurling broken pavement at the army lookout post.

  “British bastards! Go home!” Within minutes there were more than a hundred rioters outside. Tom walked down the hallway towards the sitting room.

  “What’s happening?” Lily looked up from her painting and wiped her fingers on an old towel.

  “They’re warming up to riot. We should be in full flow in about fifteen minutes. How are you getting on with the painting?” Tom stood beside Lily as she dabbed yellow into the dark mountains.

  “It will have to dry before I can do more. But I have time.”

  “When is the exhibition opening?”

  “Saturday. I’m quitting now. What do you think?”

  “I like it. You don’t need touch it. It’s done. All you need to do is sign it.”

  A bus rumbled along the road, stopping outside the front door. Tom shook his head at Lily, “It’s odd that they are still running the buses.”

  “Get out!” A voice screamed outside.

  “I’ll check.” Tom touched Lily on the shoulder, walked quickly into the hallway and into the parlour. He looked out from behind the white lace curtain. A driver still sitting in the seat fumbled with the catch of the door. Two rioters with guns stood facing him. “Hurry up.”

  “It’s stuck.” The driver kept his head down pulling wildly at the catch. It opened.

  He raised both arms into the air. In a high pitched voiced squeaked, “Don’t hurt me. Take the money.” He pushed a leather bag into the hands of one of the rioters before jumping from the bus and running down the Crumlin Road. Two rioters jumped from the bus. One lit a cloth and pushed it into the neck of a bottle filled with petrol.

  “Stand back.” He threw the petrol bomb through the open door.

  “Get back.” He yelled at the approaching wave of rioters. “The petrol tank is going to explode.”

  The rioters scattered into Brompton Park like a flock of sheep chased by a mad dog. Tom took a deep breath and ran towards the parlour door, shouting upstairs to Rose. “Rose, get downstairs. There’s a bus outside. The tank is going to go at any minute.”

  Rose hadn’t even time to open the bedroom door before the petrol tank exploded, shaking the windows in the parlour but not breaking them. Outside flames danced into a black night sky, sparks shooting in
to the fading light. The rioters cheered as reinforcements in the form of six Saracen tanks trundled along the Crumlin Road, the window flaps opened and rubber bullets bounced into the crowd.

  A familiar cheer was heard. The soldiers inside the Saracen lowered the metal eyelids, leaving enough room to fire rubber bullets into the crowd. “Poom … poom … poom.”

  The rioters cheered, “More. More. More.”

  Tom said, “It will have quietened down for Mass. It always does.”

  That was the Tom that Lily knew – the Tom who was patient, kind and tender. It was the Tom with big shoulders. The Tom you could always depend upon to take you through the worst of whatever life would throw at you. Tom was born in 1920, nine years before The Great Depression swept across the ocean from America to hit Belfast with the fury of a hurricane. His father was of a stocky build, with bushy red hair, sideburns and a curious sprinkling of small brown freckles, dotted down the bridge of his nose and forming a heavy nucleus around his left eye, giving the impression that he was wearing an eye patch.

  Tom father’s feet and legs appeared rooted in the earth, making him walk slowly, as though extracting them one at a time from beneath the earth’s boggy surface. His nickname was Elfie. Tom inherited his red curly hair and freckly face from his father and his height and slim build from his mother. She had long black wavy hair which fell onto her shoulders like a silk scarf, deep brown eyes bulged as her wide mouth opened, screaming at Elfie when he came home drunk on a Friday night. She towered over him, flicking the dishcloth at his bowed head, biting her lower lip, shouting, “You pig. You pig. The children are starving.” On the rare occasion when his father ventured to respond, his mother shouted, “There you go. What do you expect from a pig but a grunt?” Flicking the dishcloth with increasing fury, catching him this time on the nose or eyelid.