Beneath the Earth (3 page)

Once, I took a beating. It was a young guy who called me. Twenty-two, twenty-three years old. There were three others waiting in another room and they set upon me. They pulled my pants down and poured lighter fluid on my cock and balls, then lit a match and held it in the air. They called me a dirty little faggot. Why are you doing this, I asked them. You know why, they said. But I didn't know why. I started to cry. They held the match closer. It went out and they lit another. When it burned out, they started hitting me. They didn't set me on fire. They let me go. I went home.

I received a call to tell me that Rachel wanted to see me. It had been more than six years since we'd last spoken and I wasn't sure that there were any ties left between us. My social workers asked me why I felt such anger towards her. They told me that she had a disease and that she could not be held responsible for it. I told them that I felt no anger towards her. Of course, they didn't know everything that had happened between us.

I asked whether Rachel was still in hospital and they told me no, that she had been an outpatient for a couple of years but only now felt ready to rebuild her relationship with me. Is she back in our old house, I asked, and they told me that Peter had sold the house long ago. It was his to sell, they said. Your mother has a flat in a new development off Pearse Street now. She gets a rent allowance from the state. How much did Peter get for the house, I asked, but they said they didn't know.

I brought a bunch of flowers when I visited. She opened the door and started to cry and I felt an unexpected emotion building inside me. I rarely feel things, so this was a surprise to me. She pulled me to her and hugged me tightly. Knowing that she would appreciate the gesture and that it would cost me nothing, I hugged her back. She let her head rest on my shoulder. I could feel her lips against my neck and pulled away.

You've grown tall, she said. And so handsome. You were just a boy when I saw you last. I'm still a boy, I told her. No, you're a man, she said. No, I said. No, no, I'm not. How are your studies going, she asked, and I told her that I had just completed an important set of exams and come fourth in my class. You were always so intelligent, she told me. I still can't believe that a son of mine goes to university. You're the first in our family ever to go there. I don't know where you get your brains from. It wasn't from your father or me, that's for sure. Do you know what you're going to be when you grow up, she asked. I thought of things the other students in my year said and decided to repeat their lines. I'd like to travel, I told her. I'd like to make a difference. I'd like to contribute to society in some meaningful way. I'd like to be an artist. I'd like to write a novel. I'd like to hike the Santiago de Compostela. I'd like to build houses in Africa. I'd like to meet someone who really understands me. I'd like to work for a non-profit. I'd like to be rich. I'd like to get on the property ladder. I'd like to have a job that gives me a clothing allowance. I'd like to effect real change in the places that matter. I'd like to help those who need help.

And you'll do all those things, she told me. With your brains, you can do anything you want to do, be anything you want to be. Thanks, I told her. I didn't want to do any of those things, of course. But it made me feel normal to say them aloud.

She made two cups of tea and put too much milk in mine. She offered me a slice of cake, home-made, but I said no. You need to eat, she said. There's not a pick on you. Did you miss me, she asked. While I was away, did you miss me, did you think of me? I thought of you every day, I said, even though I hadn't, for I felt no urge to be cruel to her. I suppose you blame me for the things that happened to you, she said. Nothing happened to me, I told her. You were moved from place to place, you had no home of your own. You must blame me for that. I don't blame you for anything, I told her. You're a good boy, she said, stroking my face. You were always a good boy. Her fingers were rougher than I remembered them.

I stayed for an hour. I was happy to stay that long. And then I was happy to leave. You'll have to let me know how you get on with all those things you want to do, she said, trying to put a five-euro note into my hand, but I made a fist of it and kept it close against my side. I didn't want her money. I will, I said. I hope we can start again, she said. I hope so too, I told her, turning my phone on for it was evening now and the calls would start soon. Can I see you again sometime, she asked me. I could phone you and we could meet for lunch. You have my number, I told her.

It was raining as I walked home. When the phone rang in my pocket, I thought it might be her but no, it was a man. Where do you live, I asked him. Smithfield. I'm only ten minutes from there, I said. Can you come over immediately, he asked me.

I can, I said.

The brick crashed through the front window shortly after midnight and Émile woke with a start, his heart pounding, his eyes raw from interrupted sleep. The room was dark and as he reached across for the wristwatch that lay on the bedside table, he knocked it off and heard it land on the wooden floor with a heartbreaking crack.

‘No!' he whispered to himself in dismay.

His father had given him the wristwatch two weeks earlier as a present for his ninth birthday and he treasured it. Looking down now, he saw that the glass that covered its face had shattered, scattering splinters across the floor. The watch wasn't new, of course. It had belonged to his grandfather, William Cross, who had bought it more than fifty years before on the morning he left Newcastle to begin a new life in West Cork. He'd passed it down to his son, Stephen, who in turn had given it to Émile, telling him that he needed to take great care of it for it was a precious family heirloom.

And now it was broken.

The boy put his head in his hands, wondering how he would ever tell his dad.

A moment later, he heard his parents' bedroom door open and the sound of their feet running along the hallway into the front parlour of their small cottage and Émile remembered the noise that had woken him in the first place.

He jumped out of bed, his left foot landing on one of the small shards of glass, and sank to the floor, curling his foot around to examine the damage. A small chip, like a piece of broken ice, was half submerged in the ball of his foot and he turned his thumb and index finger into a pair of pincers to pull it out. A spot of blood appeared in its wake but he pressed his hand against it and when he took it away again it had disappeared. Standing up, he tested his weight on the injured foot before opening his bedroom door and following his parents into the parlour.

‘Émile,' said Marie, turning around when she heard him. ‘What are you doing up?'

His mother was wearing her nightdress and her hair hung down loosely around her shoulders. He hated seeing her like this. Marie usually wore her hair up in a tight bun and even though she didn't own many clothes she always made an effort to look elegant. Stephen, Émile's father, put it down to her French upbringing. He said women looked after themselves over there, not like Irish women who'd go around in a potato sack every day except Sunday if they could. But seeing her like this, in the middle of the night, she looked old and tired and not Marie-like at all.

‘I heard a noise,' he said. ‘It woke me up.'

‘Don't come over here in your bare feet, son,' said Stephen, who had taken yesterday's newspaper off the table and was using a brush to sweep the broken glass from the window on to the front page.

‘The window!' said Émile, pointing across the room. A breeze was blowing through, making the net curtains on either side dance in the early-morning air like a pair of young girls waltzing in their nightclothes. ‘What happened?'

‘Someone put a brick through it,' said Stephen.

‘But why?'

‘Émile, step back,' said Marie, putting her hands on his shoulders and pulling him away from the fragments of glass. ‘Just until your father is finished.'

‘Why would someone put a brick through our window?' asked Émile, looking up at her.

‘It was an accident,' said Stephen.

‘How can a brick fly through a window by accident?'

‘Émile, go back to bed,' said Marie, raising her voice now. ‘Stephen, should I look outside to see if they're still there?'

‘No, I'll do it.'

He folded the newspaper into a neat package, the broken glass wrapped carefully inside, and placed it on top of the table before reaching for the latch on the front door.

‘Wait,' cried Marie, running into the kitchen and returning with the heavy copper saucepan that she used to make soup.

‘What's this for?' asked Stephen, staring at it with a confused smile on his face, the kind of smile he always wore when Marie did something that both baffled and amused him.

‘To hit him with,' said Marie.

‘To hit who with?'

‘Whoever threw the brick.'

Émile looked around the floor and saw a rectangular shape lying beneath the table, brick-like for certain, but it was enclosed in paper and the whole parcel was held together by string, like a Christmas present. His mind raced with possibilities for who might have done such a thing. He was currently engaged in a war with Donal Higgins who lived two doors down and their acts of retaliation had grown over the last few days. But it was hard to imagine Donal doing something as bad as this and, anyway, he was probably in bed since he had to go to sleep at eight o'clock every night while Émile was allowed to stay up until half past.

‘I don't think whoever it was will be waiting outside for me, do you?' asked Stephen, opening the front door while Marie stood behind him, holding the saucepan on high as he stepped out on to the street. Émile picked up the brick and began to untie the twine. It came loose easily enough and as the paper unfurled he was surprised to realize that he recognized it. He smoothed out the creases now, pressing it flat against the kitchen table, and examined it carefully. Green, white and orange, the colours of the Tricolour itself, the poster bore a picture of a serious-looking man sporting a big white moustache. The words ‘Tyneside Irish Battalion' were written across the top with ‘Irishmen – To Arms' inscribed beneath a harp in the centre of a shamrock. ‘Join To-Day' was its closing demand.

‘What's that?' asked Marie, coming back into the parlour, and Émile lifted the poster to show her, watching as his mother closed her eyes for a moment and sighed before shaking her head, as if she was both surprised and not surprised by what she saw. ‘I knew something like this would happen,' she said. ‘I said so, didn't I? But your father had to have his own way.'

‘But why would someone wrap it around a brick?'

‘Émile, your foot,' she cried, ignoring the poster now as she looked down at the floor where a small streak of blood had stained the woodwork. ‘I told you to keep away from the glass.'

‘There's no one outside,' said Stephen as he came back inside, closing the front door behind him and putting the latch on.

‘I knew those posters would only bring trouble,' said Marie.

‘I know, love, but—'

‘Don't
love
me,' she snapped, a rare moment of anger, for most days Marie and Stephen seemed to do nothing but laugh together.

‘How was I to know that they'd attack our house?'

‘What did you think they'd do, throw a party for you?'

‘I didn't hurt my foot in here,' said Émile, unable to meet his father's eye as he told them what had happened when he woke up. ‘I'm sorry,' he said when he was finished. ‘It was an accident.'

‘Ah Émile,' said Stephen, coming over and lifting the boy up to carry him back to bed. ‘Don't be worrying about something like that. I can fix it. Sure I've broken the glass many times myself. Trust me, we have bigger things to worry about right now.'

Émile had heard the stories many times but he never grew tired of them.

The story of how his grandfather had left England when all his friends were signing up to fight the Boers in South Africa but he wanted no part of killing people whose name he couldn't even spell correctly. Instead, he came to the south coast of Ireland where he met an Irish girl, married her and brought up their son, Stephen, to love dogs, the ukulele and the novels of Sir Walter Scott.

The story of how Marie left France for Ireland when her parents died and Stephen found her sitting in a tea shop on the afternoon of her twenty-third birthday while he was strolling back to his father's farm.

The story of how he'd sat by the village pump until she came out and he asked her to come to a dance with him some night and she said, ‘I don't go dancing with strange men,' and he said, ‘Sure I'm not strange, do I seem strange to you, I'm not a bit strange, am I?'

The story of how the dance had gone well, not to mention the wedding at Clonakilty parish church later that same year and how they'd wanted a child for a long time but none would come and only when they'd given up on the idea of it did Émile suddenly appear, out of the blue, a gift to the pair of them, and then their family was complete and neither of them had ever been so happy in all their lives as when there was just the three of them together at home, cuddled up on the sofa, reading their books.

These were stories that Émile had heard many, many times. But sure how could he ever grow tired of hearing them when they made him feel so wanted, so happy and so loved?

The posters had arrived four days before the night of the broken window in a long tube sealed in cardboard and brown tape, with eight stamps on the surface bearing the image of King George, who looked like an awful grump. Mr Devlin, the local postman, waited until evening time to deliver it. Émile suspected that he'd been watching out for Stephen to return home from work and only then did he knock on the door.