JACQUI ROSE
Avenged

Copyright

AVON

A division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2014

Copyright © Jacqui Rose 2014

Jacqui Rose asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication.

Source ISBN: 9780007503636

Ebook Edition © DECEMBER 2014 ISBN: 9780007503643

Version: 2015-04-09

Dedication

This book is dedicated to survivors everywhere.

Eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot, burn for burn, wound for wound, stripe for stripe.

Exodus 21

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Read on for a preview of Jacqui’s next book Disobey, coming in 2015

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Also by Jacqui Rose

About the Publisher

PROLOGUE
SOHO – 2013

There it was again. The sound coming out of the darkness. Somebody was in the kitchen. Slowly getting out of bed and trying not to make any noise, Patrick Doyle crept over to his walnut dresser.

With his eyes adjusting to the night, Patrick carefully opened the top drawer. Putting his hand to the back of it he quickly found what he was looking for; his Colt .380 Mustang.

With the gun already loaded, Patrick cocked back the trigger and readied himself. Taking a deep breath and feeling the adrenalin rushing round his body, he headed out of his bedroom, onto the top landing.

He stood with his back against the wall, listening to the muffled sounds coming from behind the kitchen door. He counted down in his head, steadying his breathing; steadying his hand, ready to aim.

Three. Two. One … Patrick kicked open the door, slamming his full six-foot-three body sidewards into the kitchen. He yelled out into the darkness, bellowing instructions to the shadowed figure standing by the table.

‘Stay still! Stay the fuck still if you don’t want me to blow you clear away!’

‘Patrick, it’s me!’

A deep sigh was heard and the light switched on. Patrick’s face was full of anxiety as he threw down the gun on the table. ‘Holy Fuck! … Jesus Christ! … Have you lost your mind? I could have killed ye. Don’t ever do that again. Why didn’t you tell me you were coming? … Franny? … Franny? Are you okay? Have you been crying?’

Franny Doyle looked at Patrick and burst into tears. She felt so stupid. She was thirty-four years old and instead of planning her future with Jack, the man she was supposed to marry next year, she was running home to Patrick; something she’d vowed she’d never do.

Wiping away the tears from her piercing green eyes, Franny snivelled, feeling more foolish than ever.

‘It’s all gone wrong, Patrick. I should never have got engaged; it hasn’t been right for a long time. I know you never liked him, but I thought it’d get better over time; then when I found him in one of the clubs almost sucking the face off some woman, we had such a row and …’

Not giving Franny the chance to finish, Patrick’s eyes flashed with anger. ‘Tell me he didn’t lay his hands on you, because I swear to God I’ll kill him. The no-good piece of …’

It was Franny’s turn now to interrupt. Pushing her long chestnut hair out of her face, she implored Patrick. ‘Please, can we do this tomorrow? I’m tired and I just want to get some sleep.’

‘No, we can’t, not till I know if he put his hands on you.’

Franny shook her head sadly. ‘No, Patrick, it’s not like that; anyway, you taught me how to look after myself. So, nothing was broken – only my heart.’

Patrick slumped down on the tall-back kitchen chair, all his pumped-up adrenalin leaving him. ‘Oh Franny, I’m sorry, do you want to talk about it?’

‘No, not now. Maybe tomorrow, but there isn’t really much to say. It’s over and I’m not going back. Would you mind if I stayed here while I figure out what to do?’

Patrick’s face lit up. ‘Mind? I’d love it. The place has never been the same without you. Get yourself into bed and I’ll bring you a cup of hot chocolate.’

Franny smiled, saying nothing as she stood up and kissed Patrick on the top of his head before walking out of the kitchen.

Five minutes later, Patrick Doyle stood with a steaming cup of hot chocolate in the doorway of Franny’s bedroom. She was fast asleep and, even though there were so many questions he wanted to ask her, he wasn’t going to wake her; instead, he walked into his own room, taking a sip of the drink and wincing as the hot liquid scalded his tongue.

As Patrick put the gun away into the back of the drawer again, he froze as his hand rested on a small silver chain and cross. Grasping it tightly in his hand, Patrick squeezed his eyes closed, stopping the stem of tears as he whispered the words. ‘Mary! Mary! Why couldn’t you be here with me, Mary?’

1
IRELAND – 1979

‘To be sure, Patrick Doyle, if you don’t come out from behind that tree right now, I won’t be going to the church dance with ye.’ Mary O’Flanagan stood with her hands on her hips pursing her lips in frustration.

Without coming out from his hiding place, Patrick shouted; his voice warm. ‘And who will you be going with instead, Mary?’

‘There’s many a boy who would take me, Paddy. I might go with one of the Barker boys from the next village.’

‘You’ll do nothing of the sort; I won’t allow it.’

Haughtily, Mary answered. ‘’Tis nothing you can do if I want to go with someone else, especially if I’m not your girl.’

Sixteen-year-old Patrick Doyle stepped out from behind the tree. His raven hair flopped over his blue eyes and his handsome face was veiled with mischief. He grinned. ‘’Tis plenty I can do, and besides, who told you that you weren’t my girl?’

Mary blushed, looking younger than her fifteen years. ‘So I am your girl? ’Tis news to me.’

Patrick grabbed her by the waist, spinning her round.

‘You’ve always been my girl and you always will be.’ Patrick paused, then gave Mary a cheeky wink before adding, ‘Do I get a kiss back then?’

Mary screwed up her face. ‘You get nothing of the sort. I keep telling ye, you’ll have to wait until we’re married.’

Patrick scratched his head and smiled, his eyes twinkling. ‘And do we have to wait until we’re married to hold hands?’

Mary stood for a moment contemplating this thought. ‘There’s nothing sinful about that.’

Patrick smiled, taking her hand in his. He held it gently, and they walked down the potted road in silence as the Kerry rain began to fall.

A car horn beeped behind them before a familiar voice yelled out from the driver’s window. It was Father Ryan, the local priest. ‘Mary O’Flanagan! What do you mean by this public display of affection! Do you not know fornication is a sin?’

Mary hid her smirk. ‘I’m sorry, Father, I didn’t know the bible said it was wrong to hold hands. I can’t recall that passage; is it in the New Testament?’

Father Ryan’s eyes narrowed. ‘I hope you’re not being cheeky.’

Mary’s pretty face feigned innocence. ‘No, Father, of course not; just showing my interest.’

‘Well that’s as may be, but it’s not to be done. Do you hear me? Especially with a Doyle.’

Patrick spoke up. ‘I am here, Father.’

Father Ryan stared at Patrick. The boy always made him feel uncomfortable, and he certainly didn’t want a God-fearing girl like Mary to have anything to do with him. He was definitely going to have a word with her parents. Ignoring Patrick, Father Ryan addressed Mary again. ‘Now get home, your mother will be worried and you’ll be late for choir practice tonight.’

Mary nudged Patrick gently. ‘She will indeed, Father, but maybe she wouldn’t worry so much if I got home quicker. Perhaps you could give me a lift and save her the worry?’

Matthew Ryan sighed. It was true, it would be a godly thing to do – lessening the worry of one of his parishioners by getting her daughter home before dark – but it was also true that his car had just been valeted, and the last thing he wanted was to have Mary and Patrick messing up his back seat with their wet clothes.

Before Father Ryan had made up his mind, he looked in the driver’s mirror. His heart began to race. From over the horizon, he saw a familiar car, the sight of which filled his whole being with dread.

‘Quick! Get in! Get in!’ Father Ryan’s voice was urgent and, almost before Mary and Patrick had a chance to do as he asked, he set off down the road at full speed.

His car raced over the bumps, sending them all flying up in the air as the small green Lada hurtled down the un-tarmacked road. But Father Ryan’s driving was no match for the car behind.

The other driver drew alongside the Lada, signalling the priest to pull over. Father Ryan spoke with urgency to Mary and Patrick, who were both looking shaken.

‘Now, not a word; none of your lip.’ He glared at the two teenagers who nodded their heads in unison.

Pulling up by the side of a large hedgerow, Father Ryan wound down his window again, letting in the blistering rain.

Everyone stayed silent as a tall figure clad in an expensive trench coat and a floppy hat walked round the back of the car, tapping the roof.

A craggy face appeared. ‘In a rush? You want to be careful driving like that, you could do someone damage.’ Donal O’Sheyenne, the man the whole of County Kerry feared, roared with laughter as he watched Father Ryan’s face blanch.

Turning his attention to Patrick, who was sitting motionless in the back of the car, O’Sheyenne sneered, wiping off the drips of rain running down his face.

‘Well, well, if it isn’t Paddy Doyle. I’ve been looking for you, and now here you are in what I like to call God’s chariot.’

Patrick didn’t say anything. He felt Mary’s hand squeeze his as she trembled, though he wasn’t sure if it was through fear or cold.

‘I want you to come with me, Paddy; I’ve got something to show you.’ Patrick’s head shot up at O’Sheyenne’s suggestion. He scrambled for an excuse.

‘I can’t … I have to get home; my da will be waiting.’

O’Sheyenne snorted. ‘The only thing waiting for you at home, Doyle, is a drunken fool.’

A flash of pain shot through Patrick’s eyes, much to the amusement of O’Sheyenne.

‘Leave the boy alone.’ Father Ryan spoke up but immediately regretted it as his hat was knocked off his head by a sharp prod from Donal.

‘I think you’re clear forgetting yourself, Father. Never … never, try to tell me what to do.’

O’Sheyenne walked to the back passenger door, flinging it wide open. He leant in and spoke to Patrick. ‘Get out! You and me are going to go on a little drive.’

Knowing he didn’t have a choice, Patrick Doyle slowly got out, watching as Father Ryan quickly sped away.

2

Awkwardly, Patrick climbed into the back of O’Sheyenne’s car. As he did so he immediately lurched backwards, scrambling in desperation to get out of the seat – but he was shoved back in by O’Sheyenne.

‘It’s a fine thing when a man doesn’t introduce himself. Patrick, meet Connor Brogan. You remember him, don’t you?’

Patrick’s heart pounded as he glanced to the side. There next to him was the beaten and blood-drenched body of Connor Brogan, a local man from the village, barely recognisable in his naked swollen form.

Wanting to turn away but trapped by the mesmerising horror of it all, Patrick noticed Connor’s hands were tied and a coarse gag cut deeply into the sides of the man’s mouth.

O’Sheyenne leant over Patrick, grabbing hold of the unconscious man’s hair to lift his head up and slapping him hard in his face.

‘Will you not say hello, Connor? Have you lost your manners as well as your balls?’

Patrick began to tremble. His voice was weak. ‘Mr O’Sheyenne, please, I’d like to go home.’

Donal chuckled. ‘So you shall, Dorothy, but not before we attend to some business. I could do with a fine young lad like you working for me … what do you say?’

Patrick looked down, shaking his head. ‘Thank you for asking and … I … I appreciate it and all, but I’d rather not.’

O’Sheyenne raised up Patrick’s chin with his finger, staring into his eyes. ‘When I say, I could do with a fine young man, what I mean to say, Patrick, is you’ll be working for me whether you like it or not. We wouldn’t want you to end up like Connor here, would we?’

Inside the Brogans’ house, Patrick stood trembling as Donal dragged Connor under his arms and, without much effort, pulled him up onto one of the wooden chairs.

Connor’s head immediately slumped forward as Donal walked back to the far end of the room before he took a run up to strike Connor hard in the stomach with the chain he held in his hand.

Seeing that there was no reaction or even a flinch, Donal dropped the heavy chain back into his bag. He wiped his brow, taking the sweat which ran down the bridge of his nose onto his sleeve. It didn’t take a doctor to tell him Connor would be lucky if he made it through the night.

Putting back on the shirt he hadn’t wanted to get dirty, Donal winked at Connor’s wife who was sitting wide eyed and frozen with fear in the corner of the cosy tiled kitchen.

‘I must say, Mrs Brogan; you’ve certainly got a nice place here … What’s that you say? … No, I still can’t hear ye.’ Donal stood with his hands on his hips, bursting out into raucous laughter. ‘Oh, don’t look like that. I’m only playing. I ask you, what’s a man got if he hasn’t got his sense of humour?’

Donal roughly pulled away Mrs Brogan’s gag. She immediately began to scream.

‘God forgive you, Donal O’Sheyenne. You’ll be sorry for this; don’t think you can get away with it. I’ll make sure they lock you away. If anything happens to …’ The hard slap across her face stopped her saying any more.

Donal grinned at Patrick, who was standing terrified in the corner.

‘So, what have you got to say now, Paddy; still not keen on working for me?’

Turning his attention to the crying baby in the corner, Donal bent over to look at the child. ‘Now then, what’s the craic, young man? You’ll wake the dead with that yelling.’ Picking up the infant he was met by Mrs Brogan letting out a tirade of panic and terror.

‘Take your hands off him! … You hear me, O’Sheyenne! You leave him be. Or … or …’

Almost throwing the baby into Patrick’s arms, Donal swivelled round to face the woman. His face thunderous. ‘Or what? What are you going to do?’

Tears flowed down her face. ‘Just leave him … Please.’

‘Leave him? I think I’ll be taking him, don’t you?’

Hysterical now, Mrs Brogan cried out, causing the baby to scream louder. ‘No … No you can’t! He’s my baby, O’Sheyenne.’

O’Sheyenne smirked. ‘Whose baby?’

‘Mine … he’s mine.’

O’Sheyenne pulled up a chair next to Mrs Brogan as he lit a cigar. ‘That might have been the case at one time, but the thing is, Mrs Brogan, you didn’t keep up the repayments; even after the first warning I gave you, and now look where we are.’

Clancy Brogan’s eyes flashed with angry desperation. ‘We paid you everything you asked us to. We gave you everything we had, O’Sheyenne; when we picked him up from the convent you told us it would only be three payments. Three. You lied to us.’

O’Sheyenne nodded. ‘So I did, Mrs Brogan. So I did.’

Talking through her tears, Clancy continued. ‘How did you expect us to keep paying you every week? We’re just an ordinary couple; you know that, O’Sheyenne. We could hardly put food on the table over the winter, let alone keep up with your demands.’

Looking bored, O’Sheyenne studied his nails. ‘Me heart bleeds for you, so it does. But the way I see it is; how much do you want this child?’

‘You know we want him. No-one could love him more than we do.’

‘Then you should’ve thought of that before you threatened to go to the Gardaí.’

‘We wouldn’t have done it; it was … it was just my husband’s way of trying to make you stop … Wasn’t it enough for you we gave the baby a good home?’

‘There was many a couple who wanted him, Mrs Brogan; who would’ve paid a higher price, but as Connor was a childhood friend of mine me sentimental side got the better of me; I put you at the top of the list. And look at the thanks I get.’

‘I’ll find the money. I will, just …’

Mrs Brogan’s voice trailed off as Donal O’Sheyenne put one hand over her mouth, placing the other on her leg. He pushed up her paisley blue dress; his fingers moving along her thigh, twisting inwards; pressing into her pale flesh.

Glancing at Patrick, he gestured with his head. ‘Go on, get out of here.’

Patrick didn’t move. Although he was terrified, he wanted to stay and help Mrs Brogan, though he wasn’t quite sure how.

‘I said, go!’

Patrick still didn’t move – that was, until he heard the warm voice of Mrs Brogan, talking to him softly through her tears. ‘Off you go, son. You need to get out of here.’

‘But …’

There was a deathly fear in her voice, but Clancy Brogan gave Patrick a small smile. ‘I’ll be fine … This is no place for ye.’

With tears in his eyes, Patrick put the baby back in the cot. A moment later he began to run.

Donal grinned, feeling Mrs Brogan’s legs trying to close together. He jammed his knee between them, pinching her inner thigh. ‘Don’t play hard to get. I can feel you want it.’

Panic-stricken, Mrs Brogan screamed. ‘Get off me, you bastard! … Get off me!’

Donal ignored her cries; keeping her legs open he rammed his fingers up into her crotch, enjoying the touch and smell of her as she screamed with newfound terror.

Ten minutes later, Donal zipped up his trousers. ‘Can I trust you not to say anything, Mrs Brogan?’

Mrs Brogan stared at him in contempt. She whispered hoarsely. ‘You can do nothing of the sort, O’Sheyenne. I’ll not be silenced by fear.’

Donal nodded his head. ‘That’s what I thought and that’s why you give me no option.’ Bizarrely, Donal’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Now would you just look at that, Mrs Brogan? Tears.’

Kneeling down, Donal faced her. He glanced sidelong at the lifeless body of Connor.

‘To be sure, your husband was a good man and it’d be a lie to say I won’t miss him, but I can’t have people talk me business. A man could get into trouble for that. You do understand, don’t ye?’ Donal paused deep in thought, before smiling manically.

His eye lids narrowed, eclipsing and casting a dark shadow into his green eyes. ‘It’s a shame you won’t keep your mouth shut but no matter – there are other things that silence a person apart from fear.’

With a sudden movement, Donal leapt forward, grabbing Mrs Brogan by her throat. With no time to react, she was instantly overpowered by Donal’s strength as his hands gripped tightly round her neck. Frantically her hands scratched at his, desperate for some relief from Donal’s tightening grip.

With her eyes bulging, Donal, not once taking his stare away from hers, watched Mrs Brogan’s eyes turn from white to bright crimson.

Feeling the life drain away, Donal released his grip and unceremoniously let go of her body, allowing it to drop to the tiled floor.

Putting on his hat, he walked over to the cot. He wrapped his wet coat round the baby before carrying it out into the storm-filled night.

3

The battering rain that soaked into Patrick Doyle’s brown coat as he ran along the uneven road made no difference to him. Neither did the charges of lightning that illuminated and struck the tops of the swaying sycamore trees; all he wanted was to get as far away from the Brogans’ house as possible.

Wrapping his oversized raincoat around his lean body in the hope of stopping the baying wind chilling his already cold bones, Patrick took a quick glance behind him. The road was empty; the village just outside Sneem in County Kerry where he lived had a population of just under a thousand and public transport was nearly non-existent, so he knew the chance of anyone coming along was slim.

Glancing over his shoulder again, Patrick saw the distant glare of car lights coming over the horizon and the shape of the familiar Mercedes. The sight filled him with terror. It was O’Sheyenne.

Frantically, he picked up his speed; his heart racing faster and faster as the rain, pocketed by the Kerry wind, swirled in the air, battering his face.

Patrick knew he couldn’t outrun the car and get to the side lane in time; petrified, he threw himself into the hedgerows, feeling the gorse cutting at his skin.

The car hurtled past; O’Sheyenne hadn’t seen him as he raced along the road, sending up a spray of water. After waiting another five minutes, Patrick began to run. He was nearly at the church now and it was almost as if what he’d seen back there in the Brogans’ house hadn’t been real.

Desperately trying to distract himself from the images of the Brogans in his head, Patrick thought about his dad, Tommy Doyle; the man he’d once looked up to. The man he’d once been able to trust. But since his mother’s death from an accident ten years ago, his father had drowned himself in whiskey and self-neglect.

His father was a hulk of man who had at one time been hailed a hero as one of Ireland’s finest champion boxers, but now his days were spent drinking, and his nights bare-knuckle fighting to earn the money which barely put food on the table but always put the drink in his belly.

Even though Patrick had only been six when his mother had died, he missed her so much. Even now he didn’t truly know how she’d died. He’d been told she’d fallen down the stairs and broken her neck, but there were various stories and rumours around the village as to how it’d really happened. He’d heard she’d been drunk. He’d heard she’d been sleep-walking. But, worst of all, he’d heard his father had had something to do with it.

With the church coming into view, Patrick shook himself from his thoughts, falling into the heavy wooden doors and flinging them open to be greeted by a sea of heads turning towards him.

‘Patrick Doyle, what’s the meaning of this? Do you not know what it is to be in the house of God? If you’re not here to attend choir practice then kindly leave.’

Patrick, giving a weak smile to Mary, stood trembling, suddenly painfully aware of his own appearance. His black hair hung soaked and matted over his forehead. His sodden second-hand clothes clung to his body and bubbles of rain water squirted out in tiny streams from the hole in his shoes. He was desperate to tell Father Ryan what had happened after the priest had driven off. He needed to tell him about the Brogans, but he was unable to find the words.

‘Well? Are you staying or leaving?’ The harsh tone of Father Ryan’s voice echoed round the church.

With Patrick not forthcoming, Father Ryan grabbed him by his arm, pulling him to the back of the church.

‘I’m speaking to you, Doyle. What have you to say for yourself? What’s going on?’

Patrick stammered, ‘I … I … er …’

Father Ryan slammed down the prayer book on the back of the wooden pew, making the young children in the choir pews jump with fright. ‘Speak up, boy; I haven’t got time for this.’

Patrick paled. ‘It’s O’Sheyenne.’

Hearing the name, Father Ryan shoved Patrick even further away from everybody’s hearing. He lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘What’s happened?’

‘After you left, Mr O’Sheyenne … Mr …’

Much to the frustration of Father Ryan, Patrick stopped, fear preventing him from saying anything else.

‘For God’s sake, boy, tell me.’ Matthew Ryan paused, then caught sight of something on Patrick’s coat. With trepidation, the priest spoke. ‘What’s that?’

Patrick looked down in horror at the bloodstain on his coat. It must have come from Connor when he was next to him in the car. But before he was able to answer the priest, the doors of the church were thrown open.

Standing, swaying in shock, was one of the villagers.

‘Quick! I’ve just passed the Brogans’ house. Their door was open … I think they’re both dead.’

As the cutting Irish wind whipped round his face, it seemed to Patrick Doyle that the whole of the village, led by a tight-faced Father Ryan, had decided to find out what was going on; an unholy candlelight procession of curious onlookers followed him down the road towards the Brogans’ tiny cottage.

The lane down to the cottage was slippery and Patrick could feel his feet moving faster and faster as he hurtled along the road. Images of the Brogans and O’Sheyenne flashed in his head, combining together in a confusing mix of panic.

He ran whilst the rain continued to splinter down, causing him to lose his balance. He scrambled up, feeling, yet not reacting to, the sting of his hands as they grazed and bled from the hard stony ground. He was first to arrive at the Brogans’ house; even though he’d seen the horror of it all only an hour or so before, looking at the bloody scene again made Patrick freeze at the door then turn to be sick.

He could see Connor’s blood splattered all over the walls, the lifeless bodies of the couple in the middle of the room and, in the corner, the empty cot.

‘Saints and the holy mother preserve us! Who could have done such a thing?’ A villager spoke as he stood shoulder to shoulder with Patrick at the door. A throng of people came up behind, pushing eagerly forward in an attempt to get a look at the horror which lay within.

‘Did anyone see anything?’

The room fell silent as dozens of onlookers, squeezing themselves into the kitchen, formed a circle around the room, staring at the slaughtered couple.

‘I saw someone earlier coming out of here.’ A man Patrick recognised from the local bakery spoke up.

‘Who? Who?’ The cry sounded around the room.

‘I couldn’t make out his face. I was a distance away and it was dark, but the person I saw coming out of here was tall … strong looking, to be sure.’

The villagers looked puzzled, reflecting on the baker’s words, before another voice shouted out from the back.

‘That sounds like Tommy Doyle!’

In a cacophony of gasps, prayers and cries, the villagers began to shout out. ‘He’s capable of something like this’, ‘I always knew he was trouble’, ‘The man’s a monster’, ‘It must be him.’

Alarmed, Patrick turned to face the crowd. ‘No, it wasn’t my da!’

‘Then he’ll be able to tell the Gardaí that … Call them! Call the Gardaí! Tommy Doyle should pay for this.’ The shout was bellowed out by a man from the back of the room. As the crowd joined in again, shouting their agreement, Patrick’s blood ran cold.

‘No! Please! Wait! Me da didn’t do it. I swear it wasn’t him.’

The man from the back continued to talk. ‘We all know what he’s like when he has a drink inside him. Raging for a fight. ’Tis still a mystery what happened to your mother.’

Patrick’s face reddened. His anger and hurt shone through. ‘Leave my ma out of it; this has nothing to do with my da, I tell ye!’

Someone else called out. ‘’Tis no mystery; we all know what really happened to poor Evelyn.’

Patrick cried, ‘Stop! … Stop! You don’t understand. He didn’t do it.’

The first man shouted out again, ‘Where is he anyway? We need to find him. Everyone, go! Do not stop until you find Thomas Doyle.’

Patrick swirled around to look at Father Ryan. ‘No, wait. Father, tell them. Tell them me da couldn’t have done this … he couldn’t have, because … because … I know who did!’

‘Really? We’d all like to hear this. Tell us, Patrick; we’re fascinated.’

Slowly, Patrick turned round to look at the person who’d just spoken, watching as the crowd parted. There, in front of him, was Donal O’Sheyenne.

Patrick spoke, quietly at first, then he became gradually louder. ‘It was him … It was him! Father, it was him!’ Patrick pointed furiously at Donal.

Father Ryan opened his mouth to speak but it was Donal who got there first. He stared at Patrick, dancing amusement in his eyes. ‘Are you sure about that? From what I just heard it was your da.’

‘He never had anything to do with it. You know that.’

Donal gave Patrick a wry smile, menacing in the candlelight. ‘There’s no point trying to defend him, Patrick. The sins of your da’s actions are probably dripping from his hands as we speak, wouldn’t you say so, Father Ryan?’

Father Ryan gave Donal a hostile stare but turned away quickly as Patrick began to address him.

‘Father Ryan, you’ve got to believe me.’

Matthew Ryan shifted uncomfortably. ‘Enough, boy! Let me think.’

Patrick was distraught. ‘It’s true! You’ve got to believe me.’ He looked round at the sea of people; his eyes pleading with them as he saw the condemnation on their faces.

‘I saw Mr O’Sheyenne earlier. I swear. He had Connor in the car. He’d beaten him up then and afterwards he came back here to finish the job.’

Donal smirked. ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’

‘It’s true!’

O’Sheyenne shook his head. ‘Then why didn’t you say anything then, hey boy? Why would you not say anything to anyone when you saw me with this poor wretch in the back of my car? Why didn’t you tell Father Ryan earlier or even call the Gardaí?’

To no-one in particular, Patrick cried, ‘I tried. I did. I was going to, but I couldn’t because …’

Donal interrupted. ‘Because it’s not true. This is a mighty big accusation, Patrick, and seeing I was with Father Ryan most of the night, it’s also an untrue one. Not even a good man like meself can be in two places at once.’

Patrick shouted. ‘You’re lying! You’re lying.’

‘Shall we put it to the test, Paddy?’ Donal turned to speak to Father Ryan. ‘I was with you all night. Isn’t that right, Father?’

Stammering slightly, Father Ryan fidgeted with the hooks on his cassock as he felt the gathered crowds stare.

‘Yes … yes. That’s right. Er … Mr O’Sheyenne had come to see me earlier and was waiting for me to finish choir practice. He was sitting at the back of the church the whole time.’

Patrick shook his head furiously. ‘No! No! That’s impossible; you know it is!’

‘Stop, boy!’ Father Ryan snapped at Patrick. ‘I don’t want to hear any more.’

Red-faced and holding back the tears, Patrick gawked at the priest. His voice rasping. ‘Please, please, you know I’m telling the truth—’

‘Don’t make this harder for yourself. Get yourself home now.’ Father Ryan stared into Patrick’s face. The man was inches away, allowing him to see the crease of tiredness around the priest’s mouth and eyes.

Through a haze of tears, Patrick stumbled out of the cottage; desperate to find his father to try to warn him.

He couldn’t make sense of what was happening, but most of all, he couldn’t understand why Father Ryan had lied.

Once Patrick and the other villagers had left the Brogans’, Father Ryan grabbed hold of Donal’s arm, who looked down at the grip with amusement.

‘Can I help you, Father?’

Father Ryan hissed through his teeth. ‘Look at the carnage you’ve caused. Hold your head down in shame.’

‘My head, Matthew? I’d say you’d need to hold yours.’

The priest’s face was a picture of rage. ‘It’s not me that has blood on my hands.’

‘I’d say that was a matter of opinion, wouldn’t you?’

Father Ryan pointed at the slaughtered couple. ‘This. This has nothing to do with me.’

Donal tapped Father Ryan on his back and grinned; bursting out into laughter. ‘Why, Father, you crack me up, so you do. It must be wonderful to purge yourself of your sins.’

‘A massacre wasn’t what we agreed.’

‘I don’t think you’re in a position to agree anything.’

Father Ryan’s face flushed. ‘I have no option but to go to the Gardaí, O’Sheyenne.’

Donal grabbed Father Ryan round his throat, squeezing it hard. Barely able to breathe, the priest wheezed, ‘I can’t be part of this.’

‘I’d say you already are. All I need you to do is go along with it being Tommy Doyle until I tell you otherwise and figure something else out. Do I make myself clear?’

Father Ryan gave a tiny terrified nod. Satisfied he’d made his point, O’Sheyenne let go of the priest’s neck, watching whilst he gasped and struggled for breath.

‘Now I’ll bid you goodnight, Father, and I’ll leave you with a little word of advice: if you’re ever thinking of going to the Gardaí again, take another look at the poor Brogans. We certainly wouldn’t want such a godly man as yourself ending up like that now, would we?’

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