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?’

4

Mary O’Flanagan sat on her bed in the darkness and shivered. She was soaking wet and there was no way she was going to be able to get herself warm. There’d been a power cut. Nothing unusual there; it was a regular occurrence in the village, but tonight the difference was that she was alone.

There was no way she’d be able to start the parlour fire without her da. Besides, the logs in the yard were probably soaking wet, which meant she’d have to get the wood from the shed in the back field on her own; and one thing Mary O’Flanagan hated was the dark.

Her parents had gone out; taking it upon themselves to join the search party for Patrick’s father. She wasn’t quite sure what good they’d do. Her own father was a tiny, timid man and if he were to come across the formidable Tommy Doyle hiding out, she was certain he’d bag himself. Not unkindly, Mary laughed out loud at the image in her head.

Thinking about Tommy Doyle made Mary wonder about Patrick. She hoped he was all right. She hadn’t been able to talk to him but he’d looked as handsome as he ever did when he’d stood soaking wet in the church that evening.

She and Patrick had been friends as far back as she could remember; much to her parents’ dismay. And a few months ago he’d made her swear she’d marry him once he’d made his fortune.

‘Patrick Doyle, I’m a good Catholic girl and good Catholic girls don’t swear. Perhaps if you came to church more often you’d know that.’

‘Don’t be acting the maggot with me, Mary O’Flanagan. The Dublin chancers would blush to hear the mouth on ye.’

She’d pushed him gently. ‘Feck off, Paddy!’

‘Ah, you see. How can I make ye me wife, Mary, if you’ve a tongue which would eat the head off a viper?’

‘I never said I’d be your wife, Patrick Doyle, and you’re no more likely to make your fortune than poor Bridget Henley with those rotten apples she sells.’

‘Well, that’s a fine thing to say to a man, Mary O’Flanagan!’

She’d scoffed, but the kindness had shone through her eyes. ‘A man, Paddy? You’re nothing more than a boy.’

‘I’m sixteen, Mary, and I can hold me own.’

She’d fallen silent before saying, ‘And if I were to marry you, Patrick. What would we name our first child?’

Patrick had pondered on the question. ‘I take it, it’ll be a boy.’

Indignantly, she’d replied. ‘It’ll be no such thing. It’ll be a girl and I shall call her Franny.’

Patrick had burst out laughing. ‘Franny? And what sort of name is that?’

‘Francesca. Franny for short. And for your information, it’s a good Catholic name, Patrick Doyle – but that’s something you’ll know nothing about either.’

‘Well, I won’t allow it! Franny. Have you ever heard the like?’

She’d pulled a face but she’d had a twinkle in her eye. ‘And have you ever heard what a pig you are, Patrick Doyle? And, to be sure, I certainly won’t be marrying you now.’

‘Then I’ll just have to marry old Bridget Henley.’

‘You’ll do no such thing … and to think I had a present for ye. I shan’t give it ye now.’

Patrick’s face had lit up. ‘For me? You remembered me birthday?’

She’d spoken haughtily. ‘I did indeed. Not that you deserve anything, not now you’re going to marry Bridget Henley.’

‘Oh Mary, you know you’re the only girl for me. And I reckon if I kissed poor Bridget her false teeth might fall out.’

She’d grinned at the thought and then taken a tiny box out of her coat pocket and handed it to Patrick.

He’d opened the box with delight on his face. In it was a silver chain with a tiny cross on it.

‘Do you like it?’ she’d asked eagerly. ‘I saved up all year.’

His eyes had glistened with tears. ‘I love it, Mary. Like I love you. I should give you something.’ Patrick had looked around, then seeing an early bloom of gorse, the bright yellow pea-flower which in the spring months seemed to light up the landscape of Kerry, ran to pick some.

She’d shouted. ‘Patrick, you’ll tear your hands on the prickles—’

‘Then tear them I will. I have to give my girl a blossom.’

After five minutes of Mary giggling and Patrick struggling with the stems of sharp tiny spikes, he’d conceded defeat and returned with just a dozen yellow gorse petals.

‘When we’re married, Mary, I’ll fill our house with flowers, but for now here’s a petal for every month of the year. Every month that I love you.’

She’d taken the petals and smiled sweetly. ‘Well, to be sure, it’s true to say in me life I’ve never wanted a whole bunch of flowers. Why would I want that when the real beauty is in the petals?’

Patrick had winked at her, grateful for her kind nature.

‘You know what they say around here, Mary? When gorse is out of blossom, kissing’s out of fashion; so it looks like we’re in luck.’

They’d laughed as they always did, pushing and shoving each other in jest, then Patrick had caught hold of her and leant in for a kiss.

Sitting on the bed, Mary jolted herself out of her memories; not wanting them to go any further because she certainly didn’t want to have to confess them to Father Ryan on Sunday.

On the day Patrick had kissed her, she’d cycled all the way to the church at Kenmere – almost twenty miles away – to make her confession. Even though the hard seat on her bike had rubbed and caused painful blisters on her inner thighs, it’d still been better than having to confess to Father Ryan.

She certainly wasn’t keen on making the long trip again and she certainly wasn’t going to make a confession here, at St Peter’s, so the easiest thing was to have no more thoughts of Patrick, especially in the direction they were beginning to head.

About to take a deep sigh, Mary suddenly held her breath. She heard the creak of the wooden stairs. There it was again. It wasn’t her parents; they always yelled a cheery hello as they entered through the side door. The creak sounded again, only this time louder.

Mary’s mouth began to dry as her heart pounded. Almost immediately her eyes filled with tears as her whole body began to shake, terror gripping her.

As the howl of the wind swirled through the trees, and the rain struck against the arched window, Mary heard footsteps coming along the landing. Petrified, she opened her mouth to cry out. Then she heard her name.

‘Mary? Mary?’

Cautiously, Mary got up; tentatively crossing to the other side of the room.

‘Mary?’ The voice, just outside, was gentle and hushed.

‘Patrick? Patrick? Is that you?’ She reached for her bedroom door, opening it quickly, but she suddenly let out a scream. A large hand pressed against her face and a small beam of torchlight hit her eyes.

‘Mary, for the love of God, I’m not going to hurt you. I promise. Just don’t scream.’

The hand was lowered from her mouth and Mary stood staring into the face of Tommy Doyle. She stepped backwards, reaching out for the wall behind her.

‘What … what are you doing here?’ Mary tried not to show her fear but she could hear it in her voice. ‘You do know the Gardaí are out looking for ye?’

‘Ah Jaysus, Mary. Don’t look so frightened. I never meant to give you a fright. Patrick would have me guts if he thought I’d scared ye.’

Seeing her fear, Tommy spoke again. ‘I never did it love. I swear.’

‘Then why don’t you tell them that?’

Tommy shook his head. ‘When I heard they were looking for me, I knew I’d never stand a chance. Who’s going to believe me? I know what they all think of the likes of me.’ There was a long pause as Tommy stared pleadingly at Mary. Tears brimmed in his eyes. His voice was soft as he spoke. ‘Connor was my friend; there’s no way I would hurt him, or Clancy for that matter. For all her nagging ways she was a good woman.’

Even though Mary could smell the alcohol on Tommy as he spoke, she began to feel more at ease. She smiled. ‘I know, Mr Doyle. She was a lovely woman; fierce kind to me.’

‘Call me Tommy.’

Mary bristled, yet again feeling uncomfortable. It didn’t feel right to call an adult by his first name. Then, as if he could read her mind, he spoke.

‘To be sure, if you prefer to call me Mr Doyle, I’m grand with that as well.’

In the distance, above the sound of the storm, voices and barking dogs were heard. Tommy turned in panic to Mary. His face was strained, his voice full of urgency.

‘You’ve got to help me.’

Mary turned her head towards the sound of the voices. They were coming closer and they were sure to be here in a few minutes. ‘I can’t … I …’

‘Please, Mary, I can’t think of anyone else. They won’t be suspicious of you.’

‘What about Patrick? He’d help you. I know he would.’

‘I can’t risk going back home; they’ll be bound to be waiting there and I’m not going to jail for something I didn’t do.’ Tommy’s eyes were wild with fear. ‘Please, you’ve got to help me!’

Just then, a voice came from downstairs. ‘Mary! We’re back. If I didn’t know better, I’d say this storm was the wrath of God. I’ve been a God-fearing man all me life and I’ve never …’

The voice became inaudible as a crack of thunder broke above the small house. Mary looked at Tommy.

‘That’s me da, Mr Doyle. Even if I wanted to help ye; it’s too late now. I’m sorry.’

‘Mary! Didn’t you hear me calling you from downstairs?’

‘No, Da.’

‘Well I was. We’ve come to check on you, to make sure you’re all right. You can’t be too careful with a man like that on the loose.’

Mary stood at the top of the stairs as she watched her da walking up the wooden stairs, followed by other villagers. Then, a moment later, trailing behind dressed in black, Mary saw the ominous figure of Father Ryan.

Father Ryan, her da, her mother, the Brogans, Tommy and his late wife, Evelyn … even Donal O’Sheyenne, who her father was too frightened to have anything to do with. All of them went right back to childhood. All school mates, playground pals; every single one of them.

They’d shared their childhood, their youth and eventually their adulthood together, yet the power and disdain Father Ryan held over his contemporaries, in particular her da, made her seethe with anger. Though it didn’t do her any good: each week it was inevitable she’d feel obliged to confess these dark thoughts she had about Father Ryan to Father Ryan, who she was certain smirked with pleasure as he handed her more Hail Marys than she’d known him give anyone else.

Addressing what her dad had just said, Mary spoke quietly. ‘You don’t know if it’s him, Da. Mr Doyle has always seemed a nice man.’

Mary’s father was standing opposite her, dripping pools of rain water on the highly polished mahogany floor. He smiled at his daughter.

‘Ah, you’re a good girl, Mary, blessed with innocence so you are; seeing no wrong in people. I know you’re sweet on his boy, Mary, but Thomas Doyle is not a nice man. Even when we were children he was no different, always getting into scrapes. Isn’t that right, Father Ryan?’

Father Ryan scowled, irritated at the chatter. ‘Now is not the time to talk the hind legs off a donkey, Fergus O’Flanagan. Plus I think it’s time we had a talk about allowing Mary to be sweet on the Doyle boy.’

Fergus hung his head. ‘Yes, Father. Sorry, Father.’

‘Aye, well that’s as may be, but sorry without action won’t see you through the gates of heaven, Fergus, nor keep Mary on a virtuous road. Come and see me tomorrow and we can discuss it.’

Mary glared at Father Ryan, not just because of his unwelcome interference in her life but because of the way he spoke to her da. She’d always hated it and he’d always done it – belittling him in front of everyone. It angered Mary all the more knowing that they’d gone to school together.

‘Mary, we’ve come to check the rooms to make sure he hasn’t come here.’ Fergus spoke, trying to assert himself once more.

Standing poised in front of her bedroom door, Mary spoke haughtily, gently pushing away the torch her dad held near her face. ‘I’ve been here all night, Da. I think I’d know if your man had broken into me bedroom.’

Fergus looked vacant then nodded. ‘Aye, I suppose you’re right.’

Remembering O’Sheyenne’s words, and wanting to look thorough, Father Ryan interjected. ‘Well, we can’t be too careful. A man like that needs to be brought to justice.’

‘A man like what, Father?’ asked Mary.

‘Leave it, Mary.’ Fergus spoke quietly, hating any form of confrontation.

For a moment Mary hesitated, seeing the plea in her dad’s eyes, but there was one thing Mary O’Flanagan had always been and that was fiery.

‘I’m sorry, Da, but no. I won’t leave it. You’ve already tried and convicted him, so he’s no chance, has he? All of ye decided he’s guilty. Shame on you all.’ She directed her anger towards the other villagers standing on the landing and to Father Ryan, whose unease at the situation made him bellow.

‘Fergus O’Flanagan, I said control your daughter!’

Mary watched as her dad opened his mouth to say something to Father Ryan. She willed him on. Finally he was going to stand up for himself, finally … But a moment later, and much to Mary’s dismay, Fergus closed his mouth, turning to her in anguish, very much aware of his own weakness.

‘Mary, Father Ryan is right. You’ve no place to speak like that. Now let me check your room. The others can check elsewhere in the house.’

Ashamed of himself, Fergus pushed past his daughter and stepped into the neat tiny bedroom. He looked around then froze. Standing in the far corner was Tommy Doyle.

Fergus turned to yell for help but Mary grabbed him, whispering, ‘Please, Da. Don’t say anything.’

Fergus’s eyes were filled with horror. What was going on? ‘Come away quickly, Mary. Go and get the others.’

‘No, Da. He came to me for help.’

‘Mary, you don’t understand, he’s …’

Mary snapped, interrupting her father. ‘Of course I understand. I’m not an eejit … Tommy didn’t do it.’

‘Then he can explain that to the Gardaí. It’s nothing to do with us.’

‘Please, Da. He only wants the chance to talk to Patrick.’

‘No, Mary.’

Tommy stepped forward out of the corner of the room. He spoke directly to Fergus.

‘You’ve known me since we were bairns and me poor dead wife, Evelyn too, and not once in all that time did you ever know me to lay a finger on her or any one of my friends. Drunk or not. I like a fight, so I do, and you know that’s what I do to make me money, but I wouldn’t hurt a hair on those I cared for.’

‘There’s always a first time, Tommy, and of course there’s the …’ Fergus stopped, knowing he’d said too much, but it wasn’t hard for Tommy Doyle to guess what Fergus had been about to say.

‘The rumours? Is that what you were going to say?’

Fergus blushed but held Tommy’s gaze. ‘Aye, Tommy, that’s what I was going to say. The rumours never stop about how Evelyn died; folk round here think you had something to do with it, and now this.’

Tommy shook his head. ‘I never had anything to do with Evelyn’s death, Fergus. If the Gardaí accept that, why can’t you? And as for Connor and Clancy, God forgive you for thinking that.’

‘You were seen by their house.’

‘I wasn’t near there tonight, but even if I was, what are you saying: that a man can’t walk in his own village without being accused of murder?’

Fergus said nothing. It was true: for all the man’s brute strength and quick temper, he’d never seen Tommy Doyle actually raise his hand to anyone he knew and when Evelyn had been alive he hadn’t once heard her complain about his ways.

‘I … I don’t know, Tommy.’

‘Please, Fergus. I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t desperate. All I’m asking is to pretend you haven’t seen me, so I can go and speak to me boy. Just give me that.’

Fergus shook his head as he quickly backed out of the room. ‘No, I’m sorry, I can’t.’

‘Well?’ Father Ryan stared with contempt at Fergus, which didn’t go unnoticed by him.

Fergus turned to look at the others, then back at Father Ryan. ‘Sorry?’

‘Fergus, are you completely stupid?’

Fergus O’Flanagan looked at the other villagers, watching their tittering laughter and feeling the humiliation he so often felt. He turned, cutting a hard long stare at Father Ryan before saying, ‘Well, it’s like me daughter says. She would’ve noticed if your man had broken into her room.’

5

Father Ryan sat in the near dark, a solitary candle burning in the corner. It flickered, caught by the wind which crept under the ill-fitting wooden door. The ticking of the grandfather clock echoed loudly in the room, competing with the sound of the rain.

The gilded bible Father Ryan had received on the day of his ordination lay open on his lap at Corinthians. His intention had been to seek solace in the words but he was too tired, plus it was almost impossible to see the tiny print in the candlelight. He sighed. There was no telling when the electricity would come back on, but there was no point in getting annoyed.

Some of the locals and Gardaí were continuing to search but he’d needed to call it a night. Yawning, Father Ryan reflected on the events of the evening. It’d been a difficult night and there was still no sign of Tommy Doyle. Which he supposed might be a good thing. He wasn’t sure what O’Sheyenne was going to do but, whatever it was, there were bound to be more repercussions.

‘Father?’

The unexpected voice cut through the dark, startling Father Ryan to his feet. ‘Saints preserve us. Have you never heard of knocking, Helen?’

‘I’m sorry, Father.’

‘Well, what is it?’

Father Ryan’s housekeeper, Helen Flanagan, stood in the room, her round face glowing with ruddy excitement as she embroiled herself in an air of gossip and melodrama. Her voice was loud and chirpy.

‘What a terrible night, Father; my blood’s running cold to think we have a murderer in our midst. I was talking to him only last week when I was buying a quarter of tobacco for Fergus; to think it could’ve been me lying dead and not poor Mrs Brogan.’

Exasperated and sorely irritated by Helen’s love of the dramatic, Father Ryan spoke impatiently. ‘And why would Thomas do that, why would he decide to kill you?’’

Helen glanced around, whispering as if there was someone other than herself and Father Ryan in the room. ‘Why does a mad man do anything, Father?’

‘For goodness sake, Helen; Thomas Doyle is not a mad man, he’s a drunken scoundrel. Not everything is as it seems.’

Helen Flanagan was clearly having none of it. ‘That’s as may be, Father, but I won’t sleep well tonight knowing he’s at large, thinking we could be murdered in our beds at any time. Look what he did to my poor cousin, Evelyn; threw her clean down the stairs, so he did.’

Father Ryan’s face clouded over. ‘We don’t know that’s what happened to her, Helen; rumour and gossip are dangerous things.’

Ignoring what the priest was saying, Helen leant further in to speak. ‘Now tell me, Father, is it true that Tommy Doyle chopped off the Brogans’ heads and hung them from the rafters like hocks of ham? Mrs Rafferty told me she saw it with her own eyes.’

That was it. It was all too much for Father Ryan. He raised his voice, shocking Helen enough to cause her to throw herself down in the armchair; holding her chest in a dramatic fashion.

‘Enough of this nonsense! I expect this kind of talk from Mrs Rafferty, but you of all people should know better.’

Helen Flanagan lowered her eyes, feeling slightly ashamed of herself. Then, remembering the reason she’d actually come, a smile spread across her face. ‘To be certain, Father, you probably haven’t eaten, so I thought I’d bring you some of me homemade scones. If truth be told, I actually made them for Mrs Brogan but she’ll no longer need them where she’s gone. I said to Fergus …’

Father Ryan held up his hand, unable to hear any more of Helen’s idle chatter. ‘Thank you, Helen, I’m sure I’ll enjoy them with a cup of tea. Just leave them on the table.’

Busying herself, Helen got up. ‘I’ll put the kettle on then, I fancy a brew myself.’

‘No!’ Father Ryan shouted, rather too quickly, as he pulled a face. He could almost taste her insipid tea and its ever-present thick skin of milk. Quite how anybody could turn what was supposed to be a relaxing, refreshing beverage into what could only be described as a depressingly lukewarm, tasteless drink each and every time, he didn’t know.

Helen looked at him in shocked silence. Quickly Father Ryan tried to appease her. ‘What I meant to say is: no thank you, Helen, I’m rather tired and I think we should all get some rest.’

With Helen gone, Father Ryan sat down again, but it was no good – he wasn’t going to get any sleep now. There were too many things to think about. He sighed and stood up. Putting on his long black cloak over his cassock, Father Ryan headed back into the night.

‘Me da? Are you sure?’ Patrick looked puzzled.

‘What do you take me for, Paddy? Of course I’m sure.’ Mary O’Flanagan shook her head, exasperated. ‘Come on, we haven’t much time.’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Well I do. Come on!’

Patrick Doyle hesitated, concern etched all over his handsome face. ‘I …’

‘Don’t you trust me? Is that it?’

He looked hurt at the suggestion. ‘Don’t say that, Mary. You’re my girl, but I need to go and speak to Father Ryan and tell him what I know.’

Mary’s voice softened. ‘Look, just come and see him. He needs to talk to you. I know it wasn’t him; I just know it.’

‘That means a lot to me, Mary … I know who did it.’

Mary’s eyes were wide open. ‘How?’

Patrick didn’t answer. He stared at Mary; he was so grateful to see her. He’d been running about the Kerry countryside looking desperately for his dad; terrified for him and wanting to speak to him to tell him about O’Sheyenne. His dad must have had word they were looking for him, and he’d be hiding. Patrick had watched in despair as he’d heard the sounds of the other villagers searching for his father, hungry, like a pack of wolves hunting for their prey.

After hours of futile searching he’d come home, wiping away the tears he’d never show anyone, and in the abandonment of hope and filled with desperation, he’d done what he’d never done before: he’d prayed. Prayed his dad would come home. Prayed it was all just a rotten dream; so that when someone had knocked at the door, hard and relentless, he’d run to it, assuming his prayers had been answered. But instead of his dad it was Mary O’Flanagan who’d been standing shivering on his doorstep; wet right through, telling him she knew where his father was.

And now, as he stood by the front door, it struck him that his prayers had been answered in a way – in the form of Mary. His Mary. She’d come to tell him where his dad was, reassuring him everything would be all right.

The gentle touch on Patrick’s arm interrupted his thoughts. ‘Hey, Paddy … It’ll be okay.’

He nodded. ‘Mary, can I tell you something? But you have to promise you won’t tell a soul …’

‘Yes; I promise. Go on.’

‘When you and Father Ryan left …’

He stopped, suddenly realising it might be dangerous for Mary to know what really happened with Donal O’Sheyenne and what he’d seen and heard. He shook his head. ‘It doesn’t matter; it can wait. Come on.’

‘No, go on, Patrick; what were you going to say?’

‘Not now.’

There was a slight hurt in Mary’s voice. ‘I thought we didn’t have any secrets from each other?’

‘We don’t, and that’s why I’m going to tell you later.’

‘Honestly?’

Patrick nodded. ‘Honestly.’

Following Mary out into the rain-filled night, Patrick felt a sense of foreboding.

The woods that led to the back field were dark and treacherous and, for the fourth time in the space of less than five minutes, Patrick cursed loudly as he tripped over the unseen bracken which hooked and trailed round his legs, sending him headlong into the wet earth.

‘I’m glad to see you find this funny, Mary O’Flanagan.’

‘Do you see me laughing, Paddy?’

‘No, but I can hear ye.’

Mary sniggered to herself. Although she was worried about Patrick, she still couldn’t help enjoying this time she was spending with him. She was sixteen and even though her parents would go mad, she’d made up her mind she was going to say yes to Patrick the next time he asked her to marry him.

They wouldn’t get married straight away; she’d wait for him to make his fortune, as he always said he would. Perhaps they’d even go on a honeymoon, then afterwards get a little cottage in the same street as her mum and dad. And after that? Well, they’d make babies. Lots of them.

At the last thought, Mary found herself blushing. She wasn’t sure why. There was nothing sinful about love; that much she did know, and although Patrick and his father didn’t go to church, they were still good people. She wasn’t certain Father Ryan would agree with her but then she wasn’t always certain she agreed with Father Ryan.

Suddenly realising where they were, Mary called out. ‘We’re nearly there, Paddy. Can you see the shed?’

Before Patrick could answer, he heard a noise. ‘What was that?’

‘I didn’t hear anything. Come on.’

Patrick reached out, grabbing Mary by the arm to stop her going any further. ‘Quiet. There’s someone there … Look!’

As Patrick spoke he crouched on the ground, pulling Mary down with him. He watched as a figure he couldn’t make out hurried past. Mary began to speak but Patrick quickly silenced her, gently placing his hand over her mouth.

‘Wait here.’

‘Not alone, Patrick! Not in the dark! Let me come with ye.’

‘No, Mary. Just stay there, I’ll be back in no time … I promise.’

With Mary’s pleas sounding in the distance, Patrick ran back through the woods. He needed to know what was going on if he was going to be able to prove it was O’Sheyenne and not his father who’d killed the Brogans. It was strange for anyone to come into these woods; there was no reason to – unless of course you were trying not to be seen. They led nowhere apart from to the two houses on the other side of the village. One of these lay empty and the other was owned by the Brogans.

It certainly wasn’t the quickest route round to them; in fact, it took almost double the time, and on a night like this, along a treacherous path, perhaps even longer. So what anyone was doing here at this time of night, Patrick didn’t know, but he was certainly going to find out. He was sure it’d have something to do with O’Sheyenne.

Whoever it was certainly seemed to be in a hurry. Patrick found he needed to run to keep up; but all the time he made sure he stayed far enough behind not to be seen.

Darting across the craggy, mud-soaked land, he spotted a break in the woods and crouched behind a tree. He couldn’t see the person now but they couldn’t have gone that far.

Leaning his head further round, Patrick suddenly froze as he felt his arm being grabbed. He turned round; a lamp was held up to his face.

‘Patrick Doyle, what are you doing here?’ It was Father Ryan. His voice cold and harsh.

‘I … I …’

‘Well, boy?’

‘Er … nothing … nothing, Father.’

Father Ryan cut his eye at Patrick, exclaiming, ‘Nothing! How can you be doing nothing late at night in the woods? And why are you looking like that?’

Patrick looked round. His voice quiet but urgent. ‘I have to talk to you … It really was O’Sheyenne who killed the Brogans; I saw it with my own eyes. I’m going to try to prove it. He killed them because they were threatening to go to the Gardaí.’

Father Ryan looked uneasy. Hesitantly, he asked the next question. ‘Do you know what about?’

Patrick nodded, looking fearful. ‘He’s selling babies. The Brogans owed him money for their child and they couldn’t pay, so I think they were going to tell the authorities about it.’

Father Ryan clenched his jaw, gripping Patrick even harder as his face darkened. ‘Have you told anyone else about this?’

‘No … no.’

‘Are you sure?’

Patrick began to feel frightened. ‘I swear I haven’t.’

Relaxing slightly, Father Ryan spoke mainly to himself as he started to march Patrick out of the woods.

‘Good … good; keep it that way.’

Patrick tried to pull away. ‘Father, please, wait, I have to go back for …’

Father Ryan snapped. ‘For what?’

Patrick looked back into the woods. He couldn’t possibly tell Father Ryan about his dad hiding in the shed, or the fact Mary was waiting for him. ‘Nothing … it doesn’t matter.’

With that, Patrick let himself be dragged away, looking over his shoulder as he went.

One thing Mary O’Flanagan had struggled with all her life was listening to what people told her, which was why she found herself following not far behind Patrick when he’d told her to stay where she was. But now, as she crouched in the dense wet bracken in the pitch black, unable to see where he had gone and not understanding why he was taking so long, she wished she’d stayed put.

After another few minutes of crouching in the dark, Mary attempted to stand up, but as she did, she found herself being pushed back down into the muddy undergrowth as a hand covered her mouth, a silent scream freezing on her lips.

6

The light broke over the village as the rain continued to fall, and an urgent banging was heard down the main street as Fergus O’Flanagan pounded on the door of the rectory.

‘Father! Father!’

It took a few minutes for the wooden door to be opened and a tired-faced Father Ryan to appear in his dark blue robe, looking annoyed.

‘What in the name of heaven is all the racket for, Fergus?’

Fergus’s face was drawn and pale. ‘It’s Mary. Something’s happened to her. It’s terrible, Father.’

‘What? … What are you talking about, man? What’s happened?’

‘Mary. Our Mary. She’s been … she’s been attacked.’ Fergus’s eyes were wide open with fear as he spoke the next words. ‘Tampered with.’

Father Ryan looked concerned. ‘Where is she?’

‘At home with Helen.’

‘What has she said?’

‘Nothing, Father; she barely spoke when she got in. It took an hour or more for her just to tell us she’d been attacked.’

The priest nodded. ‘Have you called the doctor?’

‘No, Father. We didn’t like to until we’d come to see you.’

Father Ryan continued to nod his head solemnly. ‘Aye, Fergus, you’ve done the right thing. And the Gardaí?’

‘Not yet; Helen wouldn’t hear of it.’

‘Well, let me get dressed and I’ll come as quick as I can … And Fergus, don’t say anything to anybody else.’

The O’Flanagans’ household held a tension reserved only for the most unspeakable of circumstances. Helen O’Flanagan was sitting with her head in her hands in the wooden rocking chair by the parlour fire. Hearing the door, she stood up, collapsing almost directly at the sight of Father Ryan and her husband. Her sobs filled the room and they were only interrupted by the wailing that came through the floorboards from upstairs.

Still on her knees, Helen reached up and took hold of Father Ryan’s hands. Her usual happy chatter was muted, replaced by a terrified anxiety. ‘Thank you for coming, Father. She … she …’

Father Ryan raised his eyebrows as Helen burst into tears again. ‘Where is she?’ he asked.

Helen nervously fiddled with the hem of her blouse. She sniffed loudly. ‘Upstairs in her room. I haven’t spoken to her; I thought it was best to wait.’

Father Ryan touched his face. ‘Sensible. You’ve done the right thing. These situations have to be dealt with sensitively. Now, I don’t suppose you could make me a cup of tea, could you? And Helen, not too much milk.’

Helen dutifully jumped into action, getting up from the floor and momentarily putting her anguish to one side. She wiped away her tears. ‘Of course, Father; forgive me. I’ll make you one straight away.’

Father Ryan gave a tight smile, wiping the palm of his hand on his black cassock as he looked at the O’Flanagans. He was pleased they’d come to him instead of calling the doctor or the Gardaí. It made things easier. He was in charge of the parish, responsible for the emotional and spiritual wellbeing of his flock, as well as for saving their souls from sin and temptation. Therefore it was up to him to decide what was going to happen.

‘Right, I’ll go and talk to her. I’d appreciate it if I wasn’t disturbed.’

Helen looked concerned. Her eyes darted from Father Ryan to her husband. Her apprehension at questioning the priest was apparent. ‘Er … don’t … don’t you think it would be best if I came in? Perhaps she’d find it easier to talk if I was there.’

Annoyed at being doubted, Father Ryan scowled momentarily, but his face softened along with his voice. ‘Nonsense, Helen. Mary will speak to me and if she needs to confess anything, she’ll do it without your presence. I can’t see how it will help you fussing around her. Now, I’d really like my tea before I go up. I really am parched.’

Turning briskly, Father Ryan walked out of the parlour and found his way up the wooden stairs.

Tommy Doyle stretched awake, feeling a bolt of pain shoot through his back. He groaned audibly, remembering where he was and why he was there. He hadn’t meant to sleep but he must have dozed off in the early hours and now, although the rain was still beating down, bringing gloom to the skies, he could tell by the light that it was late morning.

Tommy stood up shivering, feeling the damp of his clothes chilling his flesh. Looking around the shed, he knew he needed to get out of where he was. Perhaps make his way across to Castlecove. He had friends there and it’d be easier to get to the mainland if he had a place to hide out for a while.

Reaching into his pocket for his packet of tobacco, Tommy frowned, hearing something. It was the sound of dogs barking. And the more he listened, the more he realised they were coming nearer. Soon they’d be here.

Grabbing his coat, Tommy dashed out of the shed. He ran, slipping on the wet grass as he went. The dogs were getting closer. The only way out was to go down by Lincoln’s farm and along by the river.

Beginning to run across the open field, he heard his name being called.

‘Tommy Doyle, stay where you are!’

There was no way he was going to stop. Picking up his pace, Tommy headed for the far side of the field.

‘Tommy Doyle!’

He raced across the field, trying to keep his balance on the slippery earth. Out of breath, he got to the fence and began to climb, but only a moment later an agonising pain struck him, sending shooting pains through his body. He fell back to the ground with the growling of the dogs tearing into his leg being drowned out by his screams.

‘Get them off me! For feck’s sake get them off me!’

As blood poured from his torn flesh, Tommy heard the sound of men running towards him and giving orders to the dogs to let go. But the absence of the dogs’ teeth ripping into him didn’t free Tommy of the excruciating pain. He held onto his leg, rolling round in the mud crying out. His voice weak and barely audible. ‘Help me! … Help.’

‘There’s no help where you’ll be going, Doyle.’

The men began hauling him up off the ground just as Tommy Doyle blacked out.

7

Father Ryan stood in the middle of Mary O’Flanagan’s room with a cold cup of tea in his hand. It’d never been hot. It was brought up lukewarm and now there wasn’t even a chance of taking a sip as the thick layer of skin from the milk floated unappetisingly on the surface.

It crossed Father Ryan’s mind that Helen’s housekeeping skills were just as dire as her tea-making and her cooking; perhaps after all this business had been sorted out, it would be time to give the woman her marching orders. He’d only ever hired her as a gesture of goodwill, but that had certainly gone on for far too long.

A big snivel brought Father Ryan back to the present. He looked at Mary who was sitting on the bed shaking, eyes red and swollen from crying.

‘Now then, Mary, I want to know everything. Everything you can tell me. Everything you can remember.’

Mary huddled further down under her overly starched bed sheets, unable to look directly at the priest. Ashamed. Hurt and confused, she curled up in the foetal position, inconsolable and wanting to speak to her mother, wondering why she hadn’t come up.

The cold air from the covers being turned back gave Mary a fright, prompting her to sit up. Suddenly aware that the lower part of her body had been exposed by her nightdress riding up, she quickly tugged down the flannelette garment over her knees.

Hugging herself, she stared at Father Ryan, uncomfortable with his hostile gaze and speech.

‘What sinful acts have you been party to, Mary O’Flanagan?’

Terrified, Mary edged back into the hard metal bed frame as Father Ryan sat down next to her.

‘None, Father.’

‘I’ll ask you again. What sins of the flesh have you partaken in?’

‘None. I swear. On the holy bible, I swear.’

‘Then you need to tell me what happened, otherwise I have no alternative but to think you played some part in this.’

Mary paused and gazed down at her hands. She could see the mud from the woods still under her fingernails, and under her middle fingernail was a slight trace of dried blood.

‘Well?’ Father Ryan’s voice interrupted her thoughts. She looked at his face and saw no kindness.

‘I can’t remember, Father.’

‘Rubbish. Have you forgotten that I am a servant of God, and, that being so, your lies are direct lies to our good Lord?’

Mary buried her head in her hands as tears dripped through her fingers. ‘I swear I can’t remember … please, please can you get my ma?’

‘Your mother wisely wants me to sort this out before she talks to you. She’s worried that perhaps in some way you … how shall I put this, Mary? … You invited this.’

Mary shook her head furiously. ‘No! No! It wasn’t like that.’

‘Then, if it wasn’t, tell me what it was like; otherwise, as I said before, I can only assume the worst.’

With no choice and taking a deep breath, Mary tried to overcome her shame. ‘I was in the woods.’

Father Ryan looked shocked. ‘The woods!’

‘Yes, I was with Patrick, but he saw someone. Patrick told me to stay where I was but I got frightened and followed him. And then, when I was waiting there, I …’

‘Go on.’

‘I got up, thinking I should go back because I couldn’t see Patrick any more and, as I did, I felt someone grab me and push me back down from behind. They put their hand over my mouth and …’ Mary stopped and threw herself back onto the bed, racked with sobs and self-hatred.

Father Ryan’s voice was steady. ‘Mary, continue.’

‘I can’t. I’m ashamed, Father.’

‘Of what?’

‘Of where he touched me. Of what he did.’

‘And where did he touch you?’

Mary blushed, her pale face turning scarlet as the memories and the pain rushed through her body. She wished her mother had come to sit with her. Then it suddenly dawned on her why she hadn’t. Her mother was ashamed. And Mary didn’t blame her.

‘Mary?’ Father Ryan’s voice cut through the silence.

‘I’m sorry, Father. He … he touched me all over, and then he put his thing inside me. It hurt. I cried out but no-one came.’

Father Ryan exuded venom as he sat next to Mary. ‘And why didn’t you try to stop it, Mary? Or perhaps you liked it?’

Fervently, Mary shook her head. ‘No, Father. No!’

More to himself than to Mary, Father Ryan spoke. ‘And you never saw his face.’ It was a statement rather than a question but Mary answered anyway.

‘No. Nothing. I didn’t see anything. It was so dark, and I know this sounds silly, Father, but I closed my eyes. I didn’t want to see. I just didn’t.’

For a few moments Father Ryan sat in silence mulling over his thoughts. He gazed up at the ceiling, catching sight of a tiny spider making its way across the length of the old wooden beam. With a renewed intensity, he chose his words carefully.

‘Mary. Can you recall what time this was?’

‘No, Father.’

‘And you say you never saw the person’s face who did this to you?’

‘No, Father.’

Again, Father Ryan fell into a brooding silence. The minutes passed and twice Mary found herself peering at the priest, checking to see he hadn’t fallen asleep. Eventually he spoke.

‘I myself saw Patrick in the woods last night; hiding and skulking as if he were running away from something. And when I asked him what he was doing, he couldn’t tell me. I thought it most strange at the time, but now it’s beginning to make sense.’

Mary looked puzzled. ‘What do you mean?’

Father Ryan sighed loudly, irritated by the baffled expression on Mary’s face. ‘What I’m saying is that Patrick Doyle, cunning as he is, made you think you were there on your own. He wanted you to believe that.’

‘But why, Father? I’m not following you.’

‘Is there anything between those ears of yours, Mary?’ Father Ryan snapped, berating Mary as he often did. ‘This is how you ended up in such a sorry state.’

Mary bowed her head, biting back the tears, making Father Ryan soften slightly.

‘I think it was Patrick. I think Patrick was the one who attacked you.’

Mary scrambled off the bed and began to scream. Loud and vociferous. Her piercing cry reverberated through the house, bringing Mr and Mrs O’Flanagan flying up the stairs; bundling themselves through Mary’s bedroom door with terror on their faces.

‘Get out! … Get out!’ Father Ryan bellowed at them. He stood up, pointing to the door without bothering to turn his head to look at Helen or Fergus, who both quickly and timidly backed away, out of the room.

With the same thunderous tone, Father Ryan boomed at Mary, ‘Mary O’Flanagan, cease that noise. This is a time for being calm and rational, child.’

Mary held onto the end of the bed, hyperventilating as the realisation of what the priest was saying sunk in. ‘I can’t … I can’t …’

With speed under his feet, Father Ryan dashed across to where Mary stood and with a raise of his hand he slapped her hard across her cheek, welting a red mark. Immediately her hysterics dropped into a deep painful sob.

Smoothing down his cassock as he sat down, he murmured to himself. ‘I’m sorry to have to do that, but nobody needs to hear such noise and it certainly won’t help things … That’s better. Now Mary, let’s try again.’

Through her sobs, Mary gasped. ‘It’s impossible, Father. Patrick wouldn’t do anything like that. He wouldn’t. He loves me.’

‘Nonsense, child.’

‘He does! He does! Look what he gave me.’ Mary went to her chest of drawers and brought out a tissue. She unwrapped it carefully to reveal the twelve dried and pressed yellow petals Patrick had given her. Mary spoke triumphantly. ‘See.’

Father Ryan’s face twisted into scorn at the sight of a handful of shrivelled petals. He could hardly believe his eyes.

‘What in the name of God are you showing me, Mary O’Flanagan?’

‘A petal for his love for every month of the year.’

‘Ye God’s Satan has addled your mind,’ Father Ryan hollered. ‘He no more loves you than Lucifer loves the cross.’ Father Ryan paused, composing himself. ‘I don’t like to shout, but this is a serious matter and difficult for all of us; truths need to be told, so you have to stop thinking he loved you.’

‘I swear he does. We were even going to get married.’

‘Mary, you have a lot to learn. We’re all just flesh and blood, and what keeps us from sin and temptation is our following in Christ our saviour.’

‘No, you’re wrong. There’s no way Patrick would do this, you don’t know him like I do.’ In her torment, Mary couldn’t contain herself; she blurted out the words, for once unafraid of the priest. ‘And how would you know, anyway? What do you know about love? You’ve never loved anyone in your life.’

Father Ryan became rigid, blinking a couple of times and then, to Mary’s surprise, he smiled sadly. ‘That’s where you’re wrong, Mary. I know very well how it feels to be in love. How it is to think about a person the very moment you wake up and the very last thing at night. To be afraid of the life you had before them and the life you’d have without them. For the rays of the sun to feel warmer when they’re next to you.’

Mary looked amazed. ‘Who was she, Father?’

‘Someone I used to know a long time ago.’

‘And why didn’t you marry her?’

There was a forlornness in the way Father Ryan answered. ‘Our paths went different ways; we didn’t want the same things.’

‘What was her name?’

‘I’ve said too much already.’

Mary thought for a moment. ‘Then surely you must be able to see that Patrick loves me.’

Father Ryan’s face tightened again. He sighed. ‘You’re not thinking straight. It’s not love, Mary; it’s lust.’

Mary put down her head before blushing, something that didn’t go unnoticed by Father Ryan. ‘What is it, child?’

Mary spoke very slowly, biting on her lip. ‘He did … He did kiss me once.’

‘Mary O’Flanagan, I warned you about this. I thought you were God-fearing.’

‘I am, Father. I am.’

‘Then why didn’t I know about this before? Why didn’t I hear it at your confession?’

Mary shrugged her shoulders, too fearful to admit she’d cycled to the next village to make her confession.

‘This proves it, Mary. First you don’t see the person’s face. Then I see Patrick lurking suspiciously in the woods unable to tell me why and then …’ Matthew Ryan stopped, closing his eyes and shaking his head.

‘And then what, Father?’

‘And then that kiss. Don’t you see, there seems to be no question; Patrick Doyle raped you.’

Mary’s hands shot over her mouth, partly to stop another scream and partly to stop herself from vomiting.

It didn’t make sense, what Father Ryan was saying. It just didn’t. Patrick was decent. He was gentle. Not rough. Not cruel like the person who’d violated her in such a brutal way. No, it was impossible. She wouldn’t believe it. She wouldn’t.

The only thing Father Ryan was right about was the fact that she hadn’t seen whoever it was. She hadn’t even heard them come up behind her. And it’d been Patrick who’d insisted she stay there alone, even though she’d wanted to go with him. So maybe …

Mary’s body jolted upright. No, she wasn’t going to think like that. Patrick could never have done anything like this.

‘Using a gentle tone, a tone rarely heard by Mary, Father Ryan broke her thoughts.

‘To be sure, it’s hard to think or understand how someone we trusted could do this to us, but think clearly. Let shame not cloud your judgement. It starts with you rebuffing Patrick’s advances over and over again, and, by doing so, the sins of the flesh take over his mind. Then, when you’re in the woods, he sees an opportunity. And like the devil himself, he creeps up on you; taking your innocence in the way he did.’

Father Ryan held Mary’s gaze.

‘But—’

‘No, Mary. Patrick Shamus Doyle is not a God-fearing person.’

‘But—’

‘No. Do not make any more excuses. It’s as clear as the presence of Christ within me … I’m sorry, Mary, I really am.

Confused and looking like a timid child, tears rolled down over the red mark on Mary’s cheek. ‘Where is he, Father?’

‘Don’t you worry about that; you’ll never have to see him again. I’ll make sure of that. Patrick Doyle will pay for what he has done to you. Mark my words, Mary. Mark my words.’

Father Ryan got up. He went to leave but stopped, turning back to Mary. His tone inquisitive. ‘One thing puzzles me though; why were you two in the woods last night in the first place?’

Mary opened her mouth to say something, but she hesitated. Putting her hands behind her back, she crossed her fingers, then answered gently. ‘No reason, Father … no reason at all.’

The banging on the front door startled Patrick. He quickly pulled on his trousers, running down the stairs in the hope it was his father. Opening the door, only semi-dressed, Patrick’s face dropped. It was the Gardaí. His thoughts raced; panic making him speak quickly.

‘What’s happened? … Is my da all right? … Where is he?’

The tallest Garda, dressed in full uniform, looked at Patrick with an air of contempt; tiny eyes staring from under a mass of brown eyebrows.

‘Patrick Doyle? You need to come with us.’

‘Is he all right? … Nothing’s happened to him, has it?’

Uninvited, the Garda stepped into the small hallway. ‘Get dressed.’

‘Please … just tell me what’s happened.’ Patrick was full of fear; anxious for his father.

A sneer appeared on the Garda’s face. ‘Oh, I think you know very well.’

‘No, I don’t. I’m worried about him.’

The Garda took hold of Patrick’s arm so hard it made him wince. ‘You’re in serious trouble; I’d say at this moment your da is the least of your worries.’

8

Through a hazy gaze of pain and medication, Tommy Doyle stared at the gnarled face of Donal O’Sheyenne leaning over him in his hospital bed.

O’Sheyenne nodded to the Gardaí. ‘Come back in ten minutes.’

With the Gardaí gone, O’Sheyenne turned his attention to Tommy, pulling the hospital covers to expose the injuries.

‘That looks nasty.’ With a grin, Donal squeezed his fingers hard into the bandaged legs. Tommy let out a scream.

‘I swear. I don’t know anything … I don’t …’

‘Save your breath, Tommy; I’m not here for a confession. I’ve got a proposition for you; it’ll be worth your while.’

‘And why would I want anything from you?’

‘Because from where I’m standing I’d say you need all the help you can get. And it’s not like we haven’t had dealings before.’

‘I don’t need your help, O’Sheyenne. I’m not interested in anything you have to say. So why don’t you crawl back to the hole you came from?’

O’Sheyenne chuckled. ‘That’s fighting talk for a man accused of a double murder.’

Tommy stared at Donal. ‘I never did it; you’ll see, I’ll prove it.’

‘They already think it’s you, Doyle, and what with the question mark still over Evelyn’s death … well, if they were to find a piece of bloody rope in your house, the same rope used to tie up poor Connor, to be sure, that would seal your fate, wouldn’t you say?’

Puzzlement spread across Tommy’s face. ‘They won’t.’

‘Well really, that all depends, because it’s quite conceivable that in the next hour our local Gardaí will get a call telling them exactly where to find it in your pantry. But as you say, you don’t need my help; so I’ll bid you good day.’

O’Sheyenne started away to the shouts of Tommy Doyle.

‘You’ll not set me up, O’Sheyenne; you’ll not!’

Donal turned round and grinned. ‘Oh, but I already have … Unless of course you’ll reconsider my proposition?’

Tommy growled, ‘I don’t even know what it is.’

O’Sheyenne walked back to the hospital bed, straightening the covers in feigned concern. ‘I wouldn’t worry about that; simply put, Doyle; you’ve got no choice.’

Five minutes later the two officers, who were more accustomed to dealing with vandalised crops and drunken villagers, came back into the ward. O’Sheyenne smiled at them.

‘I think we have the wrong man, gentlemen,’ His voice was authoritative. ‘I think the blame lies not with Thomas Doyle as we first thought but with his son, Patrick Doyle.’

‘Is this true, Doyle?’ One of the Gardaí spoke up.

Tommy nodded solemnly. ‘Aye, I’m afraid it is. I saw him with my own eyes coming out of the house, and so did Mr O’Sheyenne here; we were together.’

‘Then why didn’t you tell us this before, Doyle? Why run when the men came for you?’

‘I panicked when I heard they were coming after me. You know as well as I do that rumours still mill about the circumstances of me late wife’s death. I was afraid no-one would believe me … It’s a good job Mr O’Sheyenne here was with me … and Father Ryan of course.’

Donal nodded. ‘It’s a grave business, so it is … Tell them the other thing, Thomas, I’m sure they’ll be wanting to hear it.’

Tommy paused, glancing at O’Sheyenne before looking at the Gardaí directly. ‘Patrick hid something in the house. You’ll find it behind the porridge box in the pantry … it’s a rope. A bloody rope.’

9

Father Ryan sat at his dark wooden desk in St Joseph’s Orphanage and Home for Unmarried Mothers. It stood on top of a hill called the Five Acre Trees, though no local knew why it was named so; the hill was neither five acres nor had it ever held any trees for as far back as anyone could remember.

The building of St Joseph’s was forbidding. Tall, dark and gothic. The unwelcoming black wrought metal gates were held together by a large heavy chain and allowed no unauthorised visitor in and no resident out. But it was here that Father Ryan liked to sit and think – undisturbed and without interruption. Today, however, was the exception to the rule. Instead of getting the peace and time to reflect as he’d hoped and needed, Father Ryan was facing Donal O’Sheyenne who stood stonily opposite him.

Father Ryan hadn’t been sleeping well with what seemed like relentless pressure, and prayer had brought him little comfort, as it seldom did these days, and certainly no answers to his ever-increasing problems.

Sighing, he turned his attention back to Donal and to what he was saying.

‘So you see, Matthew, it’s all worked out well after all.’

Father Ryan’s voice was emotionless. ‘Not for the Brogans, or for the boy.’

‘He knew too much and rather than use the chance to work for me he began to sound off. These things have to be done.’

‘Thomas Doyle is a rogue indeed to be part of your wickedness.’

‘If I recall, it wasn’t so long ago you needed him for your own … how should I put it … inconvenience.’

The priest craned forward, pointing his finger at Donal. ‘How dare you! That wasn’t the same at all.’

‘You don’t want me to talk about your secret, Matthew? I’m sure a lot of people in the village would be most interested in what the real Father Ryan is like.’

Like a man possessed, Father Ryan stood up from behind his desk and rushed over to where Donal stood; hissing out his words. ‘Don’t push me. You might think I haven’t got what it takes to take on a man like you, but be careful, O’Sheyenne. One day. Mark my words … Tread very, very carefully.’

Donal looked down at Father Ryan’s clenched hands and grabbed them. He pulled the priest’s scrunched-up fists to his own face to mockingly punch himself with them, then exploded into peals of belly laughter.

‘Oh for the love of God! To be sure, Matthew, you’ve got a good craic in ye, so you have! I could swear those words were those of a fighting man. A threat no less. To me! Me! Donal O’Sheyenne.’

It was all too much for Father Ryan. He leapt again at Donal, pushing O’Sheyenne’s six-foot-four frame backwards to snatch hold of the lapels on his trench coat.

‘You’ll pay for this, O’Sheyenne! I swear; you’ll pay.’

Donal O’Sheyenne had been surprised many times and by many things in his life, but it occurred to him that, at that moment, Father Ryan attacking with such vigour and bravado was perhaps the biggest surprise he’d ever encountered, which was why it took him a moment to react.

However, instead of dishing out a ferocious beating – as he’d usually lay on any man who dared to challenge him – Donal O’Sheyenne found himself staggering around the room in blind hysterics, having to wipe away the streaming tears of laughter running down his face.

‘Stop! Stop! No more! By Christ, you’ll have me passing out. Look at me, man, I can hardly breathe for laughter!’

Incensed by the further mockery, Father Ryan – losing control altogether – ran up to Donal, who by now had collapsed with delighted amusement into a large brown leather chair.

About to bring down his fist with the full force of his anger and humiliation, Father Ryan froze as the door suddenly opened and a shrill voice sounded.

‘Tea, Father! … What in heaven’s name!’ A nun stood open-mouthed in the doorway of the study carrying a pot of tea, a plate of biscuits and a look of horror on her face.

Father Ryan blushed and dropped his fist. ‘Saints in heaven; have you ever heard of knocking, Sister?’

The nun said nothing, still startled by the sight which had greeted her.

Composing himself and wiping away the tears, Donal got up from the leather chair. He winked; charm snaking its way into his smile.

‘Why, Sister Margaret, don’t look so startled. Father Ryan was only showing me how the other day an ungodly scoundrel attacked a poor innocent man in the street.’

The nun’s face drew both relief and concern from Donal’s explanation. ‘Why that’s terrible. I hope the man was all right and a good Samaritan was able to intervene?’

Donal grinned. ‘There was such a Samaritan, Sister. In fact, you’re in the same room as him. It was Father Ryan who selflessly, and with no thought of his own safety, procured the man from a terrible fate.’

The nun’s face lit up in pride. ‘Is this true, Father? Did you really save a man from such a sinner? Were you hurt?’

Not letting Father Ryan reply, Donal spoke with mischief in his voice. ‘Now, Sister, no more questions. We know how modest Father Ryan is.’

‘But …’

Donal interrupted the nun. ‘Enough, Sister. Do they not say flattery is a sin? “The Lord shall cut off all flattering lips, and the tongue that speaketh proud things.” Psalm twelve, verse three.’

The nun giggled as she looked at Donal. ‘Father O’Sheyenne! You really …’

‘Sister Margaret, you know as well as anyone I left the church a long time ago. I am, unlike Father Ryan here, just an ordinary soul.’

‘To me, Father, a man of God is what you’ll always be. It was a sorry day when you decided to leave the priesthood; though the good Lord will never leave your side. Is there nothing that will tempt you to come back to our fold?’

Irked at this conversation, Father Ryan interrupted. ‘Sister! That is quite enough! You can pour the tea and leave us, and I would be grateful if this discussion wasn’t broadcast to the whole of St Joseph’s.’

Donal smirked; amused at the discomfort of Father Ryan as he tried to pretend all was well.

‘There’s no need to be too hard on Sister Margaret, she was only interested to hear what a good Samaritan you were, as I was when I was sitting in the chair.’

Watching the nun finish pouring the tea, Donal addressed her. ‘Thank you, Sister, you can leave us now.’ The nun nodded, pushing the plate of biscuits into Donal’s hands. As she turned to walk away, he stopped her.

‘And, Sister?’

‘Yes, Father O’Sheyenne?’

‘You’re looking lovely today.’ Donal chuckled as Sister Margaret, blushing in pure delight, scurried out of the room.

Once the door was shut, Donal turned back to Father Ryan.

‘Now where were we? Oh, I know. You were attacking me.’

Father Ryan, who by now had regained his composure, glared as Donal continued talking. ‘I’ve got a married couple downstairs who’ve come for the Brogans’ baby.’

‘Have you no shame? Connor and Clancy are barely cold and you’re already getting rid of their baby.’

‘As you rightly point out, they’re no longer with us, so I can’t imagine they’ll make great parents.’

‘Are you even human?’ Father Ryan shouted, his face red.

‘I provide a service, and that doesn’t come free; they know what they’re getting themselves into.’

‘I doubt that. These people are desperate for a child; they’ll do anything to make it happen; even make a deal with the devil and I will no longer be a part of it; you will cease to use St Joseph’s as your market place.’

Donal’s voice was laden with mocking contempt. ‘Now you know that’s not possible, Matthew.’

Father Ryan placed his hand on his stomach. He was feeling unwell; it was more than he could cope with, and he was certain he was getting an ulcer. The whole situation was too much. It’d gone on long enough.

‘It’s over.’

Donal chuckled. ‘Pardon? Me poor ears aren’t hearing you correctly. I could have sworn you just said, It’s over.’

‘That I did, Donal O’Sheyenne. This all has to come to an end and here is the end. We had a deal.’

Donal nodded his head. ‘We did indeed and it’s worked out all round. You’ve got everything you wanted and so have I, so why make the walls come tumbling down, why bring trouble on yourself?’

Father Ryan stiffened. His voice was almost pleading.

‘I did all you asked of me a long time ago. I’ve paid my dues over and over. I live with the shame of my sins, and I ask God for forgiveness and for him to allow me through the gates of heaven, and now what I ask of you, Donal O’Sheyenne, is to set me free from this … this deal of Shylock.’

Donal sniffed, popping a whole biscuit into his mouth. He didn’t usually go in for melodrama but it amused him how worked-up and dramatic Matthew Ryan was being. Shylock. The man who wanted a pound of flesh for every money owed. But Father Ryan was wrong to compare him to Shylock because he wanted more. Much more, and therefore he wasn’t going to let the priest walk away from this.

‘I think we both know that’s not possible, Matthew. You’re up in it as much as me.’

‘It’s wrong. I always knew it was, but …’

Interrupting, Donal smiled nastily. ‘But you turned a blind eye to it back then because you needed something from me. And you got it. And now you owe me. Besides, what difference does it make? Childless couples get a new baby and I get what’s owed.’

‘How is it owed to you? They aren’t your children. They’re children of God and that being so no money should pass hands in the process.’

Donal sneered. ‘Let’s get something straight. They’re hardly children of God. They’re the bastard offspring of whores and drunks. The unwanted of the poor, the needy and simpletons. If they didn’t go to the homes we arrange, they’d end up in the industrial schools. So everybody wins.’

‘What about the Brogans? Connor and his poor wife, did they win, Donal? They were good people and you killed them. Striking them down like stray dogs.’

Donal chuckled. ‘That’s what I always liked about you, Matthew. The way you put things. I remember your sermons were always passionate; full of the flames of hell, warning the sinners of their wrongdoings. I can see that hasn’t left you.’

Father Ryan leant forward, trying to keep his temper under control. ‘Is there nothing resembling decency in you? How you ever became a priest …’

Donal looked at Father Ryan flatly. ‘I became a priest for the same reason you did, Matthew. For power. And I left for the same reason. I just wanted more of it.’

‘Shame on you, O’Sheyenne.’

Donal took out a cigarette, holding Father Ryan’s gaze as he lit it. ‘The Brogans knew the rules. A charge for the baby and payment each week thereafter. If a payment can’t be met, then the baby has to be returned. They didn’t keep up with their payments.’

‘So why couldn’t you have just brought the baby back to St Joseph’s?’

‘To be sure, Matthew, no-one wanted things to end up like they did. Messy business all round. I liked Connor, I told that to his wife when we became … better acquainted. They’d had the choice of returning the baby, but Connor didn’t want to do that. He wanted to talk. Now have you ever heard of such a thing? Talk me business. I tell you, has the world gone mad?’

Donal stopped to chuckle. He shrugged his shoulders. ‘So what was I supposed to do? Ruin everything I’d worked for? They left me no choice.’

Father Ryan’s face turned red. ‘’Tis not a man that stands before me. ’Tis Lucifer himself.’

Donal’s eyes cut a stare. ‘Is it, Matthew? Are you sure it’s not Lucifer who you see in the mirror? Is it not you who has gone along with accusing Patrick Doyle for the killing of Connor Brogan and his wife? ’Tis nothing priestly about accusing an innocent young man.’

‘The boy is not innocent,’ Father Ryan answered. ‘What he did to Mary can’t go unpunished.’

‘Maybe not, but as we both know Patrick is innocent on all other counts. You are more guilty than he.’

Father Ryan turned his back on Donal. He watched the rain beat against the paper-thin window as his mind took him to the events of the other evening.

The killings of the Brogans – Donal had given him no option but to lie about it. What else could he have done? And it wasn’t as if Patrick was entirely innocent; sins of the flesh must be punished in the severest of ways, so perhaps he could live with the fact Patrick would be held responsible for the Brogans’ killing. God would be his judge and he would make his peace with God.

And besides, even if he valued his own life so little as to let it be known that Donal O’Sheyenne was responsible for the murders, it wouldn’t make a difference. No-one would want to listen. Only a fool would cross Donal O’Sheyenne; they’d be certain to meet the same grisly fate as the Brogans, whose only sin was to want a baby in their childless marriage, which he had helped to arrange. And then of course there was the other matter. The other matter he didn’t like to think about. The one which had him in O’Sheyenne’s grip.

No, there was nothing he could do about O’Sheyenne right now. He hoped there’d come a day when the man would be held accountable for each and every sin, but today was not that day.

Turning back round to face Donal, Father Ryan spoke, feeling more settled. ‘Fine, Donal. You win, do what you must with the baby. But, as God is my witness, this will be the last.’

Donal winked. ‘Matthew, we go through this every time. It’d be quicker all round if you didn’t put us through this each time.’

‘How dare you!’

Donal O’Sheyenne said nothing; getting up to walk for the door. Stopping suddenly he turned to look at Father Ryan. When he spoke, his voice was cold.

‘“Be watchful. Your adversary the devil prowls around like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour.”’ Then as if as an afterthought, he laughed, adding, ‘Peter five, verse eight.’

Donal O’Sheyenne smiled at the couple as they stood cooing over the Brogans’ baby. It was true, he was a handsome young fella, which was always good when it came to finding prospective parents. The price he charged for the child reflected that. It was much more difficult to get rid of the ugly ones and often they would be confined to a life in orphanages and industrial schools.

‘What happened to his real mother, Mr O’Sheyenne?’ The prospective father spoke to Donal.

O’Sheyenne walked to the window. It always fascinated him as to why would-be-parents asked this question. He wasn’t sure if it was simply out of curiosity or if they wanted to ease their consciences by being able to say to each other that they did the right thing in buying somebody else’s child. Like a lot of the babies, the ‘Brogans’ baby’ had been born to a sixteen-year-old girl, whose boyfriend had promised to marry her if she slept with him. Of course, like so many of the other girls in St Joseph’s, she’d been unceremoniously dumped the next month, heartbroken and pregnant.

Her parents had been mortified with shame and had quickly packed her off to St Joseph’s where she’d had the baby. The girl had wanted to keep him, but her parents had said that that was unthinkable, just as it was unthinkable for her to go back home. So the baby had been taken away and she’d been carted off to one of the Magdalene laundries run by the nuns, where she’d been ever since.

‘Did she die?’

Donal turned back to the prospective parent. ‘Excuse me?’

‘Did the child’s mother die? It’s just, he’s such an adorable baby, I couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to give him up.’

With a wry smile, Donal answered. ‘That’s one way of putting it … Now, if you’re happy with him, we can go over the terms and conditions again.’

The couple nodded, beaming smiles. ‘Oh yes, we’d love to have him. We think he’d fit right in.’

O’Sheyenne sat down behind his desk, playing with the paper-knife. ‘Good. Well, as I say, there’s a one-off payment which you need to pay now, followed by two other payments a couple of months later. But you do appreciate if you don’t honour the payments I’ll have no choice but to bring him back to the orphanage and put him up for adoption again.’

‘Oh, we’d never not pay, Mr O’Sheyenne. We want a baby so much.’

‘I just don’t want any misunderstandings, I has something similar quite recently …’

Encouraged by his wife, the man got out his chequebook and quickly squiggled the agreed amount on the cheque. He tore it off and pushed it across the desk to Donal.

‘We’d like him. We’re happy with all your terms.’

O’Sheyenne looked at the cheque then stretched out his hand to the man and winked.

‘Congratulations; you’re now the proud parents of this beautiful baby boy.’

10

Mary O’Flanagan covered her ears. She didn’t want to hear anything else the Gardaí had to say. In fact she didn’t want to look at them either; if she’d had it her way, she wouldn’t be here at all. Though in actual fact, here was only the back room of the tiny hall running alongside the village bakery.

The back room of the hall doubled as everything. For plays, for cake sales, for council and church meetings, even a few times for evening mass when a large sycamore tree had fallen on the church and destroyed part of the roof. And now it seemed the room doubled as a Garda station.

Mary glanced across to her mother who was looking stern, her expression full of shame and blame. It’d been at her insistence that Mary had come here. The Gardaí had already spoken to her, but now they wanted to ask her what seemed to be the same questions all over again.

Her father, Fergus, hadn’t insisted, though only because he wasn’t speaking to her. He hadn’t spoken to her since that night, so he hadn’t been able to insist on anything at all. The only thing he had done was cry. Cry and turn his head away when she walked into the same room as him.

She knew it was a sin to have sex before marriage.

She’d known about the sins of the flesh since she was little, but she also knew her parents blamed her for what had happened and now, she was to blame Patrick, because that’s what Father Ryan had told her.

She’d asked to see him, but they hadn’t let her. Perhaps if she‘d been allowed to speak to him, he’d have been able to tell her this was all a terrible mistake and explain what had really happened.

But now she was so confused about everything, she couldn’t think straight. They kept on telling her over and over again how it was Patrick who’d done this to her, and now they were saying he had also killed the Brogans. None of it seemed to make sense.

She’d tried to tell her mother – who overnight had changed from the happy chatty person she loved into someone cold and harsh – that she really wasn’t sure it was Patrick. But her mother had gone to get Father Ryan who’d once more explained she was being foolish to think otherwise, and that there was no doubt that it had been Patrick who had done this to her. And even though she didn’t want to believe it, everyone had insisted there was no other explanation. So what other choice did she have than to believe it herself?

Ever since that night her love for the boy she was going to marry had turned into shame, hurt and pain. And as she sat in the back room, covering her ears, with judging and accusatory eyes turned on her, Mary O’Flanagan knew that, from this day onwards, she never wanted to hear the name of Patrick Doyle again.

Patrick wiped his eyes carefully. They were sore from crying.

No-one had really told him what was going on and since that night, his whole life had been turned upside down. He’d been taken to the back room of the hall by the Gardaí, who had asked him about Mary and the Brogans. Later, they’d interrogated him about Mary again and when he’d asked to go home, they’d refused him, instead taking him in a car to some place he didn’t know, to ask yet more questions about her.

No-one would tell him anything. And now he was locked up in a room, in a building, in a place he wasn’t familiar with, listening to the sounds and screams of people he couldn’t see. And although he was the grand age of sixteen, he was frightened.

Patrick heard a jangling of keys. The door opened and he was greeted by the sight of two priests robed in black from head to toe, with large wooden crosses and rosary beads hanging down to their beltlines.

The taller priest, whose head was shaved, displaying a large prominent scar, addressed Patrick. ‘Doyle, you’re going to be moved to the west dormitory along with the other boys whose case is still being investigated by the Gardaí. You’ll obey all the rules or face punishment. Do I make myself clear?’

Patrick’s eyes widened with panic and for a moment he couldn’t say a thing. When he was able to speak, his words came tumbling out.

‘I never touched the Brogans! I didn’t! I didn’t! I swear, Father, it was nothing to do with me. You’ve got to believe me! You’ve got to.’

The sudden pain on the back of Patrick’s head was almost unbearable as the smaller priest brought down the wooden paddle he kept on a long piece of string around his waist.

Patrick screamed out, cupping his arms around his head as his tears and blood fell to the floor.

‘Enough of your impudence, boy. Here at Our Lady’s you only speak when asked a direct question. Do you understand?’

Patrick nodded and as he did so he felt the pain of the paddle strike him again, though this time his arms – already holding his head – shielded him slightly.

‘You were asked a question, Doyle. Nodding is for donkeys.’

Patrick wiped the tears away from his face. ‘Sorry, Father … Yes, Father.’

Satisfied that Patrick was beginning to understand the rules of Our Lady’s Industrial Reform School, both priests turned, walking out of the sparse room.

Quickly and empty-handed, Patrick followed. He touched the silver chain and cross round his neck which Mary had given him. He’d never taken it off since the time she had presented it to him on his birthday. That had been his happiest day and all he could do now was to hold onto the memories of it.

Patrick had brought nothing with him and was still dressed in the same clothes he’d been wearing when the Gardaí had come to his house. He was confused and scared. He needed to talk to someone; ask them to take him home, ask them to believe him. But who? There was no-one.

As he continued to think about the nightmare he found himself in, the fear rose up again and Patrick found himself having to breathe heavily in an attempt to stop himself from screaming.

‘Doyle! Hurry up!’ The priest’s shouting startled him.

Jogging to keep up with the priests who strode along the long dark corridors with purpose and pace, for the first time Patrick was able to take in his surroundings. And what he saw, he didn’t like.

The industrial school he’d been brought to was for the neglected, abandoned and unwanted, as well as for juvenile offending boys, and it was larger than any other building Patrick had ever seen. In fact, the largest building he’d seen was the community hall back in the village.

It was overwhelming. The maze of corridors weaved along, forking off into other identical corridors, which were lined with black bolted doors and steel-barred windows. There were locks and chains almost everywhere he looked. Paintings of priests looking fearsome and merciless hung from the dull mint green walls and oversized crosses were strewn everywhere.

Once outside in the large courtyard, the cold and rain hit Patrick, whipping into his face as he was marched across the parade ground. He saw a crowd of milling boys huddled together, trying to defend themselves from the Irish weather.

The boys varied in sizes and age but were all dressed in the same grey hessian trousers and shirts; misery was engrained in their dirty, strained faces. As he hurried to what he’d find out later was the punishment wing, the other thing he noticed were the haircuts. They were short and crudely cut, with not one of the boys having their hair longer than half a centimetre in length. Absent-mindedly, Patrick touched his own thick head of hair. A sense of foreboding rushing into him.

‘Hey, Culchie! What’s the craic with those manky clothes you’re wearing? Fallen out of the donation box, have we?’ The call was from a boy who stood at the far side of the parade ground. His expression challenged Patrick. ‘New boy. Oi! I’m talking to you!’

As Patrick turned to look at the boy, the rest of the gang he was standing with began to laugh; pointing and staring at Patrick as if he were a clown in the circus.

Patrick’s natural fighting instincts suddenly took over and without thinking, he responded. ‘For sure, the only manky thing I see is your fecking face.’ The moment Patrick had spoken, he regretted it. The two priests, who he had forgotten for a moment, swirled round. Their faces full of fury.

The punch to the side of Patrick’s head floored him. He could feel the icy ground underneath as his hands scraped in the wet gravel in an attempt to get back on his feet. He was aware of the catcalling from the boys and the seemingly distant, angry voices of the priests; admonishing him. A moment later, Patrick Doyle blacked out.

‘To be sure, he thinks he’s Sleeping Beauty.’

Patrick’s eyes slowly opened and for one glorious moment he thought he was back at his house, curled up in his own bed. But as the ice-cold cup of water hit Patrick, along with the sound of laughter, the stark reality of his surroundings came flooding back.

‘He’s awake! He’s awake, Father Marley!’ Patrick heard one of the boys shouting out in delight.

‘Quiet, boy! Unless of course you want me to beat out the excitement of the devil in you!’

As Patrick lay on the bottom of the metal bunk bed, the priest’s portly face came into view, looming and peering over, silently studying him.

A minute later, satisfied with the examination, the priest mused, ‘You look fine, boy. I hope you’re not a child who uses ill-health to justify slothliness. It is, as you know, a deadly sin … or perhaps you don’t. I was informed you come from a family of heathens. Those who have turned their back on Christ our saviour.’ Then to himself, the priest said, ‘Very sad. Very sad.’

After a moment of reflection by the priest had passed, he continued speaking to Patrick.

‘Perhaps if this hadn’t been the case and your father had been God-fearing you wouldn’t have ended up here. Now get up, boy. There’s a lot to do. For a start, your hair needs cutting. We can’t live amongst vanity. Another deadly sin – almost as treacherous as the sins of the flesh; though you will, I know, understand a lot about that one.’

Patrick stared at the priest, puzzled by what he’d just said.

‘Another thing which shan’t be tolerated is touching yourself. That, boy, will not be stood for. A punishment fit for the sin will be deployed. Do you understand, Doyle?’

Patrick’s face turned scarlet. ‘Yes, Father!’ The priest nodded, and with that he walked away, leaving Patrick surrounded by the curious stares of the other boys.

The inquisitive glances were broken by a bellowing, angry voice from the back of the dorm. The boys stepped aside, parting the way for the aggressor to appear.

‘So this is the lad who thought he was good to taunt me. Let’s see how hard you are now.’

Patrick recognised him as the boy from the parade ground. He stood facing Patrick, sinewy in frame but clearly able to handle himself.

Patrick got up from the bed, immediately feeling a shooting pain in the place he’d been punched by the priest, but he didn’t let it show. He couldn’t. He mightn’t have ever been outside his own village before, and was admittedly ignorant in many ways of the world, but one thing Patrick Doyle did know was that to show weakness was to show you were inviting trouble.

Patrick glanced at the other boys; up close for the first time. They were all dressed in the same dull clothing with the same dull look in their eyes. How long they’d been here, Patrick didn’t know, but it was clear it was every boy for himself.

There was no question of backing down from the challenger. It was obvious to Patrick the boy was looking for a fight whether he wanted one or not. Sighing with resignation and hoping it wouldn’t come to blows, Patrick squared up.

‘If I remember rightly, I was minding me own. It was you who called me first. I’m not looking for a tear, but mind, I’ll not walk away from one either. It’s down to you.’

The boy looked at Patrick, weighing him up in his disdain. He turned his sneer into a contemptuous smile and as Patrick continued to stand his ground, he noticed there was a look of uncertainty in the boy’s green eyes.

‘Well, ’tis lucky for you I’m in a good mood, new boy, otherwise you may well have felt a bunch of knuckles down your throat.’

Patrick didn’t say anything. He could tell the boy was going to leave it, and that suited him. He didn’t need trouble, not with the boys and certainly not with the priests. All he wanted to do was get out of the place and go back home. The only thing he hadn’t worked out was how the hell he was going to do that.

As the boy turned to go, he barked a warning to Patrick. ‘But let me make it clear to you, new boy. It’s me that runs this dormitory and I’ll not have any country rat coming in to try to take over. They call me Killer, and to be sure, I’m not called it for nothing. You’d do well to remember that.’

Patrick stayed silent. He stared, watching Killer – who couldn’t have been any older than he was – walk across to his area of the dorm.

Patrick was about to sit back down but, for no apparent reason, Killer struck out at another boy who’d been minding his own business lying on his bed. The kick was hard and cruel, carrying the weight of Killer’s heavy boots and hatred behind it. From across the dorm, Patrick listened as Killer taunted the younger boy.

‘You grubby bleedin’ nigger, get out of me fecking sight. I can’t stand the sight of ye and the smell of ye is making me sick to my stomach.’

The boy scurried off his bunk bed, much to the amusement of Killer and his gang. Killer grabbed the boy by his shirt.

‘Knock into me, will you? What were you trying to do, nigger boy? Looking for a fight?’

The boy’s face was full of fear and his eyes darted about the room as Killer held him tightly. Patrick could see tears of terror rolling down his cheeks.

To the delight of the other boys, who cheered and bellowed and stamped their feet in encouragement, Killer’s fist smashed into the boy’s face, splitting open his lip.

The boy, his mouth covered in blood, began to talk, desperate to stop the unprovoked attack. He blubbed an apology to Killer, who stood with amusement on his face at the boy’s obvious terror. The boy trembled as he spoke.

‘Sorry, Killer … Sorry! I never meant to.’

‘You never meant to what? Be a nigger?’

The roars of laughter sounded around the dormitory and, egged on by the boys’ jeering, Killer slapped the small black boy around his face.

‘Leave him alone!’ It was Patrick who spoke. He walked up behind Killer, his fists clenched with anger.

‘I said leave him alone.’

Killer grabbed the boy around his neck, putting him in a headlock before turning round to look at the person who dared challenge him. He sneered. ‘I told you. I run this dorm; ’tis none of your business what I do to the nigger, but mark my words, you’ll be next.’

Undaunted by Killer’s threat, Patrick shouted. ‘Me name’s Patrick. Patrick Doyle, and I’ll tell you again; leave him alone.’

Killer looked around at the other boys who were all entertained by the confrontation. ‘And what are you going to do about it, new boy?’

‘I won’t have to do anything if you let him go. Pick on someone your own size, you bloody bollocks. Now leave him alone; otherwise ’tis you who’ll get it.’

Killer didn’t move. He grinned nastily and gripped the boy even harder so he squealed.

Patrick looked at the boy ensnared in the grip of this six-foot lanky boy. He saw the tears and the fear etched into his face.

‘Let him go, you bastard!’ Picking up a bible that lay on the small locker next to where he now stood, Patrick aimed and threw it with all his might, hitting Killer directly in the face.

The corner of the hardback bible caught Killer on his lip, squirting blood across and down his body. He yelled out, partly in surprise and partly in pain, cupping his hands over his mouth before unleashing his anger. His face was bright red and his eyes bulged as he screamed at Patrick.

‘Come here! Come back here!’

Killer dropped his grip on the boy, enabling the terrified child to wriggle free and scrabble to the safety of his bed. He then lunged at Patrick, taking a swing at his head. He missed; instead grabbing hold of Patrick’s top and causing it to rip.

Patrick allowed his natural gift for fighting and his survival instincts to take over. He turned and head-butted Killer, splitting open the boy’s forehead and causing a river of deep red blood to gush out.

Enraged, Killer swung at Patrick through searing pain to the soundtrack of cheering boys. His fist connected with Patrick’s nose with rifle-like precision.

The pain took under a second to hit him, but instead of it hampering his efforts it drove Patrick on. His eyes widened and his fists beat as he jumped on Killer, battering him in a blind rage.

The two boys’ blood and sweat combined together. Grappling arms, kicks and bites were all poured into the mix as they rolled on the floor, both determined to be the victor.

On the ground now, Patrick felt his sides being booted by the circle of other boys. He knew he had to get up if he were to stand a chance. With one huge effort and summoning the last of his strength, Patrick ground his elbow into Killer’s face, damaging his already broken nose.

With Killer swathed in agony, it allowed Patrick to get up from the concrete floor. He leant over him and began to finish off the fight. He gave a final kick to his opponent, making it clear he was the winner.

Panting and exhausted, blood running into his mouth, Patrick now pointed at the other boys. He stood firm in front of the petrified young black boy as he spoke.

‘This is to all of you. So listen carefully at what I’m saying. You leave him alone, do ye hear me? Any of you come near him again. Anyone. I’ll kill you, make no mistake.’

Patrick held the gazes of the other lads before turning round to look at the boy. He winked and got a grateful smile in return. The boy looked shyly at Patrick. He spoke quietly with a slight lisp. ‘My name’s Cabhan, but everyone calls me Cab.’

Patrick winced in pain as he wiped the running blood from his face. Putting out his hand he said, ‘Well, Cab, it’s good to meet you. My name’s Patrick.’

The boy grinned, relief and gratitude coming out in the form of tears. ‘Not as good as it is to meet you, Patrick. For sure, I’ll never forget what you’ve done. Not for the rest of me life.’

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