Avenged

‘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.