Avenged

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.’