Avenged

‘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.