Avenged. Jacqui Rose
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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.
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