Avenged. Jacqui Rose
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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.’
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.