Avenged. Jacqui Rose
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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.’
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.’
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,