Avenged. Jacqui Rose
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forward as Donal walked back to the far end of the room before he took a run up to strike Connor hard in the stomach with the chain he held in his hand.
Seeing that there was no reaction or even a flinch, Donal dropped the heavy chain back into his bag. He wiped his brow, taking the sweat which ran down the bridge of his nose onto his sleeve. It didn’t take a doctor to tell him Connor would be lucky if he made it through the night.
Putting back on the shirt he hadn’t wanted to get dirty, Donal winked at Connor’s wife who was sitting wide eyed and frozen with fear in the corner of the cosy tiled kitchen.
‘I must say, Mrs Brogan; you’ve certainly got a nice place here … What’s that you say? … No, I still can’t hear ye.’ Donal stood with his hands on his hips, bursting out into raucous laughter. ‘Oh, don’t look like that. I’m only playing. I ask you, what’s a man got if he hasn’t got his sense of humour?’
Donal roughly pulled away Mrs Brogan’s gag. She immediately began to scream.
‘God forgive you, Donal O’Sheyenne. You’ll be sorry for this; don’t think you can get away with it. I’ll make sure they lock you away. If anything happens to …’ The hard slap across her face stopped her saying any more.
Donal grinned at Patrick, who was standing terrified in the corner.
‘So, what have you got to say now, Paddy; still not keen on working for me?’
Turning his attention to the crying baby in the corner, Donal bent over to look at the child. ‘Now then, what’s the craic, young man? You’ll wake the dead with that yelling.’ Picking up the infant he was met by Mrs Brogan letting out a tirade of panic and terror.
‘Take your hands off him! … You hear me, O’Sheyenne! You leave him be. Or … or …’
Almost throwing the baby into Patrick’s arms, Donal swivelled round to face the woman. His face thunderous. ‘Or what? What are you going to do?’
Tears flowed down her face. ‘Just leave him … Please.’
‘Leave him? I think I’ll be taking him, don’t you?’
Hysterical now, Mrs Brogan cried out, causing the baby to scream louder. ‘No … No you can’t! He’s my baby, O’Sheyenne.’
O’Sheyenne smirked. ‘Whose baby?’
‘Mine … he’s mine.’
O’Sheyenne pulled up a chair next to Mrs Brogan as he lit a cigar. ‘That might have been the case at one time, but the thing is, Mrs Brogan, you didn’t keep up the repayments; even after the first warning I gave you, and now look where we are.’
Clancy Brogan’s eyes flashed with angry desperation. ‘We paid you everything you asked us to. We gave you everything we had, O’Sheyenne; when we picked him up from the convent you told us it would only be three payments. Three. You lied to us.’
O’Sheyenne nodded. ‘So I did, Mrs Brogan. So I did.’
Talking through her tears, Clancy continued. ‘How did you expect us to keep paying you every week? We’re just an ordinary couple; you know that, O’Sheyenne. We could hardly put food on the table over the winter, let alone keep up with your demands.’
Looking bored, O’Sheyenne studied his nails. ‘Me heart bleeds for you, so it does. But the way I see it is; how much do you want this child?’
‘You know we want him. No-one could love him more than we do.’
‘Then you should’ve thought of that before you threatened to go to the Gardaí.’
‘We wouldn’t have done it; it was … it was just my husband’s way of trying to make you stop … Wasn’t it enough for you we gave the baby a good home?’
‘There was many a couple who wanted him, Mrs Brogan; who would’ve paid a higher price, but as Connor was a childhood friend of mine me sentimental side got the better of me; I put you at the top of the list. And look at the thanks I get.’
‘I’ll find the money. I will, just …’
Mrs Brogan’s voice trailed off as Donal O’Sheyenne put one hand over her mouth, placing the other on her leg. He pushed up her paisley blue dress; his fingers moving along her thigh, twisting inwards; pressing into her pale flesh.
Glancing at Patrick, he gestured with his head. ‘Go on, get out of here.’
Patrick didn’t move. Although he was terrified, he wanted to stay and help Mrs Brogan, though he wasn’t quite sure how.
‘I said, go!’
Patrick still didn’t move – that was, until he heard the warm voice of Mrs Brogan, talking to him softly through her tears. ‘Off you go, son. You need to get out of here.’
‘But …’
There was a deathly fear in her voice, but Clancy Brogan gave Patrick a small smile. ‘I’ll be fine … This is no place for ye.’
With tears in his eyes, Patrick put the baby back in the cot. A moment later he began to run.
Donal grinned, feeling Mrs Brogan’s legs trying to close together. He jammed his knee between them, pinching her inner thigh. ‘Don’t play hard to get. I can feel you want it.’
Panic-stricken, Mrs Brogan screamed. ‘Get off me, you bastard! … Get off me!’
Donal ignored her cries; keeping her legs open he rammed his fingers up into her crotch, enjoying the touch and smell of her as she screamed with newfound terror.
Ten minutes later, Donal zipped up his trousers. ‘Can I trust you not to say anything, Mrs Brogan?’
Mrs Brogan stared at him in contempt. She whispered hoarsely. ‘You can do nothing of the sort, O’Sheyenne. I’ll not be silenced by fear.’
Donal nodded his head. ‘That’s what I thought and that’s why you give me no option.’ Bizarrely, Donal’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Now would you just look at that, Mrs Brogan? Tears.’
Kneeling down, Donal faced her. He glanced sidelong at the lifeless body of Connor.
‘To be sure, your husband was a good man and it’d be a lie to say I won’t miss him, but I can’t have people talk me business. A man could get into trouble for that. You do understand, don’t ye?’ Donal paused deep in thought, before smiling manically.
His eye lids narrowed, eclipsing and casting a dark shadow into his green eyes. ‘It’s a shame you won’t keep your mouth shut but no matter – there are other things that silence a person apart from fear.’
With a sudden movement, Donal leapt forward, grabbing Mrs Brogan by her throat. With no time to react, she was instantly overpowered by Donal’s strength as his hands gripped tightly round her neck. Frantically her hands scratched at his, desperate for some relief from Donal’s tightening grip.
With her eyes bulging, Donal, not once taking his stare away from hers, watched Mrs Brogan’s eyes turn from white to bright crimson.
Feeling the life drain away, Donal released his grip and unceremoniously let go of her body, allowing it to drop to the tiled floor.
Putting on his hat, he walked over to the cot. He wrapped his wet coat round the baby before carrying it out into the storm-filled night.
The battering rain that soaked into Patrick Doyle’s brown coat as he ran along the uneven road made no difference to him. Neither did the charges of lightning that illuminated and struck the tops of the swaying sycamore trees; all he wanted was to get as far away from the Brogans’ house as possible.
Wrapping