Kitabı oku: «Avenged», sayfa 3
5
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. Which he supposed might be a good thing. He wasn’t sure what O’Sheyenne was going to do but, whatever it was, there were bound to be more repercussions.
‘Father?’
The unexpected voice cut through the dark, startling Father Ryan to his feet. ‘Saints preserve us. Have you never heard of knocking, Helen?’
‘I’m sorry, Father.’
‘Well, what is it?’
Father Ryan’s housekeeper, Helen Flanagan, stood in the room, her round face glowing with ruddy excitement as she embroiled herself in an air of gossip and melodrama. Her voice was loud and chirpy.
‘What a terrible night, Father; my blood’s running cold to think we have a murderer in our midst. I was talking to him only last week when I was buying a quarter of tobacco for Fergus; to think it could’ve been me lying dead and not poor Mrs Brogan.’
Exasperated and sorely irritated by Helen’s love of the dramatic, Father Ryan spoke impatiently. ‘And why would Thomas do that, why would he decide to kill you?’’
Helen glanced around, whispering as if there was someone other than herself and Father Ryan in the room. ‘Why does a mad man do anything, Father?’
‘For goodness sake, Helen; Thomas Doyle is not a mad man, he’s a drunken scoundrel. Not everything is as it seems.’
Helen Flanagan was clearly having none of it. ‘That’s as may be, Father, but I won’t sleep well tonight knowing he’s at large, thinking we could be murdered in our beds at any time. Look what he did to my poor cousin, Evelyn; threw her clean down the stairs, so he did.’
Father Ryan’s face clouded over. ‘We don’t know that’s what happened to her, Helen; rumour and gossip are dangerous things.’
Ignoring what the priest was saying, Helen leant further in to speak. ‘Now tell me, Father, is it true that Tommy Doyle chopped off the Brogans’ heads and hung them from the rafters like hocks of ham? Mrs Rafferty told me she saw it with her own eyes.’
That was it. It was all too much for Father Ryan. He raised his voice, shocking Helen enough to cause her to throw herself down in the armchair; holding her chest in a dramatic fashion.
‘Enough of this nonsense! I expect this kind of talk from Mrs Rafferty, but you of all people should know better.’
Helen Flanagan lowered her eyes, feeling slightly ashamed of herself. Then, remembering the reason she’d actually come, a smile spread across her face. ‘To be certain, Father, you probably haven’t eaten, so I thought I’d bring you some of me homemade scones. If truth be told, I actually made them for Mrs Brogan but she’ll no longer need them where she’s gone. I said to Fergus …’
Father Ryan held up his hand, unable to hear any more of Helen’s idle chatter. ‘Thank you, Helen, I’m sure I’ll enjoy them with a cup of tea. Just leave them on the table.’
Busying herself, Helen got up. ‘I’ll put the kettle on then, I fancy a brew myself.’
‘No!’ Father Ryan shouted, rather too quickly, as he pulled a face. He could almost taste her insipid tea and its ever-present thick skin of milk. Quite how anybody could turn what was supposed to be a relaxing, refreshing beverage into what could only be described as a depressingly lukewarm, tasteless drink each and every time, he didn’t know.
Helen looked at him in shocked silence. Quickly Father Ryan tried to appease her. ‘What I meant to say is: no thank you, Helen, I’m rather tired and I think we should all get some rest.’
With Helen gone, Father Ryan sat down again, but it was no good – he wasn’t going to get any sleep now. There were too many things to think about. He sighed and stood up. Putting on his long black cloak over his cassock, Father Ryan headed back into the night.
‘Me da? Are you sure?’ Patrick looked puzzled.
‘What do you take me for, Paddy? Of course I’m sure.’ Mary O’Flanagan shook her head, exasperated. ‘Come on, we haven’t much time.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Well I do. Come on!’
Patrick Doyle hesitated, concern etched all over his handsome face. ‘I …’
‘Don’t you trust me? Is that it?’
He looked hurt at the suggestion. ‘Don’t say that, Mary. You’re my girl, but I need to go and speak to Father Ryan and tell him what I know.’
Mary’s voice softened. ‘Look, just come and see him. He needs to talk to you. I know it wasn’t him; I just know it.’
‘That means a lot to me, Mary … I know who did it.’
Mary’s eyes were wide open. ‘How?’
Patrick didn’t answer. He stared at Mary; he was so grateful to see her. He’d been running about the Kerry countryside looking desperately for his dad; terrified for him and wanting to speak to him to tell him about O’Sheyenne. His dad must have had word they were looking for him, and he’d be hiding. Patrick had watched in despair as he’d heard the sounds of the other villagers searching for his father, hungry, like a pack of wolves hunting for their prey.
After hours of futile searching he’d come home, wiping away the tears he’d never show anyone, and in the abandonment of hope and filled with desperation, he’d done what he’d never done before: he’d prayed. Prayed his dad would come home. Prayed it was all just a rotten dream; so that when someone had knocked at the door, hard and relentless, he’d run to it, assuming his prayers had been answered. But instead of his dad it was Mary O’Flanagan who’d been standing shivering on his doorstep; wet right through, telling him she knew where his father was.
And now, as he stood by the front door, it struck him that his prayers had been answered in a way – in the form of Mary. His Mary. She’d come to tell him where his dad was, reassuring him everything would be all right.
The gentle touch on Patrick’s arm interrupted his thoughts. ‘Hey, Paddy … It’ll be okay.’
He nodded. ‘Mary, can I tell you something? But you have to promise you won’t tell a soul …’
‘Yes; I promise. Go on.’
‘When you and Father Ryan left …’
He stopped, suddenly realising it might be dangerous for Mary to know what really happened with Donal O’Sheyenne and what he’d seen and heard. He shook his head. ‘It doesn’t matter; it can wait. Come on.’
‘No, go on, Patrick; what were you going to say?’
‘Not now.’
There was a slight hurt in Mary’s voice. ‘I thought we didn’t have any secrets from each other?’
‘We don’t, and that’s why I’m going to tell you later.’
‘Honestly?’
Patrick nodded. ‘Honestly.’
Following Mary out into the rain-filled night, Patrick felt a sense of foreboding.
The woods that led to the back field were dark and treacherous and, for the fourth time in the space of less than five minutes, Patrick cursed loudly as he tripped over the unseen bracken which hooked and trailed round his legs, sending him headlong into the wet earth.
‘I’m glad to see you find this funny, Mary O’Flanagan.’
‘Do you see me laughing, Paddy?’
‘No, but I can hear ye.’
Mary sniggered to herself. Although she was worried about Patrick, she still couldn’t help enjoying this time she was spending with him. She was sixteen and even though her parents would go mad, she’d made up her mind she was going to say yes to Patrick the next time he asked her to marry him.
They wouldn’t get married straight away; she’d wait for him to make his fortune, as he always said he would. Perhaps they’d even go on a honeymoon, then afterwards get a little cottage in the same street as her mum and dad. And after that? Well, they’d make babies. Lots of them.
At the last thought, Mary found herself blushing. She wasn’t sure why. There was nothing sinful about love; that much she did know, and although Patrick and his father didn’t go to church, they were still good people. She wasn’t certain 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.
6
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 dutifully jumped into action, getting up from the floor and momentarily putting her anguish to one side. She wiped away her tears. ‘Of course, Father; forgive me. I’ll make you one straight away.’
Father Ryan gave a tight smile, wiping the palm of his hand on his black cassock as he looked at the O’Flanagans. He was pleased they’d come to him instead of calling the doctor or the Gardaí. It made things easier. He was in charge of the parish, responsible for the emotional and spiritual wellbeing of his flock, as well as for saving their souls from sin and temptation. Therefore it was up to him to decide what was going to happen.
‘Right, I’ll go and talk to her. I’d appreciate it if I wasn’t disturbed.’
Helen looked concerned. Her eyes darted from Father Ryan to her husband. Her apprehension at questioning the priest was apparent. ‘Er … don’t … don’t you think it would be best if I came in? Perhaps she’d find it easier to talk if I was there.’
Annoyed at being doubted, Father Ryan scowled momentarily, but his face softened along with his voice. ‘Nonsense, Helen. Mary will speak to me and if she needs to confess anything, she’ll do it without your presence. I can’t see how it will help you fussing around her. Now, I’d really like my tea before I go up. I really am parched.’
Turning briskly, Father Ryan walked out of the parlour and found his way up the wooden stairs.
Tommy Doyle stretched awake, feeling a bolt of pain shoot through his back. He groaned audibly, remembering where he was and why he was there. He hadn’t meant to sleep but he must have dozed off in the early hours and now, although the rain was still beating down, bringing gloom to the skies, he could tell by the light that it was late morning.
Tommy stood up shivering, feeling the damp of his clothes chilling his flesh. Looking around the shed, he knew he needed to get out of where he was. Perhaps make his way across to Castlecove. He had friends there and it’d be easier to get to the mainland if he had a place to hide out for a while.
Reaching into his pocket for his packet of tobacco, Tommy frowned, hearing something. It was the sound of dogs barking. And the more he listened, the more he realised they were coming nearer. Soon they’d be here.
Grabbing his coat, Tommy dashed out of the shed. He ran, slipping on the wet grass as he went. The dogs were getting closer. The only way out was to go down by Lincoln’s farm and along by the river.
Beginning to run across the open field, he heard his name being called.
‘Tommy Doyle, stay where you are!’
There was no way he was going to stop. Picking up his pace, Tommy headed for the far side of the field.
‘Tommy Doyle!’
He raced across the field, trying to keep his balance on the slippery earth. Out of breath, he got to the fence and began to climb, but only a moment later an agonising pain struck him, sending shooting pains through his body. He fell back to the ground with the growling of the dogs tearing into his leg being drowned out by his screams.
‘Get them off me! For feck’s sake get them off me!’
As blood poured from his torn flesh, Tommy heard the sound of men running towards him and giving orders to the dogs to let go. But the absence of the dogs’ teeth ripping into him didn’t free Tommy of the excruciating pain. He held onto his leg, rolling round in the mud crying out. His voice weak and barely audible. ‘Help me! … Help.’
‘There’s no help where you’ll be going, Doyle.’
The men began hauling him up off the ground just as Tommy Doyle blacked out.
7
Father Ryan stood in the middle of Mary O’Flanagan’s room with a cold cup of tea in his hand. It’d never been hot. It was brought up lukewarm and now there wasn’t even a chance of taking a sip as the thick layer of skin from the milk floated unappetisingly on the surface.
It crossed Father Ryan’s mind that Helen’s housekeeping skills were just as dire as her tea-making and her cooking; perhaps after all this business had been sorted out, it would be time to give the woman her marching orders. He’d only ever hired her as a gesture of goodwill, but that had certainly gone on for far too long.
A big snivel brought Father Ryan back to the present. He looked at Mary who was sitting on the bed shaking, eyes red and swollen from crying.
‘Now then, Mary, I want to know everything. Everything you can tell me. Everything you can remember.’
Mary huddled further down under her overly starched bed sheets, unable to look directly at the priest. Ashamed. Hurt and confused, she curled up in the foetal position, inconsolable and wanting to speak to her mother, wondering why she hadn’t come up.
The cold air from the covers being turned back gave Mary a fright, prompting her to sit up. Suddenly aware that the lower part of her body had been exposed by her nightdress riding up, she quickly tugged down the flannelette garment over her knees.
Hugging herself, she stared at Father Ryan, uncomfortable with his hostile gaze and speech.
‘What sinful acts have you been party to, Mary O’Flanagan?’
Terrified, Mary edged back into the hard metal bed frame as Father Ryan sat down next to her.
‘None, Father.’
‘I’ll ask you again. What sins of the flesh have you partaken in?’
‘None. I swear. On the holy bible, I swear.’
‘Then you need to tell me what happened, otherwise I have no alternative but to think you played some part in this.’
Mary paused and gazed down at her hands. She could see the mud from the woods still under her fingernails, and under her middle fingernail was a slight trace of dried blood.
‘Well?’ Father Ryan’s voice interrupted her thoughts. She looked at his face and saw no kindness.
‘I can’t remember, Father.’
‘Rubbish. Have you forgotten that I am a servant of God, and, that being so, your lies are direct lies to our good Lord?’
Mary buried her head in her hands as tears dripped through her fingers. ‘I swear I can’t remember … please, please can you get my ma?’
‘Your mother wisely wants me to sort this out before she talks to you. She’s worried that perhaps in some way you … how shall I put this, Mary? … You invited this.’
Mary shook her head furiously. ‘No! No! It wasn’t like that.’
‘Then, if it wasn’t, tell me what it was like; otherwise, as I said before, I can only assume the worst.’
With no choice and taking a deep breath, Mary tried to overcome her shame. ‘I was in the woods.’
Father Ryan looked shocked. ‘The woods!’
‘Yes, I was with Patrick, but he saw someone. Patrick told me to stay where I was but I got frightened and followed him. And then, when I was waiting there, I …’
‘Go on.’
‘I got up, thinking I should go back because I couldn’t see Patrick any more and, as I did, I felt someone grab me and push me back down from behind. They put their hand over my mouth and …’ Mary stopped and threw herself back onto the bed, racked with sobs and self-hatred.
Father Ryan’s voice was steady. ‘Mary, continue.’
‘I can’t. I’m ashamed, Father.’
‘Of what?’
‘Of where he touched me. Of what he did.’
‘And where did he touch you?’
Mary blushed, her pale face turning scarlet as the memories and the pain rushed through her body. She wished her mother had come to sit with her. Then it suddenly dawned on her why she hadn’t. Her mother was ashamed. And Mary didn’t blame her.
‘Mary?’ Father Ryan’s voice cut through the silence.
‘I’m sorry, Father. He … he touched me all over, and then he put his thing inside me. It hurt. I cried out but no-one came.’
Father Ryan exuded venom as he sat next to Mary. ‘And why didn’t you try to stop it, Mary? Or perhaps you liked it?’
Fervently, Mary shook her head. ‘No, Father. No!’
More to himself than to Mary, Father Ryan spoke. ‘And you never saw his face.’ It was a statement rather than a question but Mary answered anyway.
‘No. Nothing. I didn’t see anything. It was so dark, and I know this sounds silly, Father, but I closed my eyes. I didn’t want to see. I just didn’t.’
For a few moments Father Ryan sat in silence mulling over his thoughts. He gazed up at the ceiling, catching sight of a tiny spider making its way across the length of the old wooden beam. With a renewed intensity, he chose his words carefully.
‘Mary. Can you recall what time this was?’
‘No, Father.’
‘And you say you never saw the person’s face who did this to you?’
‘No, Father.’
Again, Father Ryan fell into a brooding silence. The minutes passed and twice Mary found herself peering at the priest, checking to see he hadn’t fallen asleep. Eventually he spoke.
‘I myself saw Patrick in the woods last night; hiding and skulking as if he were running away from something. And when I asked him what he was doing, he couldn’t tell me. I thought it most strange at the time, but now it’s beginning to make sense.’
Mary looked puzzled. ‘What do you mean?’
Father Ryan sighed loudly, irritated by the baffled expression on Mary’s face. ‘What I’m saying is that Patrick Doyle, cunning as he is, made you think you were there on your own. He wanted you to believe that.’
‘But why, Father? I’m not following you.’
‘Is there anything between those ears of yours, Mary?’ Father Ryan snapped, berating Mary as he often did. ‘This is how you ended up in such a sorry state.’
Mary bowed her head, biting back the tears, making Father Ryan soften slightly.
‘I think it was Patrick. I think Patrick was the one who attacked you.’
Mary scrambled off the bed and began to scream. Loud and vociferous. Her piercing cry reverberated through the house, bringing Mr and Mrs O’Flanagan flying up the stairs; bundling themselves through Mary’s bedroom door with terror on their faces.
‘Get out! … Get out!’ Father Ryan bellowed at them. He stood up, pointing to the door without bothering to turn his head to look at Helen or Fergus, who both quickly and timidly backed away, out of the room.
With the same thunderous tone, Father Ryan boomed at Mary, ‘Mary O’Flanagan, cease that noise. This is a time for being calm and rational, child.’
Mary held onto the end of the bed, hyperventilating as the realisation of what the priest was saying sunk in. ‘I can’t … I can’t …’
With speed under his feet, Father Ryan dashed across to where Mary stood and with a raise of his hand he slapped her hard across her cheek, welting a red mark. Immediately her hysterics dropped into a deep painful sob.
Smoothing down his cassock as he sat down, he murmured to himself. ‘I’m sorry to have to do that, but nobody needs to hear such noise and it certainly won’t help things … That’s better. Now Mary, let’s try again.’
Through her sobs, Mary gasped. ‘It’s impossible, Father. Patrick wouldn’t do anything like that. He wouldn’t. He loves me.’
‘Nonsense, child.’
‘He does! He does! Look what he gave me.’ Mary went to her chest of drawers and brought out a tissue. She unwrapped it carefully to reveal the twelve dried and pressed yellow petals Patrick had given her. Mary spoke triumphantly. ‘See.’
Father Ryan’s face twisted into scorn at the sight of a handful of shrivelled petals. He could hardly believe his eyes.
‘What in the name of God are you showing me, Mary O’Flanagan?’
‘A petal for his love for every month of the year.’
‘Ye God’s Satan has addled your mind,’ Father Ryan hollered. ‘He no more loves you than Lucifer loves the cross.’ Father Ryan paused, composing himself. ‘I don’t like to shout, but this is a serious matter and difficult for all of us; truths need to be told, so you have to stop thinking he loved you.’
‘I swear he does. We were even going to get married.’
‘Mary, you have a lot to learn. We’re all just flesh and blood, and what keeps us from sin and temptation is our following in Christ our saviour.’
‘No, you’re wrong. There’s no way Patrick would do this, you don’t know him like I do.’ In her torment, Mary couldn’t contain herself; she blurted out the words, for once unafraid of the priest. ‘And how would you know, anyway? What do you know about love? You’ve never loved anyone in your life.’
Father Ryan became rigid, blinking a couple of times and then, to Mary’s surprise, he smiled sadly. ‘That’s where you’re wrong, Mary. I know very well how it feels to be in love. How it is to think about a person the very moment you wake up and the very last thing at night. To be afraid of the life you had before them and the life you’d have without them. For the rays of the sun to feel warmer when they’re next to you.’
Mary looked amazed. ‘Who was she, Father?’
‘Someone I used to know a long time ago.’
‘And why didn’t you marry her?’
There was a forlornness in the way Father Ryan answered. ‘Our paths went different ways; we didn’t want the same things.’
‘What was her name?’
‘I’ve said too much already.’
Mary thought for a moment. ‘Then surely you must be able to see that Patrick loves me.’
Father Ryan’s face tightened again. He sighed. ‘You’re not thinking straight. It’s not love, Mary; it’s lust.’
Mary put down her head before blushing, something that didn’t go unnoticed by Father Ryan. ‘What is it, child?’
Mary spoke very slowly, biting on her lip. ‘He did … He did kiss me once.’
‘Mary O’Flanagan, I warned you about this. I thought you were God-fearing.’
‘I am, Father. I am.’
‘Then why didn’t I know about this before? Why didn’t I hear it at your confession?’
Mary shrugged her shoulders, too fearful to admit she’d cycled to the next village to make her confession.
‘This proves it, Mary. First you don’t see the person’s face. Then I see Patrick lurking suspiciously in the woods unable to tell me why and then …’ Matthew Ryan stopped, closing his eyes and shaking his head.
‘And then what, Father?’
‘And then that kiss. Don’t you see, there seems to be no question; Patrick Doyle raped you.’
Mary’s hands shot over her mouth, partly to stop another scream and partly to stop herself from vomiting.
It didn’t make sense, what Father Ryan 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 …
