Читать книгу Avenged - Jacqui Rose - Страница 11

Mary O’Flanagan sat on her bed in the darkness and shivered. She was soaking wet and there was no way she was going to be able to get herself warm. There’d been a power cut. Nothing unusual there; it was a regular occurrence in the village, but tonight the difference was that she was alone.

There was no way she’d be able to start the parlour fire without her da. Besides, the logs in the yard were probably soaking wet, which meant she’d have to get the wood from the shed in the back field on her own; and one thing Mary O’Flanagan hated was the dark.

Her parents had gone out; taking it upon themselves to join the search party for Patrick’s father. She wasn’t quite sure what good they’d do. Her own father was a tiny, timid man and if he were to come across the formidable Tommy Doyle hiding out, she was certain he’d bag himself. Not unkindly, Mary laughed out loud at the image in her head.

Thinking about Tommy Doyle made Mary wonder about Patrick. She hoped he was all right. She hadn’t been able to talk to him but he’d looked as handsome as he ever did when he’d stood soaking wet in the church that evening.

She and Patrick had been friends as far back as she could remember; much to her parents’ dismay. And a few months ago he’d made her swear she’d marry him once he’d made his fortune.

‘Patrick Doyle, I’m a good Catholic girl and good Catholic girls don’t swear. Perhaps if you came to church more often you’d know that.’

‘Don’t be acting the maggot with me, Mary O’Flanagan. The Dublin chancers would blush to hear the mouth on ye.’

She’d pushed him gently. ‘Feck off, Paddy!’

‘Ah, you see. How can I make ye me wife, Mary, if you’ve a tongue which would eat the head off a viper?’

‘I never said I’d be your wife, Patrick Doyle, and you’re no more likely to make your fortune than poor Bridget Henley with those rotten apples she sells.’

‘Well, that’s a fine thing to say to a man, Mary O’Flanagan!’

She’d scoffed, but the kindness had shone through her eyes. ‘A man, Paddy? You’re nothing more than a boy.’

‘I’m sixteen, Mary, and I can hold me own.’

She’d fallen silent before saying, ‘And if I were to marry you, Patrick. What would we name our first child?’

Patrick had pondered on the question. ‘I take it, it’ll be a boy.’

Indignantly, she’d replied. ‘It’ll be no such thing. It’ll be a girl and I shall call her Franny.’

Patrick had burst out laughing. ‘Franny? And what sort of name is that?’

‘Francesca. Franny for short. And for your information, it’s a good Catholic name, Patrick Doyle – but that’s something you’ll know nothing about either.’

‘Well, I won’t allow it! Franny. Have you ever heard the like?’

She’d pulled a face but she’d had a twinkle in her eye. ‘And have you ever heard what a pig you are, Patrick Doyle? And, to be sure, I certainly won’t be marrying you now.’

‘Then I’ll just have to marry old Bridget Henley.’

‘You’ll do no such thing … and to think I had a present for ye. I shan’t give it ye now.’

Patrick’s face had lit up. ‘For me? You remembered me birthday?’

She’d spoken haughtily. ‘I did indeed. Not that you deserve anything, not now you’re going to marry Bridget Henley.’

‘Oh Mary, you know you’re the only girl for me. And I reckon if I kissed poor Bridget her false teeth might fall out.’

She’d grinned at the thought and then taken a tiny box out of her coat pocket and handed it to Patrick.

He’d opened the box with delight on his face. In it was a silver chain with a tiny cross on it.

‘Do you like it?’ she’d asked eagerly. ‘I saved up all year.’

His eyes had glistened with tears. ‘I love it, Mary. Like I love you. I should give you something.’ Patrick had looked around, then seeing an early bloom of gorse, the bright yellow pea-flower which in the spring months seemed to light up the landscape of Kerry, ran to pick some.

She’d shouted. ‘Patrick, you’ll tear your hands on the prickles—’

‘Then tear them I will. I have to give my girl a blossom.’

After five minutes of Mary giggling and Patrick struggling with the stems of sharp tiny spikes, he’d conceded defeat and returned with just a dozen yellow gorse petals.

‘When we’re married, Mary, I’ll fill our house with flowers, but for now here’s a petal for every month of the year. Every month that I love you.’

She’d taken the petals and smiled sweetly. ‘Well, to be sure, it’s true to say in me life I’ve never wanted a whole bunch of flowers. Why would I want that when the real beauty is in the petals?’

Patrick had winked at her, grateful for her kind nature.

‘You know what they say around here, Mary? When gorse is out of blossom, kissing’s out of fashion; so it looks like we’re in luck.’

They’d laughed as they always did, pushing and shoving each other in jest, then Patrick had caught hold of her and leant in for a kiss.

Sitting on the bed, Mary jolted herself out of her memories; not wanting them to go any further because she certainly didn’t want to have to confess them to Father Ryan on Sunday.

On the day Patrick had kissed her, she’d cycled all the way to the church at Kenmere – almost twenty miles away – to make her confession. Even though the hard seat on her bike had rubbed and caused painful blisters on her inner thighs, it’d still been better than having to confess to Father Ryan.

She certainly wasn’t keen on making the long trip again and she certainly wasn’t going to make a confession here, at St Peter’s, so the easiest thing was to have no more thoughts of Patrick, especially in the direction they were beginning to head.

About to take a deep sigh, Mary suddenly held her breath. She heard the creak of the wooden stairs. There it was again. It wasn’t her parents; they always yelled a cheery hello as they entered through the side door. The creak sounded again, only this time louder.

Mary’s mouth began to dry as her heart pounded. Almost immediately her eyes filled with tears as her whole body began to shake, terror gripping her.

As the howl of the wind swirled through the trees, and the rain struck against the arched window, Mary heard footsteps coming along the landing. Petrified, she opened her mouth to cry out. Then she heard her name.

‘Mary? Mary?’

Cautiously, Mary got up; tentatively crossing to the other side of the room.

‘Mary?’ The voice, just outside, was gentle and hushed.

‘Patrick? Patrick? Is that you?’ She reached for her bedroom door, opening it quickly, but she suddenly let out a scream. A large hand pressed against her face and a small beam of torchlight hit her eyes.

‘Mary, for the love of God, I’m not going to hurt you. I promise. Just don’t scream.’

The hand was lowered from her mouth and Mary stood staring into the face of Tommy Doyle. She stepped backwards, reaching out for the wall behind her.

‘What … what are you doing here?’ Mary tried not to show her fear but she could hear it in her voice. ‘You do know the Gardaí are out looking for ye?’

‘Ah Jaysus, Mary. Don’t look so frightened. I never meant to give you a fright. Patrick would have me guts if he thought I’d scared ye.’

Seeing her fear, Tommy spoke again. ‘I never did it love. I swear.’

‘Then why don’t you tell them that?’

Tommy shook his head. ‘When I heard they were looking for me, I knew I’d never stand a chance. Who’s going to believe me? I know what they all think of the likes of me.’ There was a long pause as Tommy stared pleadingly at Mary. Tears brimmed in his eyes. His voice was soft as he spoke. ‘Connor was my friend; there’s no way I would hurt him, or Clancy for that matter. For all her nagging ways she was a good woman.’

Even though Mary could smell the alcohol on Tommy as he spoke, she began to feel more at ease. She smiled. ‘I know, Mr Doyle. She was a lovely woman; fierce kind to me.’

‘Call me Tommy.’

Mary bristled, yet again feeling uncomfortable. It didn’t feel right to call an adult by his first name. Then, as if he could read her mind, he spoke.

‘To be sure, if you prefer to call me Mr Doyle, I’m grand with that as well.’

In the distance, above the sound of the storm, voices and barking dogs were heard. Tommy turned in panic to Mary. His face was strained, his voice full of urgency.

‘You’ve got to help me.’

Mary turned her head towards the sound of the voices. They were coming closer and they were sure to be here in a few minutes. ‘I can’t … I …’

‘Please, Mary, I can’t think of anyone else. They won’t be suspicious of you.’

‘What about Patrick? He’d help you. I know he would.’

‘I can’t risk going back home; they’ll be bound to be waiting there and I’m not going to jail for something I didn’t do.’ Tommy’s eyes were wild with fear. ‘Please, you’ve got to help me!’

Just then, a voice came from downstairs. ‘Mary! We’re back. If I didn’t know better, I’d say this storm was the wrath of God. I’ve been a God-fearing man all me life and I’ve never …’

The voice became inaudible as a crack of thunder broke above the small house. Mary looked at Tommy.

‘That’s me da, Mr Doyle. Even if I wanted to help ye; it’s too late now. I’m sorry.’

‘Mary! Didn’t you hear me calling you from downstairs?’

‘No, Da.’

‘Well I was. We’ve come to check on you, to make sure you’re all right. You can’t be too careful with a man like that on the loose.’

Mary stood at the top of the stairs as she watched her da walking up the wooden stairs, followed by other villagers. Then, a moment later, trailing behind dressed in black, Mary saw the ominous figure of Father Ryan.

Father Ryan, her da, her mother, the Brogans, Tommy and his late wife, Evelyn … even Donal O’Sheyenne, who her father was too frightened to have anything to do with. All of them went right back to childhood. All school mates, playground pals; every single one of them.

They’d shared their childhood, their youth and eventually their adulthood together, yet the power and disdain Father 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.’