Читать книгу Avenged - Jacqui Rose - Страница 13

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.