Jacqui Rose - Avenged

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.

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.