Jacqui Rose - Avenged

‘That looks nasty.’ With a grin, Donal squeezed his fingers hard into the bandaged legs. Tommy let out a scream.

‘I swear. I don’t know anything … I don’t …’

‘Save your breath, Tommy; I’m not here for a confession. I’ve got a proposition for you; it’ll be worth your while.’

‘And why would I want anything from you?’

‘Because from where I’m standing I’d say you need all the help you can get. And it’s not like we haven’t had dealings before.’

‘I don’t need your help, O’Sheyenne. I’m not interested in anything you have to say. So why don’t you crawl back to the hole you came from?’

O’Sheyenne chuckled. ‘That’s fighting talk for a man accused of a double murder.’

Tommy stared at Donal. ‘I never did it; you’ll see, I’ll prove it.’

‘They already think it’s you, Doyle, and what with the question mark still over Evelyn’s death … well, if they were to find a piece of bloody rope in your house, the same rope used to tie up poor Connor, to be sure, that would seal your fate, wouldn’t you say?’

Puzzlement spread across Tommy’s face. ‘They won’t.’

‘Well really, that all depends, because it’s quite conceivable that in the next hour our local Gardaí will get a call telling them exactly where to find it in your pantry. But as you say, you don’t need my help; so I’ll bid you good day.’

O’Sheyenne started away to the shouts of Tommy Doyle.

‘You’ll not set me up, O’Sheyenne; you’ll not!’

Donal turned round and grinned. ‘Oh, but I already have … Unless of course you’ll reconsider my proposition?’

Tommy growled, ‘I don’t even know what it is.’

O’Sheyenne walked back to the hospital bed, straightening the covers in feigned concern. ‘I wouldn’t worry about that; simply put, Doyle; you’ve got no choice.’

Five minutes later the two officers, who were more accustomed to dealing with vandalised crops and drunken villagers, came back into the ward. O’Sheyenne smiled at them.

‘I think we have the wrong man, gentlemen,’ His voice was authoritative. ‘I think the blame lies not with Thomas Doyle as we first thought but with his son, Patrick Doyle.’

‘Is this true, Doyle?’ One of the Gardaí spoke up.

Tommy nodded solemnly. ‘Aye, I’m afraid it is. I saw him with my own eyes coming out of the house, and so did Mr O’Sheyenne here; we were together.’

‘Then why didn’t you tell us this before, Doyle? Why run when the men came for you?’

‘I panicked when I heard they were coming after me. You know as well as I do that rumours still mill about the circumstances of me late wife’s death. I was afraid no-one would believe me … It’s a good job Mr O’Sheyenne here was with me … and Father Ryan of course.’

Donal nodded. ‘It’s a grave business, so it is … Tell them the other thing, Thomas, I’m sure they’ll be wanting to hear it.’

Tommy paused, glancing at O’Sheyenne before looking at the Gardaí directly. ‘Patrick hid something in the house. You’ll find it behind the porridge box in the pantry … it’s a rope. A bloody rope.’

Father Ryan sat at his dark wooden desk in St Joseph’s Orphanage and Home for Unmarried Mothers. It stood on top of a hill called the Five Acre Trees, though no local knew why it was named so; the hill was neither five acres nor had it ever held any trees for as far back as anyone could remember.

The building of St Joseph’s was forbidding. Tall, dark and gothic. The unwelcoming black wrought metal gates were held together by a large heavy chain and allowed no unauthorised visitor in and no resident out. But it was here that Father Ryan liked to sit and think – undisturbed and without interruption. Today, however, was the exception to the rule. Instead of getting the peace and time to reflect as he’d hoped and needed, Father Ryan was facing Donal O’Sheyenne who stood stonily opposite him.

Father Ryan hadn’t been sleeping well with what seemed like relentless pressure, and prayer had brought him little comfort, as it seldom did these days, and certainly no answers to his ever-increasing problems.

Sighing, he turned his attention back to Donal and to what he was saying.

‘So you see, Matthew, it’s all worked out well after all.’

Father Ryan’s voice was emotionless. ‘Not for the Brogans, or for the boy.’

‘He knew too much and rather than use the chance to work for me he began to sound off. These things have to be done.’

‘Thomas Doyle is a rogue indeed to be part of your wickedness.’

‘If I recall, it wasn’t so long ago you needed him for your own … how should I put it … inconvenience.’

The priest craned forward, pointing his finger at Donal. ‘How dare you! That wasn’t the same at all.’

‘You don’t want me to talk about your secret, Matthew? I’m sure a lot of people in the village would be most interested in what the real Father Ryan is like.’

Like a man possessed, Father Ryan stood up from behind his desk and rushed over to where Donal stood; hissing out his words. ‘Don’t push me. You might think I haven’t got what it takes to take on a man like you, but be careful, O’Sheyenne. One day. Mark my words … Tread very, very carefully.’

Donal looked down at Father Ryan’s clenched hands and grabbed them. He pulled the priest’s scrunched-up fists to his own face to mockingly punch himself with them, then exploded into peals of belly laughter.

‘Oh for the love of God! To be sure, Matthew, you’ve got a good craic in ye, so you have! I could swear those words were those of a fighting man. A threat no less. To me! Me! Donal O’Sheyenne.’

It was all too much for Father Ryan. He leapt again at Donal, pushing O’Sheyenne’s six-foot-four frame backwards to snatch hold of the lapels on his trench coat.

‘You’ll pay for this, O’Sheyenne! I swear; you’ll pay.’

Donal O’Sheyenne had been surprised many times and by many things in his life, but it occurred to him that, at that moment, Father Ryan attacking with such vigour and bravado was perhaps the biggest surprise he’d ever encountered, which was why it took him a moment to react.

However, instead of dishing out a ferocious beating – as he’d usually lay on any man who dared to challenge him – Donal O’Sheyenne found himself staggering around the room in blind hysterics, having to wipe away the streaming tears of laughter running down his face.

‘Stop! Stop! No more! By Christ, you’ll have me passing out. Look at me, man, I can hardly breathe for laughter!’

Incensed by the further mockery, Father Ryan – losing control altogether – ran up to Donal, who by now had collapsed with delighted amusement into a large brown leather chair.

About to bring down his fist with the full force of his anger and humiliation, Father Ryan froze as the door suddenly opened and a shrill voice sounded.

‘Tea, Father! … What in heaven’s name!’ A nun stood open-mouthed in the doorway of the study carrying a pot of tea, a plate of biscuits and a look of horror on her face.

Father Ryan blushed and dropped his fist. ‘Saints in heaven; have you ever heard of knocking, Sister?’

The nun said nothing, still startled by the sight which had greeted her.

Composing himself and wiping away the tears, Donal got up from the leather chair. He winked; charm snaking its way into his smile.

‘Why, Sister Margaret, don’t look so startled. Father Ryan was only showing me how the other day an ungodly scoundrel attacked a poor innocent man in the street.’

The nun’s face drew both relief and concern from Donal’s explanation. ‘Why that’s terrible. I hope the man was all right and a good Samaritan was able to intervene?’