‘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