‘You’ll do nothing of the sort; I won’t allow it.’
Haughtily, Mary answered. ‘’Tis nothing you can do if I want to go with someone else, especially if I’m not your girl.’
Sixteen-year-old Patrick Doyle stepped out from behind the tree. His raven hair flopped over his blue eyes and his handsome face was veiled with mischief. He grinned. ‘’Tis plenty I can do, and besides, who told you that you weren’t my girl?’
Mary blushed, looking younger than her fifteen years. ‘So I am your girl? ’Tis news to me.’
Patrick grabbed her by the waist, spinning her round.
‘You’ve always been my girl and you always will be.’ Patrick paused, then gave Mary a cheeky wink before adding, ‘Do I get a kiss back then?’
Mary screwed up her face. ‘You get nothing of the sort. I keep telling ye, you’ll have to wait until we’re married.’
Patrick scratched his head and smiled, his eyes twinkling. ‘And do we have to wait until we’re married to hold hands?’
Mary stood for a moment contemplating this thought. ‘There’s nothing sinful about that.’
Patrick smiled, taking her hand in his. He held it gently, and they walked down the potted road in silence as the Kerry rain began to fall.
A car horn beeped behind them before a familiar voice yelled out from the driver’s window. It was Father Ryan, the local priest. ‘Mary O’Flanagan! What do you mean by this public display of affection! Do you not know fornication is a sin?’
Mary hid her smirk. ‘I’m sorry, Father, I didn’t know the bible said it was wrong to hold hands. I can’t recall that passage; is it in the New Testament?’
Father Ryan’s eyes narrowed. ‘I hope you’re not being cheeky.’
Mary’s pretty face feigned innocence. ‘No, Father, of course not; just showing my interest.’
‘Well that’s as may be, but it’s not to be done. Do you hear me? Especially with a Doyle.’
Patrick spoke up. ‘I am here, Father.’
Father Ryan stared at Patrick. The boy always made him feel uncomfortable, and he certainly didn’t want a God-fearing girl like Mary to have anything to do with him. He was definitely going to have a word with her parents. Ignoring Patrick, Father Ryan addressed Mary again. ‘Now get home, your mother will be worried and you’ll be late for choir practice tonight.’
Mary nudged Patrick gently. ‘She will indeed, Father, but maybe she wouldn’t worry so much if I got home quicker. Perhaps you could give me a lift and save her the worry?’
Matthew Ryan sighed. It was true, it would be a godly thing to do – lessening the worry of one of his parishioners by getting her daughter home before dark – but it was also true that his car had just been valeted, and the last thing he wanted was to have Mary and Patrick messing up his back seat with their wet clothes.
Before Father Ryan had made up his mind, he looked in the driver’s mirror. His heart began to race. From over the horizon, he saw a familiar car, the sight of which filled his whole being with dread.
‘Quick! Get in! Get in!’ Father Ryan’s voice was urgent and, almost before Mary and Patrick had a chance to do as he asked, he set off down the road at full speed.
His car raced over the bumps, sending them all flying up in the air as the small green Lada hurtled down the un-tarmacked road. But Father Ryan’s driving was no match for the car behind.
The other driver drew alongside the Lada, signalling the priest to pull over. Father Ryan spoke with urgency to Mary and Patrick, who were both looking shaken.
‘Now, not a word; none of your lip.’ He glared at the two teenagers who nodded their heads in unison.
Pulling up by the side of a large hedgerow, Father Ryan wound down his window again, letting in the blistering rain.
Everyone stayed silent as a tall figure clad in an expensive trench coat and a floppy hat walked round the back of the car, tapping the roof.
A craggy face appeared. ‘In a rush? You want to be careful driving like that, you could do someone damage.’ Donal O’Sheyenne, the man the whole of County Kerry feared, roared with laughter as he watched Father Ryan’s face blanch.
Turning his attention to Patrick, who was sitting motionless in the back of the car, O’Sheyenne sneered, wiping off the drips of rain running down his face.
‘Well, well, if it isn’t Paddy Doyle. I’ve been looking for you, and now here you are in what I like to call God’s chariot.’
Patrick didn’t say anything. He felt Mary’s hand squeeze his as she trembled, though he wasn’t sure if it was through fear or cold.
‘I want you to come with me, Paddy; I’ve got something to show you.’ Patrick’s head shot up at O’Sheyenne’s suggestion. He scrambled for an excuse.
‘I can’t … I have to get home; my da will be waiting.’
O’Sheyenne snorted. ‘The only thing waiting for you at home, Doyle, is a drunken fool.’
A flash of pain shot through Patrick’s eyes, much to the amusement of O’Sheyenne.
‘Leave the boy alone.’ Father Ryan spoke up but immediately regretted it as his hat was knocked off his head by a sharp prod from Donal.
‘I think you’re clear forgetting yourself, Father. Never … never, try to tell me what to do.’
O’Sheyenne walked to the back passenger door, flinging it wide open. He leant in and spoke to Patrick. ‘Get out! You and me are going to go on a little drive.’
Knowing he didn’t have a choice, Patrick Doyle slowly got out, watching as Father Ryan quickly sped away.
Awkwardly, Patrick climbed into the back of O’Sheyenne’s car. As he did so he immediately lurched backwards, scrambling in desperation to get out of the seat – but he was shoved back in by O’Sheyenne.
‘It’s a fine thing when a man doesn’t introduce himself. Patrick, meet Connor Brogan. You remember him, don’t you?’
Patrick’s heart pounded as he glanced to the side. There next to him was the beaten and blood-drenched body of Connor Brogan, a local man from the village, barely recognisable in his naked swollen form.
Wanting to turn away but trapped by the mesmerising horror of it all, Patrick noticed Connor’s hands were tied and a coarse gag cut deeply into the sides of the man’s mouth.
O’Sheyenne leant over Patrick, grabbing hold of the unconscious man’s hair to lift his head up and slapping him hard in his face.
‘Will you not say hello, Connor? Have you lost your manners as well as your balls?’
Patrick began to tremble. His voice was weak. ‘Mr O’Sheyenne, please, I’d like to go home.’
Donal chuckled. ‘So you shall, Dorothy, but not before we attend to some business. I could do with a fine young lad like you working for me … what do you say?’
Patrick looked down, shaking his head. ‘Thank you for asking and … I … I appreciate it and all, but I’d rather not.’
O’Sheyenne raised up Patrick’s chin with his finger, staring into his eyes. ‘When I say, I could do with a fine young man, what I mean to say, Patrick, is you’ll be working for me whether you like it or not. We wouldn’t want you to end up like Connor