Patrick spoke, quietly at first, then he became gradually louder. ‘It was him … It was him! Father, it was him!’ Patrick pointed furiously at Donal.
Father Ryan opened his mouth to speak but it was Donal who got there first. He stared at Patrick, dancing amusement in his eyes. ‘Are you sure about that? From what I just heard it was your da.’
‘He never had anything to do with it. You know that.’
Donal gave Patrick a wry smile, menacing in the candlelight. ‘There’s no point trying to defend him, Patrick. The sins of your da’s actions are probably dripping from his hands as we speak, wouldn’t you say so, Father Ryan?’
Father Ryan gave Donal a hostile stare but turned away quickly as Patrick began to address him.
‘Father Ryan, you’ve got to believe me.’
Matthew Ryan shifted uncomfortably. ‘Enough, boy! Let me think.’
Patrick was distraught. ‘It’s true! You’ve got to believe me.’ He looked round at the sea of people; his eyes pleading with them as he saw the condemnation on their faces.
‘I saw Mr O’Sheyenne earlier. I swear. He had Connor in the car. He’d beaten him up then and afterwards he came back here to finish the job.’
Donal smirked. ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘It’s true!’
O’Sheyenne shook his head. ‘Then why didn’t you say anything then, hey boy? Why would you not say anything to anyone when you saw me with this poor wretch in the back of my car? Why didn’t you tell Father Ryan earlier or even call the Gardaí?’
To no-one in particular, Patrick cried, ‘I tried. I did. I was going to, but I couldn’t because …’
Donal interrupted. ‘Because it’s not true. This is a mighty big accusation, Patrick, and seeing I was with Father Ryan most of the night, it’s also an untrue one. Not even a good man like meself can be in two places at once.’
Patrick shouted. ‘You’re lying! You’re lying.’
‘Shall we put it to the test, Paddy?’ Donal turned to speak to Father Ryan. ‘I was with you all night. Isn’t that right, Father?’
Stammering slightly, Father Ryan fidgeted with the hooks on his cassock as he felt the gathered crowds stare.
‘Yes … yes. That’s right. Er … Mr O’Sheyenne had come to see me earlier and was waiting for me to finish choir practice. He was sitting at the back of the church the whole time.’
Patrick shook his head furiously. ‘No! No! That’s impossible; you know it is!’
‘Stop, boy!’ Father Ryan snapped at Patrick. ‘I don’t want to hear any more.’
Red-faced and holding back the tears, Patrick gawked at the priest. His voice rasping. ‘Please, please, you know I’m telling the truth—’
‘Don’t make this harder for yourself. Get yourself home now.’ Father Ryan stared into Patrick’s face. The man was inches away, allowing him to see the crease of tiredness around the priest’s mouth and eyes.
Through a haze of tears, Patrick stumbled out of the cottage; desperate to find his father to try to warn him.
He couldn’t make sense of what was happening, but most of all, he couldn’t understand why Father Ryan had lied.
Once Patrick and the other villagers had left the Brogans’, Father Ryan grabbed hold of Donal’s arm, who looked down at the grip with amusement.
‘Can I help you, Father?’
Father Ryan hissed through his teeth. ‘Look at the carnage you’ve caused. Hold your head down in shame.’
‘My head, Matthew? I’d say you’d need to hold yours.’
The priest’s face was a picture of rage. ‘It’s not me that has blood on my hands.’
‘I’d say that was a matter of opinion, wouldn’t you?’
Father Ryan pointed at the slaughtered couple. ‘This. This has nothing to do with me.’
Donal tapped Father Ryan on his back and grinned; bursting out into laughter. ‘Why, Father, you crack me up, so you do. It must be wonderful to purge yourself of your sins.’
‘A massacre wasn’t what we agreed.’
‘I don’t think you’re in a position to agree anything.’
Father Ryan’s face flushed. ‘I have no option but to go to the Gardaí, O’Sheyenne.’
Donal grabbed Father Ryan round his throat, squeezing it hard. Barely able to breathe, the priest wheezed, ‘I can’t be part of this.’
‘I’d say you already are. All I need you to do is go along with it being Tommy Doyle until I tell you otherwise and figure something else out. Do I make myself clear?’
Father Ryan gave a tiny terrified nod. Satisfied he’d made his point, O’Sheyenne let go of the priest’s neck, watching whilst he gasped and struggled for breath.
‘Now I’ll bid you goodnight, Father, and I’ll leave you with a little word of advice: if you’re ever thinking of going to the Gardaí again, take another look at the poor Brogans. We certainly wouldn’t want such a godly man as yourself ending up like that now, would we?’
Mary O’Flanagan sat on her bed in the darkness and shivered. She was soaking wet and there was no way she was going to be able to get herself warm. There’d been a power cut. Nothing unusual there; it was a regular occurrence in the village, but tonight the difference was that she was alone.
There was no way she’d be able to start the parlour fire without her da. Besides, the logs in the yard were probably soaking wet, which meant she’d have to get the wood from the shed in the back field on her own; and one thing Mary O’Flanagan hated was the dark.
Her parents had gone out; taking it upon themselves to join the search party for Patrick’s father. She wasn’t quite sure what good they’d do. Her own father was a tiny, timid man and if he were to come across the formidable Tommy Doyle hiding out, she was certain he’d bag himself. Not unkindly, Mary laughed out loud at the image in her head.
Thinking about Tommy Doyle made Mary wonder about Patrick. She hoped he was all right. She hadn’t been able to talk to him but he’d looked as handsome as he ever did when he’d stood soaking wet in the church that evening.
She and Patrick had been friends as far back as she could remember; much to her parents’ dismay. And a few months ago he’d made her swear she’d marry him once he’d made his fortune.
‘Patrick Doyle, I’m a good Catholic girl and good Catholic girls don’t swear. Perhaps if you came to church more often you’d know that.’
‘Don’t be acting the maggot with me, Mary O’Flanagan. The Dublin chancers would blush to hear the mouth on ye.’
She’d pushed him gently. ‘Feck off, Paddy!’
‘Ah, you see. How can I make ye me wife, Mary, if you’ve a tongue which would eat the head off a viper?’
‘I never said I’d be your wife, Patrick Doyle, and you’re no more likely to make your fortune than poor Bridget Henley with those rotten apples she sells.’
‘Well, that’s a fine thing to say to a man, Mary O’Flanagan!’
She’d