Some of the locals and Gardaí were continuing to search but he’d needed to call it a night. Yawning, Father Ryan reflected on the events of the evening. It’d been a difficult night and there was still no sign of Tommy Doyle. Which he supposed might be a good thing. He wasn’t sure what O’Sheyenne was going to do but, whatever it was, there were bound to be more repercussions.
‘Father?’
The unexpected voice cut through the dark, startling Father Ryan to his feet. ‘Saints preserve us. Have you never heard of knocking, Helen?’
‘I’m sorry, Father.’
‘Well, what is it?’
Father Ryan’s housekeeper, Helen Flanagan, stood in the room, her round face glowing with ruddy excitement as she embroiled herself in an air of gossip and melodrama. Her voice was loud and chirpy.
‘What a terrible night, Father; my blood’s running cold to think we have a murderer in our midst. I was talking to him only last week when I was buying a quarter of tobacco for Fergus; to think it could’ve been me lying dead and not poor Mrs Brogan.’
Exasperated and sorely irritated by Helen’s love of the dramatic, Father Ryan spoke impatiently. ‘And why would Thomas do that, why would he decide to kill you?’’
Helen glanced around, whispering as if there was someone other than herself and Father Ryan in the room. ‘Why does a mad man do anything, Father?’
‘For goodness sake, Helen; Thomas Doyle is not a mad man, he’s a drunken scoundrel. Not everything is as it seems.’
Helen Flanagan was clearly having none of it. ‘That’s as may be, Father, but I won’t sleep well tonight knowing he’s at large, thinking we could be murdered in our beds at any time. Look what he did to my poor cousin, Evelyn; threw her clean down the stairs, so he did.’
Father Ryan’s face clouded over. ‘We don’t know that’s what happened to her, Helen; rumour and gossip are dangerous things.’
Ignoring what the priest was saying, Helen leant further in to speak. ‘Now tell me, Father, is it true that Tommy Doyle chopped off the Brogans’ heads and hung them from the rafters like hocks of ham? Mrs Rafferty told me she saw it with her own eyes.’
That was it. It was all too much for Father Ryan. He raised his voice, shocking Helen enough to cause her to throw herself down in the armchair; holding her chest in a dramatic fashion.
‘Enough of this nonsense! I expect this kind of talk from Mrs Rafferty, but you of all people should know better.’
Helen Flanagan lowered her eyes, feeling slightly ashamed of herself. Then, remembering the reason she’d actually come, a smile spread across her face. ‘To be certain, Father, you probably haven’t eaten, so I thought I’d bring you some of me homemade scones. If truth be told, I actually made them for Mrs Brogan but she’ll no longer need them where she’s gone. I said to Fergus …’
Father Ryan held up his hand, unable to hear any more of Helen’s idle chatter. ‘Thank you, Helen, I’m sure I’ll enjoy them with a cup of tea. Just leave them on the table.’
Busying herself, Helen got up. ‘I’ll put the kettle on then, I fancy a brew myself.’
‘No!’ Father Ryan shouted, rather too quickly, as he pulled a face. He could almost taste her insipid tea and its ever-present thick skin of milk. Quite how anybody could turn what was supposed to be a relaxing, refreshing beverage into what could only be described as a depressingly lukewarm, tasteless drink each and every time, he didn’t know.
Helen looked at him in shocked silence. Quickly Father Ryan tried to appease her. ‘What I meant to say is: no thank you, Helen, I’m rather tired and I think we should all get some rest.’
With Helen gone, Father Ryan sat down again, but it was no good – he wasn’t going to get any sleep now. There were too many things to think about. He sighed and stood up. Putting on his long black cloak over his cassock, Father Ryan headed back into the night.
‘Me da? Are you sure?’ Patrick looked puzzled.
‘What do you take me for, Paddy? Of course I’m sure.’ Mary O’Flanagan shook her head, exasperated. ‘Come on, we haven’t much time.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Well I do. Come on!’
Patrick Doyle hesitated, concern etched all over his handsome face. ‘I …’
‘Don’t you trust me? Is that it?’
He looked hurt at the suggestion. ‘Don’t say that, Mary. You’re my girl, but I need to go and speak to Father Ryan and tell him what I know.’
Mary’s voice softened. ‘Look, just come and see him. He needs to talk to you. I know it wasn’t him; I just know it.’
‘That means a lot to me, Mary … I know who did it.’
Mary’s eyes were wide open. ‘How?’
Patrick didn’t answer. He stared at Mary; he was so grateful to see her. He’d been running about the Kerry countryside looking desperately for his dad; terrified for him and wanting to speak to him to tell him about O’Sheyenne. His dad must have had word they were looking for him, and he’d be hiding. Patrick had watched in despair as he’d heard the sounds of the other villagers searching for his father, hungry, like a pack of wolves hunting for their prey.
After hours of futile searching he’d come home, wiping away the tears he’d never show anyone, and in the abandonment of hope and filled with desperation, he’d done what he’d never done before: he’d prayed. Prayed his dad would come home. Prayed it was all just a rotten dream; so that when someone had knocked at the door, hard and relentless, he’d run to it, assuming his prayers had been answered. But instead of his dad it was Mary O’Flanagan who’d been standing shivering on his doorstep; wet right through, telling him she knew where his father was.
And now, as he stood by the front door, it struck him that his prayers had been answered in a way – in the form of Mary. His Mary. She’d come to tell him where his dad was, reassuring him everything would be all right.
The gentle touch on Patrick’s arm interrupted his thoughts. ‘Hey, Paddy … It’ll be okay.’
He nodded. ‘Mary, can I tell you something? But you have to promise you won’t tell a soul …’
‘Yes; I promise. Go on.’
‘When you and Father Ryan left …’
He stopped, suddenly realising it might be dangerous for Mary to know what really happened with Donal O’Sheyenne and what he’d seen and heard. He shook his head. ‘It doesn’t matter; it can wait. Come on.’
‘No, go on, Patrick; what were you going to say?’
‘Not now.’
There was a slight hurt in Mary’s voice. ‘I thought we didn’t have any secrets from each other?’
‘We don’t, and that’s why I’m going to tell you later.’
‘Honestly?’
Patrick nodded. ‘Honestly.’
Following Mary out into the rain-filled night, Patrick felt a sense of foreboding.
The woods that led to the back field were dark and treacherous and, for the fourth time in the space of less than five minutes, Patrick cursed loudly as he tripped over the unseen bracken which hooked and trailed round his legs, sending him headlong into the wet earth.
‘I’m glad to see you find this funny, Mary O’Flanagan.’
‘Do