eyes, Patrick put the baby back in the cot. A moment later he began to run.
Donal grinned, feeling Mrs Brogan’s legs trying to close together. He jammed his knee between them, pinching her inner thigh. ‘Don’t play hard to get. I can feel you want it.’
Panic-stricken, Mrs Brogan screamed. ‘Get off me, you bastard! … Get off me!’
Donal ignored her cries; keeping her legs open he rammed his fingers up into her crotch, enjoying the touch and smell of her as she screamed with newfound terror.
Ten minutes later, Donal zipped up his trousers. ‘Can I trust you not to say anything, Mrs Brogan?’
Mrs Brogan stared at him in contempt. She whispered hoarsely. ‘You can do nothing of the sort, O’Sheyenne. I’ll not be silenced by fear.’
Donal nodded his head. ‘That’s what I thought and that’s why you give me no option.’ Bizarrely, Donal’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Now would you just look at that, Mrs Brogan? Tears.’
Kneeling down, Donal faced her. He glanced sidelong at the lifeless body of Connor.
‘To be sure, your husband was a good man and it’d be a lie to say I won’t miss him, but I can’t have people talk me business. A man could get into trouble for that. You do understand, don’t ye?’ Donal paused deep in thought, before smiling manically.
His eye lids narrowed, eclipsing and casting a dark shadow into his green eyes. ‘It’s a shame you won’t keep your mouth shut but no matter – there are other things that silence a person apart from fear.’
With a sudden movement, Donal leapt forward, grabbing Mrs Brogan by her throat. With no time to react, she was instantly overpowered by Donal’s strength as his hands gripped tightly round her neck. Frantically her hands scratched at his, desperate for some relief from Donal’s tightening grip.
With her eyes bulging, Donal, not once taking his stare away from hers, watched Mrs Brogan’s eyes turn from white to bright crimson.
Feeling the life drain away, Donal released his grip and unceremoniously let go of her body, allowing it to drop to the tiled floor.
Putting on his hat, he walked over to the cot. He wrapped his wet coat round the baby before carrying it out into the storm-filled night.
The battering rain that soaked into Patrick Doyle’s brown coat as he ran along the uneven road made no difference to him. Neither did the charges of lightning that illuminated and struck the tops of the swaying sycamore trees; all he wanted was to get as far away from the Brogans’ house as possible.
Wrapping his oversized raincoat around his lean body in the hope of stopping the baying wind chilling his already cold bones, Patrick took a quick glance behind him. The road was empty; the village just outside Sneem in County Kerry where he lived had a population of just under a thousand and public transport was nearly non-existent, so he knew the chance of anyone coming along was slim.
Glancing over his shoulder again, Patrick saw the distant glare of car lights coming over the horizon and the shape of the familiar Mercedes. The sight filled him with terror. It was O’Sheyenne.
Frantically, he picked up his speed; his heart racing faster and faster as the rain, pocketed by the Kerry wind, swirled in the air, battering his face.
Patrick knew he couldn’t outrun the car and get to the side lane in time; petrified, he threw himself into the hedgerows, feeling the gorse cutting at his skin.
The car hurtled past; O’Sheyenne hadn’t seen him as he raced along the road, sending up a spray of water. After waiting another five minutes, Patrick began to run. He was nearly at the church now and it was almost as if what he’d seen back there in the Brogans’ house hadn’t been real.
Desperately trying to distract himself from the images of the Brogans in his head, Patrick thought about his dad, Tommy Doyle; the man he’d once looked up to. The man he’d once been able to trust. But since his mother’s death from an accident ten years ago, his father had drowned himself in whiskey and self-neglect.
His father was a hulk of man who had at one time been hailed a hero as one of Ireland’s finest champion boxers, but now his days were spent drinking, and his nights bare-knuckle fighting to earn the money which barely put food on the table but always put the drink in his belly.
Even though Patrick had only been six when his mother had died, he missed her so much. Even now he didn’t truly know how she’d died. He’d been told she’d fallen down the stairs and broken her neck, but there were various stories and rumours around the village as to how it’d really happened. He’d heard she’d been drunk. He’d heard she’d been sleep-walking. But, worst of all, he’d heard his father had had something to do with it.
With the church coming into view, Patrick shook himself from his thoughts, falling into the heavy wooden doors and flinging them open to be greeted by a sea of heads turning towards him.
‘Patrick Doyle, what’s the meaning of this? Do you not know what it is to be in the house of God? If you’re not here to attend choir practice then kindly leave.’
Patrick, giving a weak smile to Mary, stood trembling, suddenly painfully aware of his own appearance. His black hair hung soaked and matted over his forehead. His sodden second-hand clothes clung to his body and bubbles of rain water squirted out in tiny streams from the hole in his shoes. He was desperate to tell Father Ryan what had happened after the priest had driven off. He needed to tell him about the Brogans, but he was unable to find the words.
‘Well? Are you staying or leaving?’ The harsh tone of Father Ryan’s voice echoed round the church.
With Patrick not forthcoming, Father Ryan grabbed him by his arm, pulling him to the back of the church.
‘I’m speaking to you, Doyle. What have you to say for yourself? What’s going on?’
Patrick stammered, ‘I … I … er …’
Father Ryan slammed down the prayer book on the back of the wooden pew, making the young children in the choir pews jump with fright. ‘Speak up, boy; I haven’t got time for this.’
Patrick paled. ‘It’s O’Sheyenne.’
Hearing the name, Father Ryan shoved Patrick even further away from everybody’s hearing. He lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘What’s happened?’
‘After you left, Mr O’Sheyenne … Mr …’
Much to the frustration of Father Ryan, Patrick stopped, fear preventing him from saying anything else.
‘For God’s sake, boy, tell me.’ Matthew Ryan paused, then caught sight of something on Patrick’s coat. With trepidation, the priest spoke. ‘What’s that?’
Patrick looked down in horror at the bloodstain on his coat. It must have come from Connor when he was next to him in the car. But before he was able to answer the priest, the doors of the church were thrown open.
Standing, swaying in shock, was one of the
