seemed to Patrick Doyle that the whole of the village, led by a tight-faced Father Ryan, had decided to find out what was going on; an unholy candlelight procession of curious onlookers followed him down the road towards the Brogans’ tiny cottage.
The lane down to the cottage was slippery and Patrick could feel his feet moving faster and faster as he hurtled along the road. Images of the Brogans and O’Sheyenne flashed in his head, combining together in a confusing mix of panic.
He ran whilst the rain continued to splinter down, causing him to lose his balance. He scrambled up, feeling, yet not reacting to, the sting of his hands as they grazed and bled from the hard stony ground. He was first to arrive at the Brogans’ house; even though he’d seen the horror of it all only an hour or so before, looking at the bloody scene again made Patrick freeze at the door then turn to be sick.
He could see Connor’s blood splattered all over the walls, the lifeless bodies of the couple in the middle of the room and, in the corner, the empty cot.
‘Saints and the holy mother preserve us! Who could have done such a thing?’ A villager spoke as he stood shoulder to shoulder with Patrick at the door. A throng of people came up behind, pushing eagerly forward in an attempt to get a look at the horror which lay within.
‘Did anyone see anything?’
The room fell silent as dozens of onlookers, squeezing themselves into the kitchen, formed a circle around the room, staring at the slaughtered couple.
‘I saw someone earlier coming out of here.’ A man Patrick recognised from the local bakery spoke up.
‘Who? Who?’ The cry sounded around the room.
‘I couldn’t make out his face. I was a distance away and it was dark, but the person I saw coming out of here was tall … strong looking, to be sure.’
The villagers looked puzzled, reflecting on the baker’s words, before another voice shouted out from the back.
‘That sounds like Tommy Doyle!’
In a cacophony of gasps, prayers and cries, the villagers began to shout out. ‘He’s capable of something like this’, ‘I always knew he was trouble’, ‘The man’s a monster’, ‘It must be him.’
Alarmed, Patrick turned to face the crowd. ‘No, it wasn’t my da!’
‘Then he’ll be able to tell the Gardaí that … Call them! Call the Gardaí! Tommy Doyle should pay for this.’ The shout was bellowed out by a man from the back of the room. As the crowd joined in again, shouting their agreement, Patrick’s blood ran cold.
‘No! Please! Wait! Me da didn’t do it. I swear it wasn’t him.’
The man from the back continued to talk. ‘We all know what he’s like when he has a drink inside him. Raging for a fight. ’Tis still a mystery what happened to your mother.’
Patrick’s face reddened. His anger and hurt shone through. ‘Leave my ma out of it; this has nothing to do with my da, I tell ye!’
Someone else called out. ‘’Tis no mystery; we all know what really happened to poor Evelyn.’
Patrick cried, ‘Stop! … Stop! You don’t understand. He didn’t do it.’
The first man shouted out again, ‘Where is he anyway? We need to find him. Everyone, go! Do not stop until you find Thomas Doyle.’
Patrick swirled around to look at Father Ryan. ‘No, wait. Father, tell them. Tell them me da couldn’t have done this … he couldn’t have, because … because … I know who did!’
‘Really? We’d all like to hear this. Tell us, Patrick; we’re fascinated.’
Slowly, Patrick turned round to look at the person who’d just spoken, watching as the crowd parted. There, in front of him, was Donal O’Sheyenne.
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
