Avenged. Jacqui Rose

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       2

      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 here, would we?’

      Inside the Brogans’ house, Patrick stood trembling as Donal dragged Connor under his arms and, without much effort, pulled him up onto one of the wooden chairs.

      Connor’s head immediately slumped forward as Donal walked back to the far end of the room before he took a run up to strike Connor hard in the stomach with the chain he held in his hand.

      Seeing that there was no reaction or even a flinch, Donal dropped the heavy chain back into his bag. He wiped his brow, taking the sweat which ran down the bridge of his nose onto his sleeve. It didn’t take a doctor to tell him Connor would be lucky if he made it through the night.

      Putting back on the shirt he hadn’t wanted to get dirty, Donal winked at Connor’s wife who was sitting wide eyed and frozen with fear in the corner of the cosy tiled kitchen.

      ‘I must say, Mrs Brogan; you’ve certainly got a nice place here … What’s that you say? … No, I still can’t hear ye.’ Donal stood with his hands on his hips, bursting out into raucous laughter. ‘Oh, don’t look like that. I’m only playing. I ask you, what’s a man got if he hasn’t got his sense of humour?’

      Donal roughly pulled away Mrs Brogan’s gag. She immediately began to scream.

      ‘God forgive you, Donal O’Sheyenne. You’ll be sorry for this; don’t think you can get away with it. I’ll make sure they lock you away. If anything happens to …’ The hard slap across her face stopped her saying any more.

      Donal grinned at Patrick, who was standing terrified in the corner.

      ‘So, what have you got to say now, Paddy; still not keen on working for me?’

      Turning his attention to the crying baby in the corner, Donal bent over to look at the child. ‘Now then, what’s the craic, young man? You’ll wake the dead with that yelling.’ Picking up the infant he was met by Mrs Brogan letting out a tirade of panic and terror.

      ‘Take your hands off him! … You hear me, O’Sheyenne! You leave him be. Or … or …’

      Almost throwing the baby into Patrick’s arms, Donal swivelled round to face the woman. His face thunderous. ‘Or what? What are you going to do?’

      Tears flowed down her face. ‘Just leave him … Please.’

      ‘Leave him? I think I’ll be taking him, don’t you?’

      Hysterical now, Mrs Brogan cried out, causing the baby to scream louder. ‘No … No you can’t! He’s my baby, O’Sheyenne.’

      O’Sheyenne smirked. ‘Whose baby?’

      ‘Mine … he’s mine.’

      O’Sheyenne pulled up a chair next to Mrs Brogan as he lit a cigar. ‘That might have been the case at one time, but the thing is, Mrs Brogan, you didn’t keep up the repayments; even after the first warning I gave you, and now look where we are.’

      Clancy Brogan’s eyes flashed with angry desperation. ‘We paid you everything you asked us to. We gave you everything we had, O’Sheyenne; when we picked him up from the convent you told us it would only be three payments. Three. You lied to us.’

      O’Sheyenne nodded. ‘So I did, Mrs Brogan. So I did.’

      Talking through her tears, Clancy continued. ‘How did you expect us to keep paying you every week? We’re just an ordinary couple; you know that, O’Sheyenne. We could hardly put food on the table over the winter, let alone keep up with your demands.’

      Looking bored, O’Sheyenne studied his nails. ‘Me heart bleeds for you, so it does. But the way I see it is; how much do you want this child?’

      ‘You know we want him. No-one could love him more than we do.’

      ‘Then you should’ve thought of that before you threatened to go to the Gardaí.’

      ‘We wouldn’t have done it; it was … it was just my husband’s way of trying to make you stop … Wasn’t it enough for you we gave the baby a good home?’

      ‘There was many a couple who wanted him, Mrs Brogan; who would’ve paid a higher price, but as Connor was a childhood friend of mine me sentimental side got the better of me; I put you at the top of the list. And look at the thanks I get.’

      ‘I’ll find the money. I will, just …’

      Mrs Brogan’s voice trailed off as Donal O’Sheyenne put one hand over her mouth, placing the other on her leg. He pushed up her paisley blue dress; his fingers moving along her thigh, twisting inwards; pressing into her pale flesh.

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