Dead Village (14 page)

‘C'mon you bastards,' he yelled, as he pushed himself up from the cold ground and fired rapidly.

Sergeant Boyd was blasting away with his pistol. He fired at the cracked windscreen, and he could see the passenger in the cabs head explode in a ball of red mist. Then a fire inside his belly doubled him over. He had been hit, and badly, he knew. He continued to return fire though, but he watched dismayed as his brave young men fell like leaves.

Suddenly the lorry shot off down the road, and even in his pain he noticed there were badly rebel wounded and dying men in the vehicle and on the road.

‘Sarge, are you hurt bad?' Constable Millar asked, as he leaned over his dying sergeant.

‘Alice,' the sergeant answered. ‘He answered my prayers Millar. It is me he's going to take this night, not Alice. Alice is all right,' he mumbled, smiling. ‘Me, it was me,' he repeated. ‘Thank you God,' he said.

Constable Millar moved clumsily back. It was obvious the sergeant's mind had gone, and it almost frightened him. But he had no time to deal with this now. Their lives were in extreme danger here.

There were two rebel bodies lying in the middle of the road, and one of them started to move. Millar walked calmly across, blood streaming down his face from his flesh wound, and stared down.

A pitiful looking young boy of around sixteen years of age grinned up at him and spat. Millar picked up the boys rifle and aimed it at him.

‘Did your mammy never tell you not to play with guns, eh? You little bastard.'

The boy had been shot, but it wasn't life threatening, Millar felt. But when he looked around at his dead comrades, his anger grew.

‘Get out of our country,' the boy coughed, blood spraying from his mouth, where he had landed on his face on the hard ground, breaking some teeth.

Millar held the rifle over the wounded boys face and fingered the trigger.

‘Fuck you and you're little shit hole of a country you bloody bastar…'

‘Leave the boy alone,' Sergeant Boyd shouted.

Millar spun around, rifle poised menacingly.

‘Don't you give me orders, Mr Fucking Boyd,' he barked. ‘It was your stupidity that led us into this position in the first bloody place. Taking us on a different route wasn't so clever after all, was it?' And now when we need a leader, what do we get? A bloody snivelling old woman, that's what.'

‘Watch your tongue Millar,' the sergeant ordered.

Millar's shoulder was bleeding badly and he pushed a rag inside his tunic, but winced in pain as it covered his deep wound. Then he returned to the small boy, and kicked him hard. The boy held fast though, and didn't flinch.

‘How does it feel knowing you're going to be killed with your own rifle, you little pile of rebel shit?'

‘I said leave him alone you bastard,' and that's an order,' Sergeant Boyd threatened, as he aimed his Webley revolver at Constable Millar and held it tightly.

Millar placed the rifle against the boys head and moved it from side to side, ignoring the sergeant.

‘Meet you in Hell,' Millar scowled, as he cocked the weapon.

‘Nooo!” Sergeant Boyd yelled, as he squeezed the trigger.

Suddenly Millar shot forward, crashing down onto the cold ground, as the 38 round blew out from his head in a red spray of tissue and brain matter.

Sergeant Boyd lowered the smoking gun.

‘Thank you for saving Alice Lord,' he said. Then he took one last look around. Everyone was dead, except for himself and the boy.

He knew this boy had already had his mind twisted with hatred for him and his kind, and this was something he detested.
Here's a lad who may never grow to have a life or achieve anything,
he thought.

He looked down at this wound that had ended any future he would also have, as the blood poured through his fingers. It may have been this boy that had shot him, but he couldn't hate him. He had wanted God to take him, and God had shown mercy to Alice. Now he had decided now that if he were going to die, it would be with dignity, and without any hatred in his heart for any man.

‘Are you all right boy?' Sergeant Boyd choked, as a thick trickle of blood ran from his lips and onto his chest.

The boy stared for a moment at this dying man who had saved him. Now his emotions were a mixed cauldron.

The boy stuttered, barely audible.

‘Y-yes, I'm all right, how are you?'

‘I'm a goner lad.'

‘W-why did you shoot your own man, the soldier? Why did you save me?'

‘I couldn't let him kill you in cold blood son.'

‘D-do you have children?'

‘I have a daughter, Alice, but she's very sick. What age are you boy?'

‘I'm sixteen, almost seventeen.'

‘You don't look as old as that.'

‘How old is your daughter?'

Martin coughed. ‘Alice is eight, almost nine.'

The boy was sobbing now, but he was still sitting upright.

‘What's your name son?'

‘I-I'm not allowed to say my name.'

‘Well, who the hell am I going to tell it to, God?' Martin laughed.

The blood was pouring from his stomach, spreading around the cold ground, and the boy knew this brave man was dying fast.

‘I-I'm Fergal Devlin. What's your name?'

‘Pleased to meet you, Fergal Devlin, I'm Sergeant Martin Boyd.'

‘P-pleased to meet you, Sergeant Boyd.'

Martin held out his bloodied hand and Fergal crawled toward him.

As they shook hands they could hear loud footsteps, running, coming quickly.

For one second, Sergeant Boyd thought it was a patrol, sent to rescue them, until he heard the voice.

‘Fergal, I must get Fergal,' a man's voice was shouting.

Then they where on them, five men in all, heavily armed.

‘No father,' Fergal shouted, as his father aimed the rifle at the wounded sergeant.

‘This man saved me father.'

The man roughly picked up his injured son, cast his eye around the devastating scene, and walked briskly off. But he stopped quickly, spun around and paused for a moment, before saluting the dying sergeant.

‘Thank you,' he said, and Sergeant Boyd nodded.

Then he was gone with the sobbing boy held tightly in his arms.

As the last of his life's blood drained from him, Martin looked into the dark sky. A lone star shone brightly down, and he reached toward it and laughed. He mumbled a quick prayer, and fell back, dead.

*  *  *  *  *

Three women surrounded the child's bed and wiped at her sweat with clean towels.

‘You're going to be okay Alice, you're going to beat this,' the tallest of the women muttered.

Alice suddenly sprang upright on the bed.

‘I must get to father, he needs me,' she cried.

Alice tried to climb from the bed, but her mother gently pushed her back onto the pillow.

‘No child, you must rest.'

Alice started to shake violently, and pulled at her covers.

Alice's mother was very aware of the bond Alice and her father shared. Why as soon as he returned from leave, Alice and Martin would play like schoolchildren together.

‘Fathers coming home soon darling, it won't be long unti…'

‘Noooo,' Alice yelled, interrupting. ‘Wh-why, father, h-he's dead, he's been killed, shot, I must get to him. He needs someone. He's dying alone.'

One of the women fell into a faint at the child's disclosure.

Martin's sister had been staying with Martin's wife Mary since the child's illness had begun and she was certain Alice just wasn't going to make it. She had seen this before on her job as a staff nurse, and she knew it would take more than a miracle to save this child.

‘Don't say those kinds of things Alice,' her mother scolded. ‘It's bad luck.'

Alice was screaming hysterically now, and as the women held her tightly, she collapsed.

Old doctor Black approached the bed quietly and bade the women move away. When he turned around, he shook his head solemnly.

‘Oh no,' Mary croaked, as the old doctor and the other woman guided her gently toward a seat.

Even the little girl's funeral was marred by reports that, as the gravediggers were filling in the grave, a sudden black cloud came over, darkening the cemetery, and the downpour was like nothing the two men had ever witnessed before. Torrential it was, and as they were about to run for shelter, they claimed a little girl climbed out from the open ground and attacked them.

Both men were shunned by the enraged townspeople, for claiming this, but no one could explain their facial injuries away.

Reports say though, that the men had been drinking, and it was obvious to all that they had been fighting.

They were duly relieved of their jobs and left town, but the story persisted, and just refused to go away.”

*  *  *  *  *

Father O'Neill abruptly threw the letter back down onto the table.

“This, my friends, is what it states in this letter, and this only adds fuel to the fire. The fact is that there are many ungodly things out there. It seems the little girl is searching the countryside for her dead father, who most likely has already moved on from this world and is lost to her.”

“That's so sad,” said Francis, as she wiped a small tear from her eye.

“What can we hope for Tim?” Tully asked.

“Well, Tully, you can start by having faith. I don't believe that my God of love will turn his back on us, but we must be strong in mind.”

Tully shook his head before answering.

“I wish my uncle, Rev McCleay was still here. He was very wise and fearless. And when he blessed the mine during our last encounter, he knew every last thing there was to know about these demons,” Tully stated.

“I wish he was here too Tully, because unlike your uncle, my knowledge is very limited,” the priest admitted.

“Limited knowledge or not Tim, we're all depending on you to come good, and not let us down,” Tully said.

“Wait until we hear what Dan's friend here, um Thomas has to say about it,” Francis said. “Maybe he will know what we're up against.” Thomas was staring out though a window, and they thought he hadn't been listening, but he suddenly spun around, and when he spoke they hung on his every word.

“My people have known of the Great Spirit Woman for many years. Sometimes she would come to the villages and take one of our people. One time a great chief by the name of Tungalla, confronted the Spirit Woman, and she fled, wailing. He must have had very powerful medicine, because she never returned to harm us. However, when Chief Tungalla died many years later, the Great Spirit Woman came back and killed many in the village.

“So we still don't really know what we're up against.” Dan said.

“Well, I believe I know what we're up against Francis. I just don't know how to deal with it,” Tim admitted.

Tully threw the Frisbee across the room, but Scraps never moved.

“What's wrong with that dog?” Tully asked. “Have you not taught him to fetch yet?”

Tim slowly walked across the room, picked up the Frisbee, and spun it into the air.

“Go Scraps, go,” he commanded, and Scraps jumped high into the air and easily caught it. “It's all in the voice command,” the priest claimed.

Scraps wagged his tiny tail and walked off, instinctively shaking the Frisbee in his mouth, as though it was a rat.

Father O'Neill looked uneasily at the group for a moment before speaking.

“We could all die over this. I mean, I think it would be better if you know the dangers involved before we start.”

“We know,” Tully replied. “We know only too well.”

CHAPTER 16

It was just turning seven pm when Donald O'Shea turned into Cappawhite, and parked his gleaming Audi TDI Quattro LE Mans, some distance from the small Garda station. His first port of call was to Coughlan's pub, for a cold pint of Guinness. Paddy, the owner, recognised Donald immediately, even though he hadn't seen him for some years.

“Hello Donald,” he said with a smile, as Donald politely nodded.

“It's nice to see you again. How is Heather and the lad, um, Ian doing?”

“Heather passed away Paddy, but Ian is doing just fine,” he lied.

“I'm sorry to hear that Donald. I knew how much Heather meant to you. But I dare say you'll meet again, sometime, somewhere.”

Donald drank his pint quickly and left without saying goodbye.

“Poor man,” Paddy whispered, and shook his head sadly.

Donald moved along slowly. He simply wanted a little walk to clear his head, before he committed himself. A cold wet wind blew into his face as he walked along the dark deserted street. He looked around at the familiar buildings and sighed. He had been involved twice before in this supernatural occurrence, but his memory had been erased regarding it. Until now that is. Because now he remembered everything.

The last time he had taken on the demons at Lamont's mine it had been a most frightening affair, and he remembered shaking uncontrollably during the event. Now though, he wasn't afraid at all.

His beloved wife Heather had died one year earlier, and his only son had moved to Canada. Now loneliness and bitterness had changed him. He somehow blamed these demons on his wife's death, and he wanted some sort of retribution. Okay, so he had told Francis he didn't want involved. But he had put this down to anger and confusion, and the fact that this evil would always be there and just simply could not be destroyed. However, on reflection, he just couldn't let these brave people down either, and not after what they had gone through before together.

Tears and rain mixed as they streamed down his face, as he thought of the son who had deserted him after Heathers death.

He had loved his son so much, ever since he had held him as a new born baby. But he supposed that sometimes when you spoil a child the way Heather had, then the outcome can sometimes be tragic.

His son Ian had convinced himself that somehow his father hadn't shown him or his mother the attention that he should have shown. He felt his father was just never there for them.

After his mother died he refused to speak to his father, so Donald was left with a double burden to cope with.

But there was a reason that Donald had been gone so many times over the years, attending the many police courses he had committed himself to, and this was so that they could all have a better life together.

Hadn't he paid for his son's fine education, and given them a standard of life that most people couldn't even contemplate? Being away from home a lot was part of the price you sometimes have to pay to achieve these goals in your job, he felt.

Now though, he was sorry. Ian hadn't followed up on his education anyway, and became a drop out, and now his wife was dead.

No one could understand the guilt and regret that was coursing through his veins. He should have stayed a sergeant and been happy. He should have spent more time with them both.

Okay, so he may not have had the bigger house and the upper class kind of lifestyle had he stayed a sergeant. But he now realised that you can't take any of your material things with you anyway. Oh if only he could have been given a second chance, he would have changed everything. He would have been happy and thankful with his lot. Much happier than he was now, he believed.

Sometimes, it's not until it all comes to an end that we can look back on our mistakes in life,
he thought.

Donald was unarmed, but he carried a small bottle of Cyanide in his pocket, which he knew he would soon make use of in any event. He had confiscated the Cyanide on a raid one time and had only kept it out of some morbid kind of curiosity.

He had made out a will, leaving his large house to his son, whom he was sure he would sell and squander the very many thousands he would receive for it. He had donated a fair sum to his wife's favourite charity, and he had also left a fairly sizable sum for Tully and Francis, because he knew how much it would help them.

They would not know of this though. Not until he was long gone. He had arranged it that they receive the forty thousand Euros anonymously, and that would be exactly one year and one day after his death.

But he just couldn't get the abusive and threatening way his son had spoken to him at Heathers funeral out of his head. He had tried phoning his son, and he had sent letters with sizable cheques. The letters hadn't been answered, although the cheques had been cashed. He didn't need or deserve this barbaric treatment, and now he wanted more than anything to be with Heather again.

He walked slowly into the police station, where he was greeted by an old sergeant he didn't recognise.

“Sergeant Muldoon at your service sir,” the large uniformed man said rather loudly.

“What can I do for you?”

A bubbly younger officer came out from a side room, singing.

“I'm looking for someone, um Ken Tully and Franci…”

“I know Tully and Francis,” the young officer said.

“You do?”

“Yes, follow me sir, the young officer chirped in, interrupting, before the sergeant could answer. “I've just been talking to them. But don't let Tully hear you calling him Ken, sir, he doesn't like it.”

“Um, yes, I um, I knew that, but thanks for reminding me.”

As they left the station, the friendly young policeman ran across to an old beat up Ford, and threw something into the back seat. Chocolates perhaps.

Donald liked this young man, and he had already decided on his next action.

“Sorry sir, I don't want to forget my wife's birthday treat,” the policeman said.

“What is your name son?”

“Fagan sir, Jeremiah Fagan, at your service.”

“Have you any children, Jeremiah.”

“Yes sir, a young boy, um, Michael. He's two years old now, and a right little scallywag he is sir, and my wife is expecting our second, but that will be months off yet.”

“Have you any ambition regarding this job, Jeremiah,” Donald asked.

“I probably shouldn't say this sir, but if I'm being honest, then the answer is no, none at all. I'm happy with my lot, and I don't like taking on any more responsibility than I can handle sir. My grandmother used to say, ‘never try to rise above your station in life, it'll only bring heartache,' and I'll not be the one to argue with that.” Donald stared for a moment. His own grandmother had said those exact same words, but Donald hadn't listened.
If only we could see our future mistakes in life,
he thought.

Donald gripped Jeremiah's arm, rather too tightly, as he spoke earnestly.

“Your grandmother spoke the absolute truth Jeremiah. You must pay heed of her.

Be happy in your station. That my young friend is the key to true happiness.”

“I will sir.”

Donald released him and stared across the road.

“Is that your car Jeremiah? The blue one?” Donald asked, as he pointed toward the dilapidated Ford Mondeo.”

Jeremiah reddened slightly, and when he spoke he had a nervous tone in his voice.

“I know she doesn't look much sir, but she's reliable enough, and she's got a great heart under her bonnet.”

Donald asked him to accompany him back into the station a moment.

As the confused officer followed him back inside, Donald removed two keys from his pocket. Sergeant Muldoon was talking to another officer and Donald interrupted him.

I want this man, um Jeremiah here, to have my car, and I want you two men to be witness to it,” Donald stated, as he started writing on some paper.

“The necessary paperwork is in the front glove compartment. I want you men to both kindly sign this document.”

Sergeant Muldoon looked at the other officer as though Donald was a crazy man, but Donald could read the body language. He had learnt to do this over the years.

“Don't worry Sergeant Muldoon, it's all above board and legal.”

“Who are you sir?” The bemused sergeant asked.

“Well sergeant, for quite some time I was Superintendent Donald O'Shea, but I retired some years ago. I was a garda at this very station here back in the sixties, but that was a very long time ago,” Donald said as he showed him some identification.

“Why, hello sir,” the sergeant and the other officer answered in unison, as they witnessed the transaction.

“I've heard of you sir.”

The sergeant almost stood to attention, as officer Fagan gripped the wall for support, mouth gaping wide.

No one had ever given him anything before, and now all his Christmases had come in one moment of what could only be described as pure madness.

“Maybe this will help you with the infant and the baby when it comes along. The cars almost new, top of the range Audi Le Mans, and you should fetch a good price for it,” he added.

Jeremiah couldn't speak as Donald handed him the keys.

“Enjoy it,” he whispered. “It's all yours Jeremiah.”

“I-I, don't know what to sa…”

“How about a simple thank you,” Donald laughed.

“Th-th-thank you sir,” Jeremiah stuttered. “Thank you indeed.”

“Oh, and Jeremiah, kindly show me where Tully and Francis are, if you will,” Donald interrupted.

The flabbergasted young policeman staggered outside, almost drunken like, as Donald followed. The young policeman was clearly shocked. He pointed across, down the street toward the church, his hands shaking badly.

“There, the church, inside,” he croaked. “Once again, thank you sir, thank you so bloody much,” he said with tears in his eyes.

“But why me?” Jeremiah asked, as Donald walked away.

“Never look a gift horse in the mouth, Jeremiah. Let's just say I have my reasons.”

As Donald crossed the road, he watched the young Jeremiah sprint to the car and unlock it.

He smiled broadly as he thought of how the young policeman would try and explain this one to his wife.

“Strangers don't just give you brand new cars in the street, Jeremiah,” she would say.

“You must take it back from wherever you have stolen it, and stop telling me tales,” he could almost hear her moan.

He walked off, down the street, toward the church, and laughed.

*  *  *  *  *

A cold wind blew into Donald's face as he rapped heavily on the thick wooden door of the churches connecting building.

When Father O'Neill ushered him inside, Tully and Francis embraced him, as Scraps hid under a chair.

“I knew you would come to us Donald, I just knew you wouldn't let us down,” Francis stated.

Francis made them all some tea, and they reminisced for some time. Donald was surprised that Francis had left the police force, but he didn't want to pry. He was sure she had her reasons for it though. The job wasn't always sunshine and roses, he knew.

It was getting late, and Donald had already made arrangements to stay at the guest house, earlier by phone.

“I must go before I'm locked out,” he declared, unaware that Dan and Thomas would be staying at the same place.

As he left the church, he felt sad that these fine people should be involved again in something like this. But during his career he had seen many injustices and wrong doings done to innocent people. This was the world we live in and things will always be this way, he felt. Donald checked in to the guest house, and settled in for the night.

“It won't be long now my love,” he said as he kissed a photo of Heather, and soon he was sleeping soundly.

Back at his home, the phone rang loudly. On the fourth ring the answering machine kicked in, and Donald's voice rang out. ‘Please leave your message after the bleep.'

After a brief pause, the slurred voice spoke. “Um, hello dad, it's um, it's me, your son, Ian. P-please ring me. I'm really sorry about the things I said to you, and I um, I love you dad,” he sobbed. “Please call me when you get home.” The phone clicked, and then there was silence.

*  *  *  *  *

Donald dreamt that night. Heather had come to him. She was young in the dream, and she was as beautiful as he had ever seen her. ‘I will wait for you Donald, but you must not end your life by your own hand. If you do this thing then we will never be together again. Please heed me on this Donald.' Then she faded. ‘I'll always love you,' she distantly whispered, and then she was gone.

Donald jumped up from his sleep and wiped away the sweat that had saturated his face.

“Come back, come back,” he repeated loudly.

He staggered from the bed in a half daze, and looked out from the window to the deserted street below.

Only an old street lamp, the drizzling rain swirling around it, made him think how picture postcard the scene looked.

His mind wandered back to his wife. He had always listened to Heather, and Heather was always truthful to him. Of that he was certain.

And this, he felt, was more than a dream.

A part of him wished now that he had never met old Mick on the night when he first went to investigate the suspected burglary at Mrs Doyle's house all those many years ago. A damn lifetime away, he felt.

Things may have taken a different path then. But of course this would have meant that he wouldn't have met Heather after his move to Dublin. This was all somehow planned, and of this he was certain.

He moved slowly, picked up his coat and removed the small bottle of Cyanide from an inside pocket.

He threw some cold water round his face, and he noticed how his heart was beating very fast. Much too fast, he knew, and he took a few deep breathes.