by Jacqui Rose
Holding her stomach, Bunny looked across at Del, a twinkle of delight and joy in her eyes. ‘Del?’
‘Yes, doll?’
‘Tell me something.’
‘Like what?’
Bunny grinned. ‘Anything.’
‘Okay … Er, tomorrow I’m going into Puerto Banús.’
‘I trust you.’
Del raised his eyebrows. ‘The sun is going to shine tomorrow.’
Bunny grinned. ‘I trust you.’
Del grinned back. ‘All of us are going to have a barbeque tonight and Claudia’s probably going to eat the lion’s share.’
Bunny giggled. ‘I trust you.’
Del took hold of Bunny’s hand, staring into the deep pools of her blue eyes. ‘But more importantly Bunny, you complete me – and all of us are going to be fine. Everything’s going to be just fine.’
‘Yes it is, babe, and it’s because I trust you. Hear that? I can finally say it.’ Bunny raised her voice, shouting the rest of the words loudly and happily. ‘I trust you. Del Christian Williams, I trust you.’
Bunny’s laughter mixed with Del’s, soared into the air. Laughter and joy which stayed within the Williams’ household for years to come.
THE END
Acknowledgements
The more books I write the more I realise what a team effort it all is and I really couldn’t have done it without everyone. So I’d like to give a huge thank you to, Lydia Newhouse, my editor, who has wonderful ideas and understands exactly what I’m trying to say in my books, bringing out the best in me. Thanks to the team at Avon/HarperCollins, who have once again been so supportive, and forever thanks to my agent, Judith Murdoch, for everything she does for me.
On a personal note I want to thank my children, my family and my friends who all give me unwavering support, without which none of this would be possible.
About the Author
Jacqui Rose is a novelist who now lives in London, although she hails from South Yorkshire. She has always written for pleasure but the inspiration for her novels comes from her own experience. Her previous novels Taken, Trapped and Dishonour have been Kindle bestsellers.
For more information about Jacqui please visit www.jacquirose.com or follow her on Twitter @JacPereirauk
Also by Jacqui Rose
Taken
Trapped
Dishonour
Read on for an exclusive extract from Jacqui’s next book
Avenged …
Eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot, burn for burn, wound for wound, stripe for stripe.
Exodus 21
1979
IRELAND
1
The battering rain soaking into Patrick Doyle’s brown coat as he ran along the uneven road made no difference to him. Nor did the charges of lightning that illuminated and struck the tops of the swaying sycamore trees.
At just turned sixteen, the darkness had long stopped troubling him; the only thing that did play on Patrick Doyle’s mind was the time. It was already eight o’clock, which meant only one thing. He was late.
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 and he knew the chance of anyone coming along to hitch a ride at this time of night was slim.
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. Just as well; he didn’t have any money, so the idea of the green battered bus speeding past without him being able to hail it would’ve made the mile run feel even further.
Resigned to travelling the rest of the way on foot, Patrick was surprised to see the distant glare of car lights coming over the horizon. Running into the middle of the road he waved frantically as the rain, pocketed by the Kerry wind, swirled in the air, causing him to protect his face from the smart of it.
The car hurtled along and for a moment Patrick thought the driver hadn’t seen him, as it raced past sending up a sludge of water. But a few hundred metres up the road, the red glare of brake lights flashed as the car came to a stop.
Quickly Patrick approached it; relieved that he was not only going to escape the rain, but that there was also a good possibility he might not be too late either.
Just before Patrick reached the driver’s door, he stopped. Slowly beginning to back away. A chill deeper than the cold air of the night crept over Patrick’s body as the door opened and a tall figure stepped out clad in an expensive trench coat and a hat which flopped lazily over his ears.
‘Why, if it isn’t the Doyle boy.’ The man stood in the road, seemingly oblivious to the torrential rain. ‘Well are you getting in, Doyle, or are you going to stand there like you’ve got a bad dose?’
Patrick continued to back away much to the man’s sneering amusement. ‘Going somewhere, Paddy boy?’
‘I … I have to go home. Me Da will be wondering where I am.’
‘That’s grand. Odd thing is though; I could’ve sworn you lived at the creak, which by my reckoning, Paddy, is the other way.’
Patrick didn’t say anything as he stood shivering, wiping the water from his face.
‘Well, Paddy?’
‘… Er … Aye. That’s right. I must’ve made a mistake.’
The man tipped his head as he spoke, pouring the caught rain water from the brim of his hat onto the ground.
‘It’s some kind of lad that forgets where he lives so it is … So I’ll ask you again. Are you getting in, Paddy, or what?’
Patrick Doyle knew it wasn’t so much a question as an order. Nodding his head and ignoring the squelch of his shoe as the muddy water uninvitingly made its way through the hole, which seemed to be in every pair he owned, Patrick walked towards the car.
The man held open the back passenger car door. ‘Don’t I get a thank you, Paddy?’
‘Thank you, Mr O Sheyenne.’
Awkwardly, Patrick climbed into the back, but as he did so, he immediately bolted backwards, scrambling in desperation to get out of the seat, though his exit was blocked as O Sheyenne laughingly pushed him back down inside the car, chuckling as he spoke. ‘It’s a fine thing when a man doesn’t introduce himself. Patrick meet Connor Brogan.’
Patrick’s heart pounded as he glanced to the side. There next to him was the beaten blood drenched body of a person barely recognisable in his naked swollen form. Wanting to turn away, but trapped by the mesmerising horror of it all, Patrick noticed the man’s hands were tied, as well as a coarse rope gag cutting deeply into the sides of the man’s mouth.
Donal O Sheyenne leaned over Patrick, grabbing hold of the unconscious man’s hair to lift his head up; slapping him hard on his face.
‘Will you not say hello, Connor? Have you lost your manners as well as your balls?’ Donal O Sheyenne roared with amusement as Patrick looked down aghast at the man’s bloody groin; realising Donal O Sheyenne was talking literally.
Patrick bolted backwards again, but this time, Donal O Sheyenne allowed him to exit. ‘I take it you don’t want that lift then? Say hello to your Da won’t you, Paddy.’
The laughter followed Patrick up the road as he stumbled along, desperate to get away. Desperate to forget what he’d just seen.
He was almost there now and part of him felt that what he’d seen back there in Donal O Sheyenne’s car hadn’t been real. Trying to distract himself he thought about his Dad, and how he’d laughed, a wholehearted belly laugh, when he’d told him where he was going. ‘What’s the craic, Paddy boy? Have you had some kind of premonition? Don’t tell me you’ve been visited by your man from above?’
‘No Da.’
‘Well I hope you haven’t been on the juice? It makes you do things you wish you hadn’t. Look at me; I married your mother.’ Patrick’s father had smiled at his mother, waving his bottle of whiskey in the air with a big grin on his red bloated face.
‘Or h
ave you been having too many impure thoughts about that teacher of yours? Is that it, Paddy? Mind she’s a fine woman, sure she is.’
‘No Da, I just think it’s time I went.’
His father had looked at him, given him a wink and then taken another large gulp of whiskey from the bottle, which was a constant in his hand. ‘Well as long as you don’t expect me to come, then I’ve got no issue with it. Though I reckon there’s more to it. You’re up to something. I know you Patrick Doyle, like I know the tide of the Kerry seas.’
His mother had been more cautious. ‘Now don’t be making a holy show of yourself, Paddy. We’ve enough folk looking down their noses at us already.’
‘Now will ye leave him alone, woman, the boy’s doing no harm. If anyone’s got a problem about me boy or us they can come and have a yarn with me.’
He’d looked at his father; a hulk of man. The man he’d always loved and looked up to. Strong and broken all at the same time. Once hailed a hero as one of Ireland’s finest champion boxers, now his days were spent drinking, and his nights bare knuckle fighting to earn the money that barely put food on the table but always put drink in his belly. But his father had been right. There was more to it. And as Patrick Shamus Doyle fell into the heavy wooden doors, flinging them open, seeing a sea of heads turning towards him, Patrick saw the reason for his visit.
‘Patrick Doyle what’s the meaning of this? Do you not know what it is to be in the house of god? But then I don’t expect your parents taught you better, did they lad?’
As Patrick stared at the priest dressed head to toe in black save the large wooden cross around his neck and the white tag of his collar, he suddenly became aware of his own appearance. His black hair hung soaked and matted to his forehead. The veil of rain was still obvious on his handsome face. His second-hand clothes clung sodden to his body and bubbles of rain water squirted out in tiny streams from the hole in his shoes.
‘Well?’ The harsh tone of Father Ryan’s voice punctured and echoed round the half filled church. Patrick stared, desperate to say what he’d just seen in the back of Donal O Sheyenne’s car. But as he watched Father Ryan glare at him – harsh, cold disdain – he decided against it.
Father Ryan pushed more. ‘I’m speaking to you, Doyle. What have you to say for yourself?’
‘Nothing to you.’
Father Ryan slammed down the prayer book on the back of the wooden pew, making the young children in the row jump with fright.
‘Enough of the cheek, Doyle. Were you wanting to rob the silver, boy, so you could go on the tear with your Da?’
Patrick’s jaw clenched. He could feel his temper rising as he looked around at the smirking faces. ‘Don’t talk about me Da like that. He’s a good man father.’
Father Ryan walked towards Patrick. He cocked his head to one side, his angular face contorted with bemusement. His tone full of sarcasm. ‘Sure he is, Patrick; it must be a fine thing to be a pillar of the community like your Da. Why, the last time I saw him here in church must have been at least three years ago.’
Patrick didn’t say anything, watching silently as Father Ryan gave a nasty smile before leaning in and surveying his face. The priest paused for a moment before poking Patrick in the chest. His voice was hushed and menacing. ‘So tell me, Doyle, I’m curious. What brings a boy like you to evening mass if isn’t for wrongdoing?’
Patrick looked down uncomfortably. He could feel the stares of the congregation layered with amusement and thankful relief that Father Ryan’s scorn wasn’t directed at them.
‘I came to see Mary.’ The sniggers rose around the church.
‘Quiet! This is a house of God, not a gurrier’s drinking inn.’ The church fell silent once more as Father Ryan continued his hostility. ‘And what would you want with Our Lady, the Blessed Virgin?’
‘Nothing, Father.’
‘Nothing?’
‘Not to forgive your sins, boy?’
‘No, Father.’
‘Then why did you say you came to see Mary.’
‘I didn’t come to see that Mary, Father; I came to see Mary O Flanagan.’ Again the whole congregation erupted into laughter, much to the fury of Father Ryan. His voice bellowed over the noise. ‘Shame on you, Patrick Doyle. Will you make fun of all that is holy?’
‘No, Father, I wanted to come and see Mary sing.’ Patrick wiped his face, his blue eyes intense and bright as he looked towards Mary; his handsome smile displaying his perfect teeth. He spoke coyly, still shaken and distracted by the image of Connor Brogan in his head. ‘Howya Mary, I hope I haven’t missed it.’
‘How dare ye show such insolence boy!’
Enraged, with this public display of affection, Father Ryan swivelled round to Mary O Flanagan, who sat with her head bowed, her long auburn hair covering part of her face, hiding her embarrassment.
‘Did you know something about this, Mary?’
Before Mary O Flanagan could answer the priest, the large heavy doors of the church were thrown open again. Standing swaying, his hands covered in blood, was Patrick’s father, Thomas Doyle.
‘Paddy, there’s been an accident. It’s your ma.’
She’s been lost in booze and bad company but now she’s got demons to put to rest …
Buy TAKEN here
A gritty, gangland Romeo and Juliet story …
Buy TRAPPED here
Buy DISHONOUR here
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