by Jess Smith
‘Why me? There’s gypsies the whole skelp o’ this land that could do the job—get them.’
‘I know the gypsies could testify and I’ve asked them, but they say because he hasn’t killed a gypsy they have no argument with him.’
‘He killed Mother Foy, for God’s sake, strangled her until all her breath was gone.’
Martin approached her and said calmly, ‘You refused to take that information to the gypsies when you took it on yourself to burn the old woman. Did you not think the evidence would also be burned? How do you expect anyone to believe you?’ Martin’s words resounded in her brain. The honest fact was, he was right. Sam did try to tell her, even offered to bring the gypsies himself, but she hadn’t thought about consequences. Her only way of freeing herself from Buckley was the way she took. She tried to explain that in Scotland her tribal upbringing had taught her always to think for herself. ‘We moved from place to place, with sometimes babies being born at the side of the road and old folks buried in a passing forest. We were always thinking, living and acting on our feet. I know no other way. All I did was help my friend because, in troubled times, she helped me. I knew the gypsies burned everything, so that was what I did. And the fact Buckley was terrorising us made me act swiftly. I never would have known if he hadn’t admitted to killing Mother Foy. Perhaps if I explain to the gypsies they might believe me and identify Buckley for you.’
Martin, with eyes almost on a level with hers, said, ‘We know if they thought he killed such a powerful lady as Mother Foy they would indeed seek gypsy justice, and in all honesty I wish you had told them. It would have spared the public purse from paying his trial and the length of rope needed to hang the fiend. He murdered a certain gentleman—not mentioning names—and for that he’ll dangle long and hard, that’s why I want him. But for what he did to you and that nice old woman he should be drawn and quartered inch by inch. Now, if what I’ve heard about you Scots being tough is true, then get your coat on and put Buckley away. That is, if it’s him locked up in York.’
Michael, who was worried by Megan’s fear of facing Buckley, said, ‘Don’t fret, I’ll come with you’.
She nodded, though the truth was she hadn’t the stomach to look into that beast’s face again. But Martin was right—his rampaging through people’s lives had to end, and as she was the only person to hear him on the night Mr Newton was so horribly killed, then it was solely down to her. Michael slipped on her coat and squeezed her shoulder in reassurance.
York was a great city, and apart from Newcastle she’d never before been in such a place with high spired churches and regal buildings. Something else she’d not seen was the inside of a moving motor car. It seemed so strange travelling faster than a horse along the road. Quite a change came over Inspector Martin behind its steering wheel: his shoulders hunched, eyes darting, and he cursed as the vehicle screeched on every bend in the road. Regardless of his cursing and jerky driving, she’d gladly have endured it all day, rather than face Buckley, but soon their journey ended.
The black uniforms of the constables coming and going at the police station made her cringe. Perhaps it was a lifetime of being aware that these men had the power to take tinkers, imprison them and throw away the key. Many horror stories she’d heard from relatives made her shiver. Michael felt it and circled her waist in assurance.
‘This way, please.’ A friendly sergeant with handlebar moustache ushered them into a side room down a long corridor. ‘You can stay with the young lady, sir,’ he told Michael. In time he brought them both a welcome cup of tea, wobbling on large saucers with a water biscuit soaking up the spillage. Martin came in and sat down. ‘Megan, in the corridor we have a man who might be Buckley. He’s all shackled up, so don’t worry about your safety. All that’s needed is a simple nod of the head if you are sure it’s him, do nothing if it’s not. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, now please get it over with before I soak my knickers.’
Michael chuckled, gave her a big hug and said, ‘Do you want the toilet first?’
‘No, that was only a figure of speech. Please, Inspector, let’s get this over with.’
The door separating her from the haunting nightmare creaked very noisily open. The word ‘oil’ came into her mind, ‘the door hinges need oil’. Then she saw a chunk of wood had been kicked from the bottom of the door. ‘Anger did that, maybe a heavy ploughman’s boot, probably drunk.’ She wished the door had other features to look at, rather than having to raise her eyes and settle them on what now stood staring at her.
His very presence sent trembles through her, sweat ran from beneath her hairline to gather under her breasts.
‘Is this him?’ Martin asked impatiently, but the answer did not come from her, it came with the words of a poignant ballad. With ice-cold malice, for every man in that place to hear, he spat out the words—‘You-take-the-high-road-I’ll-take-the-low-road.’
Hell opened, she heard witches, werewolves, banshees screaming, every kind of devil screeched at her. Her joints were frozen in fear, ‘Is there no end to this red-eyed dog?’ she cried into Michael’s strong body. What did she do to deserve a living nightmare such as this?
‘Deserting me again, Megan? Just when we were enjoying ourselves! Ah well, another time—yes?’ He stood inches from her, motionless as a tombstone.
In the space of seconds she’d found enough composure to take a good look at the man who tormented her; his ruddy brown face, yellowing teeth and newly shaven head displaying jug ears. ‘Yes, it’s him—the murderer of Mother Foy.’
Trapped by chains and large guards he snarled. The veins in his neck, red and swollen, were near bursting. ‘Hell will come for you, Megan,’ he hissed, as the guards dragged him off, shouting ‘We’re not finished with one another!’
‘That’s a positive identification, then,’ said Inspector Martin.
‘Hang him slow!’ she said, with a mixture of anger and fear.
Later, back in the warm farm house, with promises from Martin that she’d never see the Bull again, she felt stronger and happier. After dinner, Michael told his family what he and Megan had planned to do. ‘She will not come with me. Until she has definite proof of her husband, we don’t know one way or the other,’ he said. ‘I will help her find him after I return from Ireland. I’ve several horse deals to sort, so can she stay here with you?’
They thought Megan was a nice and pleasant girl, they’d become quite fond of her; yes, she could stay with them. Bridget loved her brother, who clearly held a great deal of affection for the Scottish lass. It did concern her that if Bruar was alive and well, his hopes to further a relationship with Megan would be dashed. Later, when the men went to bed, she spoke with the tinker girl who had stolen her dear brother’s heart.
‘To be sure our Michael seems taken with you. Be honest with me now, do you feel the same?’
‘In total frankness, I do not know. Hell, Bridget, my feet have hardly touched the soil while all manner of mishaps have befallen me. I can’t think straight at all. But one thing I do know, your brother sees worth in me. I will find Bruar, and I’ll tell you this, if he’s got a tiny spark of working brain, then I will take him home and live my life with him. Michael is aware of this, yet he is prepared to take a chance and wait on this outcome.’
‘Tell me something else, and it’s entirely up to yourself if you answer me. Have you slept with Michael yet?’
She waited for an answer, but Megan wasn’t ready to tell of tasting the serpent’s apple in the barn, not yet.
‘Part of me is hoping you find your man... dead. But it’s only because I hope my brother finds your love. I can’t imagine a nicer, more sensible girl than you. I know that’s an awful thing to say, but surely you can see the reasoning behind it?’
She smiled, but a stranger who had never met, let alone looked into the eyes of her Bruar, could never understand how painful those words were. She didn’t want him to be dead, but the opposite; she wanted her handsome, windswept ladd
ie to walk again on northern soil. Yet she knew that was only a fleeting dream. Reality might prove a far more demanding master in the days that lay ahead.
While filling the kettle and cutting bread for toast the next morning, she glanced from the kitchen window at the handsome Michael already risen with the cockerel. Shirtsleeves rolled up over elbows, he strode about the yard scattering corn to a regiment of hungry hens. His thick mop of brown hair was already combed to perfection. She’d not noticed before, but a thin line of hair was growing above his top lip. He wore green tweed breeches held by two leather braces buttoned at either side, rubber boots already covered in horse-dung and straw. Lifting the boiling kettle off the hot stove, she slipped out to join him. ‘What are you planning to do with the hairy lip you’ve on yourself, laddie?’ she teased.
‘I’m going to grow a handlebar moustache like that police sergeant back in the station in York; sure I am.’
‘Well, I hope you haven’t plans to go kissing me, only clean-shaven men will have the privilege.’
‘Is that the way of it?’ He laughed and lifted her clean off the ground and rubbed his unshaven mouth into her face.
‘You big brute, I’ll get you back for that.’ He let her go before turning on his heels. Breathlessly she chased him through the yard then back into the barn where he caught her in a firm embrace and began kissing her neck. Gently he rolled her onto the hay, but this time however she did not respond to passion’s temptations; quickly she rose and dusted the hay from her clothes. ‘I can’t, Michael, not this time, not until I know of Bruar. He will always be there, try to be patient. If you want me, then I can only be yours when totally sure.’ There was no need for an answer; the disappointment on his face said it all.
Within a week, Michael began to pack for his trip home to Ireland. She watched him carefully roll socks and gloves in balls, before slipping them into the side-pockets of a brown leather suitcase. Feeling slightly awkward and at a loose end, she asked, ‘Do you need a hand?’
‘If my mother was here she’d tell you I always pack things myself. Never mind that, me lovely colleen. Can I ask you to promise me that you will you stay indoors unless my sister or brother-in-law goes out with you?’
‘But what have I to worry about, with Buckley locked up in jail and in chains?’
‘Sure, it’s not him that bothers me, it’s some other fella stealing you.’
‘Don’t be so silly! Two men are quite enough, you know.’
They laughed and talked until, his packing finished, he stood on the back step. He’d bought a car, one with wipers to flick off rain and a loud horn. ‘I never was in favour of these blasted tin horses,’ he said, ‘I’d much rather have my bicycle or a good thick-rumped horse to get to the nearest train station. But it’s a long way to Liverpool to catch the ferry to the old country, so this boyo with its four wheels can do the job faster. Modern toys, eh, Megan?’
Just as he was about to say his farewell, another car was heard braking on the driveway; it was Inspector Martin.
‘Wonder what he wants?’ Her heart murmured low and questions teemed wildly in her mind. Both waited as the policeman dropped his hunched shoulders and stepped from the ominous black vehicle. ‘Nice day, folks,’ he said. ‘Can we go into the house?’ He was leading the way; without a word they followed.
‘I won’t beat about the bush,’ he said seriously, ‘but last night, while being transported to the main courthouse for trial, that slimy eel escaped. Bull Buckley has managed to evade capture since. I’m sorry to tell you, but he’s slipped right through our fingers.’
Michael wrapped his strong arms around her to no avail. She felt only the beating of her terrified heart. Martin offered protection in a safe house, yet she failed to hear him. Bridget and Stephen’s horses clattered loudly on the cobbled yard, and still not the slightest sound did she hear. Her vulnerability put a cloak around her, she was helpless. Seeing the police car, Bridget quickly came in to see what was wrong, while Stephen stabled the horses. ‘What manner of man is he, and shame on a useless police force,’ Stephen said, on hearing the awful news.
Bridget strode to a drinks cabinet, poured a stiff whisky and asked, ‘Anyone else want one?’ Emptying the glass she added, ‘To think of that terrible man running around out there makes my flesh crawl.’
Megan took a glass and did the same. ‘Mine doesn’t feel too great neither,’ she shouted; then apologised for raising her voice.
Michael forced her to sit down, and she instantly withdrew into herself. Even circled as she was by friends, their presence failed to drive the demon from her side. Vivid images of terror loomed above her, of Buckley whistling the ‘high road,’ biting hedgehogs and promising to take her to hell. Buckley, in all his evil dominance, was right back in her body and soul. She began to scream hysterically, and only when Bridget slapped her hard across her face did she come out of it.
With dogged insistence Inspector Martin assured her they’d get their man, but he was wasting his breath as far as she was concerned. He was uncatchable. That inhuman product of evil would never hang from a rope-end until she’d been dealt with by him.
‘I’m so sorry Michael’, she told him in sombre tones, ‘this is too much for me. I think if I lose myself on the open road it will offer me more safety than these four walls. Anyway, I wouldn’t put it past him to come here and terrorise these kind folks.’
Her bedroom offered sanctuary and privacy to fill a suitcase with the clothes Bridget gave her, and she was soon standing on the doorstep.
Michael’s jaw had a stiff, determined look to it as he took the case from her hand and said she was going nowhere. ‘I’m not afraid of him, I told you that, But this trip is important, else I’d set off and catch him myself; or wait here and shoot his hide full of holes. He’s a coward, and can only hurt weaker people with fear. Stephen has his guns.’
Stephen was worried though, and not for Megan; his responsibility was to his wife and child. ‘I agree with her,’ he told Michael, ‘and I feel it would be better if she left. I’ll take her to a station.’ He brought a wallet from his jacket pocket, took out some money and pushed it into her hand.
The men began arguing, but Inspector Martin intervened and said, ‘Buckley will be caught; now his identity is known. Fugitives don’t get far.’
His words meant nothing.
Michael directed Megan outside, where he put the suitcase into his car. ‘I’m taking you to Ireland, and that’s that. And before I hear “What about our arrangement to find Bruar”, I’m a man of my word. We will definitely search for him, but just not in the near future while Buckley’s around. We’ll come back to see him hang.’
The police officer seconded his words. ‘Oh, you can count on that. No stone will be left unturned until he dangles from the rope.’
Michael went on, ‘Buckley will never know you’re in Ireland, and will have no idea where to search.’ To his sister and Stephen, he said it was highly unlikely a hunted man would come where there may easily be police waiting. ‘No, I feel he’ll lie low for a time. Now come on, Megan, let’s go—over the water to dear old Erin’s Isle.’
What should she do? If she took her chances on the road she’d be forced to come across circles of gypsies, where in time he’d discover her. If she ventured alone somehow their paths were bound to cross. There was no choice.
THIRTEEN
The port of Holyhead near Liverpool was a sprawling mass of humanity, struggling and jostling for space. Ship-hands, using every minute to get their ships moored or ready for sailing, were oblivious to other harbour business. Only the gangways along which they unloaded and loaded precious cargo mattered to the dozens of burly sailors whose job it was to see the goods on and off the huge carrier ships.
This was a new sight to eyes that had seen only hills, moors and mountains high. She clung tightly to Michael until they were safely onboard the giant ferry which carried all kinds of folks to the south of Ireland. The simple words ‘haste ye back
’ came from the ancients in her head, and tears rolled over shiny cheeks while she watched the mainland fade into a thin horizontal line of mist, then disappear. Michael wiped the tears from her face along with salty sea spray, squeezed her arm in reassurance and whispered softly, ‘He can’t reach you now.’
Who did he mean, she wondered, wild Buckley or her Bruar?
People thronged the decks, some passing with a smile or nod, others with stern looks, although few seemed sad. This uplifted her heavy heart.
The sea, like her mood, was serene and quiet, and soon, with their journey over, they were disembarking at the capital port of Dublin. This city, where she imagined men stood on street corners sharing tales of great politicians, and the country where there were tiny magical people called leprechauns, fascinated her. Dublin was full to bursting with all kinds of people, talking, it seemed to her, in several different tongues. Michael told her she was privileged to hear the Irish Gaelic, which much to his dismay might soon be heard less as more folks spoke the English, especially the young. She said that in Scotland the northern folks were being forced to go the same way. She’d even heard some say that in schools a child not speaking English should go home and not come back until they’d scoured the Gaelic from their mouths. ‘My father-in-law told me that,’ she added.
