by Jess Smith
How pained and lost he seemed after his agonising wait, as his face searched hers for an answer. When she saw this, it wasn’t in her nature to hurt him. ‘I’ll wait for the right moment,’ she promised herself.
She yearned to leave but her comfortable surroundings and the beautiful heather-filled moorland offered her a place of peace, to dream of times past and those never to come again. Anyway, who did she have in Scotland who cared about her? With Rachel and Nicholas in America, and Bruar gone, there was nobody apart from old Doctor Mackenzie, who was probably dead for all she knew. Buckley would be very much alive, however, with his catlike ways, and would certainly be prowling around. He was another good reason to stay.
Summer was almost upon them, and still she delayed her answer to the ever-patient, doting Michael, who did not press her, much as he wanted to. Then, one morning after breakfast, he summoned everyone into the kitchen where he dropped a bombshell!
‘I wonder what he’s doing now,’ she thought, listening to him giving his orders. Mrs Sullivan was just as much in the dark. One by one they gingerly stepped into the warm kitchen, to see a bottle of champagne and several tall-stemmed glasses.
‘My,’ said Paddy, scratching his head and removing a faded cloth cap, ‘I wonder what the celebration is.’
‘Might be that new stallion he’s been on about. I reckon he’s bought the beauty,’ said Johnno, lowering his voice as Michael strode into the room, smiling from ear to ear.
‘Well, me hearty fellas, I have a fine bit of news for you all!’ Striding over to Megan, he took her hand and kissed it. Hoping she was wrong, she waited for his next romantic gesture. This wasn’t how she’d imagined it to be. He took a small box from his pocket, opened it, and then on one knee he asked her in front of everyone to be his wife!
Why did she feel like a fish hanging from a hook, suffering its slow, agonising failure to breathe? Unable to take in this awkward situation she was stunned into silence. He stood up, uncorked the bottle and began to pour each of his friends a glass.
There were yippees and choruses of ‘He’s a jolly good fellow’, along with ‘Bloody time ye got yourself a wife.’
Terry, who’d said little, was eyeing Megan. ‘Well, colleen, put the poor man out of his misery with an answer.’
The words didn’t come. They were there deep in her dry throat, but not one came. What did come though was action. Her hand reached out to grab a cardigan, and a severely frightened black-haired tinker rushed from the room and did not stop running until she’d found her secret rock seat in the middle of the bogland. Here she drew breath and tried to clear her clouded mind. How could he do that in front of his friends and workers, and Mrs Sullivan? But on the other hand, what was so wrong with a romp in the hay and then accepting his ring? Her thoughts had until then been focussed on grieving the loss of her man, and now the sudden reality of becoming a rich man’s wife was terrifying. Was it what she wanted? Why did she have to be such a loner? ‘If only Rachel or my mother was here to share this episode with, they’d soon tell me what to do, but as things stand I’m so mixed up.’ All morning and into the afternoon she thought about nothing else but taking on the role of Michael’s wife. Could she fulfil his expectations? Would she open her mouth and shame him at such times as his county friends came calling? Up till then she’d seen none of them. Everything seemed to fade off into the distance as a rumble of thunder rent the air. She’d been so wrapped up in her thoughts, the blackened sky above her head had gone unnoticed. ‘I’d best get back and face the music,’ she thought. ‘They’ll all be waiting on an answer.’
Thankfully, Ballyshan was in sight as another loud clap of thunder shook the earth beneath her feet. The short time between the flashes of forked lightning and roars of thunder forecast a wild, storm-filled night ahead. On approaching the driveway she saw someone at the front door talking to Michael. Was it the last peal of thunder following on the heels of a severe flash that had momentarily blinded her? She couldn’t say, but something inside said, ‘hide!’ Hidden from sight behind a wall running up the side of the house she waited until the visitor had gone. She watched him as he walked past. A mighty flash of lightning stopped him in his tracks. He pulled a torn collar under his chin and stared skywards, and as he did so she saw the unmistakable, lean, sallow face of the Devil—Bull Buckley was back!
Every sinew tightened like a vice. Tearing free from her hiding place when he’d gone, she bolted through the back door, screaming hysterically.
Mrs Sullivan got such a fright she ran into the front room for Michael. Her screams brought the men hurrying from the stables.
‘Is it the storm, lass?’ asked Mrs Sullivan, ‘it’s the time of year for them, so tis.’
‘God love us, woman, yiv put the fear o’ death into the beasts, and them sparked up with the storm already,’ cried Paddy. Terry and Johnno also were vocal in their displeasure at her ridiculous screams. But none of them knew the cause except Michael. He’d seen that jutting jaw and those protruding eyes before. ‘Come on now, boys, give her a bit of peace. Megan doesn’t scare easy, something is wrong. Tell me now, what terrible thing has put the fear of death into my love?’ He put an arm around her as she snuggled into his body, clinging for dear life.
‘You’re right, Michael, I have seen Death!’ She got up and ran to the door. ‘Standing on the other side of this door no more than five minutes ago was Buckley! He’s found me. I tell you I’m as dead as stone now.’
‘This was the reason I took Megan away from England,’ he told everyone, then added, ‘Megan has been stalked by a street-fighter, and he seems hell-bent on terrorising her.’
Bull Buckley, the man who laughed in the face of the mighty law enforcers, had followed her across the Irish Sea. Perhaps the Seer of Balnakiel had destined her to be a victim of this hellish demon, and not, as she had once firmly believed, to find Bruar and live happily ever after. Was this the reason for her search—to allow her to be chased by a cursed beast? Was it the curse of Rory now laid on her shoulders? This man could not be snared because he wasn’t human!
‘What did he want here?’ Terry asked. She waited for Michael’s answer.
‘Looking for a job, he said. I told him I didn’t need anybody, but he insisted on coming back tomorrow anyway.’
‘He will, but not for a job—he’ll be coming for me!’
‘Then he’s in for a big surprise,’ said Paddy rising to his feet. The others nodded in agreement. Johnno seemed disturbed by the stalker, and said he’d a power of stealth if he managed to find Megan here. ‘Better get some help, Michael?’ he said uneasily.
‘Aye, best we do. Come on, Megan, it’s time I let you meet some friends.’ Michael held her close, and she felt his strength.
In a soldier-like fashion, Johnno and Terry brought the big saloon car from its garage. How often had she heard its whirring engine gliding out to take the men on some secret mission or other, and now she too was part of that company.
Behind her on the bog-ground a stray dog howled, ‘The auld Pooka is heralding some man’s doom.’ Terry stretched his neck, sniffed the wet air and added, ‘He’ll linger around the place until the Banshee shakes the victim’s shroud.’
Megan’s background told her what was out there: it was a demon dog come looking for a newly dead soul. Her flesh crawled with images of deep-seated superstitions.
Rain fell from the heavens in thick sheets. It was all the wipers could do to keep the windscreen clear. Terry, Paddy and Johnno sat silently in the back.
After about an hour the vehicle crunched to a halt. Michael laid a reassuring hand on her shoulder as he took a black and green handkerchief from his pocket and tied it round her eyes. ‘This is for your protection; I’ll take it off when we’re inside.’
Beneath the blindfold she could just make out a fringe of dandelions bunched intermittently along the bottom of a whitewashed wall. It reminded her of Helen’s low-roofed white cottage in Durness. Rain puddles were scattered everywhe
re; she squelched through one, soaking her shoes. A creaking door opened and she was led inside.
‘Hello, Nick, we have a problem,’ said Michael, sitting Megan down on a creaking chair. He went on, ‘This is the colleen I told you about. She has a problem needs fixing. We think you can fix it.’
Nick shuffled to his feet, and she heard him lighting a cigarette. He cleared his throat, then to everyone’s surprise insisted the blindfold be removed.
‘Are ye sure now, sir? Begging your pardon, but she’s not one o’ us.’ Terry was adamant.
Johnno joined him. ‘Aye, Terry, she’s not given Michael an answer, and for all we knows she might be a spy. Na, I’d keep her eyes shut, that’s my opinion.’
Nick quietened them both, ‘Boys, boys, let’s ask her.’
She’d heard that voice before! That same low growl when he cleared his throat... but surely it couldn’t be?
He leaned closer to her, and she could feel his breath on her face. Her heart thumped so hard against her ribs she felt that any minute it would leave her body and roll onto the floor. His fingers felt clumsy, yet with a gentleness to them as he unfastened the blindfold. As it fell from her eyes, there in the dim light of a candle, standing smiling with an unsightly gash running down his face, was Nicholas O’Connor! The useless Irishman she couldn’t wait to see the back of in the Angus Glen.
‘It’s a small world now, is it not?’ He held out a hand, changed his mind and hugged her instead. She was speechless, as were the others. Putting his strong arm around her shoulder, he lowered her into a more comfortable chair. ‘I knew when Michael described you to me wit that black curly hair an’ devil o’ a temper, and said you were a Scottish tinker, it had to be the same lassie who shared me campsite back in those bitter cold glens. But tell me, why wid ye be in England?’
Michael was prancing up and down. ‘What manner of madness is this? Why did you not say you thought my Megan and yours were the same? I’m speechless.’
‘Coincidence is a strange thing to be sure,’ O’Connor said, patting Michael on the back. Megan was no stranger to life’s twists and turns, but when he asked again why she had left the north she simply said it was how things turned out. She wanted to tell him about Bruar, but rather than upset Michael she just said, ‘Folks were telling me about hotel work, and while there I got tangled with some gypsies.’
‘And was this when you and this poisoned person crossed paths?’
‘Aye it was, and for certain he’ll kill me.’
‘Oh, well now, we’ll see about that.’
‘He has nine lives, and has so far lost none.’
He put his hands on hers, smiled and said, ‘I sit here this night a proud man who has organised many exploits for the good of this old country of mine. Not a drop of liquor has passed me lips in a long while. I’m respected now. If it hadn’t been for your saving my life that day after them ploughmen left me for dead, like Rory, I would be nothing. I owe a lot to you Megan, and as God’s me witness, if a man wants to harm you, then he’ll have to come through me.’ She winced as a revolver was laid on the table. The Irishman added, ‘Me and this old friend.’
‘I’m puzzled by the changes in you, O’Connor.’ She had to find out why his path had led him here. ‘Remember when Sergeant Wilson came among us that time with a picture of Kitchener, and I thought it was Rory?’
‘Aye, and you were goin’ to stick him for telling the boys that war was for the good o’ the country. Sure now that face on you was a sight.’
‘Yes, but I heard you say that war wasn’t your thing. Yet here you are hiding from your enemies, blindfolding visitors and so on.’
‘War with Germany was one thing. We fight for our independence, and that’s different.’
‘Its not, if all you do is shoot each other!’ She wondered what Doctor Mackenzie would think of him now. After seeing his bloodsoaked body the last time, his weatherbeaten and destitute face, and saddest of all, those begging eyes.
‘When me wounds healed I went back to the auld campsite. Oh bless us, it wis all burned and empty; a lot like meself. I sat down near where your mother sleeps, under the willows, listened for the birds singing, but it was eerie an’ silent. Not hearing you and the cracking o’ Rory’s voice, just echoes in me head. I sat awhile in me loneliness with only wind for company. The night came an’ I wanted to light a fire; you know, for the last time. But have you ever heard of a campfire in a graveyard? That’s what it was like, Megan; a place for peaceful ghosts. Sitting on me log, I suddenly sees a path in me head. All lit up it was; on and on it wound until I could see in the distance—the auld country. So me feet got moving, and when I came back to see all the troubles, I decided to turn around me life. One man tells another, an’ before I know it here I am—a fighter for the cause.’
‘So you’ve ended up poisoning yourself with bullets, instead of gut-rot drink.’
He laughed loudly, and agreed that both have the power over man. ‘Oh, me little wild Megan, sure there is no understandin’ in that head o’ yours. Now, let’s make plans to catch Bull Buckley and rid you of him once and for all.’
She smiled. It was hard to believe how many bends circumstance had pushed her around. She was beginning to feel like a cork caught in the coastal tides of two estuaries. Looking into the scarred and rugged face of her late father-in-law’s boozing buddy, who would have ever imagined he’d find his feet and respect from his fellow Irishmen? A picture formed in her mind of him in his smelly clothes, the beer belly, hairy and fat, hanging over loose-fitting, greasy trousers; unshaven, vomiting over dykes. ‘Funny old world,’ she thought, but was too much the lady to remind him.
A wobbly-legged farmhouse table served as the focal point both for them to chat over journeys past and, more importantly, how to dispose of Buckley. The serious intensity of the night discussion brought moths to join them and flutter close to the candle flame. Singed wings fluttered through the smoke-filled room adding to the atmosphere. Daylight was pushing between clouds left after the storm had passed through; the earth became bright as they decided on the plan of action.
When Buckley came back they would be waiting. She gazed at the men, each of whom showed a determination the like of which she’d never seen before. It gave her a feeling of inner strength. Maybe this time, finally, Buckley’s end was in sight. Somewhere far off a bell in a church tower tolled a slow recurring note. She felt cold sitting close to Michael, yet her skin sweated. After all, Bull was no ordinary man, but her companions were.
O’Connor joined them on their return journey to Ballyshan. They arrived before seven am. Buckley wasn’t expected until noon, enough time for them to catch some sleep. It came easy to the men, but not to her. Each time her heavy eyelids closed, his leering face loomed above her with a croaking voice singing ‘I’ll take the high road you take the low’. Mother Foy’s old wrinkled neck was being throttled like a farmer strangling a chicken. Shire Beth rode to the rescue, hot breath snorting from nostrils, with Sam on her back knocking the beast-man face down on the muddy ground. Memory followed awful memory, until at last Mrs Sullivan called to her through an opening bedroom door, ‘Breakfast is ready’.
After a quick bite the men set their plan in action. Terry would wait behind the far end of the stables; Paddy and Johnno by the back door. Proud O’Connor, armed with his trusty pistol, would hide by the wall. Michael would open the door, as Mrs Sullivan, who’d been informed of the trap, was to try to do her dusting as normal. Megan was instructed to stay in her bedroom. She went without protest, armed with a good sharp meat knife.
Eleven o’ clock struck loudly from the grandfather clock that stood like a guard beside a cast-iron umbrella stand. If the old housekeeper dusted it once she did so a dozen times. ‘Go and chop up some kindling, Mrs Sullivan,’ ordered Michael. ‘God, woman, I’m sore in the head watching the speed of that duster.’
‘I’ll not be doing anything of the kind. Chopping wood, an old body like me? Where’s the respect in you?�
�� He immediately apologised, and told her to find something else to do apart from blasted dusting. ‘Go see how Megan is.’
Megan smiled at the old woman. ‘He’s chased you in here, has he?’
‘Oh, the cheek of him. I was coming anyway, thought you might need a bit of company.’
‘Is there any sign of Buckley?’
‘Don’t worry, they’ll get him and whip the flesh inch by inch from his hide.’
‘He’s not got any hide,’ she told her, ‘only green slimy scales.’
The well-dusted grandfather clock struck the hour he had named for coming; Megan grabbed hold of Mrs Sullivan’s hands and clung until her knuckles turned bleach white. ‘Don’t fret, my dear, those boys have fought battles up and down the land. They know what’s to be done.’
‘They have no knowledge of Buckley.’
The silence seemed to stretch from wall to wall of the room, and if a pin had fallen on the paisley-patterned carpet it would have been heard. Outside the men, with hawks’ eyes and owls’ ears, listened for every movement, as shadows from a cloud-strewn sky played hide-and-seek with their vigilance. Everyone waited on the thud of the doorknocker. But nothing came; another hour and still no Buckley. The raw stress was placing Megan once more under enormous strain. Mrs Sullivan couldn’t stand the waiting, saying, ‘I’m away to get you a drink of water in case the faint comes on you, all colour’s gone from those cheeks of yours.’
After the old lady left Megan ran over and locked the door. ‘You’re out there, Bull Buckley. I feel the evil, I know it!’ With all her strength she pushed a large oak wardrobe over against the door, then piled up chairs and carpets and even her bed until a mountainous barricade imprisoned her in the bedroom. How long she sat shivering in fear she’d no knowledge. No sound from outside, no shouts, no gunfire, nothing, yet she was certain he was there, leering from a hole.
Michael and Mrs Sullivan began banging loudly on the door. ‘Megan, for goodness sake, let us in,’ he called.
