Evergreen (a suspenseful murder mystery) (5 page)

Patrick watched him. He finished by making the sign of the cross, nodding respectfully at the grave of his son and then left.

Patrick had shed a tear, but the father of the murdered child hadn’t. He shook his head as he wondered why. Alone, the rain streaming down his cheeks like simulated tears, he skulked over to a grave on the edge of the graveyard, one of the biggest ones there. He took a knee, picked some weeds from the muddy ground, wiped some dirt from the gravestone.

“Hey dad,” he said softly, offering the gravestone a meek smile.

He cried for days after his father’s death, he still cried when he thought about it. His father was a tough man, a true warrior. He had planned to give up the bare-knuckle boxing but he wanted one more fight, one big pay day. They spent months training him for it, he was getting old, losing touch with his once muscular body, but by the end of the training he was as fit as he’d ever been. On the day of the fight, he’d lost touch. He hadn’t been able to connect with any of his punches, was unable to avoid even the most obvious of blows.

His age, his slowness, had gotten the better of him. Patrick hadn’t been there to witness the final blow, the one that killed him, but he died in the arms of his friends -- Aidan included -- surrounded by the community that he helped to create, a community that Patrick was now an integral part of. Aidan hadn’t cried then either, but he consoled Patrick, he was there when Patrick needed him.

He stood, brushed down his pants, said goodnight to his father and then trudged off. Aidan had been there for him, for both of them, and now Patrick needed to be there for Aidan.

10

Patrick watched the Boyle and the Dolan families drag their caravans out of Evergreen on the back of rented Land Rovers. The homes had been stationary for decades, had housed generations of each family who had no intention to leave. The creak of the rusted wheels was like a high-pitched dagger through the heart of the
community; the tracks they left in the sodden ground would never fade.

They weren’t just leaving the park, they were leaving the county. The families were young; the elder Boyle, grandfather of the current patriarch, was the only survivor of the time when the first settlers had arrived.

Everyone came to watch them go, not a word passed between them as they stared forlornly and wondered if they should be next.

“That narrows it down a bit,” Seamus said, retaining some of his pluck despite the melancholic aura draped over the park.

“What?” Patrick was nursing a whiskey, it was morning and he was drinking again, he thought it would help to drown his sorrows and lift his spirits, but he couldn’t bring himself to lift the glass to his lips.

“The killer,” Seamus explained. “One less possibility now, eh?”

Patrick hadn’t thought about that, but the bartender was right. If the killer was one of them, the Boyles and Dolans had just done him a favour by narrowing down the search. Unless one of
them
was the killer of course, in which case the murders would either stop or the killer would have to sneak back into the community.

“If it
is
one of us,” Patrick said.

“You’re not convinced?”

“Are you?”

Seamus held Patrick’s stare for a moment, looked around the bar. In the corner Mrs Byrne sat smoking her pipe, not paying attention to anyone or anything around her as usual, concentrating only on the smoke wafting from her toxic stick. No one else was in the pub; no one else had turned to the drink in this time of distress.

“I have a theory,” Seamus said, leaning forward.

Patrick sighed. He had heard a few theories himself. He had spent the morning doing some investigating work, walking around the community, asking everyone if they had seen anything and getting their spin on the murders. He had planned to take Aidan with him, to help speed things along, but he couldn’t bring himself to ask.

He had heard them all, but most of them had centred on the Aherns, a theory he planned to follow up himself later. A few fingers had also been pointed at members of the community, all of who Patrick had been able to rule out, as they had been in the pub with him during the murder of the McCleary boy and the Brady girls.

“I think it’s your man Aidan,” Seamus said quietly.

Patrick looked up, suddenly interested. “He was here when--”

“When the little boy and girls were killed, yes I know, but there’s something not right about him.”

Patrick raised an eyebrow.

“I know he’s your friend, but more’s the reason you must have noticed it.”

Patrick nodded in agreement without even realising it.

“He’s been acting weird since this whole thing started. Something’s not right, he’s up to something, and if not, then he
knows
something.”

He moved to add something else, shifting in even closer, but he stopped when the door to the pub opened and the accused, Aidan McCleary, stepped through. Seamus sprung back upright, quickly and nervously grabbed at a clean glass and began to rub it cleaner whilst breaking into a whistle.

“Pint,” Aidan said succinctly, with a nod to the anxious bartender. Seamus nearly dropped the glass, he looked around quickly, as if forgetting himself and expecting someone else to serve the accused his drink, before staggering to the pumps and pulling Aidan his pint.

“Another family gone,” Aidan said blankly, without even looking at Patrick.

Patrick nodded. “Two. Boyles
and
Dolans.”

Aidan shook his head. “Didn’t mean them, they left hours ago. I meant the O’Shaughnessy’s. They’re packing up now.”

Patrick was about to take a drink, he removed his lips from the glass, slammed it down on the bar. “What?”

Aidan gave a solemn nod. “Adam O’Shaughnessy said he’s had enough. He’s taking his wife and kid and getting out. Said he has friends up near the coast, up at Willow Wood.”

Patrick grunted with disgust, shook his head from side to side. “With the Aherns?”

“I think so.”

“He’s friends with the fucking Aherns?”

Aidan shrugged, “Looks like it.”

Patrick downed his glass of whiskey; it tasted bitter and unpleasant on his tongue but was a better prospect than it had felt moments earlier. He stood up, clenched his hands into fists, his emotions finally vented.

He stormed out of the pub, headed straight for the O’Shaughnessy’s lot. Adam was one of the newcomers to Evergreen. His family wasn’t part of the community, he had lived further south. They’d moved near Evergreen when Adam was a teenager, in his late teens he had taken a job on a construction site nearby, had become friendly with an Evergreen local named Patricia. He had eventually married her and had preferred to settle in Evergreen than anywhere else. They accepted him, welcomed him with open arms, now he was cuddling up to the Aherns and taking their women away. Patrick was furious.

He was packing the last decade of his life into the boot of his car when Patrick saw him. He looked up, gave Patrick a sorrowful, almost apologetic look, but Patrick saw it as something else. He didn’t see the pity, didn’t see the apology; he saw the cocky, smug expression of a man who had been getting his own way. If he was friends with the Aherns there was also a good chance he was siding with the killer, he may even
be
the killer. Patrick felt a vein throb in his forehead, his fingernails dug deep into the base of his palm, drawing blood.

He wanted to demand answers, to demand that O’Shaughnessy tell him why he was friends with the Aherns, what he had been telling them, what he had been letting them get away with, what atrocities he had helped them to commit, but by the time he reached him the anger had boiled over and he could barely speak.

He hit him, hard. Adam O’Shaughnessy wasn’t expecting it, no one was. His wife and daughter had been watching from the open door of the caravan, they both uttered startled cries; his young daughter hugged her mother tightly. Patrick didn’t see them, didn’t hear them.

Adam hit the floor, crumpling up on impact, a soft, whining sound emanated from his mouth. He held his hand to his face, looked up with those pleading, desperate eyes; those guilty, evil eyes. Patrick hit him again, straddled him like a jockey on a fallen horse and then pummelled him with a barrage of left and right hooks. He punched until his fists bled and the blood mingled with the rivers running from O'Shaughnessy’s face. He couldn’t feel his hands, couldn’t clearly picture the face he was punching -- distorted by blood, by anguish, by his own pounding fists.

Others came to watch, but none tried to intervene. They all stood and stared, wondering if Patrick had finally caught the killer and deciding that, if he had, he was probably getting what he deserved.

When O’Shaughnessy’s wife couldn’t bear to watch her husband beaten any longer, she threw herself into the melee, received a punch across the temple for her troubles. She stumbled backwards, toppled over, her expression anguished, horrified -- her temple imprinted with the blood smeared stencil of Patrick’s fist.

He stopped, watching her. He pulled back, sucked his fist into his stomach. His eyes deglazed, the anger faded. He stood up, looked down at the whining, hissing mess of blood in front of him. Adam was struggling to breath; his wife was crying; his daughter was screaming.

Patrick woke up to what he had just done. He hesitated, mumbled, stuttered an explanation.

“You bastard!” Patricia screamed at him, firing angry spittle into the air.

“I didn’t--”

“You fucking bastard!” she yelled again, frothing at the mouth.

Patrick composed himself, tried to defend his actions. “You’re friends with the Aherns,” he said, hating himself the moment he spoke. It was no defence of his actions.

Patricia stood on wobbly legs. She threw herself at her husband, ran a finger across his face, tracing a line in the blood. He coughed, spluttered, tried to tell her something but failed, horribly.

“He had this coming,” Aidan said, stepping forward and backing his friend up. “This is not a time to piss off with the Aherns. Evergreen needs to stick together, not run off with our enemies.”

“
Andrew Ahern
,” Patricia said softly, her words barely audible.

“What?” Patrick asked.

She looked up, gave him a deep and sorrowful look through tear drenched eyes. “It was Andrew Ahern. They’re our friends. Andrew and Linda Ahern.
Not
the Aherns.
Not
even travellers. They’re English.”

“But... Willow Park,” Patrick stuttered.

“
Willow Walk
. Nowhere near, it’s a different fucking county!”

Patrick felt his heart drop, felt a wedge of regret lodge in his throat. He looked down at his hands, cut and disfigured. Two of the knuckles on his right hand had popped out of place; the little balls seemed to be making an escape towards his wrist. He couldn’t feel the pain before, now they were on fire.

He looked up; past the hysterical woman and her beaten husband; beyond their young daughter who stood, in horror, silently screaming into her hands. The people who had been watching were beginning to drift away, none of them said a word, not even to each other. A few of them gave Patrick blank looks, he saw sympathy there, he knew that they would have done the same thing; that they didn’t think worse of him for what he did. They were angry that the O’Shaughnessy’s were leaving in such hard times, they were jealous and suspicious.

The fact that they didn’t think less of him, only made Patrick feel worse.

“I’m so sorry,” he said genuinely. “I…” he froze when Patricia looked at him again.

“Leave!” she said, trying her best to scream; her lungs and heart failing her. “
Just leave us alone
.”