Bruar's Rest

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.
    ‘I will not, now go away. If Buckley comes, he’ll kill every mother’s son of you, but not me! Oh no, he’ll not get me. I’d rather starve to death than go by his hand. Do you hear me? Get away.’
    ‘My darling girl, he’s not coming. It’s three in the afternoon. Come and have some tea with Nick O’Connor before he goes home.’
    ‘No, I will not!’ She was about to scream at them, when a shout from outside drew Michael away, leaving Mrs Sullivan to talk to her.
    ‘Some scoundrel ran along the dyke, Michael, he’s heading for the back of the house,’ shouted Terry, then added, ‘Nick, he’s ran up the back o’ ye, try to head him into the