Bruar's Rest

were closing in. Carefully she knelt at the edge of the bog that had brought his doom. His pleading eyes filled with fear. ‘Fetch the men, I’d rather they shot me than die like this.’
    ‘Sorry, Bull, but that’s not my way.’ Mocking, she repeated his own words—‘Hell’s here! Well, seeing as you have such a liking for the place, welcome, you’re in it. Before you leave me, take a look around—do you see them waiting in the fog, those ghosts from the past, people you murdered? Oh yes, my fiendish friend. No one escapes vengeance.’
    She smiled as the ooze sucked mercilessly. His struggling only hastened his grisly end, and as he made one last desperate attempt to gasp for air, she ran her fingers through his red, curly hair and sang, ‘I’ll go the high road, while you go the low...’
    Deep and black, the bog left only the smallest bubble of his last breath. She stood up and breathed clear air. The mist was wet but it tasted good. ‘Revenge should taste sweet,’ she said, turning on her heels and skipping along the secret causeways threading through the hellish puddles of liquid peat.
    O’Connor was first to meet her and asked if she had his gun. She winked, smiled and said, ‘Sorry, but it sank with Buckley.’
    ‘Oh, ’twas a fine pistol was that, but I’ll get another.’
    Michael joined them, caught her in his arms and asked anxiously, ‘Are you alright? Tell me where he is, and I’ll rip out the evil bastard’s throat.’
    She glanced over her shoulder and said, ‘The thing about cats is they have no idea of the power of water, even muddy water. My granny used to say, if a wild cat frightens you then find a bog. They’ll never follow you onto a moor where peat puddles lie. Yes, he’s gone, and will bother no one again, ever!’
    As they made a happy journey back to Ballyshan little was said. No doubt each thought of Buckley’s last moments, and about how this slip of a young woman had shaken off her fears. She had replaced them with a solid, positive vision, and faced down a fear so awful it would eventually have strangled her. Megan had dealt with a killer whom others could not. She hadn’t felt so good in ages, she was new, alive and needed to share her joy. So she linked an arm with Michael and asked, ‘What would be a good time for a wedding in these parts?’
    He stopped dead in his muddy tracks and lifted her into the air. A strong breeze parted the mist, revealing a deep blue sky. A sleepy sun scattered its rays across the moor behind them, and everyone shouted ‘Yahoo!’
    She was determined now to put all thought of her past as far away as possible. Ballyshan and all its splendour would be her domain. She would be mistress of its lands and keeper of its bogs!
    Mrs Sullivan met them at the door, her rosary beads tied in knots with praying. ‘Oh, thank the Holy Virgin you’re all safe and sound. Me heart’s been going sixty to the dozen, so it has. Is that bad man dead or chased away?’
    All eyes turned to Megan; after all it was her story to tell. But instead of saying what happened between her and Buckley she waved it away with a gesture. He’d been buried. How could she describe her feelings of release, watching the top of his head disappearing into the mire? She didn’t need to put it into words.

     
    The weekend arrived with O’Connor getting ready for home, his secret hidey-hole somewhere an hour’s drive away. Paddy would work the morning and take himself off to Dublin in the afternoon, leaving Terry and Johnno to head home with a juicy tale to tell, no doubt.
    Michael and Megan were lovers now and not ashamed to show it to the world. ‘You shall want nothing,’ he told her. ‘All my attention will be you first, horses second. Lord, I’m a happy man for sure.’
    She smiled, kissed him gently and said, ‘Time is beginning to heal a lot of scars in my mind, dearest lad, but time has its own pace. Be patient with me, a lot has happened that I’m still not over.’
    ‘Whatever you want, my love, as long as it takes.’
    ‘Oh Michael, I’m such a fortunate lassie. What female wouldn’t give an eye-tooth for what I have?’
    ‘I’m the lucky one,’ he told her, heading off to saddle his favourite horse, adding that she’d soon have her own to ride. She settled for a chat with Mrs Sullivan, who was busy sorting through the muddy clothes left for her to wash.
    ‘Me hands will be shrivelled into black prunes by the time I’ve worked through this