Ashworth Hall - Anne Perry [125]
“One o’ their own done wot?” Her voice was rising higher, and she had to try hard not to shout. “That were two days before Neassa got killed. There weren’t nuffink to protect ’im from. You sayin’ they drowned ’im in Liverpool ’arbour ter save ’im from bein’ blamed fer summink wot ’adn’t ’appened yet?”
“No! Of course I’m not. But it can’t be the truth. It’s a lie somewhere. It’s a very clever one—”
“It in’t a lie, Finn! The only ones wot’s lyin’ is Neassa Doyle’s brothers, wot really killed ’er an’ shaved ’er ’ead fer bein’ an ’ore an’ goin’ after a Protestant. They blamed Chinnery ’cos they din’t ’ave the stomach ter stand up an’ be counted for wot they believed in.”
“No! No, they didn’t—”
“Then ’oo did? ’cos it weren’t Chinnery, lessn’n ’e come back from the grave an’ scared ’er ter death.”
“Don’t speak about it like that!” he shouted, raising his hand as if to strike her. “It isn’t funny, God damn you!” His voice was thick with emotion. Anger and confusion were all but choking him. “Haven’t you even a decent respect for the dead?”
“What dead? Only Irish dead?” she shouted back, refusing to retreat. “Course I ’ave! Enough ter want the truth fer ’em. But I got respect fer English dead too—if Chinnery didn’t do it then I won’t stand ’ere an’ ’ave anyone say as ’e did! It in’t honest.” She drew in her breath in a gasp. There were tears running down her cheeks, but she could not stop. “You told me ter face the truth, no matter ’ow much it ’urt. You said it were like a little bit of us dyin’ if we ’ad to admit our own ’as done sum-mink terrible.” She waved her arm in the air, pointing at him. “Well, you gotta do it! Them Doyles killed ’er an’ let Chinnery take the blame ’cos they ’adn’t the guts ter say as they done it to ’er theirselves ’cos she let ’em down by fallin’ in love wi’ O’Day. Well, they did, an’ you denyin’ it in’t going ter make it different.”
“It’s a lie,” he repeated, but there was no belief left in his voice, only anger and hurt and confusion. “It can’t be true.” She fished in her pocket and brought out the newspaper clippings. She pushed them at him without letting go of them. “Look fer yerself. Can yer read?”
“Of course I can read.” He stared at them without touching them. “We’ve known all about it for years! Everybody knows!”
“Everybody knowin’ don’t make it true,” she argued. “They only know it ’cos someone said so. They weren’t there, were they?”
“No, don’t be stupid!” he said with scalding disgust. “That’s an idiotic thing to say—”
“Then ’ow could they know?” Her reasoning was impeccable. “They know ’cos them Doyle brothers said so. Drystan O’Day must a’ thought it were them, or ’e wouldn’t a’ gorn an’ attacked them, would ’e?”
“He was a Protestant,” he said with vicious logic. “Of course he would.”
“No, ’e wouldn’t! Not if ’e thought it were Chinnery. ’E’d a’ gorn after Chinnery. Be honest! Wouldn’t you?”
“I’m not a Protestant!” His chin jerked up and his eyes blazed generations of loathing.
“Yer just the same!” she retorted with agonized conviction. “There in’t no difference, lyin’ and ’atin’ and killin’ each other—”
His reaction was instant.
“There’s all the difference in the world, you stupid girl!” he shouted thickly. “Don’t you listen to anything? You’re so … English! You can’t see Ireland at all.” He took a step forward, jabbing his finger at her. “You’re just typical, arrogant English, thinking all Ireland is the same, there for you to rob and plunder and then rum your back on and ignore when the people starve and die and the hate goes on from generation to generation and century to century! You make me sick! No wonder we hate you!”
Suddenly she saw the tragic stupidity of it, and the rage disappeared out of her, leaving her choked with grief.
“I in’t sayin’ we’re right,” she answered him with a quiet level voice, completely in control. “I’m sayin’ Alexander Chinnery din’t kill Neassa Doyle an’ you bin lyin’ ter yerselves all them years because the lie served you better than the truth,