One of Us Buried by Johanna Craven (year 2 reading books TXT) 📕

was about Owen and Blackwell and all that had happened in that cottage after the uprising. But at that moment, it felt intensely personal. Felt as though it were between she and I alone.

The baby whined against her chest. She turned away, refusing to hold my gaze. And I saw the end. Saw that, for all I had tried to make it otherwise, the two of us were to go no further. Saw that an Irishwoman and a sasaniagh could not build a friendship strong enough to withstand what a woman would do to survive this place.

Owen turned, catching sight of me, and I raced towards the Grants’ gate, calling Blackwell’s name. A firm hand grabbed my arm, yanking me backwards. Brady clamped his grimy hand over my mouth.

“Let her go,” said Owen on a laugh. “Let her bring him out here. Save us from breaking in.”

I shook free of Brady’s grasp and whirled around for something to use as a weapon. I grabbed a scrap of wood lying on the side of the road. I held it out in front of me, backing towards the gate.

“Get out of the way, Nell,” said Lottie, a waver in her voice.

I didn’t look at her. She had no say in this.

I heard a movement in the Grants’ garden behind me, and felt a sudden weakness in my legs. I wished I hadn’t called for Blackwell. For all I ached for him to run and hide, I knew he would come for me, come for the rebels; come to see an end to this thing that had poisoned both he and Owen for the past four years. If Owen got through this gate, there would be shots fired. And someone would die.

Suddenly Brady was coming at me, wrestling the wood from my hand. He flung it onto the ground. I kicked hard, connecting with his shins. He slammed me back against the gate. My vision swam and pain jolted down my spine.

“Please, Nell,” I heard Lottie say again, “just get out of the way. Please.” Her voice was tearful.

Brady came at me again and I drove my knee upward into his groin. I was dimly aware of Owen reaching for the plank of wood. Dimly aware of Lottie shrieking.

As Brady stumbled backwards, I lurched at him, my fingers grazing the cold metal of the pistol in his hands. I wrenched hard, trying to seize the weapon. A sudden pain to the side of my head and the world around me was gone.

*

When I opened my eyes, I was alone. The back of my head was thumping, the ground rough and cold beneath my cheek. I tried to sit, but dizziness was pressing down on me. And then I remembered. Owen. Brady. Lottie.

Blackwell.

Everything was quiet. Too quiet.

A pistol was lying beside my head. And as I looked past it, I saw the Grants’ gate swinging open. Panic overtook me, pushing through the dizziness. I climbed to my feet, swallowing a violent wave of nausea. I swiped at the thin line of blood trickling down the side of my face. I turned. I stepped. And then I saw it.

The body lay just a few feet in front of me, a pool of blood creeping steadily towards my boots.

I stumbled, terrified to approach.

I took one step. Then another. Horror welled up inside me.

I had been expecting a gunshot wound, but the entire figure was a mess of crimson. The limbs were thrashed and misshapen, the face a chaos of slashes. The red coat was blackened with blood, buttons opened to reveal a maze of knife wounds. And there, below the ribs, the entry point of a single ball. I stared at it for several moments, my vision swimming. Flies darted around the wounds. My gaze drifted up to the neat white braiding on the jacket, the stark yellow facings. And to the glimmer of gold poking from the coat pocket. I bent, breathless, and looped a finger around the chain of the pocket watch. It thudded dully into mud, a drop of blood sliding over Sophia’s engraved dedication. I stumbled, landing heavily on my knees, and vomited beside the body.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

I stayed on my hands and knees, gulping down my breath. My body began to shake. A desperate sob escaped me.

And so Patrick Owen had gotten what he wanted, in the most vicious way imaginable. Repayment for that blood-streaked shack in the bush behind Squires’ inn. Repayment for the lives taken in the aftermath of the uprising.

Had the rebels killed Blackwell inside the house, and then brought his body down into the alley? Laid him here beside me so I might see what my actions had brought about? Or had the lieutenant heard me calling him? Had he come down to help me? Had my own actions led to his death? The thought brought another sob from deep inside me.

I stared at the blood seeping into the gaps between the cobbles. Tears blurred my vision and I let them slide unhindered from my cheeks. I couldn’t bear to look at Blackwell’s body. And I couldn’t bear to look away.

I was distantly aware of footsteps coming towards me. Distantly aware of soldiers approaching. Standing over the body. Standing over me.

I looked down. My floral dress was covered in blood. So were my hands. A pistol on the ground beside me. And as they hauled me to my feet, I couldn’t find a single word.

My thoughts were blank as they shoved me into the back of the police wagon. We began to rattle along the streets, the wheels sighing as they slid through the remnants of the downpour.

The journey was a short one, and I wondered distantly why they had felt the need to put me in the carriage. Hands around the tops of my arms, and I