The Sin Eater(12)

‘I was mad ever to agree,’ said Romilly, sobbing into the handkerchief. ‘I know I was mad. But he was persuasive, you know. The silver tongue of the devil, isn’t that what they all say about him?’

‘Say about who? Rom, stop crying and tell us properly.’

The story came out in hiccupping sobs, with frequent recourses to Declan’s handkerchief, and many self-reproaches. She had been walking on the cliff side that very afternoon, said Romilly. Yes, she knew it was a stupid thing to be going up to that stretch of the cliff, but there were times you wanted to be on your own, away from everyone and everything.

This was understandable. Romilly had had to live with a series of her father’s people ever since her parents died in the influenza outbreak four years back. Even Declan’s mother, who disapproved of most girls on principle, said it was a disgrace the way Romilly Rourke was passed around like a lost parcel.

Anyway, said Romilly, wiping away a fresh batch of tears, she had gone up to the cliff side and that was where she had met him.

For a moment the two boys thought after all this was going to be a new episode in the story of the devil walking the Moher Cliffs, but in fact it was not the devil whom Romilly had encountered, although Declan said afterwards it might have been the devil’s apostle.

It was Nicholas Sheehan. The disgraced priest who lived in mysterious seclusion in the old watchtower; the rebel hermit and the sinner (opinions were always divided on that point), whom legend said had challenged the devil to a chess game, and had won.

‘He was walking on the cliffs as well,’ said Romilly. ‘It would have been rude not to say good afternoon, so I did. And we were quite near to the watchtower path, and he started talking to me about it. How it was built by a High King of Tara on the highest point he could find to watch for enemies. But how it was made very grand to impress the ladies of the court.’

‘Nick Sheehan would know about trying to impress ladies,’ said Colm caustically, at which Romilly began to cry all over again.

Father Sheehan – always supposing he still had any right to that title – had apparently suggested Romilly come up to the watchtower there and then. From the topmost window there was a marvellous view, he said. Why, on a clear day such as this one, you could almost imagine you were seeing all the way across to America. And even if they could not see America, Miss Rourke could take a look at the inside of the watchtower. Some of the stones were at least a thousand years old, and said by some to possess the magical arts of the long-ago High Kings. And there were books – all kind of curious and strange books, and some of those were believed to possess magical powers as well.

Declan and Colm exchanged a look, but did not speak.

‘So I went,’ said Romilly.

‘You did? You went all the way up the path to the tower?’

‘I did.’

‘And . . . you went inside?’ said Declan. Neither of the boys knew anyone who had actually gone inside the watchtower.

‘I did,’ said Romilly again. ‘But it’s no use asking me what it’s like, because all I can remember is a room with light coming in through slitted windows – the kind of light you never saw before, so thin and pure you’d imagine you could cup it in your hands. And there were chairs and tables and everywhere was hung with silk and velvet. But I don’t remember much more because he gave me a glass of wine and when I drank it I felt a bit – I don’t know how to describe it – as if my mind didn’t belong to my body any longer. And the next thing I knew we were lying on a bed – all velvets and silks, you’d never see anything finer if you toured the world. Cushions with gold tassels and all.’

‘Oh, Jesus,’ said Colm. ‘Never mind the cushions, Romilly, tell me you got up and came home and that old villain didn’t do anything to you.’

‘I didn’t come home,’ said Romilly, beginning to cry all over again. ‘I sat on the bed and he got on to it next to me, and he took off my clothes and then he took off his own clothes – well, I mean he took some off and unbuttoned others so he could—’

‘We don’t need to know that part,’ said Declan hastily, not able to bear the image of Nick Sheehan, who must be forty at least, for God’s sake, removing and unbuttoning in order to enable him to take Romilly’s virginity.

For the virginity, it was now plain, had been well and truly taken.

‘It hurt,’ said Romilly, wrapping her arms around her body and shivering. ‘I didn’t know it’d hurt. You’d think they’d tell us that, wouldn’t you? When we’re being told we mustn’t do it before we’re married, I mean. You’d think they’d warn us it hurts, so we’d never want to do it anyway. It hurt a lot.’

As she said this she sent a sideways glance at the two boys – it would have been overstating it to call the glance sly, but they had the brief uncomfortable impression that Romilly was looking to see how they were taking her story and whether they were ready to proffer sympathy.

But clearly this was grossly unfair because obviously Romilly had suffered the ultimate disgrace for a girl. Declan and Colm sat for a long time with the sun setting in wild splendour over the ocean, Romilly telling the story over and over again. They both tried not to notice that more details were being added with each retelling.

‘I won’t stay in Kilglenn now,’ said Romilly, sitting forward on the grass and hugging her knees with her arms. ‘I can’t.’