himself.
As she came alongside him, she could smell the alcohol. He looked agitated. His eyes were red and wild-looking; his lip snarled in a way she had never seen before. This was not the Patrick she knew, and she felt her skin tighten in response to a rush of adrenalin, as goose-pimples covered her body.
As she quickened her steps and hurried by, he pushed himself away from the wall and stretched up to his full height, fixing her with his gaze, but he said no more. Once more, she had outwitted him. God, I’ll be glad to be gone, she thought, as she rinsed her hands under the tap in the privy and splashed the cold water on to her face. She hung around, hoping someone else would follow her in, so that she could engage in bright chatter and wait to walk back with them into the hall. Or maybe Patrick would finish smoking and join his da and the other lads in the pub they had known since they were kids. Surely he would be gone by now. As she looked outside, she saw that her prayers had been answered. The path was clear, and all that remained of Patrick was his cigarette smouldering on the cinder path. Breathing a deep sigh of relief, she left the outhouse and walked down the cinder path.
She didn’t see his hand shoot out from the shadows and grab at her arm, or feel him pull her violently towards the turf shed. It was all so quick that before she could scream he had pushed her inside and slammed the door with a bang.
‘What are you doing, you fecking eejit?’ she snapped, feeling instantly guilty for being in a dark enclosed space with him. Her nostrils filled with the smell of the dark brown peat, and she felt the cut bricks digging into her back as he pushed his weight against her. She knew that if she were seen in the shed with Patrick she would be viewed as the guilty one. It would be she who was whispered about, not he. No two people in a dark enclosed place would be believed to be up to any good. They would laud him as a bold lad and condemn her as a harlot.
Patrick didn’t reply. He had other plans. As he pulled up her blouse with one hand and her skirt with the other, he pressed his wet lips on hers and she fought the instinct to retch. Whatever he had learnt with Monica, it had not been finesse. She managed to get both her arms in front of her and shoved him with all her might, but it was useless. Patrick had spent his entire life working on a farm. Each of his arms was the width of a newborn baby and his muscles bulged hard against her own. She felt trapped. Weightless. Despite pushing him with every ounce of her might, until she was drained of breath and gasping for air, she had made absolutely no difference. He hadn’t moved an inch. She was imprisoned.
‘Think you’re too fecking good for me, do you?’
Patrick pinned her legs to the wall with his knees and pain shot up her thighs from the sheer weight of him. Drops of spittle landed on her face as he spoke. Her stomach heaved with the stench. How could her own father ever have thought this was the man she should spend her life with? Her instincts were to scream, and as she tried with what was left of her breath, a thin reedy wail escaped. This isn’t happening, she thought. He will come to his senses in a second. This isn’t happening. It cannot be. Letting go of one of her wrists, he again tugged at her blouse, frustrated at the full-length underslip which covered her bra. He pulled down at the top hard to expose her breasts.
‘I know what to do with you.’ He spoke into the side of her face and she could feel his hot breath against her skin. ‘I’m no eejit. You think I was going to wait for you?’
He laughed out loud and slammed himself into her again, until she could feel his iron-hard erection pressing an indentation into the soft flesh of her thigh. ‘Ye just need to be shown what you’ll be missing while you’re away, missus. Think yer fuckin’ bold with ye’re fuckin’ gobshite clever words? Ye won’t be so bold when I’ve
As she came alongside him, she could smell the alcohol. He looked agitated. His eyes were red and wild-looking; his lip snarled in a way she had never seen before. This was not the Patrick she knew, and she felt her skin tighten in response to a rush of adrenalin, as goose-pimples covered her body.
As she quickened her steps and hurried by, he pushed himself away from the wall and stretched up to his full height, fixing her with his gaze, but he said no more. Once more, she had outwitted him. God, I’ll be glad to be gone, she thought, as she rinsed her hands under the tap in the privy and splashed the cold water on to her face. She hung around, hoping someone else would follow her in, so that she could engage in bright chatter and wait to walk back with them into the hall. Or maybe Patrick would finish smoking and join his da and the other lads in the pub they had known since they were kids. Surely he would be gone by now. As she looked outside, she saw that her prayers had been answered. The path was clear, and all that remained of Patrick was his cigarette smouldering on the cinder path. Breathing a deep sigh of relief, she left the outhouse and walked down the cinder path.
She didn’t see his hand shoot out from the shadows and grab at her arm, or feel him pull her violently towards the turf shed. It was all so quick that before she could scream he had pushed her inside and slammed the door with a bang.
‘What are you doing, you fecking eejit?’ she snapped, feeling instantly guilty for being in a dark enclosed space with him. Her nostrils filled with the smell of the dark brown peat, and she felt the cut bricks digging into her back as he pushed his weight against her. She knew that if she were seen in the shed with Patrick she would be viewed as the guilty one. It would be she who was whispered about, not he. No two people in a dark enclosed place would be believed to be up to any good. They would laud him as a bold lad and condemn her as a harlot.
Patrick didn’t reply. He had other plans. As he pulled up her blouse with one hand and her skirt with the other, he pressed his wet lips on hers and she fought the instinct to retch. Whatever he had learnt with Monica, it had not been finesse. She managed to get both her arms in front of her and shoved him with all her might, but it was useless. Patrick had spent his entire life working on a farm. Each of his arms was the width of a newborn baby and his muscles bulged hard against her own. She felt trapped. Weightless. Despite pushing him with every ounce of her might, until she was drained of breath and gasping for air, she had made absolutely no difference. He hadn’t moved an inch. She was imprisoned.
‘Think you’re too fecking good for me, do you?’
Patrick pinned her legs to the wall with his knees and pain shot up her thighs from the sheer weight of him. Drops of spittle landed on her face as he spoke. Her stomach heaved with the stench. How could her own father ever have thought this was the man she should spend her life with? Her instincts were to scream, and as she tried with what was left of her breath, a thin reedy wail escaped. This isn’t happening, she thought. He will come to his senses in a second. This isn’t happening. It cannot be. Letting go of one of her wrists, he again tugged at her blouse, frustrated at the full-length underslip which covered her bra. He pulled down at the top hard to expose her breasts.
‘I know what to do with you.’ He spoke into the side of her face and she could feel his hot breath against her skin. ‘I’m no eejit. You think I was going to wait for you?’
He laughed out loud and slammed himself into her again, until she could feel his iron-hard erection pressing an indentation into the soft flesh of her thigh. ‘Ye just need to be shown what you’ll be missing while you’re away, missus. Think yer fuckin’ bold with ye’re fuckin’ gobshite clever words? Ye won’t be so bold when I’ve
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