Michael Cotter at Wheeo Inn (Historical Fiction)

 This is another story written based on the newspaper records for Michael's murder trial.

We needed to try and bring characterisation to the people. We have to remember that our ancestors were just like us. Their environments may have be similar, their homes simpler but they feel love, lust, hatred just the way modern people do. 

I have two versions of this story. I'll post both but feel free to comment what you think.

“Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray the Lord my soul … to take.”

The rough sandstone of the cell tears at the skin of my knees, but the pain is no comfort.

 

Could it only have been seven hours ago that we’d met John at the inn?

 

I had watched Katie fuss over the children before we left. The tight twists at her nape reminded me of a shamrock, fitting for a St Patrick’s celebration. Seven children and her body still filled me with desire; her waist, her bosom and those enchanting Irish eyes.

I know my Katie. She loves a drink and a gossip. I knew we’d be lucky to be home before sunrise.

 

Thankfully, Old Jack had the fire roaring. O’Dwyer, with ale at hand, shared a story about some fellow who swore he’d found gold on the other side of Orange.  He was keen to go try his luck. I might have been too, but I’d noticed a change in Katie’s face. I wouldn’t be surprised if we had another on the way.

I’d asked Old Jack if he’d seen Katie. Sure enough, she’d been chatting but had gone outside. “Probably gone to the outhouse,” he’d said.

 

The full moon spotlighted their entanglement. One wearing a long dark coat and the other wearing shamrock braids in her hair.

 

The branch dug splinters into my hand as I grabbed it from the woodpile. I’d felt no pain. I watched as his head slammed against the fence.  Heard his first and final moan ... .

 

“God, please take my life and bring John’s back!”