by Monica James
“No bother. See ya.” I need to leave, but am stopped in my tracks.
“Are you always this rude? Or is it just me?” she says bluntly, placing her hands on her hips.
I am shook by her confidence and can’t seem to stop grinning when she’s near. She’s annoyed, and it gives me great satisfaction seeing her pissed off.
“Don’t flatter yerself, Babydoll,” I frankly reply. I don’t care what her name is. She’s Babydoll to me.
When a lopsided smirk falls across her full lips, I want to reach out and touch them; I want to know what a genuine smile feels like. I haven’t smiled for so long, I’m almost envious of her lips.
But I’m also curious to how they’d feel; how they’d taste.
“Oh, so you’re always a rude sod then. Good to know.” Her smile soon turns to a scowl as she hops onto her bike.
I laugh deeply in response. The surprises just keep on coming.
A part of me wants to stop her as I actually don’t want her to go. She interests me, and I don’t know why. Aye, she’s parful, but that’s not it. There is something…more.
She rides past me, head held high, and doesn’t see the pothole. The wheel of her bike gets caught, and she shrieks, falling off or, more accurately, falling onto me. I break her fall, and we both tumble onto the gravel road.
I’m lying on my back with her pressed to my chest and her face inches away.
Her breathing is uneven as she clearly had a fright. Mine, however, are measured and calm. She is soft against me, and her warmth doesn’t suffocate me like others have.
I take a moment to admire her beauty. Her eyes are green, her lashes long. Her pink, glossy lips are full. I can see the arch of freckles across her cheeks and nose.
What is this feeling inside me?
She licks her lips, and I have the urge to follow her tongue.
She whimpers, moving in my arms. It’s then that I realize I’m touching her without wanting to claw out of my skin. I suddenly don’t like it. I don’t like this vulnerability she infuses in me. We both shift at the same time, appearing to realize this moment is a little too intimate for mere strangers. I know better than to be distracted by a pretty face.
She gracefully gets off, ensuring she’s not flashing any arse in her short skirt as she picks up her bike, quickly mounting it. “Thanks a-again,” she calls out, riding away as if the devil is at her heels.
Looking down at myself, I realize he is.
Coming to a stand, I wipe the gravel from my clothes, confused as to what the fuck just happened. Sure, I’ve had girls show interest in me. I’m not being cocky; it’s what happens when you bear the Kelly name, but this was different.
Why?
Because I wanted her too.
I don’t like this sinking in the pit of my stomach. Is this what…feelings are? I don’t know. How can I? I watched the only person full of feelings be slaughtered in front of my eyes. The only person to teach me what emotions are is my dad, and he’d rather teach me how to shoot or kneecap someone than deal with something he said I’d never need.
“Emotions make ya weak. They get ya killed.”
My phone rings, thankfully interrupting these thoughts which will eat at me until I drown them in a bottle of Buckie.
It’s my uncle Sean. “Bout ye?”
“Sound. On the way home.”
“Yer da is waitin’ for ya.”
Shite.
He wasn’t supposed to be back for another hour or so.
“I’m about halfa way.”
“Yer coddin’,” he says, and I can imagine him shaking his head. “Where ya at? A’ll come get ye.”
I hang up and text my uncle the GPS coordinate from my maps. He’s here within twenty minutes.
Uncle Sean is quiet, which means things will be anything but at home. When we pull up the graveled drive, I sigh, seeing this once castle as nothing but a prison. This house has been in my family for generations.
Its beauty is undeniable, but I don’t live in the main building. I can’t.
Every inch of the interior has been replaced with my stepma’s things. That’s the first thing she did when she moved in. She redecorated, saying the place needed a facelift. But I know what she really meant was that she wanted to remove any trace of my ma.
I live in the stable yard building behind the main house. It has everything I need, and it’s far away enough that I don’t have to see my dad unless I need to. I make sure that’s not a lot of the time.
We exit the car and before we enter the house, Uncle Sean gently grabs my arm. “Don’t provoke him tonight, cub.”
“Course not,” I quip with a slanted smirk.
“Catch yerself on!” he rebukes, not appreciating my cheek tonight. “He’s in a mood.”
“That’s nothin’ new.”
“Punky,” he warns with a stiff upper lip.
He’s the reason everyone calls me Punky. My name is Puck Connor Kelly, but when I was younger, much to the distaste of my father, I couldn’t pronounce my own name. I would try to say my whole name, as I knew it would please my dad if I could, but it just sounded like Punky. So, my uncle called me Punky, not wanting to ridicule me like my dad, and it just stuck.
“Ack, sure ya know yerself,” I reply, putting his worries at ease.
With a sigh, he lets me go, and we enter the lion’s den. Many have marveled at the large reception hall and domed ceilings, but the only good thing about this place is my twin half-siblings. They’re one of the only reasons I stay here as I know if I move out, I’ll never be allowed to see them again.
I’ve left home many times, intent on never returning. I stayed with Rory or Cian while I tried to figure out what to do, but the problem with that was my dad always knew where I was. If I wanted to break free from the Kelly name, I had to leave Northern Ireland and change my name.
But I soon learned there’s no running from being a Kelly, especially being the eldest son of the most powerful man in Northern Ireland. I had to start new.
With no family, and the only friends I had being linked to my dad, that was impossible. I wasn’t afraid of having nothing and building a new life from scratch, but rather, I knew if I decided to emancipate myself, I would never avenge my ma.
I would be dead to my dad, and if anyone was caught trying to help me, so would they.
So this is why I stay. Being a Kelly allows me to dig because no matter how long it takes, I will find out what happened to my ma.
When the twins see me, they come running forward, demanding hugs.
Bending down to pick them up, I scold them playfully, kissing their warm cheeks. “What about ye? Why ya still awake?”
Hannah, the eldest twin by two minutes, squeezes me tight. “Ya promised to read us a story,” she replies, her blue eyes so pure, so innocent to the atrocities of this world.
Ethan, the younger twin, yawns. “Ya gonna paint yer face again?”
It seems my siblings also have a flair for art. When they discovered my paints, they begged me to paint their faces and my own. I told them those paints were for painting on a canvas, a hobby of mine which helps silence the voices for a while.
But when they begged, I went out and bought some. It was bittersweet as I couldn’t help but think of my ma. She was the one who encouraged my creative side. She was an amazing painter; it’s something I inherited from her. And the weird thing was, the moment the first stroke of paint coated my face, I felt at home.
It should frighten me, considering I should only associate horrible memories with such an act, but it doesn’t. I feel more comfortable in someone else’s shadow when I paint my face to reflect the demons within me, unleashing the pain with every stroke.
“You little rascals!” says the playful voice of their nanny, Amber.
Amber is an American nanny in her early twenties. She’s been here for over a year and treats the wains better than my dad and stepma. It’s been good craic having her here. She’s educated me in all things Am
erican, and I find myself slipping into her accent often because it’s nice to pretend I’m someone other than me.
I know she’s interested in me, but I don’t see her that way. I don’t see anyone that way—until tonight, that is.
My mind circles back to Babydoll. How can someone I met for mere minutes have this kind of impact on me? I need and want it to stop.
And it does the moment Connor Kelly enters the room.
His sharp blue eyes narrow when he sees Amber and the children. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Kelly. They wanted to wait up for Punk—” She licks her lips, quickly backtracking. “For Puck.”
My dad is highly opposed to my nickname, which is why I continue to use it.
“Ack, I want to fly to tha moon, but we can’t be havin’ everythin’ we want. Go to bed. Now.”
“But, Da!” Hannah and Ethan whine at the same time, but soon stop when our father gives them the “don’t fuck with me” look.
“Good night. I’ll see ya in the mornin’.” Giving them both a quick kiss on their foreheads, I lower them to the carpet, giving Amber a reassuring look. I don’t want them to be anywhere near him right now. I’ll deal with his sour bake.
She quickly ushers them from the room, not looking back.
Da looks at me, not hiding his disgust that his firstborn isn’t what he wanted him to be. He wants me to be some “jock” as Amber would say, dressing like him in pressed trousers and polos and with short, conservative hair. But most days, I don’t wear anything unless it’s black and has a hole in it.
He curls his lip when he looks at the grayscale tattoo sleeve down my arm. I designed the artwork. It’s a collaboration of nature combined with horror. But it’s my ma’s name tattooed along my knuckles which disgusts him the most.
“Come.”
That’s all it takes for Connor. One demand and we’re to jump to command.
Uncle Sean nudges me, however, in a silent warning not to test Dad.
We walk through the castle, and I see my stepma, Fiona has added a new painting—a family portrait, bar me. It should hurt, but it doesn’t.
Once we enter my dad’s office, we all take a seat.
“How’d you get on?”
Nodding, I lean back in my leather chair. “Grand. Yer right. Nolen Ryan is a dick.” I pass him my phone, showing him the photo evidence I found in his top drawer.
He slams his fist onto the desk. “That lying fuck! He must be made an example of. No man of mine is a fucking Catholic. No man.”
And this is the only thing my father and I agree on.
It’s in my blood to hate Catholics. How could I possibly not after what they did to my ma? But it’s more than that. To understand my stance, we have to go back in time.
Certain parts of Northern Ireland are Protestant, whereas others are Catholic. Some of these areas are divided by a wall—the Peace Line. As wains, Cian, Rory, and I knew it was dangerous to venture into the neighborhoods of the Catholics.
We couldn’t play thick as the enormous paintings on various buildings clearly show what area you were in. But that just tempted us all the more. As kids, we would sneak in just to get a glimpse of the unknown. And that’s what almost got Cian killed.
One night, we wandered too far, and some Catholic didn’t appreciate three wee hoods in his garden. He shot Cian in the back, no warning shot. Thankfully, Cian lived, but the same can’t be said for the Catholic.
Back then, the majority of the peelers in Northern Ireland were Protestant; therefore, they didn’t take too lightly to a Catholic harming their “own.” Although they said there was no prejudice, we knew different, which is why the IRA served as a special “police force” for the Catholics.
The IRA offered protection and also assisted them if they’d been mistreated. But don’t assume Catholics have been hard done by. They keep to their own as well.
We’ve been shunned, spat on, and cursed at for being Protestant by many Catholics throughout our lives. Cian, Rory, and I were minding our business when a Catholic gang beat us up for no reason. We were eight. This is why my dad taught me how to fight.
Even though neutral districts in Belfast exist with integrated schools, most children go to separate schools, and we keep to our own. I was taught my whole life that everything was the fault of the Catholics, and not what just happened to Ma.
My dad is proud of his heritage. His ancestors are from England and Scotland, and have always been Protestant. But many people in Northern Ireland are descendants of the original population and are Catholic.
So, we’re faced with a split populace belonging to different religious backgrounds. Hence, the hatred between the two religions.
Most Catholics want to be reunited with the rest of Ireland and to leave the union with England, Scotland, and Wales. But the Protestants wish to remain within the UK because of their ancestry.
Long story short—I was taught all Catholics are the enemy. And after what they did to my ma, to Cian, and the experiences I’ve had with them since I was a wain, I believe it to be true.
“I need ya to take care of it,” my dad states, surprising me.
“Connor,” Uncle Sean warns. “He’s just a cub.”
“Wind yer neck in,” Dad argues. “We need to keep a low profile with the peelers sniffin’ around.”
With the new chief constable just appointed, Da has to test the waters to see which side of the law he sits. In the past, Da has been able to bribe many peelers to turn the other way, but now, he isn’t sure if the chief constable is a friend or foe.
“Think you can handle it?” Dad asks, watching me closely.
“Aye, I’ll get it sorted.”
I’ve been doing my father’s dirty work since I was eleven. If someone didn’t pay for their order, whether that be drugs, guns, or protection, I went around and made sure they paid. We aren’t a charity.
But I’ve never killed anyone. Sure, I’ve roughed them up good and lamped them within an inch of their lives—hence why my dad wanted to name me Puck—but it seems Da wants me to take the next step, the step every Kelly is expected to eventually take.
I could justify what I did by reasoning they were the bad guys, not me, but in reality, I am the worst of them all.
I try not to think about how my actions will impact Orla. Her father made a choice, and it was the wrong one. Now, he must suffer the consequences.
“Good lad. There’s something else I want ya to do for me.”
I arch a brow, indicating I’m listening.
“I want ya to be nice to Darcy Duffy.”
“I am nice to her,” I counter, wishing he’d give up on this idea.
“Grand, ’cause we’ve been invited to the Duffys’ tomorrow for tea.”
“I wish you’d let this go, aul’ lad,” I say as no matter how many teas we attend, Darcy and I will never be a thing.
But it seems Da won’t take no for an answer this time. “Is yer head cut? Who d’ya think yer speakin’ to, ya ungrateful fucker?”
Uncle Sean grips my arm, a silent warning not to rebel. But not this time.
“Ungrateful?” I challenge, my gaze never wavering from his. “That’s a wee bit contradictory, seein’ as ye had no issue moving on from Ma before she was even buried in the ground!”
Da grips the desk, his cheeks turning a bright red. “Ya want a clip on the lug? Is that it?”
Uncle Sean pinches the bridge of his nose, inhaling deeply. He’s always been the peacekeeper, but it seems to be getting harder for him each day because I’m not a wee cub anymore. It’s only a matter of time before my father and I end up in a fight with only one man left standing.
Da senses I’m in no mood to deal with his shite, and if he wants me to continue doing his dirty work, then he has to show me some respect.
He inhales, as if leveling himself. “Show me what ya nicked from the Ryans.”
I’ve won this war—for now.
Opening my backpack, I slide the Bible across the desk toward my
da. His nostrils flare when he sees the Catholic abomination in his house. I hoke through my pocket for the rosary beads but come up empty. I quickly check my other pocket, revealing the same outcome—they’re gone, as is my ma’s brooch.
Coming to a stand, I pat myself down, not understanding where they could be. I know I put the rosary in my pocket. So where are they?
As I retrace my steps, a realization slams into me, and I curse myself for being such an eejit. I know the rosary and my mum’s brooch were in my pocket. I know they didn’t fall out. So that means, I also know the reason they’re not here is because Babydoll stole them from right under my nose.
She staged the entire incident of accidentally falling off her bike so she could steal from me. I can’t even…
Dad senses something is wrong and comes to a stand. “Ya spoofin’, ye wee want? Or you just plain stupid?”
“I lost them,” I reply, aware of what’s coming. “But I’ll get them back.”
“Wha? You had one job. One fucking job! Yer fucking thick.”
Before I can fight him off, Da rounds his desk and punches me in the face.
I stagger back, shook. No matter how many times he hits me, it always feels like the first time. But I accept his blows because better I suffer than he takes his temper out on the twins.
“Aye, for fuck’s sake!” Uncle Sean exclaims, standing quickly and getting out of harm’s way. He knows better than to intervene, but he tries, nonetheless. “That’s enough, Connor. Y’ll kill him.”
I cup my bleeding nose. It’s not broken—yet.
“I fucked up, so I did. I’m sorry,” I exclaim, ragin’ at myself for allowing this to happen.
But Dad doesn’t want to hear apologies. He views apologies as weaknesses, and no son of his is meant to be weak.
He punches me again, connecting with my jaw, but still, I don’t surrender. I stand tall, accepting this beating because I deserve it. I couldn’t care less about the rosary beads, but my ma’s brooch? How could I have been so careless?
I let my guard down for a pretty face. Never again.
Dad hits me in the stomach, knocking the wind from my lungs. I drop to my knees, and when he knees under my chin, I collapse onto my back.