On the inside, all I think about is revenge and blood…my mum’s blood staining the white carpet a bright red.
Cupping the back of Orla’s neck, I give her what she wants, returning her kisses with a brutal passion and pushing aside the need to hurt her. This is the only way I know how to be. I wish I could be gentle and enjoy the things most twenty-one-year-olds do, but I can’t.
The only thing coursing through me is vengeance, and, being a Kelly, I must deal with that in the most deplorable of ways. Just like right now.
Orla runs her fingers over my T-shirt, circling the barbell in my nipple before stopping at the button on my ripped black jeans. When she flicks it open, I reach down and stop her.
“Ya don’t wanna?” she breathlessly pants against my lips. Her hot breath reminds of me of the warm blood that coated my knuckles last week when I paid a visit to one of my dad’s customers who was late with their payment.
“I do,” I confirm, threading my fingers through her hair. “But could I trouble ye for some water?”
Orla’s disappointment is clear, but she’s a good Protestant girl and nods. “Aye, no bother.”
She gingerly slides off me and arranges her dress, not wanting to alert the partygoers downstairs what we were just doing.
“I won’t be long.”
Nodding, I throw an arm over my eyes as if snuffing out the bright light. In reality, I’m blocking out all the atrocities I’ve done.
The closing of the door announces her departure, which is my cue to follow, but just not in the way Orla thinks.
I spring to my feet, my drunken state miraculously gone because I’m not plastered. I never was. Locking the door, I get to work for the real reason I’m here.
The corner of my mouth lifts when I open the bedside dresser and see Mrs. Ryan’s pink dildo. I wonder if Nolen Ryan is privy to the fact that his Holy Joe of a wife has a battery-operated friend feet away. Unable to help myself, I swipe it and slide it in my back pocket.
Closing her drawer, I round the bed, and when I open Nolen’s dresser, I curse under my breath.
The bastard was right.
Reaching into my backpack—which I slipped under the bed earlier—for my phone, I snap a picture of the evidence before taking it and the Catholic rosary beads from the drawer. I slip everything into my backpack. My job here is done.
The party is in full swing downstairs, and I know it’s only a matter of time before Orla comes back. I walk toward the window, unlock it, and look at the two-story drop.
“Ach, finally,” says my best friend, Cian Davies, peering up at me as he flicks his feg into the bushes.
I’ve known Cian since I was born. Our fathers have been best friends since their teens, and it was expected we were to follow in their footsteps. His father is an eejit, but thankfully, his son just so happens to be the coolest person I know.
We’re often mistaken for brothers because many have said he’s my double. It’s helped with our alibis in the past.
“Stop faffin’ around. Rory is keepin’ dick for us down the street. Get a move on before the peelers come.”
This is so like Cian—always worrying about the what-ifs, the complete opposite to who I am.
Clucking my tongue, I calmly say, “Houl yer whisht, y’ll jinx us. I’ve a present for ye.”
Before he can ask what it is, I reach into my back pocket and toss Mrs. Ryan’s dildo down to him. On instinct, he catches it, and it takes him a few seconds to realize what it is. When he does, he shrieks and flings it into the bushes.
Laughing, I climb over the windowsill and peer downward.
“Punky, yer not gonna jump, are ya?”
Of course, he’d assume I’d scale down the drainpipe, as that’s what any normal person would do, but I never claimed to be normal. What’s that? While most people are inside, hiding from the thunderstorms, I’m outside, playing in the rain.
Before Cian can protest, I use my legs and launch out the window, relishing in the adrenaline rush as my boots hit the soft grass. I wish it was higher. It’s only in the face of danger that I feel alive.
“Ya jammy bastard!”
“Luck has nothin’ to with it, Cian,” I say with a grin as we commence a discreet walk across the Ryans’ front garden.
It’s in the wrong, corrupt, and violent where I thrive.
Keeping my head down as I’m supposed to be wasted and passed out upstairs, we avoid bumping into anyone and head down the street to where our friend, Rory Walsh, is keeping a lookout. When he sees us, he flashes the lights on his car.
After we all quickly get into his BMW, he puts the car into drive and speeds off down the street. Like thieves in the night, we’ve gotten away unscathed. It shouldn’t be this simple, but it is.
Even if anyone suspected us, they wouldn’t dare wage a war against the Kellys, the Davieses, or the Walshes as our families rule all of Northern Ireland. Belfast is our base, but paramilitary groups who run their own “areas” are still under our control. There are a few paramilitary groups in the past who have fought against each other, but they soon learned that we don’t tolerate rebellion.
It’s been this way for generations, and we’re expected to take over from our fathers when the time comes.
I never chose this life. It was my birthright, according to my dad, but all I see is the curse that it is. It’s because of the Kelly name that my mum was slain by the Doyles—our Catholic cunt counterpart in Dublin.
They don’t come into Belfast, and we don’t go into Dublin. If a Doyle dares to flounder these century-old laws, they will pay with their life. Some have tried, but all have failed. And I’m just waiting, anticipating the day one smug arsehole tries his luck.
When he does, I’ll be there waiting, because the Doyles will pay for what they did to my ma.
My dad may have been able to move on with his life—remarrying and having twins, like his first wife wasn’t murdered because she bore his name—but I cannot. She paid for being a Kelly. Her death was supposed to incite a war, but my father simply laid down his arms like the coward he is.
I don’t even know why she died. My dad refuses to tell me why, and that makes her murder all the worse. He’s happy to forget she existed while I exist only to avenge her death.
I stayed nestled with her corpse for three days before my father came. At five years old, I didn’t understand the concept of death.
My face was painted, reflecting her injuries and tallying how many men caused her the heinous injuries she sustained. This was my way to shoulder her pain when I couldn’t help her because I was locked in a wardrobe, thanks to my ma saving me until the very end. It was also to ensure I never forgot who was responsible for killing her; not that I ever could.
I remember bits and pieces, like a moving picture flickering in and out of focus, but I’ll never forget the man who turned toward the wardrobe and gestured for me to stay quiet. He knew I was there, so the question is, why did I not face the same punishment as my ma?
My dad has a single photo of me from that night. He keeps it locked away in his desk drawer, but when I was ten, I found it. It was a reminder that the nightmares were real. That she really existed. But he never answered my questions, and after a while, I realized if I wanted answers, I’d have to find them for myself.