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 American, 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.