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.
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.
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.
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.
“Is that the best ya got, aul’ lad?” I provoke, a pained wheeze leaving me as he stomps on my knee.
“Ya fucking smart-arse!” He doesn’t stop his assault. He kicks my ribs, my stomach, screaming that I’m worthless and should have died with my ma.
I accept his slurs and punches because he’s right, but instead of Mum dying, it should have been me. But her death will not be in vain. Every Doyle is going to pay for what they did. My dad isn’t with me, so all I’ve got is me, which is no different to how I’ve lived my entire life.
I’ve waited long enough. The Doyles incited a war—it’s time the Kellys finally answered back.
But first, there’s a wee doll I need to find.
Groaning, I open my right eye because my left one is almost closed over, thanks to the beating I got last night.
“Bout ye? Ya look like shite.”