Thy Kingdom Come

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 ca

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.

The three bloody lines fingered down the middle of my forehead were in honor of the three men who took away the only person who ever loved me. This is their future, imprinted on my skin because they’re already dead—they just don’t know it yet.

Rubbing over the crucifix tattooed on my left wrist, I remember one of the men who brutalized my ma had the same brand. I had it tattooed so that every time I look down at it, it provokes this burning desire to kill every last Doyle who walks this god forsaken earth.

I hated my father growing up, but now, that hatred has grown into something else.

He did nothing to avenge my ma, and I need to know why. His brother, my uncle, Sean, is the only person who seems to give a shit about her. I often wish he was my father instead of Co

The Kellys deal drugs, stolen guns, dabble in money laundering, and everything in between. If you were expecting us to be moral citizens, I hate to disappoint. We’re anything but.

The Doyles are the same. They keep to their area in Dublin, and we to ours in Belfast, but it seems they wanted that to change when they took the life of my mum. Utter blasphemy, as Uncle Sean speculates that the Catholics not only wanted to steal our territory but they wanted to sell to the Protestants on the down low as well.

They would be seen as traitors in the eyes of other devout Catholics, but they wouldn’t tell them. The Doyles wanted it all. They wanted our turf, our business, and our people. Killing my mum was them challenging my dad, but she was i

What I don’t understand is why my mum bought that bungalow without my father’s knowledge. Where was my dad for three days? And how did the Doyles find us?

I have more questions than answers, which is the only reason I do my father’s dirty work. One day, he’s going to slip up, and I will uncover what happened on that cold November night. It’s the only reason I’m still here.

It’s the only reason he’s still alive.

“Did ya find it?” Rory asks, looking at me in the rearview mirror.

Nodding, I hunt through my backpack for the Catholic Bible and rosary beads. “Nolen Ryan is so fucked.”

Rory whistles when he sees the evidence my father ordered me to find and bring back to him.

Nolen is a trusted confidant of my dad’s, but my dad suspected he was double-crossing him when someone reported seeing him at Sunday Mass—a Catholic Mass near Dublin. It goes without saying, this ca

Orla will soon be left with only one parent because Dad won’t let Nolen live. If you side with the Catholics, no matter your surname, it may as well be Doyle because you’ll be treated the same way.

“Shall we get a wee pint before we head home?”

I smirk because there’s no such thing as a wee pint when Rory is involved. “That sounds a bitta craic, but I can’t. If I don’t get home, my aul’ fella will be ragin’.”

Both boys nod, knowing better than to keep Co

Rory’s phone dings, and when Cian dives for it and starts laughing, I know who it is.

“Darcy Duffy yer girlfriend now?” Cian asks, playfully moving the phone out of Rory’s reach as he tries to steal it back and drive his car.

“Ack, stop acting the maggot. We’re just friends.”

But Cian is not convinced. “Do ya think I came up the Lagan in a bubble? I don’t blame ya. She’s a ride. I don’t know what she’s doing with you, though.”

Darcy Duffy is the eldest daughter of Patrick Duffy—a self-made millionaire operating the biggest construction company in Northern Ireland.

If this were an American sitcom, Darcy would be the popular cheerleader every jock wanted to date. I’ve known her since we were kids, and although my da wanted us to be friends—for his own selfish reasons, of course—we’ve hardly spoken ten words to one another, though it’s not on the account of her not trying.

It’s me.

I’m not interested in meaningless conversation. Actually, I’m not interested in conversing at all. I have one goal in life, and that doesn’t involve a fairy tale ending.

“I don’t care whatcha think. She’s sound. Don’tcha think, Punky?”

With a shrug, I peer out the window. “Aye, sure, why nat?”

My response is hardly convincing, and Cian laughs. “Ack, dry yer eyes, Rory, before I boke.”

It’s with the boys that I can try this humanity suit on for size. Sometimes, I can convince myself that I’m just like them, but I’m not. None of this stuff interests me. What most laugh at, I don’t. I don’t take pleasure in girls, getting wasted, or having fun, because I’m dead inside.

I may smile and look like I belong, but the truth is, I much prefer to be alone.

Another text message comes through, and Cian reads it aloud. “I wa

Rory shakes his head, giving up on the idea of ever getting his phone back.

“That sounds like good craic. Cian and I will be over soon,” Cian types out, laughing as he’s just gatecrashed the romantic pull.

With that as my cue, I unsnap my seat belt. “Pull over here. I’ll walk the rest of the way.”

“Away on!” Rory says, peering through his windscreen at the darkness in front of him. “Ye sure?”

“Aye,” I reply, putting the Bible into my backpack and the rosary beads into my pocket. Besides, my house is in the opposite direction of Darcy’s. This allows my mates more time with Darcy and her friends.