Thy Kingdom Come

“She said that?” Rory asks, his mouth slack.

“Aye, sorry, big lad. I don’t know if her dad has got to her, but the whole night, she made it awful obvious she was interested in me. I don’t know why,” I add because the feeling was definitely not reciprocated.

We’re in a rental as we would never drive our own cars into Dublin, but I suddenly wish I was because Rory is sulking. I wanted to be honest and let him know what happened tonight. However, now I wish I’d kept my bake shut.

“I can’t get my head around it. I mean, we kissed a couple of nights ago.”

I shrug because I don’t have an answer. I’m just as confused as he is.

“Darcy is a melt,” Cian says, trying to lighten the mood. “At least ya know now.”

But Rory doesn’t see it in that way. He’s been mad about Darcy for as long as I can remember, so I can imagine knowing this has him rippin’.

“Ack, what does yer dad want with the Duffys anyway?”

“Fuck if I know. But at a guess, Patrick’s portfolio is probably a good place to start.”

“Yer dad is a real wanker,” Rory angrily says.

I don’t argue because I agree.

Tea at the Duffys’ was painful and long, and Darcy trying to discreetly play footsie with me under the table made it worse. I don’t know what’s caused this forward response from her, but I don’t like it.

Nothing she says or does will change my mind and having Babydoll feet away just confirmed it. It just proved I’ll never want Darcy the way I do Babydoll.

I don’t understand these feelings I have for her. I hardly know her. But I can’t deny that whenever she’s near, I seek her out. I’m drawn to her.

She ignored me the entire time I was at the Duffys’, but her breathless whimpers when she leant over to refill my glass or collect an empty dish revealed she also feels whatever this is. There is still one small problem, and that is, Babydoll is a thief. Therefore, I can’t trust her nor should I trust whatever this feeling is.

“So ya left without yer mum’s brooch?” asks Cian, interrupting my thoughts.

“Aye. What could I do? I couldn’t exactly frisk her between the main course and afters. Now that I know where she is, I can act, but not tonight. I have other important things to deal with.”

The car falls quiet.

We’re about twenty minutes from arriving at the border, twenty minutes where everything is about to change. We went over everything we know about the Doyles or, more specifically, Brody Doyle. This information is either hearsay or things we’ve earwigged on.

Our parents would rather the Doyles didn’t exist; therefore, talk about them has been sacrilegious our entire lives, but I can’t live that way any longer. I need answers. I need those who hurt my ma to pay. And tonight is the first step toward achieving that.

“So, we know that Brody has three kids. Two boys and one girl.”

Cian nods, opening his notepad and reading over his scribble. “Aye. The lads are older. The wee girl is the wain of the family.

“The eldest is Liam. He’s dead spit of his da. Hugh is second eldest. He is a wee rip. Likes to punch first, ask questions later. He’s the one we have to look out for. Liam is discreet. Hugh is not.”

“And the daughter?” I ask, needing to arm myself with as much information as I can.

“I couldn’t get much information on her, which makes her dangerous. She could be anyone.”

He’s right. We need to be alert.

The research into the address reveals it’s a pub. When we searched it online, it didn’t say who the owners were. We’re guessing it belongs to the Doyles, but honestly, we could be walking into anything.

Rory taps his fingers against the steering wheel, clearly caught up in other thoughts—such as Darcy. I wish I could empathize with him, but all I see is a huffy bastard. She doesn’t like him, so I’m not sure why he’s stressing over something out of his control.

But that’s just me. I’m not wired like everyone else.

“I still can’t believe Babydoll is the Duffys’ new maid. What a small world, do ya not think?” Cian probes, desperately trying to get a response from me.

“I don’t think anythin’,” I retort, loosening my tie.

Both Cian and Rory smirk, not convinced, but I don’t care what they think because the moment we cross the border, all I care about is revenge.

We’re all quiet, marveling at this foreign land that’s been forbidden our whole lives, but now that we’re here, it’s made what we’re about to do real. I thought I would come into Dublin with Dad, avenging my ma, but it’s just up to me.

Rory keeps to the speed limit, which is now in kilometers, not wanting to draw any attention to us being here.

I don’t know what I expected Dublin to look like. Being from the north, I never took much interest in the south, but it certainly doesn’t look like the hellhole I thought it to be. I suppose I am biased, as I have no problem with the city itself; it’s the inhabitants who make this place hell on earth.

The map says we’re five minutes away.

“Right, boys,” I say, rolling down the sleeves of my shirt as I don’t want my tattoos to be on show. “Nice and quick, yeah?”

“So, we have a wee drink and a juke?” Rory asks, an excited energy radiating from him.

This is why we’re best friends—all three of us thrive in the darkness, the corrupt, and this right now is probably the most danger we’ve been involved in. Our parents thought we’d forget this vendetta, that Cian and Rory would talk me out of acting in haste if this time ever came.

But they don’t know what true friendship is because these lads have had my back since I can remember. They don’t have to be here, as this is my retribution, not theirs, but they wouldn’t let me do this alone.

“Aye. We won’t be long in there. We’re just three lads out for a wee drink. That’s all.”

They nod.

Rory parks the car a few blocks away, inhaling deeply as he puts on a hat backward to conceal his tousled brown hair. Cian smirks, slipping into his coat to hide the tattoo sleeve on his right arm. I hunt through my backpack and slip on my black-rimmed glasses, then take out my nose and lip piercing.

I don’t know what the Doyles know about us, so to blend in, we have to look like everyone else. Piercings and tattoos can be used to identify us, and we can’t have that. Tugging at the sleeve of my shirt to cover my crucifix tattoo, I know firsthand how disastrous it can be if that information falls into the wrong hands.

We exit the car and slip our masks into place. To onlookers, we’re just three mates out for a good night.

Dublin has a cosmopolitan atmosphere, while Belfast is small and has a country town feeling to it. I can imagine many come to Dublin and get lost as you can be anyone in such a large city. I instantly miss home. But the closer we get to the pub, the more excited I become—excited by the possibility of spilling Doyle blood. When we’re feet away, I look overhead at the glowing green sign.

The Craic’s 90

A classic Irish phrase which means a good time.

The building is painted red with small Irish flags draped along the balcony’s ledge. It’s in a good, busy location, and is modern, but has an aul’ feel to it. It’s jammed full of patrons, which is a blessing as well as a curse.

We can blend in, but as far as earwigging, we won’t be able to hear a thing above the rowdy drunks.