Thy Kingdom Come

“You,” he snarls, while I wave my fingers.

“How’re ya doin’, Hugh?”

Hugh Doyle and I meet again, but this time, he will not leave with his life intact.

He shuffles backward to lean against the wall. “Yer Puck Kelly then?”

I shrug with a smirk. “Maybe.”

“Maybe? What the fuck d’ye mean maybe?”

Grabbing a chair, I spin it around and straddle it as we have a lot to discuss. “Who told ye?”

Hugh chuckles, clutching at his thigh. “That stupid aul’ fella,” he mutters under his breath. “He trusted her when I told him not to.”

“Who?” I press, trying to piece this together.

“He thinks he’s got it sorted, that he’s got the advantage, but none of them can be trusted. For fuck’s sake! When I saw yer friend, I didn’t know what to think. I didn’t want to believe ye t’ree could fool us.”

“Listen to me. Yer goin’ to answer me, or I’ll make sure ya die awful slow.”

Hugh spits in response. “Yer go

“Aye, that it is.”

Realizing he won’t rat on his family, I get up and walk over to him. He looks up at me with nothing but hatred. Gripping the collar of his shirt, I drag him along the floor and toss his arse into the chair. When he tries to fight me, I punch him in the jaw.

He’s still struggling as I use the discarded rope to tie his hands behind his back, but I eventually get him bound. The other guy who I don’t know is still out cold, so I pick him up and tie him to another chair.

“Ye killed mi uncle?” Hugh asks, looking at my face paint.

“Yes, I killed him, just how he killed my ma. In this house, actually.”

Rolling back the sleeve of my hoodie, I reveal my own tattoo, the one I bit off Hugh’s wrist. His eyes widen. “I saw it. I saw what they did to her, and I promised myself that I would kill every last Doyle to avenge her death.”

“Yer ma was stupid. That much is clear. She married a Kelly, for fuck’s sake.”

“Aye, but she was fucking a Doyle,” I quickly counter. “Yer dad, to be clear.”

“Yer nothin’ but a liar!” Hugh roars, cheeks blistering red.

“Afraid not. We may be brothers. Imagine that,” I mock, laughing.

“I don’t believe ya.”

“I care not what ye believe. But maybe y’ll see the resemblance. Hang on.”

Hunting through my bag, I retrieve my face paints, and before he can object, I slather his cheeks with white. He struggles frantically, but he’s not going anywhere. Once his face is painted a stark white, I dip my fingers into the black paint and roughly circle around his eyes.

When I get to his mouth, I draw a messy line from cheek to cheek, but I’m not satisfied. Yanking the knife out of his leg, I press the bloody tip into the apple of his cheek. He doesn’t squirm. He doesn’t scream. He dares me to do it.

And I do.

My blade slices through his flesh with ease.

“Aye, now I can see it,” I say with a smile, admiring my handiwork.

His right cheek is sliced to the corner of his mouth, emphasizing his sinister grin as bloody spittle seeps from the wound. Digging into his pocket, I take his phone and snap a picture, so he can see the work of art his face now is.

“Yer my double,” I sarcastically say, showing him the picture.

His chin sags to his chest. It’s only minutes before he will bleed out.

“Don’tcha worry, the rest of yer family will be joinin’ ya soon.”

I search through his contacts and send the photo to Brody and Liam, and then to every other Doyle listed in Hugh’s phone.

The man next to Hugh comes to with a groggy groan. When he opens his eyes and realizes he’s the one now tied to a chair, he shrieks, trying to break free.

He sees me standing before him, a painted nightmare from hell.

“Tell me who organized this, and I’ll let ye go,” I say to him.

“Shut yer bake,” Hugh warns, his caution a whistle as he tries to speak with a hole hacked into his cheek.

When the man sees his state, he shakes his head, not wishing to end up like his mucker. “Doyle’s dau—”

“Shut the fuck up, will ya?” Hugh shouts, blood jetting from his wounds.

“I’ll not end up like you,” the man says, scared. “Doyle’s daughter did.”

“Erin?” I ask, confused. Why would she say Cian was me? She knows us as Mike and Kanga. I don’t understand any of this.

“Y’ve no idea what’s comin’ for ye. None of ye Kellys do.” Hugh’s grin is menacing, and even though he’s moments away from dying, he has the upper hand because he’ll take his secret to the grave.

Rory comes charging through the door, peering at the carnage before him. “We need to go. Now. There’s a van coming up the road. Where’s Cian?”

“Fuck!” I curse. It’s not enough time, but if we don’t go now, all of this would have been for nothing. “He’s in the wardrobe.”

Rory runs over to the door, yanking it open while I exit the room, fire burning through my veins, which gives me an idea.

Fuck the Doyles.

And fuck this house.

Raiding the cupboards, I snare a bottle of scotch and a box of matches off the kitchen bench. I bump into Rory as he holds an unconscious Cian.

“Way with ye. I won’t be far behind.”

Rory doesn’t argue as he knows we’re ru

As I re-enter the bedroom, the man begs for mercy, but where was Cian’s mercy when he almost killed him? Dousing both him and Hugh with the scotch, I light a match and flick it without feeling. They instantly set alight, their screams doing nothing to appease the demons within.

They need more.

Looking around the bedroom, I realize this house is where it all started. I fixate on the carpet, the spot which was once stained with my ma’s blood, where I laid beside her stiff corpse. The carpet may be new, but the memories associated with this house are not. They deserve to be burned along with these two fuckers.

“Goodbye, Ma,” I say, using the rest of the scotch to douse the carpet, the curtains, and lastly, the wardrobe.

Taking one last look at the place which has been my prison for years, I smile as I light a match and toss it onto the alcohol. It ignites instantly. The room cackles a red hue, complementing the screams of the two men who are burning to death.

I wish I could watch them take their last breath, stand around the human boney, but this will have to do.

As I’m ru

Yanking it off the hook, I stuff it into my backpack and gather all the bottles of liquor I can find. Tossing them down the corridor, I light the box of matches and throw it onto the trail of alcohol. It instantly goes up in a fireball, engulfing the gaff.

Ru

Keegan looks over his shoulder at the gaff going up in flames. He doesn’t say anything however as he knew it would always end this way.

It’s after two a.m. when I get home.

Cian insisted he was fine and didn’t need to go to the hospital. I sent Amber a text, asking if she could check on him however. She’s got her first-aid credentials and is pretty good with this stuff as the twins are always getting into trouble.

Rory is staying over to watch him, so I think he’ll be fine. But what he said in the car, I don’t know what to think. Aye, he’s delirious after taking a beating, but he seemed quare lucid when he said that someone had told the Doyles about me.