Thy Kingdom Come (Deliver Us From Evil Trilogy Book One)

by Monica James

  She kisses me softly, cupping my cheek and coaxing me to reciprocate, but that’s not why I’m here.

  I don’t like intimacy. Honestly, I hate it. I don’t like being touched. The only person whose touch I crave is dead, and when she died, I died with her. To the outside world, I look relatively “normal,” but it’s a whole different story on the inside.

  On the inside, all I think about is revenge and blood…my mum’s blood staining the white carpet a bright red.

  Cupping the back of Orla’s neck, I give her what she wants, returning her kisses with a brutal passion and pushing aside the need to hurt her. This is the only way I know how to be. I wish I could be gentle and enjoy the things most twenty-one-year-olds do, but I can’t.

  The only thing coursing through me is vengeance, and, being a Kelly, I must deal with that in the most deplorable of ways. Just like right now.

  Orla runs her fingers over my T-shirt, circling the barbell in my nipple before stopping at the button on my ripped black jeans. When she flicks it open, I reach down and stop her.

  “Ya don’t wanna?” she breathlessly pants against my lips. Her hot breath reminds of me of the warm blood that coated my knuckles last week when I paid a visit to one of my dad’s customers who was late with their payment.

  “I do,” I confirm, threading my fingers through her hair. “But could I trouble ye for some water?”

  Orla’s disappointment is clear, but she’s a good Protestant girl and nods. “Aye, no bother.”

  She gingerly slides off me and arranges her dress, not wanting to alert the partygoers downstairs what we were just doing.

  “I won’t be long.”

  Nodding, I throw an arm over my eyes as if snuffing out the bright light. In reality, I’m blocking out all the atrocities I’ve done.

  The closing of the door announces her departure, which is my cue to follow, but just not in the way Orla thinks.

  I spring to my feet, my drunken state miraculously gone because I’m not plastered. I never was. Locking the door, I get to work for the real reason I’m here.

  The corner of my mouth lifts when I open the bedside dresser and see Mrs. Ryan’s pink dildo. I wonder if Nolen Ryan is privy to the fact that his Holy Joe of a wife has a battery-operated friend feet away. Unable to help myself, I swipe it and slide it in my back pocket.

  Closing her drawer, I round the bed, and when I open Nolen’s dresser, I curse under my breath.

  The bastard was right.

  Reaching into my backpack—which I slipped under the bed earlier—for my phone, I snap a picture of the evidence before taking it and the Catholic rosary beads from the drawer. I slip everything into my backpack. My job here is done.

  The party is in full swing downstairs, and I know it’s only a matter of time before Orla comes back. I walk toward the window, unlock it, and look at the two-story drop.

  “Ach, finally,” says my best friend, Cian Davies, peering up at me as he flicks his feg into the bushes.

  I’ve known Cian since I was born. Our fathers have been best friends since their teens, and it was expected we were to follow in their footsteps. His father is an eejit, but thankfully, his son just so happens to be the coolest person I know.

  We’re often mistaken for brothers because many have said he’s my double. It’s helped with our alibis in the past.

  “Stop faffin’ around. Rory is keepin’ dick for us down the street. Get a move on before the peelers come.”

  This is so like Cian—always worrying about the what-ifs, the complete opposite to who I am.

  Clucking my tongue, I calmly say, “Houl yer whisht, y’ll jinx us. I’ve a present for ye.”

  Before he can ask what it is, I reach into my back pocket and toss Mrs. Ryan’s dildo down to him. On instinct, he catches it, and it takes him a few seconds to realize what it is. When he does, he shrieks and flings it into the bushes.

  Laughing, I climb over the windowsill and peer downward.

  “Punky, yer not gonna jump, are ya?”

  Of course, he’d assume I’d scale down the drainpipe, as that’s what any normal person would do, but I never claimed to be normal. What’s that? While most people are inside, hiding from the thunderstorms, I’m outside, playing in the rain.

  Before Cian can protest, I use my legs and launch out the window, relishing in the adrenaline rush as my boots hit the soft grass. I wish it was higher. It’s only in the face of danger that I feel alive.

  “Ya jammy bastard!”

  “Luck has nothin’ to with it, Cian,” I say with a grin as we commence a discreet walk across the Ryans’ front garden.

  It’s in the wrong, corrupt, and violent where I thrive.

  Keeping my head down as I’m supposed to be wasted and passed out upstairs, we avoid bumping into anyone and head down the street to where our friend, Rory Walsh, is keeping a lookout. When he sees us, he flashes the lights on his car.

  After we all quickly get into his BMW, he puts the car into drive and speeds off down the street. Like thieves in the night, we’ve gotten away unscathed. It shouldn’t be this simple, but it is.

  Even if anyone suspected us, they wouldn’t dare wage a war against the Kellys, the Davieses, or the Walshes as our families rule all of Northern Ireland. Belfast is our base, but paramilitary groups who run their own “areas” are still under our control. There are a few paramilitary groups in the past who have fought against each other, but they soon learned that we don’t tolerate rebellion.

  It’s been this way for generations, and we’re expected to take over from our fathers when the time comes.

  I never chose this life. It was my birthright, according to my dad, but all I see is the curse that it is. It’s because of the Kelly name that my mum was slain by the Doyles—our Catholic cunt counterpart in Dublin.

  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 cannot. She paid for being a Kelly. Her death was supposed to incite a war, but my father simply laid down his arms like the coward he is.

  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 Connor Kelly. He was the one who told me the Catholics had broken into the bungalow Ma bought without my father knowing and killed her to start a war over territory.

  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 innocent. This war was never hers, yet she paid the ultimate price.

  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 cannot go unpunished, and Nolen will be made an example of.

  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 Connor Kelly waiting.

  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 wanna get hammered. Come over.”

  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.

  Rory knows not to argue and pulls over. We’re in the middle of nowhere, but it’s in the dark where I thrive. I’ve seen the bogeyman. He doesn’t scare me anymore.

  Opening the door, I bid my friends farewell. “Thanks a million. I’ll chat to ye later.”

  Cian turns over his shoulder and smirks. “Be careful of the culchies.”

  “Ack, they need to be careful of him,” Rory retorts playfully.

  With a smile, I close the car door and watch my friends drive off into the night, faffin’ about like normal twenty-one-year-olds should. I start to dander home.

  The full moon provides some light, but the darkness doesn’t scare me. It’s the daylight that does. But it wasn’t always this way. When Ma was alive, I used to love digging with her in her garden. She loved roses.

  Peering down at the rose tattooed on the back of my hand, I sigh. Her memory fades every single day, and I’m afraid it won’t be long until she’s gone forever. Reaching into my pocket, I finger over her rose brooch which I’ve carried with me since her death.

  It was the only thing my dad let me keep of hers. Everything else, he threw away. It seemed he wanted to erase any memory of her. I wanted to believe it had something to do with my stepma, my ma’s once best friend.

  But I soon learned this was all my dad.

  A dim light up ahead catches me off guard because I’m literally in the middle of nowhere. It looks like the screen on someone’s phone. I have my knife and brass knuckles within reach, but when I get closer, I see that I won’t be needing them.

  The first thing I notice is her hair—it’s almost silver under the moonlight and tied in two loose ponytails. The black headband contrasts the platinum color. As I get closer, I see that she’s wearing a short navy skirt and matching top.

  When she hears me, she spins around, using a small torch to see who’s there.

  “Hello?” she yelps in a posh accent.

  “What’s the craic?”

  She cocks her head to the side, obviously confused. She’s definitely not from around here.

  “What’s goin’ on?” I say, the universal language for why the fuck is she out here, all alone in the middle of the night and the middle of nowhere.

  “Oh,” she says, brushing back a stray piece of hair behind her ear. “My bike broke.”

  She flashes the torch on the pink bike which lays on its side.

  “I was riding home from a party, hence the costume,” she explains, as if needing to clarify why she’s riding a bike in thigh-high stockings and boots.

  Not that I care because she looks a ride.

  Taking a closer look at her outfit, I smirk, but am su
ddenly alarmed I responded this way because it’s not forced. “Babydoll?”

  She seems surprised I know she’s dressed as a character from one of my favorite comics. “Yes!” she says happily. “I’m glad someone has a clue around here.”

  Compliments make me uncomfortable, so I clear my throat. “I’ll take a look at yer bike.”

  “Thanks.”

  I crouch down to see what the damage is. Instantly, I see the bike chain has come loose. “Wee buns. Y’ll be on yer way in no time.”

  She cautiously walks over, watching as I go to work fixing the chain. “What are you doing out here?” she asks, pointing her torch my way to provide more light.

  “Just out for a dander.”

  “A what?”

  Smirking, again surprising myself, I clarify, “A walk. Where ya from?”

  “Oh,” she says, giggling. “I’m from London. I just moved here with my aunt.”

  No wonder she has a posh accent.

  “Are you from around here? My name is Poppy Yates. I’m a Pisces. I prefer thunderstorms over sunshine. And my favorite color is blue.”

  I know she’s trying to be funny, trying to break the ice, but I don’t reply. Instead, I focus on fixing her bike so she and her vanilla-smelling self can ride the hell away from here.

  “How about you?”

  “How ’bout me, what?” I counter quickly, before silently cursing myself. She’s just trying to be friendly.

  “That’s your lead-in to tell me all about yourself. It’s called making conversation,” she replies lightly.

  “Right, well I’m not interested in makin’ conversation. All done,” I reveal, not answering her question or giving her my name.

  Coming to a stand, I almost bump into her because she’s standing so close. She’s short, maybe five-three. I’m six-three, so I guess most people are relatively short compared to me.

  “Th-thanks,” she falters, taking a step back.

  I move the kickstand so the bike is ready for her, but she quickly reaches out and grips my wrist.

  On instinct, I recoil forcibly. “Any more of this and there’ll be less of it.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” she quickly apologizes, her cheeks taking a reddener. Even though she’s probably lost in translation, my firm tone has hinted what I mean. “I just wanted to thank you for helping me.”