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

by Monica James

  No matter how hard I try to stay calm, my labored breathing gives me away. Being this close to Punky is a drug, and like a junkie, I want more…more…more.

  A look I can’t quite place overcomes him, and I’m too late to stop him when he pulls down the sleeve of my loose-fitting dress, exposing the purply blue bruise on my shoulder, courtesy of my beating three days ago.

  “Who did this to you?” he orders, his voice frighteningly low.

  Frantically, I attempt to pull up the sleeve of my dress, but he won’t permit me to cover my shame. “I fell down the stairs,” I whisper angrily, not wanting Darcy or anyone else to hear our exchange.

  “Bullshit!” he growls, not caring who hears it seems. “Tell me.”

  I fight him, desperate he doesn’t continue disrobing me as I’m afraid of what he’ll see. But the harder I fight, the more evident it becomes I’ve got something to hide. Punky yanks down both sleeves and spins me around so my bare back faces him.

  A horrified breath escapes him when he sees the ghastly mess. The fresh welts from this morning’s beating are swirled among the bruising I’ve withstood since coming to this god forsaken country.

  I drop my chin to my chest, wishing I could just disappear.

  “The fuck? Ya got…whipped?” His surprise is clear because being whipped without the kink is just punishment, a brutal form of torture.

  I hold back my tears, and his question remains unanswered. I can’t tell him what happened, no matter how badly I want to.

  “Go back to your perfect date and forget this ha-happened,” I assert, but the quiver to my voice betrays my bravado.

  I’m clutching onto the front of my dress, the material bunched in my tight fists as I wait for Punky to let me go. He’s seen the ugliness as these scars come with baggage, and what sort of man wants to deal with that.

  But what he does next has a single tear trickling down my cheek.

  At first, I think my fragile mind has conjured up such an occurrence to deal with the humiliation, the pain, but when I feel the unmistakable glide of flesh upon flesh, I know that this is really happening—Punky is stroking over my wounds. He isn’t repulsed by my humiliation.

  “I can’t forget,” he confesses, his fingers gently tracing over the welts on my back. “I don’t want to. And I don’t want perfect…I want real.”

  I allow myself this moment of silence because I know it won’t last. It can’t.

  “I’m sorry this has happened to ya. I know what it’s like,” he shares with regret. “My aul’ lad, he knocked me out. And then the next night, I got into a fight. That’s what happened to my face. And the brooch…it, it belonged to my mum.”

  His confession is laced with so much pain, I feel it all the way to my core. I now know why I gravitated toward him. We both share something life changing which has shaped us into the damaged people we are today.

  I don’t need him to explain what happened to her. I can guess. Him speaking about his mother in the past tense says it all, and that breaks my heart because it hits close to home.

  “So thanks for giving it back.”

  “It’s okay,” I reply softly. “I shouldn’t have taken it in the first place.”

  “Who did this to ya, Baby?”

  I like this nickname for me too.

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Course, it matters. No one has the right to lay a hand on ya. I’ll break every bone in their fucking body for doin’ so.” He strokes over the large welt across my back; his touch filled with nothing but compassion.

  I can’t take his kindness. I don’t deserve it.

  Gently shrugging away, he gets the hint and lets me get dressed with my back turned. I wish I could slip away and forget this encounter ever occurred, but he shared something personal with me, and I don’t want to throw that back in his face by not at least acknowledging it.

  With courage filling my lungs, I turn around and slowly lift my chin to face Punky. I see nothing but sincerity reflected in those clear blue eyes. “Thank you, but I can look after myself. I better get back to work. And you better get back to Darcy.”

  I wish I did a better job at concealing my jealousy because being jealous means I care, and I can’t care about Puck Kelly.

  “I’m not here ’cause I want to be,” he reveals, shaking his head and thumbing over my bottom lip slowly.

  “Then why are you?” His touch sets me alight.

  “She has somethin’ I need,” he reveals, finally releasing me from this spell he’s cast.

  “And what’s that?” I ask, suddenly very curious and elated at the same time.

  He tongues his cheek, as if weighing over what he should tell me. “I need access to her father’s files. Or, more specifically, I need all the housin’ information he has in Moville.”

  I know that place because I took photos of that file a few minutes ago. But if I tell Punky that, he’ll know I broke into Patrick’s office to obtain that information and then the questions will start. Questions I cannot answer.

  But I think about his admission and how I doubt he needs real estate information because he’s interested in investing. So what does he need it for?

  “Punky! Did ya get lost?” Darcy calls out, her footsteps pounding up the stairs.

  “Ah, just fuck off, will ya?” he mutters under his breath, running a hand through his hair.

  His honest response has me going against my gut and whispering quickly, “What’s your number?”

  His eyes widen, but when he reads the urgency to my question, he recites it speedily.

  Memorizing it, I grab my things and hurriedly walk down the hallway, diving into the safety of the main bedroom, avoiding an awkward encounter with Darcy.

  Leaning up against the wall, I measure my breaths and dig into my pocket for my phone. Scrolling through my pictures, I sigh, pausing over the documents Punky needs. I do this, and there’s no turning back. Thinking about the reason I’m here, I enter Punky’s number and send him the photos with tears in my eyes.

  Regret and shame overwhelm me because Punky will believe I sent these to help him. But the truth is…I did it to help myself. Puck Kelly is the reason I’m here. He’s the reason for all of this. He just doesn’t know it.

  Yet.

  We’re all quiet because, thanks to Babydoll, things are about to change. We don’t know how, but I can feel it. We all can.

  I’m driving, while Cian is riding shotgun and Rory is in the back. Rory was relieved when I told him I didn’t need Darcy after all as Babydoll had the information I was looking for.

  Darcy was going to eat the head off me when I told her I had to go. I didn’t give her an excuse, just that I had to leg it.

  The moment I stepped outside, I got into my car, drove home and punched the shite outta my punching bag for an hour. All I could see was Babydoll’s bruises and welts. The bruising indicates she’s been hit before. And the welts were fresh.

  I wish this was a one off, but I know better, which is why I’m not going to stop until I find out who did this to her.

  It doesn’t make sense, but the attraction I feel for Babydoll just continues to grow. She is strong; she’s a fighter. Her battle scars prove this. I have no doubt she took each lash without surrender, challenging the fucker to do his best.

  She has every right to tell me to go fuck myself, but she hasn’t. She gave back my ma’s brooch, and now she’s given me information which led me down this dark, gravel road. I owe her.

  “How’s it goin’?” Cian asks, sensing my thoughts are elsewhere.

  “Sound,” I reply, half arsed.

  I didn’t go into details about what happened with Babydoll. All the boys know is that someone hurt her, and that someone is going to be in the hospital for an awful long time once I find them.

  “It’s about half a mile ahead,” Rory says, as he’s the using GPS on his phone.

  There isn’t a house in sight, just acres upon acres of green, farmlands, and lots of cows. The
re are no street lights, so when I park my car and turn off the blinders, we know we’ve got to adjust to the dark. Locking the car, we commence our walk down the deserted road.

  “What’s the craic then?” Cian asks, his voice echoing out here in the middle of nowhere.

  “I walk up to the front door and knock.”

  He laughs, but when he realizes I’m serious, he shakes his head. “Fair play to ya, mate. Yer bollocks are bigger than mine.”

  Both Rory and Cian think I’m not the full shilling, but I didn’t come this far to faff about. When Babydoll sent me every listing in Moville, it wasn’t hard to find which one once belonged to my ma because there was only one owner before the current residents—Cara Foster.

  It couldn’t be a coincidence. Cara Foster had to be my mum.

  I don’t know how I feel about this. Finding out so much, so fast, has been information overload. I need to process it, but time is something I don’t have. If my da gets wind of what I’m up to, he’ll do everything in his power to stop me.

  But I won’t allow that and this time, I will fight back.

  Creeping through the night has me wondering about that fateful night which changed my life forever. Are these the same footsteps my ma’s murderers took? Why wasn’t she in Northern Ireland? What was here for her to choose this location?

  It’s in the middle of nowhere with a population coming in at under two thousand.

  This quiet, simple life is so different to Belfast. So different to being a Kelly. Is that why she came here? To run away?

  When the bungalow comes into view, I delve deep into my psyche, hoping to unearth repressed memories which may resurface being here. But all I’m faced with is a black mass which won’t shift.

  Cian slaps me on the back encouragingly, while Rory vows, “We’ve got yer back, mate, so we have.”

  I want to thank them, but I’m so lost to this surreal feeling that I merely nod in acknowledgment.

  The closer we get, the more unsettled I become, but I squash down the uncertainty and only focus on the answers I will get. The full moon provides the light for me to see the bungalow is painted white with a gray roof. Smoke plumes from the chimney, hinting someone is home.

  The property itself is huge, but it’s gone to waste as no crops or animals are in sight. When we reach the long drive, I stop and close my eyes. Was she happy here?

  “Yer all right then?” Cian asks.

  Nodding, I open my eyes and focus on the bungalow in the distance. There are gardens with shrubs, trees, and hedges. Was it this way when I was last here?

  “It’s so quiet out here. No one would have heard her scream,” I utter, surprisingly calm. “Youse stay here. I’ll call out if I need ya.”

  Rory and Cian nod, understanding this is something I need to do on my own.

  With no time to waste, I commence my walk toward the bungalow with no expectations; this avoids disappointment. On the listing, it has a D. Morrison as the current owner. They’ve lived here for fifteen years, which tells me they bought this place not long after my mum died.

  A sensor light switches on when I get within a few feet of the front door. No turning back now. There is no doorbell, so I knock on the wooden door.

  There is light from a TV flickering through the sheer front curtain and I’m about to take a peek inside, but when the front door opens and an aul’ doll greets me in a blue dressing gown, I smile.

  “How ya doin’? Sorry to disturb ye, but I was wonderin’ if I could trouble ya with some questions?”

  She narrows her blue eyes.

  She has every right to be suspicious. A strange lad is on her doorstep at nine p.m.

  “What questions?” she asks with a thick Irish accent, ensuring she holds onto the door in case she needs to shut it quickly.

  Rubbing the back of my neck, I decide to lead with my gut because it’s now or never. “’Bout the woman who lived here before youse. Her name was Cara Fost—”

  Suddenly, the door is yanked open, and the muzzle of a shotgun is inches from my forehead. “Away with ya,” says the aul’ lad who is wielding the shotgun.

  Slowly raising my hands, wishing to show them I want no trouble, I say, “I mean no harm. I just wondered if you knew her—”

  “Ah’ll knack yer bollocks in. Chase yerself!” he warns, his grip firm on the shotgun.

  “Boys a dear,” the aul’ doll gasps, clutching at the cross around her neck.

  “Really sorry, but I can’t do that. Not until ya answer my question.” I won’t surrender. Not when I’ve come this far. “Do ya know what happened here?”

  “Wise up, cub! Did ya not hear me? Away on! Ya got naw business being ’ere.”

  The aul’ lad gestures with the gun that I’m to go, but when the aul’ doll’s eyes fill with tears, it confirms it is my business. I’m not going anywhere.

  I direct my question at her. “The woman, Cara, she was—” But the aul’ lad doesn’t let me finish.

  “Don’tcha listen to him, Imogen,” he warns, his gaze never wavering from me. “Are ye deef? Call the peelers, I will.”

  If I wanted to, I could drive that shotgun into his chest, setting him off balance and force my way in. But I don’t want that. This bungalow has seen enough violence.

  Imogen reaches for a tissue out of her pocket and wipes her nose. “Who are ya, wee lad?” she asks, ignoring the man, who I’m assuming is her husband. “Why ya askin’ after Cara?”

  “Y’knew her?”

  A sniffle escapes Imogen, which is a strange response for someone she didn’t know.

  “You did know her,” I press, reaching forward to gently grip her wrist. “Please, just tell me how.”

  But the aul’ lad has had enough.

  Without warning, he flips the shotgun and delivers a buttstroke to the center of my forehead. I stagger back two steps and clutch at my bleeding head, stunned at the bollocks on this aul’ lad.

  “Keegan! If yer mother were still alive, that would kill her,” Imogen scolds, but Keegan, aka the aul’ lad who just kicked my arse, ignores her and comes chasing after me with the shotgun.

  “Is that you? Or ye away in the head?”

  My vision is blurred, but I manage to dodge the gun-wielding lunatic as he tries to hit me again.

  “I don’t want any trouble,” I pant, raising one hand in surrender while the other cradles my brow.

  “Yer head’s full of wee sweetie mice. Trouble’s been had.”

  “I’m not leavin’ until ya tell me how ya knew Cara,” I persevere. The only way I’m leaving here without any answers is if he kills me.

  “Stop saying her name!” he screams, advancing once again. “Give ma head peace.”

  I recoil, impressed with this aul’ lad’s stamina and how stubborn he is. But I’m not leaving until he gives me answers.

  Cian and Rory come running up the drive, guns drawn as they heard the commotion. When they see the blood gushing from my forehead and that I’m being held at gunpoint, they instantly spring into attack.

  Imogen shrieks.

  “Naw!” I bellow when they make a move for Keegan. “Don’t touch him.”

  Cian and Rory freeze, looking at me like I’ve gone mad, and I may just have. But I don’t want to hurt either of these people. They’re not the enemy. They’re only protecting their home and one another.

  “Yer bleedin’,” Cian says, as if needing to remind me the reason for my injuries is holding us hostage with his shotgun.

  “Slap it up ye!” Keegan spits, pointing the shotgun at Rory and Cian. “Call the peelers, Imogen.”

  This is my last chance.

  Submitting is not in my nature, and it appears it’s not in Keegan’s either, which is why I slowly drop to my knees, admitting defeat.

  He won.

  “Cara was—” I lick my lips, tasting nothing but the sharp metallic sting of my blood. Visions assault me, or rather, memories leave me winded because I’m suddenly inside this bungalow, locked away in th
at wardrobe as I watch my ma being killed.

  I clearly see my five-year-old self, painting my face; each stroke denoting what those three fuckers are doing to her as she screams for them to stop.

  I can feel her skin cooling as I lay nestled in her arms.

  I smell the stink of decay.

  Memories my brain had suppressed are reborn, refueling this desperate need to avenge my ma and stop at nothing until I do.

  “Cara, she was my ma,” I state, unsure if I said it aloud.

  But when the shotgun drops to the ground with a hollowed thud, I know that I did.

  “Houl on, what did ye say?”

  Shaking my head, I return to the now and observe Keegan turning a terrible shade of white.

  “Cara was my mum,” I repeat, still on my knees. “My name is—”

  But I never get to reveal who I am, and that’s because they already know.

  “Puck?” Imogen gasps, placing her weathered hand over her mouth.

  “How’d ya know my name?” I ask, looking from her to Keegan.

  “Boys a dear,” she utters, shaking her head, eyes wide like she’s seen a ghost.

  Keegan blinks once, as he too appears like he’s gone into shock. “Get up from there, lad.”

  I do as he says, hoping one of them will explain what the fuck is going on.

  “Says I to her, don’t marry that good for nothin’ sleekit. But she didn’t listen. And look what happened,” he says, talking to himself.

  I have no idea what’s going on.

  “Married who?” I ask, wiping the blood from my eyes and hoping to clear away the confusion as well.

  “Yer dad,” Imogen replies softly, coming out of the doorway and walking toward me. “Cara is our daughter, Puck. Yer our grandson.”

  The gash on my forehead suddenly pales in comparison to the one on my heart because there must be some mistake. I came here for answers, not to find long-lost relatives. But before me stands just that.

  “I don’t believe it.” Imogen gasps, staring at me. “Ya look just like her.”

  When she attempts to touch me, I recoil violently as I need a minute. Or two.

  These strangers are my grandparents? Do they look like my mum? I don’t know. I can’t really remember what she looks like. I don’t remember them. I know where I got my temper from, however.