by Monica James
“What happened to ya in there? Yer…different.”
Of course, he’d assume Riverbend House is a “normal” prison where officers look out for the well-being of prisoners. But there is nothing normal about that place.
“Whatever ya believe Riverbend House to be, it is not. The officers are more depraved and corrupt than the inmates.”
I understand he’s curious about what my life has been like for the past ten years. But the truth is, I don’t feel comfortable sharing that with him yet. I don’t want him knowing all the vile things I did and enjoyed doing.
“I want to know what happened to my best friend,” he presses with sincerity.
I appreciate it. “Maybe one day, but not today.”
He nods, accepting my reply.
“Let’s throw out the boggin’ couch next,” he says, changing the subject.
Cian has offered to help me clean the castle up because it’s more than a one-man job. A builder Hannah found online is coming out today to look at the damage. I’m expecting the worst.
I’ve told Cian not to stray too far without me. Not because I’m worried the unstable structure will collapse and render him unconscious, but rather, I don’t know who is lurking in the shadows—take your pick, it could be anyone.
The crunching of gravel has both Cian and I turning to see a police car coming up the drive.
“The fuck they want?” he asks while I shrug.
The guns and knives Cian brought over are hidden away, so we’re in the clear. The weapons are hardly the arsenal I need, but they’ll do until I can get my hands on something that packs a little more heat.
We wait for the officer to exit the car. I have no idea who he is, but when Cian curses under his breath, it’s obvious this peeler is known to him. He adjusts his belt, ensuring we see his gun. I roll my eyes at his desperate attempt to flaunt his authority.
“Mornin’,” he says, eyeing us closely when he notices Cian’s bleeding lip.
“Hi,” Cian replies while I don’t bother.
It’s obvious he sees me as nothing but a criminal.
“I wanted to introduce myself,” he explains. “I’m Constable Shane Moore.”
I merely look at him, hinting if he has a point, then to make it.
I don’t realize the significance of his surname and Cian’s reaction to him until he says, “Donovan Moore was my father.”
Cian waits for me to respond, and when I chuckle, he sighs, knowing this won’t end well.
“Ach, the chief constable’s son, here in the flesh. To what do I owe this pleasure?” I sarcastically say because this arsehole is not welcome here.
His father is the reason I was thrown into prison so he could climb the ranks, uncaring I was rotting in hell. I don’t fail to notice his use of past tense.
“What happened to him then? I’d love to catch up on old times over a pint.”
Cian conceals his snort of laughter behind a cough.
Shane’s cheeks turn a brutal red. “My da died two years ago. Heart attack.”
“Only the good die young,” I quip, ensuring Shane knows I’m happy that the bastard is dead. “So, what do ya want? Yer here to lend a hand?”
The corded veins in Shane’s neck reveal he is trying his best to stop from using his hands to choke the life from me. “I’m ’ere ’cause I want ya to know I’m keepin’ an eye on ya.”
“Are ye the welcomin’ committee?” I say, never breaking eye contact with him. “I’ll run some fifteens over to the cap shap to express mi thanks.”
If this arsehole thinks he can come here and intimidate me, he is sorely mistaken. I’ve dealt with far worse monsters than him.
“Yer da was awful attentive toward the Kellys too. Like father, like wee son. Now, if y’ll excuse me, we’ve been up to ninety since half seven. I’ve got to throw away ten years’ worth of filth, so I better get back to work. And I’m sure yer busy, chasin’ crime, so y’are.”
My words are dripping with innuendo and sarcasm, something which Shane doesn’t appreciate.
He advances forward but soon remembers he’s wearing a uniform and stops. His nostrils flare, expressing his anger. “I’ll be seein’ ya around, Puck Kelly.”
“All the best, Stuart,” I say with a wave, deciding to bait him further by deliberately using a different name.
He doesn’t correct me and storms off. He rakes down the drive, leaving dust in his wake.
“Thon wee fella has a face like a bulldog chewing a wasp,” Cian says, shaking his head.
“Aye, he’s a waste of space, just like his da. He made a mistake comin’ here. I now know he’s watchin’ us. We’ve got to be careful.”
Cian nods. “What a wee want. He came here to whip out his cock when he should have stayed hidden.”
“There’s no cure for stupid, Cian, and Shane Moore’s gene pool is drownin’ in stupidity. He wanted to assert his authority, but he’s small fry. Now we know the peelers aren’t on our side.”
“Who is?” Cian asks, expressing his concerns.
I don’t reply because honestly, I don’t know. There are so many unanswered questions, but I’m certain about one thing and that is: I have no doubt Brody will be in touch soon. Once he is, we can get the ball rolling.
A truck turns into the drive, alerting us that the builder has arrived. He parks the car, and when he exits, both Cian and I turn toward the other, shook.
We know him.
Ronan Murray.
I’m transported back in time to when Ronan was tied to a chair, begging for his life. Rory, Cian, and I decided to let him go even though he was a traitor. He was the scapegoat we needed and was used to throw the Doyles off course.
But that all turned to shite.
“The fuck ya doin’ here?” Cian says, half in awe, the other in anger. “We gave ya one chance, and ye fucked it up.”
When he goes to retrieve the gun from the small of his back, I stop him. I want to know why Ronan would come here willingly. This address is known to him, and I’m certain he heard I was out. So why would he risk it?
“What’s the craic, Ronan?”
Ronan keeps his distance. “Hi, Punky. Y’ve grown.”
“Aye, that’s what happens when ten years pass,” I reply, not interested in small talk. “Why would ya come here when ye knew the consequences?”
Ronan looks at the ground. “’Cause I want a second chance.”
Cian scoffs, while I cannot believe the bollocks on Ronan. “Second chance with what?”
“I want to regain yer trust and help rebuild yer empire. Northern Ireland is rightfully yours. Yer da would be turnin’ in his grave. God rest his soul.”
A laugh leaves me, but it’s not a happy sound. “Why the fuck would I trust ya? After everythin’ y’ve done. I should cut out yer tongue and feed it to ye for speaking such filth.”
He knows I speak the truth because he was there when I cut off Aidan Doyle’s lips.
“You were happy to sacrifice my siblings to save yer own arse. I don’t do business with people like ya.”
The memory of Ronan using the twins as bargaining chips still enrages me as it did ten years ago.
“I would not have done that to them,” he frantically explains. “I would have said anythin’ to get out of there.”
His excuses have me curling my lip in disgust. “Yer weak, and yer also a fucking traitor. Away ta fuck, before I finish what I started ten years ago.”
Ronan doesn’t move, however, and that’s because he has something or, rather, someone I want. “I know where Sean is.”
And just like that, Ronan has signed his own death warrant.
“How would ya know that?” I ask, folding my arms across my chest.
“Because he approached me, askin’ if I wanted back in,” he reveals in a rushed breath. “I told him I was on the straight and narrow. That my business was goin’ well. He said if I ever changed my mind, that he was havin’ a meetin’ tomorrow.”
I
take a deep breath. “Where?”
“I don’t know yet.”
Cian scoffs as he’s clearly heard enough. “Well, what good are ye then?”
He takes off into a sprint, chasing after Ronan, who uses his truck as a barricade. “But he said he’d send a text an hour before. I can tell ya where then,” Ronan pleads.
“Cian, enough,” I say lightly as they’re making me seasick with their running around.
“Ye surely don’t believe this dick,” Cian exclaims, looking at me. “He was workin’ with Sean and Brody. He is a double-crossing fuck who cannot be trusted.”
And he’s right. But Ronan is the break we need. Even if this is a trap, it’ll get me face-to-face with Sean. “Why would ya want to help me?”
“It’s because of Sean and Brody that I was exiled, forced to leave Belfast when they wanted nothin’ to do with me,” he declares, his sincerity clear. “Youse could have killed me, but ye spared me. I owe youse my life. This is my way of sayin’ I’m sorry. Of payin’ ye back so I’m no longer indebted to ya.
“This is my way to say sorry to yer da.”
I will probably regret this decision, but I believe him.
“Punky, no,” Cian says, reading my expression instantly.
I understand his concerns, but this is my choice. If he turns around and leaves me to deal with the repercussions on my own, there would be no hard feelings. But I know Cian—he’ll never let me down.
“If yer lying, and there’s a good chance that y’are, know that I will make ya watch as I torture and then kill yer family. Every single one of them.”
My threat isn’t empty. I mean every single word.
Ronan nods calmly. “I understand. I will not let ya down.”
“Again,” Cian adds, shaking his head.
With that settled, Ronan opens the car door, but I arch a brow. “Where are ya goin’?”
Ronan freezes, lost in translation. So I decide to clarify.
“Yer a builder, are ya not?”
“Aye. I am.”
Gesturing toward the castle, I smile. “Then do yer job. I called ya out here for a reason.”
Cian curses under his breath, while Ronan quickly reaches into the back of his truck for his toolbox.
“Don’tcha think ’bout rippin’ me off now. Otherwise, I’ll return the favor. But I’ll be rippin’ out yer spleen.”
Ronan smiles, but it’s strained, for he knows he’s walking a thin line. However, if what he says is true, then he’ll prove to be one of our biggest allies. Lucky, we didn’t kill him, after all.
Ronan’s quotes are very reasonable, but I’m pretty sure he gave me a discount, fearing for his life if I wasn’t happy with the price.
Cian reminded me every chance he got what a stupid idea trusting Ronan is—in case I had forgotten—but this is happening. I have no other way to get to Sean, and even if this is a setup, at least it’ll get me in the same room as him.
He is too much of a narcissist not to end me himself. He wants it to be his face I see when he finishes what he started ten years ago. That’s how I can be so certain that he will be there. He wouldn’t allow anyone else to kill his son.
Reaching for my whiskey, I gulp it down, needing to wash away the reality that Sean Kelly is my dad. It’s still a hard pill to swallow. Father hunting son. Son hunting father. Ironically, I never called Connor my da, and I will never call Sean that either. But looking back, I realize Connor will always be more of a father than Sean ever will.
My phone rings, thankfully interrupting this pity party for one.
It’s a private number, which raises suspicions. So I decide to let it go to voicemail. Once the screen lights up, alerting me I have one voice message, I go through the prompts to listen.
At first, all I hear is background noise, like the caller is at a pub with a rowdy crowd, but through that, there is no mistaking a voice I’d recognize even in the pits of hell.
“I don’t know what I’m doing anymore,” Babydoll slurs before the line goes dead.
I listen to the message three more times, in case I missed anything, and when I hear the faint tolling of a bell tower, I know where she is. I have no idea what her message means, but I’m not about to wait around to find out.
The sensible thing to do would be to call Rory, but if Babydoll called me without him knowing, then I don’t want to upset either of them. Grabbing the truck keys off the wooden dining table Hannah surprised me with today, I quickly sprint to Cian’s truck.
I don’t have a current license, but I don’t care. I have a sinking feeling in my guts that something is wrong. All that matters is getting to Babydoll. I don’t think twice as I slip the key into the ignition, put the truck into gear, and rake down the drive.
The tolling bell hints that Babydoll is somewhere near Queen’s Square. There are many pubs around there, but I will search every one until I find her. I could message Hannah and ask for Babydoll’s number. But I don’t want anyone involved in this.
I try my best to keep to the speed limit, but the farther I travel, the more anxious I become to find Babydoll. The drive takes me half the amount of time it would if I drove legally, and I park in the first space I find.
Locking the car, I quickly use the map on my phone to locate the nearest pubs as things have changed in ten years. There are places I can remember, and others that I can’t.
I start at the first pub I can find and work my way through a dozen or so, coming up empty. But that doesn’t deter me as I continue searching for Babydoll. She’s got to be here.
I notice a lot of places I used to know are closed down. I wonder what happened as some businesses have been here for decades.
One place which still stands is Bull and Crow, an Irish pub that has been around for generations. The place is jammers—just as I remember it being. Cian, Rory, and I frequented this pub, and when I scan the room and see her sitting in a red booth alone, it seems Babydoll does as well.
Half a dozen empty pint glasses litter the table, and I wonder if she’s alone. Maybe she’s here with friends? I decide to wait just in case.
I sit at the bar, discreetly watching Babydoll, who nurses a pint as she stares blankly ahead. It appears she’s lost in another world.
“Puck Kelly?” a familiar voice says in awe.
Peering up, I see Ollie Molony, the owner of Bull and Crow standing behind the bar.
Ollie was a good friend of Connor’s, but he never once outed us when we came in here, drinking underage. For that, we respected him.
“Ollie.” I smile, extending my hand and shaking his over the bar. “Good to see ya again.”
“I don’t believe my eyes. Look at ya,” he says, his brown eyes taking in ten years’ worth of change. “Let me get ye a pint.”
But I wave my hand. “Naw, I’m here to pick up my friend.”
He arches a brow, and when I turn my attention to Babydoll, he sighs. “The wee lass has been ’ere for hours. I thought Rory would be comin’, but she’s been drinkin’ alone…which is never a good thing.”
“That’s the truth, so it is,” I agree, looking at her. “It was good seein’ ye, Ollie.”
I go to stand, but he reaches across the bar and grips my wrist. I peer down, confused. There is a desperation beneath his touch.
“Could I trouble ya for a moment?”
“Course. Is everythin’ all right?”
Ollie ensures no one is earwiggin’ as he leans in close. “Are ya back?”
He doesn’t want to say too much as no matter how careful one is, someone is always listening.
“Maybe. But it’s a long road ahead. What Connor left behind…it’s gone.”
“We want to help,” he shares softly, his eyes darting around the room.
“Help?”
Ollie nods. “That fucker, Brody Doyle, he’s bleedin’ us dry. But if we don’t do business with him, then yer the enemy. Just take a look around, Punky, and y’ll see what happened to those who rebelled.”<
br />
That explains what happened to the businesses which are no more.
“What’s he want with youse?”
“With the Kellys gone, we’ve been at the mercy of other rival families, wantin’ to take control. Brody has offered us protection, for a fee, of course.”
“That fucker,” I mumble under my breath. “How much?”
“Half of our monthly earnin’s,” he reveals with regret. “We’re barely pullin’ through. But if we don’t pay, we’ll end up like the rest of them who said no to the Doyles. Liam Doyle is just as bad as his father.”
The Doyles are offering “protection,” but the truth is, this is an extortion racket. Ollie doesn’t pay, and he’s open to attack from the Doyles, as well as others who want to take over Belfast.
“What a fucking mess,” I say, running a hand through my hair.
I never knew what Connor actually did for this town. I now see it was a lot. When he ruled, there were no rivalries because everyone knew not to fuck with the Kellys. But everything has turned to shite since his death.
I never respected the aul’ lad, but that’s starting to slowly change.
“We never wanted to side with him, but my wee grandkids—”
“It’s all right, Ollie,” I say, cutting him off. “There’s no need to explain.”
There are no hard feelings. No one knows the truth. They all thought I was sent to prison for organizing the death of many men, including Sean and Connor. I’m sure my friends defended my honor, but with Brody tainting my name and putting the fear of God into friends and foe, I was soon a forgotten memory.
“I never believed what the papers said. We all knew ye’d never steal from yer da and hurt him.”
“Thank you, Ollie. I appreciate that. Yer right. Brody Doyle set me up. He blackmailed me. I didn’t have much of a choice but to disappear.”
I regret that decision as I should have fought harder. But at the time, I believed I deserved to be sent to prison as punishment for the deaths of Sean and Connor. Sean knew me too well and realized this was the only way to get rid of me for good.
If only I knew the real story, how things would have turned out differently.
