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I’m angry.

This isn’t an uncommon occurrence for me, but this anger is different. I’m angry with myself. As I hit the punching bag hanging off a rafter in the unused barn, all I can think about is Babydoll and how fucking stupid I am.

I hurt her feelings, and usually, I couldn’t give a fuck, but with her, I do.

She confessed to being worried about me, after I insinuated she came to see me because she wanted to get off.

Groaning, I slam my fists into the bag, wishing I could punch away this guilt in my chest. But it only seems to get worse. With heavy metal blaring in my earbuds, I don’t hear anything until it’s too late. The punching bag swings, revealing my dad standing on the other side of it.

He is the last person I want to see, especially after everything I uncovered two nights ago. He’s here because he wants something as we don’t do small talk. But I don’t take my earbuds out, nor do I stop punching the bag. Instead, I envision it’s his face I’m punching as I belt the red bag.

Sadly, I can’t ignore him forever.

“Ya smart-arse.” I only catch the end of his sentence as he spins me around and snatches the earbuds out from my ears.

Controlling my temper, I glare at him, demanding that if he has something to say, then to do so now.

“I need ya to talk to one of the men. His delivery was short a couple of kilos.”

When he says talk, he means beat him within an inch of his life.

Nodding, I attempt to replace my earbuds, but he slaps my hand away. “Don’tcha fucking touch me, aul’ lad,” I warn, shaking my head.

He merely laughs in response. “Ack, look at ya. Yer growin’ hair on yer bollocks, then?”

“Fuck off,” I spit, not interested in conversing with this knobhead.

His laughter soon dies, and I know things are about to turn dire. “Yer a wee want. A’ll give ya a dig in the bake for that gob on ya.”

Usually, I wouldn’t bother. But not today.

“Ach, ya can try.”

“What did you say to me?”

“You heard me,” I reply, folding my arms across my broad chest. “I know whatcha did.”

“Cool yer jets, lad. What’re ye yappin’ ’bout?”

I didn’t want it to go down this way, but it’s now or never…

“I had a wild craic conversation the other night with some people.”

“Aye? Who was it then?”

“My grandparents,” I reply with no hesitation, deadpanning him.

I take great pleasure in seeing him pale. He soon composes himself, however. “Ack, what did those culchies have to say for themselves?”

“A lot, actually.” I clench my taped fists; certain this conversation will end in bloodshed.

“They told me ya killed Mum,” I reveal, as there is no sugarcoating this. “That she was leavin’ ya. Takin’ me with her. She knew a secret which could ruin the Kellys. What do ya think about that?”

I wait for him to react. To confirm the truth. But he just stands before me, expressionless.

“Are ya deef, or what?” I exclaim, angered he’s standing here, not saying a word.

He shrugs, digging his hands into his pockets. “Dry yer eyes, will ya? Yer pathetic. Always been a mammy’s boy. Things don’t change.”