Time ceased to exist for Catherine. She had absolutely no idea how long she had been lying on the tiny bed for when a team of two detectives opened the sliding door to her cell. This wasn't the first occurrence in which they had made their presence known. Several times they had nonchalantly strode down the brightly lit hall, not even stopping as they threw insults at both Catherine and Jimmy. She tried to ignore their slurs, reminding herself that this was exactly what she had been trained to expect. But, by the seventh time the words "Provo, whore cunt" echoed in her cell, Catherine almost reached through the gaps in the bars to grab one of the detectives to instill a healthy fear in them.

Remaining placid, Catherine exited her cell and quickly glanced into Jimmy's empty one. Sometime earlier, a set of detectives who she didn't recognize, had fetched him. It didn't matter that he was on the top of her shit list, Catherine found herself disgusted by the way those men had been speaking to him. She couldn't stand how the two of them were intentionally being degraded; making them feel subhuman was nothing more than a tactic to extract a confession. Biting her tongue was one of the hardest things Catherine ever had to do.

As they escorted her to an interrogation room on the other side of the station, all Catherine could think about was how cold and dead Jimmy had looked. She knew this was far from his first rodeo when it came to being questioned by police, but Catherine couldn't help but wonder about what was waiting for her in that room. If Jimmy had to mentally check out just to survive forty-eight hours of this, Catherine knew she was in a world of hurt.

Inside the room, the detective who had been walking behind her man-handled Catherine into the chair. She was thankful he didn't cuff her and she wanted to roll her eyes at just how predictable the men were acting. Earlier on, Catherine had learned that two pairs of detectives would be tasked with leading her questioning. The name-calling, threats, and insults outside her cell door had gone down exactly as the Green Book outlined. Never in her life had Catherine been so thankful for the intense psychological training Jimmy had subjected her to in South Armagh. These lads were there to play bad cop; attempt to break her spirit and force her into signing a cock-and-bull confession. The only way Catherine was signing any sort of document was if she were cold and dead.

At first, Catherine found them to be a humorous pair. One of them told her, "yer nothin' like we thought. Here we were, expectin' some homely lass. What's a girl like ye gettin' involved with the likes of the IRA?"

Nonetheless, their charm didn't last long. Before Catherine knew it, one of the men had rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and came in close to her. He accused her of being an arms trafficker—which was true—as well as being connected to several murders. Also true. The detective who sat across from her at the table hardly spoke, only opening his mouth when he wanted to make a derogatory remark about her being an Irish Catholic.

What caught her seriously off guard was when an officer mentioned her involvement with a car bomb that had gone off in County Down four years ago. They got in her face, calling her an evil and vile woman for having supplied the five-hundred pounds of fertilizer and gelignite for the bomb that injured several RUC men and civilians. She was startled when they stated they knew the mortar attack on the Grosvenor Road RUC station had failed because she supplied the lads in Liam's unit with malfunctioning shells. The balding man who had his sleeves pushed up, told Catherine she wasn't as clandestine as she used to be. That she had gotten sloppy on the operation which destroyed part of the police training college in Belfast last month, and how he wouldn't stop coming after her until she was locked up for good.

They intimidated her into talking, into giving up her brother, Jimmy, the Army Council. She responded by saying nothing, and that only infuriated them even more. By now, the threats were getting old, but a part of Catherine was genuinely worried they would make good on getting word on the street that she had turned informant.

"Yer already a Provo whore. It wouldn't be hard fer them ta believe that yer exchangin' sex fer information wit' an officer."

When that didn't work, and she still didn't talk, they resorted to threatening Patrick. The thought of them tossing her father back in jail for his continued membership in the IRA almost broke Catherine. She almost fed them false information just to shut them up, but she knew she'd be in hot water with both the PSNI and the IRA if she did so. When there was a knock on the door, they ceased their brutal tactics. Before leaving her with a pair of detectives in their early-thirties, the balding man looked Catherine dead in the eye.

"Ya did alright; held yer own. Never once opened yer mouth, like a good IRA sheep. Yer IRA, aren't ya, Catherine? If ya just admit it, all of this will be over."

Her emotions did get the best of her when he called her a sheep. She wasn't following IRA protocol because she followed the herd, she followed it because she felt she was doing the right thing. It wasn't in her blood to rat. Raising her hand from her lap, Catherine let her middle finger do the talking for her. The bald man chuckled, then mumbled something to the young detectives before leaving the room with his partner.

Catherine sat at the cold metal table, crossing her arms over her chest as she avoided eye contact with the next team of detectives. The even younger and more attractive one was trying his best to appeal to Catherine, but she saw right through his facade. He had brought her a can of soda, saying it was against regulations to do so, and instead of sitting in the chair across from her, he sat on the table as if they were schoolmates at lunch getting ready to engage in friendly banter.

One of the first things Catherine had learned in her Green Book lectures, was how to handle herself during an interrogation. The commander who had instructed her group of recruits taught Catherine to pick a point on either the table or wall to hyper-focus on and ignore whatever nonsense dripped from the interrogator's mouth. Catherine stared straight ahead, trying her hardest to keep her eyes glued to a thumbtack that was sticking out on a cork board. She was also taught to fill her mind with other thoughts of music, history, fond memories, but she was struggling most with that.

Unfortunately for Catherine, the detective was privy to what she was doing. He waved his hand in front of her face, "how about ya focus on these, Catherine."

Opening a manila folder, the detective pushed several photos in front of her. Breaking her concentration, Catherine picked it up and studied it. The sweat which had slicked her palms transferred to the paper, and she clenched her jaw. The photo hadn't been taken in Belfast; it was of her and Jimmy walking hand-in-hand along the Newry River. She picked up another one, which had been taken at Ormeau Park in Belfast. The couple was sitting at their usual Friday night picnic bench, eating their usual order of fish and chips, from their usual chippy. Although she did a good job of hiding her displeasure, Catherine wanted to slap herself for having fallen into a comfortable routine with Jimmy.

"Catherine," he said softly. The way the cop spoke her name made her sick to her stomach. She wished he would stop saying it. "What can ya tell me about Jimmy O'Phelan?"

Not even for a moment did she lose her edge, and without uttering a single word she returned her gaze back to the thumbtack. Her lack of response vexed the officer, but considering he had been tasked with playing the good cop, he did what he could to regain his composure.

Clearing his throat, he placed three more photos of her and Jimmy in front of her, but Catherine refused to even look at them. She wanted to tell him that this was a waste of time, she wasn't going to tell them anything, and that she kindly wished to be escorted back to her cell to wait out the rest of the hours until her mandated release.

Realizing the photographic evidence of her relationship with Jimmy wasn't going to shake Catherine, the detective tried to convince her that he was her savior. He told her that he understood why she had been attracted to the IRA and Jimmy in the first place and that even he believed there would be a unified Ireland one day. What Catherine found to be most pathetic, was when he made a point of telling her he bought his clothes and groceries from Catholic-owned stores.

"Look, the detectives ya spoke with earlier aren't as understandin' as I am. They want 'ta put ya away on serious weapons charges. I can help ya; I just need ya 'ta tell me about Jimmy."

Again, Catherine declined to give him what he wanted. She was proud of herself for holding up as well as she had been. A part of her had been worried she'd experience the same plight as her father, but thankfully those days seemed to be in the past.

The detective decided to go with a new plan. "Ya know, Jimmy already fingered ya as the one who makes the exchange of weapons and explosives used in operations."

Catherine was surprised she managed not to flat-out laugh in his face. Jimmy was many things—a spiteful bastard, a heartless and conniving prick—but, there was one thing he was not. A tout. Never in a million years would he point the finger at another comrade, even if it meant saving his own ass. That was a quality he possessed that Catherine would forever admire, no matter how much she hated him.

The last scheme, Catherine didn't see coming. He slid an immunity agreement in front of her.

"I bet ya have enough info ta bring down not only the Belfast IRA but also the lads in South Armagh. Remember how depressed ya got after Joseph McShane was killed? You gave the green-light for an operation that killed an innocent Catholic man from Andersontown, Catherine. I'm sure ya never would have gone forth with it, had the intelligence you were given been accurate. It seems like ye've still gotta heart. If ya take the deal, we can make sure the bastards who murdered McShane, and Jimmy, who is directly responsible for those guns being in the hands of the Provo's, to begin with, are brought ta justice. Sign the immunity deal, Catherine; don't be compliant in this violence anymore. Do what's right. Ya won't have ta worry about retaliation from Jimmy or the IRA."

About a million and one thoughts were running through Catherine's head. She readjusted herself in the uncomfortable metal chair, rubbing her exhausted eyes. There wasn't a single lie that spilled from the detective's mouth. Six months before leaving for Malta to meet with the underboss of the Irish-American mob in Boston, Catherine had in fact given the thumbs up for an operation that had been planned using faulty intelligence. An Andersontown unit had been so convinced a man named Joseph McShane had been acting as an informer for the PSNI. The only piece of solid evidence the unit had, was the car McShane was seen driving, and as it would turn out, he had simply borrowed it from his cousin. Instead of killing the true informant, McShane was murdered in vain by the IRA. Given that it was the first operation Catherine had taken charge of as quartermaster, she immediately resigned from her freshly appointed post and went back into the lucrative game of trafficking. The guilt of her actions had consumed her like none other, and she wasn't sure if she'd ever be able to forgive herself for creating a widow with three children.

The detective tried pushing a pen into her hand. "Why protect a man who's tryin' ta ruin yer life wit' an IRA court-martial? If the Army Council finds ya guilty, they'll kill ya, Catherine. If ya sign this immunity, we'll only charge ya wit' IRA membership an' ye'll get a suspended sentence. Then, ya can live a nice quiet life in the Republic or even the United States."

Hearing the detective make reference to the depression she had fallen into and her court-martial, told Catherine one thing: someone close to her was talking.

She wasn't tempted in the slightest to sign that document, even with the suspicion of someone ratting on her. But, the detective became hopeful when she grabbed the pen. Instead of signing her name on the signature line, she wrote "fuck off," in all capital letters and chucked the pen across the room.

While the detective had tried to pressure her into taking the deal right then and there, he warned her that in thirty-six hours the agreement would be withdrawn, and she'd be formally charged with IRA membership, conspiracy to commit terrorist acts, and arms trafficking. Even as she stared right down the barrel at two consecutive life-sentences, Catherine held it together. She wasn't exactly sure whether or not it was all a bluff. If they needed her to become a tout against Jimmy in order to get charges to stick to him, then Catherine was certain they had hardly anything on her. The way she saw it, someone had turned on her and the detectives were using what little information they had to leverage a deal with her. At the end of the day, Catherine was nothing in the grand scheme of things in the IRA. She may have been a small fish in the vast tank, but she knew exactly why she specifically had been targeted. They figured the fear of spending the rest of her life behind bars would be enough to scare the disdained concubine into flipping on her lover. Catherine wasn't sure just how long the PSNI or MI5 had been on her tail, but there was one thing they'd never learn about her from all those photographs and tapped phone calls. Her loyalty to the cause was deeply rooted, and because of that, it didn't matter to Catherine just how much she loathed Jimmy at the moment. As long as Jimmy was her comrade, she'd never turn on him, just as she knew he'd never turn on her.

Breaking for lunch, the detectives led Catherine back to her cell. With that damn light constantly on, there was zero chance of her even catching a minute of sleep. It also didn't help that the mattress was no thicker than a cotton ball, and the sheet and pillowcase were made of tissue paper. Sitting cross-legged on the bed, Catherine attempted to digest everything that had been said to her throughout the day. Releasing her hair from the tight braids it was still in, she shook out the faux-beach waves, finally feeling the full force of her headache. She felt beyond disgusting and couldn't wait to get home so she could scrub off the Musgrave Police Station.

This was the first time she had to face the real possibility of an informer being in the ranks. Those who spilled secrets on their comrades met a death that would make even the Devil shake his head, so doing the deed to meet that fate seemed mind-boggling to Catherine. She was a different breed though, the idea of selling out the men she had pledged to stand beside and die with made her stomach turn. Nothing made her feel more betrayed than having her life turned upside down by a coward who was too weak to face whatever jail time lay ahead of them. Most men turned informant because they were ashamed of having been caught, and were looking for an easy way out. Catherine could remember how Jimmy had reassured her that being arrested and charged was nothing to be ashamed of. It had been drilled into her head that she was a part of a revolutionary Army, and her arrest was nothing more than the enemy capturing her. The cause she fought was a just one, and it was only a matter of time before she ended up there.

Hearing heavy footsteps on the concrete floor had Catherine scooching herself into the corner of her bed. She had almost reached the point of sleep deprivation and the idea of sitting through another grueling interrogation wore on her last nerve. For over twelve hours, she hadn't verbalized a single word, and she was beginning to forget what her own voice sounded like. She was determined the survive the next thirty-six hours, as the PSNI could legally hold her for only two days before either releasing or charging her.

Relief washed over her when she saw those footsteps belonged to an officer who had escorted Jimmy back to his cell. Catherine still hated him, but that didn't stop her from feeling sorry for him. He looked far more exhausted than she was and considering he was the big fish and direct link to the Army Council, Catherine couldn't even begin to imagine just how awful his interrogation was compared to hers. As Jimmy stood unruffled, waiting for the officer to open the cell door, the overhead light caught the left side of his face, illuminating a dark crescent bruise along his eye socket and cheek. His face was stained with a crimson tinge, and dried blood crusted his nostrils and the corners of his mouth.

At the sight of him, Catherine covered her mouth with both hands. Seeing him disheveled, beat up, and yet not even the slightest unnerved, reminded Catherine to stay strong. There was no lie that a part of her was self-satisfied as Jimmy deserved every minute of that beat down, but the other part of her still ached. She still despised the idea of him being subjected to pain for no other reason than for information to be extracted. Catherine wanted to ask him if he was okay, however, when she opened her mouth, she couldn't find any words. She wished she could run over to him and wipe the blood from his face, not because she cared about him, but because she had a soft spot for people in distress. At least, that's what she told herself.

As the officer closed the door, Jimmy took a seat on the edge of the bed. He grabbed the corner of the sheet and spat on it, before using it to blot his face clean. Catherine hugged her legs against her chest and never once took her eyes off him. Remembering where she was, she stopped herself from asking Jimmy what he had been questioned about. The officer's accusation of her sloppiness on the bombing operation at the police training college wasn't true, and she was hoping he could shed some light on how the PSNI managed to link the two other bombings directly to her.

When the footsteps faded down the corridor, Jimmy caught Catherine by surprise when he directly asked her a question.

"Do ya think the pipes back home are leakin'?"

Her heart skipped a beat. "Aye. Better call a plumber."