Catherine topped off her glass of merlot. She curled up in the corner of the sofa, bringing her knees to her chest as she took a large sip of wine.
"You're sure ya trust his word?"
Licking a droplet of wine from the corner of her mouth, Catherine set the glass on the side table. She rested her chin on her knee, just staring at Mickey in an attempt to figure him out. His expression was absent, which mirrored hers, which made her believe he was probably feeling the same way she was.
Slight confusion. A little shock. A whole lot of anger.
She didn't blame him for doubting Liam's confession about the Kings authorizing the deaths of Simon Townsend and Darragh. Liam was a tout, therefore his word meant nothing on the street. To Catherine, it still meant everything.
"I do. At this point, there's nothin' Liam would gain by lyin' about it. He knows he can never come back or be in the Ra."
"What the fuck!"
Jumping to his feet, Mickey placed his hand on top of his head and just paced the living room. Catherine's heart sank deep into her belly as she watched the distress twist his boyish features. He was trying to make sense of it all, but she didn't have the heart to tell him that he never would.
Nothing in their world ever made sense.
"Darragh served his time! We can't let 'em get away with this…you're Ceann na conairte, there has to be somethin' you can do!"
Catherine took a slight offense to Mickey's use of a term that was traditionally set aside for the leader of the mafia in the Republic and the United States. She was a soldier, not a gangster.
"Firstly, don't ever refer to me as the Ceann na conairte ever again; we're an army, not the bloody Irish mob," she said, slowly getting up. Strolling to where he stood, she placed her hands on his shoulders and looked him square in the eye. "I understand your rage, Mickey, I do. But right now, ya need to let it go and trust me."
"Your plan is to just let 'em walk then, yeah?"
Catherine narrowed her eyes, sending Mickey a clear message that her patience was running thin. She wasn't going to put up with bullshit from a twenty-year-old punk who probably had no idea why he joined the Ra in the first place.
"If Darragh were here and heard ya speakin' to me like that, I'm guessin' he'd punch every one of your goddamn teeth out. Now, I may not be your commanding officer, but that doesn't change the fact I'm the OC of the True army—you will respect my rank, Real army boy or not. Understood?"
He nodded, and her stomach twisted. The moment the remark left her mouth, Catherine thought for sure she'd be sick. Those weren't her words she spoke, they were Jimmy's.
She held a straight face, not daring to show Mickey she had disgusted herself.
"Grand. I only told ya this because I felt ya deserved to know the truth about your cousin. Don't disappoint him by actin' irrationally, ya need to be smart. I promise ya I'm just as angry as you are, but I see that we've got a long road ahead of us. Please trust me when I say the Kings will not be gettin' away with what they did—there's just loose ends I need to handle before anythin' can happen, though."
He didn't acknowledge what she said. His hard gaze was fixed on something behind her. Turning around, Catherine saw what it was—the photo Darragh with Sean in his arms, which sat on the mantle above the fireplace.
Tears stung the corners of her eyes as she thought back to the day they brought Sean home from the hospital. They'd just moved to Andersontown, and even though they had two kids almost in the same calendar year, life couldn't have been anymore blissful. As he held his son protectively in his arms, Catherine couldn't remember a time when Darragh looked so happy. So at peace.
That was the last time she was happy or at peace, too.
Opening her mouth to say something, she was interrupted by a knock at the front door. Her heart hammered in her chest when she looked at her watch and saw it was nearly one o'clock in the morning.
With the fear of being raided constantly in the back of her mind, she wasn't as brazen as Jimmy to leave firearms clandestinely stashed around the house. So, she held her index finger to her mouth in a warning to Mickey to stay quiet. She crept to the front window, pushed back the curtain and sighed loudly in relief when she saw who was standing on her doorstep.
She quickly let them in.
"Do youse have any idea what time it is? Ya scared me half-to-death, so you did," she scolded.
Moving aside, Catherine let Patrick in with Sean and Michael Casey close behind. What took her by surprise was her mother following behind the Casey brothers.
Patrick only grunted, fishing the pack of cigarettes out of the inner pocket of his jacket.
She turned her attention to Olivia. "What are you doin' here?"
"Your guess is about as good as mine," mused Olivia, tossing her thumb in the direction of the Casey's. "The fellas wouldn't say anythin' other than I'm to come with."
"Get your coat, Catherine. Father Ashby says you and your da are to come with us," Sean ordered.
Catherine swallowed hard, reaching over and plucking the lit cigarette from her father's fingers. She took a long drag. "For what?"
Michael shrugged. "We're just the messengers. Your ma is to stay back and watch the boys."
Not wanting the cigarette to give it the way that her hands were trembling, Catherine shoved it back to Patrick. She said a silent prayer this had nothing to do with Liam's sudden departure. If the Kings were to find out she sent him away without first facing consequences for his touting, there was no way of knowing what they'd do to her or Patrick in retribution.
It was too late in the night for Mickey to drive back to Derry, so Catherine gave him the address of a safe house he could crash. When he left, Catherine grabbed her wool pea coat, kissed her mother goodbye, then followed Patrick and brothers outside.
Patrick opened the back door so she could slide in. Once they started making their way to the east side of the city, he handed her a flask after taking a nip from it.
Having spent three days in jail under constant questioning by detectives who possessed little manners, on top of finding out his son was a paid informant, Catherine didn't blame him for hitting the bottle again. She just hoped he wouldn't fall too far down the rabbit hole.
To settle her nerves, she took the flask and thanked him. The raw Tullamore Dew burned every inch of her empty stomach on the way down. It did nothing to stop her from taking a second swig.
Just as she expected, they ended up in front of St. Matt's church in the Short Strand. The four remained silent as they walked in.
Watching Catherine dip her fingers into the pool of holy water and make the sign of the cross, Patrick admired the fact his daughter managed to keep her faith despite everything life had thrown at her. He followed her lead, saying a small prayer for her. He wondered just how many people prayed for the girl who prayed for just about everyone other than herself.
Ascending down the aisle, Catherine took notice to the man sitting beside Father Ashby with his back turned. She couldn't exactly make out who it was, which didn't help her clammy palms or sky-rocketing blood pressure.
She wondered how in the world Jimmy lived with this kind of stress for so long without having a heart attack or stroke at such as early age.
Catherine and Patrick sat in the pew just behind Father Ashby and the mystery man, while Casey brothers sat behind them.
"I'm gonna take a wild guess here and assume ya didn't have me dragged here in the middle of the night for friendly chit-chat. What's the craic?"
At the same time, Father Ashby and none-other than Cameron Hayes shifted in the pew so they could face her. Catherine couldn't remember the last time she saw the likes of Cameron—he spent most of his time Newry, visiting Belfast only to see his cousins.
Father Ashby cleared his throat. "Some unfortunate news has reached us from California."
"Oh, Lord." Instinctually, Catherine grabbed Patrick's hand and interwove their fingers, squeezing. "Please tell me Filip's okay."
"Aye, your uncle is fine, child. It's Michael; he was…beaten to death by the Oakland port commissioner. A bloke called Brennan Hefner."
Catherine shook her head and once again made the sign of the cross. She said a prayer for her dear friend's soul, in utter shock, completely unaware of what to say, think, or feel.
Not even a day ago she spoke to him on the phone, where he told her SAMCRO managed to come up with the money they asked for. He seemed in good spirits, confident there was no trouble lurking when she asked if law enforcement was giving them a hard time.
"I'm so sorry, Cammy," she said, reaching out with her free hand to offer a comforting squeeze to his shoulder. "But, what the fuc-fudge happened?"
She could hear Sean and Michael snickering at her sad attempt to cover up the fact she almost dropped a certain four-letter word in the Lord's house, to a priest.
Patrick handed Cameron the flask. The bloated and red eyes were a giveaway that Cameron had been crying over the loss of his closest cousin.
After taking a swig of whiskey, he spoke bitter words, "My boy said Hefner threatened to bust the shipment that's due to arrive on Monday. He wants to triple his pay-off. Michael, God rest his soul, was pissed and went off on him for demandin' a new deal. Hefner must'a gotten spooked because his goons beat him, broke his neck."
Releasing her hand from Patrick's, Catherine pinched the bridge of her nose. She squeezed her sore eyes shut and wished like hell Jimmy was the one dealing with this mess, not her.
She also wished McKeavy had reached out to her. If he told her of the new demands Hefner was making, there was a possibility they could work something out. She understood why he lost it—a triple payout was more than what their books allowed for, but they were at the mercy of those who oversaw the ports in both Ireland and the U.S. It was better to play ball than risk a shipment being intercepted by federal agents.
"Had he not gone after Michael, I would'a been willin' to make a deal. I'll have to get approval from the council, but the only logical thing to do now is to take Hefner out."
Father Ashby assured Catherine, "The council had already decided for that to go forth, but they were very clear it's to be done quietly. No army tags; it shouldn't point fingers back to us. You also must appoint a lad to meet Clay in Charmin' and pick up the money. The Kings wanted me to sit down with you and offer guidance so a smart decision can be made."
Patrick watched her take a slow sip of whiskey. Insult was written all over her face and he didn't feel she was in the wrong for feeling that way.
Catherine knew exactly what was happening. The Kings were making it amply clear they didn't trust her ability to make decisions that would have a lasting effect on the True IRA.
It filled her with a fleeting satisfaction that perhaps they were slightly afraid of her influence amongst the men she commanded. If they weren't, they wouldn't have sent their lap-dog of a priest to make sure she came to the conclusion they wanted.
"Ya think my daughter isn't smart enough to choose a fella to become the new contact in Nor-Cal, Father?" Patrick's infamous boozy temper began to rise. He never took well to other's show of condescension towards Catherine. "She graduated at the top of her class, so she did. And it's her brain that's been runnin' the cause-"
Catherine pinched Patrick's thigh to shut him up. While she appreciated her father coming to her defense, Catherine didn't think this was the time or place for him to mouth off to the man who had the Kings eating out of the palm of his hand.
Considering what Liam told her about Simon and Darragh, on top of the attempt to have the UDA take out Jimmy, Catherine didn't trust anything Father Ashby said. There was no way he didn't know about any of those incidents—especially when the Kings had been so quick to point the finger at the UDA in the first place.
Unlucky for them, she had spent nearly her entire life learning from Jimmy O'Phelan. She knew which battles were worth the fight.
And fighting the good priest on picking McKeavy's successor, wasn't it.
She smiled, her voice was soft and calm. "Who do the Kings see to be fit, Father?"
"Cammy. He'll take care of Hefner, pick up the cash, and act as their new contact."
She couldn't argue with that decision; Cameron and Eddie were far more loyal to Jimmy than to the cause. As hated to admit it, but when she looked at Cameron all she saw was a man who could easily be manipulated.
"You're a fine choice, Cammy. Plus, I can't imagine how excited Eddie'll be to see more of you." Hiking up the sleeve of her coat, Catherine looked at her watch. It was well after two and she was exhausted. The boys would be up for school in less than five hours. "Now, if you gentlemen don't mind, I'd like to go home and be a mother."
Father Ashby nodded.
"I'll let ya know when Clay delivers the money," chimed Cameron.
Sliding out of the pew, Catherine stood and fixed her coat. She bid Cameron good luck on the trip, telling him to give Eddie her best.
Outside of the church, Catherine and Patrick stood on the sidewalk smoking as Sean and Michael were in the car. He asked the brothers for a moment alone with his daughter.
"Do you believe that prick? He's gettin' a wee self-righteous for that collar…should'a knocked him out for speakin' to you like that."
Catherine chuckled, blowing smoke from her nostrils. She studied Patrick closely, hoping to find a sign that would convince her he wouldn't spend the next week or two on a bender. Hearing the news about McKeavy was the last thing he needed. The loss of a comrade never easy, especially when the bloodiest years of the Troubles were spent fighting side-by-side.
"I'm sorry about Michael, Da. You doin' okay?"
"It is what it is; I'll be fine. He was a damn good soldier so ya better agree to him receivin' a full-honors funeral."
She agreed, "He deserves nothin' less."
Flicking his cigarette into the street, unease wrapped its hands around him when he noticed a couple walking on the opposite sidewalk, following the length of the peace wall. When they rounded the corner onto Newtownards Road, he knew exactly what was about to happen.
"Are you carryin' anythin' on you?"
"Just my knife. Why?"
Patrick held his hand out. "Give it to me."
"What? Why?"
Patrick's sudden shift from calm to anxious wasn't sitting well with her.
"Just give me the fuckin' knife, Catherine."
Tossing the cigarette to the ground, Catherine scrambled to get the knife Jimmy had given her out of her boot. When she handed it over to Patrick, he wasted no time winding up and chucking it over the raised peace wall into someone's backyard.
"What the fuck?" she screeched. "I've had that since I was-"
Patrick covered her mouth with his hand, realizing he didn't have much time. "You didn't let 'em under your skin last time, so don't let it happen again. Your Ma and I'll take good care of the boys; we'll see ya in probably a week."
Catherine didn't have a chance to digest what her father told her before the dark street flooded with flashing blue lights. A fleet of PSNI squad cars came down the street in both directions, leaving her with no chance to run.
Before the first two cars even came to a stop, male officers jumped out of the passenger side of their respective vehicles.
Patrick instantly put his hands up when they got between him and Catherine, inching him away from his daughter. The second officer kept his hand firmly placed on the pistol he wore on his hip.
In a matter of seconds, Catherine was overwhelmed by the sheer number of officers who were closing in. Their faces were covered, only their eyes were exposed, and they screamed at her.
"Knees on the fuckin' ground, hands behind your head!"
On account of the fact there were about a dozen automatic rifles pointed at her, Catherine dropped right to her knees, lacing her fingers behind her head.
In an attempt to stop the panic attack that was bubbling to the surface, she kept her eyes off Patrick and steadied her breathing. All she could think about was how confused Eamonn and Sean were going to be when they woke up to find she wasn't there.
Grabbing cuffs from his tactical belt, one of the officers broke from the pack to get behind her. He slapped a cuff around one of her wrists, then maneuvered both arms down behind her back to secure the other.
"Catherine O'Toole," he said, helping her up to her feet. "You're bein' detained under Section 41 of the Terrorism Act."
Again? Catherine thought.
Wonderful. Just fucking wonderful.
