A/N: Thank you for all the reviews and the PMs. We are both very grateful and appreciate your continued interest in our "what if" story.
Things are heating up in the Irish countryside. With their enemies drawing ever closer, the question becomes who will find our heroes first, the over protective brother who is looking at the big picture and the disaster their love affair will bring to all around them or the hooligan with a grudge looking for payback and the chance to make a name for himself.
BE BRAVE LITTLE ANGEL
Chapter Twenty Four
It was four o'clock in the morning. The starless night sky was just beginning to lighten, welcoming in another damp cold spring day deep in the Southern Irish countryside and Robin Hennessy, young gypsy woman and expert tracker, paused in her silent pacing along the pathway which led from the road to the garage door at the side of bungalow they were about to break into.
Narrowing her eyes, she stared through the gloom to where the hunched figure of Liam Glenanne was kneeling down to pick the lock to the front door of the property owned by Mrs. Fecking Eileen Garretty... Tha dirty manky slapper girlfriend of tha gorger bastid who had raped her and helped ta murder her daddy.
Scowling at the delay, the brunette reached up to tighten the pony tail which secured her long thick hair off her face. Ignoring the pain radiating from the lumps, bumps and scrapes covering her skull, the gypsy let her hands drop back to her sides, but only for a second before her fingers began to caress the hilt of her favorite hunting knife that nestled in a sheath attached to her belt.
Patience had never been a problem for the huntress… until now that is. Lying prone on wet mossy ground laced with protruding tree roots up in Slieveamon foothills while waiting for the perfect shot had been easy compared to this.
The hours she had spent sitting in Liam Glenanne's fancy car, listening to the man talking into his damn phone as he dug up more and more information on not only the three animals who had destroyed her world but also on the woman one of them slept with, had only helped to fuel the growing need for vengeance.
Biting down on her bottom lip to stop the angry words which longed to slip out and earn her yet another lecture about keeping her mouth shut and following the plan, Robin stalked back to her designated position, watching out for any traffic on the narrow winding lane which lead to the main road and the Livisigeen village center.
"An armed assault tis a lot like a wedding. It requires a lotta planning if ya want it ta go right."
The PIRA interrogator had announced this solemnly when he had finally, after numerous calls, put away his phone. He had started burning through his call time shortly after they had found the home of the fecking old bitch belonging to Pat Moffatt.
First had been a call to somebody called Colin, then one to a person who went by the name Doyle to ask what had Colin in such a foul mood, followed by another to his brother Shay. After inquiring about any more information on the McCullough's and someone called O'Neill, Liam had turned his questions to the well-being of the rest of his family, interspersed with repeated orders: "Keep tha place locked down" and "Donnae call me unless tis a real emergency. I'll call ya when I have news."
Then there had been more phone calls to other people whose names she couldn't remember.
"Tis an ADT alarm; it looks new... I donnae know which bloody model… Yer tha feckin' expert, jus' tell me how ta shut it down."
"I wanta know tha second one o' those McCullough boys sticks his head outta whotever hole thar hiding in, but keep it quiet, will ya? I donnae want half tha country knowin' me business an' if those little feckers find out AM lookin' fer tham, we'll be out searchin' fer a month o' Sundays."
"Ya've checked all tha doctors in Wexford?... Good, well, move yar arse over ta Tipperary an' if ya have no luck thar, try Kerry. Thot's whar Am now an' no slackin' on checkin' out all tha doctors along tha way... I donnae know, try tha hospitals, get a list o' nurses taa, an' if thot donnae work, try tha frigging midwives. Me sister's boyfriend wa' pretty banged up last time I saw him. He has ta be lookin' fer medical attention somewhar... Feck, donnae ferget tha veterinaries either."
Each time he hung up, she had watched intently as he added more information to a notebook he had pulled from an inner pocket of his coat until he was ready to share his plan.
Standing in front of the large saloon car, one hand pressed flat on the bonnet holding down the pieces of paper torn from his notebook, Liam had sternly lectured both her and the young man he had brought with him, his icy cold blue-grey eyes flickering between them as he told them exactly what he expected them to do.
"An' just like a wedding, tis nae tha sorta thing ya wanta do twice, which is why wa're goin' over tha details til AM sure everyone understands thar part."
Robin turned her attention to the far side of the house, where Joey Lovatt stood guard waiting to play his part in the assault. He wa' little more than a child. The gypsy girl pursed her lips in disapproval. The boy knew nothing of the hardships of life. She saw it in the way he rushed to blindly follow his boss's orders, like a puppy dog; he was too eager and was treating the whole affair as a joke...
A shudder ran up and down the Irishwoman's spine and she wrapped her arms about herself in attempt to hold in the grief which fueled her rage... He'd learn. Mister Joey Lovatt would learn all abou' death an' loss soon enough if he carried on hanging around men like Liam Glenanne.
"Robin! Robin, will ya quit arsin' about, girl? If yar cannae keep yar head on straight, go wait in tha car."
The hissed words brought her back to the present and she realized Liam was now standing on his feet, one hand on the door handle and the other clutching one of the Mac 10's he had taken out of the boot of his car.
"In three…" The PIRA's premier interrogator mouthed his command as he looked from her to the youth poised at the other corner of the house. "One – two – three!"
()()()()
Michael padded lightly down the steep narrow staircase to the ground floor of the old farmhouse, his feet barely making a sound, even when he passed over the loose boards which usually creaked out a warning every time somebody ascended or descended the steps.
Fiona had been right. Some R and R... he smirked at the euphemism… had been just what he needed to clear his mind and set his priorities straight. Reaching the bottom of the stairs, the smiling spy stopped to pick up his boots and then made his way into the living room to take a seat on the couch.
While his beloved had fallen into a deep sleep with her head resting on his shoulder and her nearly lithe naked body snug against his side, he had relaxed back with his head resting on one of the plump feather pillows Cathy Coleraine had supplied. Sated and a lot less sore than he had expected to be, the tactical part of his brain had taken back command of his thoughts.
He'd been staring up at the cracked off-white ceiling and the ancient faded light shade above his head, waiting for the ache from his damaged ribs to recede. His fingers had idly combed through his lover's short auburn hair while he'd found his thoughts drifting over pleasant memories of the small one bedroom flat they had rented in one of the less salubrious areas of Dublin city, of how he used to love to bury his face in his lover's long loose tumbling curls, the scent and taste of gunpowder and explosives filling his senses as he kissed her neck and nibbled on her ear.
Back then, even though he was living under a cover and danger lurked around every corner, they had been happy and, as strange as it seemed, had felt completely safe cocooned in their little world. That had been when he had realized that the irritating voice of his former training officer whispering in his ear counseling immediate flight had been right.
They had remained at the abandoned cottage for four days before they had been discovered by the mercenary hired by his former agency and Fiona's brothers had probably only been a day away from coming across their hideaway on their own if it hadn't been for the English agent's interference. Then in the forest it had only taken three days for their enemies to close in on them a second time. It had been a miracle that he had spotted the slight movement in the trees and it had been pure luck that Fiona had left her loaded sniper rifle so close to his side.
"You've gone soft playing house with your little terrorist girlfriend down on the farm. The Michael Westen I trained would have been gone the minute that motor was running."
Ghosting a soft kiss onto the cheek of his own sleeping beauty, he had slid out from under the covers and gathered up the rest of his clothing. He had been neglecting his mission, allowing the goodwill of their elderly hosts to cloud his judgement, but not anymore.
Having laced up his footwear, Michael was back on his feet and pulling on his jacket, preparing himself to leave the cozy warmth of the farmhouse and step out into the cold morning air.
It was as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders, releasing all the tension which had built up over the last few days. He was through taking chances and underestimating the skills and dogged determination of the people hunting them. Today was the third day in their latest refuge; it was time to move on. So, come what may, they were leaving tonight.
Quietly closing the front door, the former spy made his way along the path which led to the farmyard, stopping on the way to disarm the first of Fiona's little surprises. Dropping the now inert explosive into his pocket, he moved on to take down the next length of wire attached to a small but deadly bomb, this one by the entrance to the barn.
He knew his knee wasn't perfect, but it was holding his weight and, as long as he didn't over do things, he was sure it would continue to improve. His bruised ribs and especially the broken one were the bigger problem; however, experience had taught him that there was little he could do but suck up the pain and try to avoid aggravating the injury.
Peering into the barn, he eyed up Gerry's pride and joy; the gold-colored Volvo was far from ideal, but it was going to have to do. It would take them to the nearest airfield and then they would have to leave it to be collected by one of the old man's friends or in the worst case scenario be discovered by the Gardai.
Moving on, Michael walked past the barn to where another gate opened up to the vegetable garden at back of the house. This time the device was buried in the ground, deep enough that the soft tread of any wildlife would pass over it unharmed, but near enough to the surface to take out the legs of anything weighing more than fifteen pounds.
He was pretty sure Liam wouldn't know about his piloting skills and he was positive that the CIA had no way of watching every single private airfield in Ireland. So, all he should be dealing with would be one or two night watchmen. He would have to just hope they didn't have dogs with them...
He hated having to deal with guard dogs.
Straightening up and brushing the dirt of his hands, the former spy continued on his way to where the last of Fiona's security measures was located.
"I like it here. It reminds me o' tha farm. D'ya remember thot farmhouse I showed ya - tha one whare we - on tha way ta Derry." His lover had whispered the words in his ear just before she had snuggled into his side.
"How could I forget?" he'd answered back, his satisfied smile widening as memories of that frigid winter night had filled his mind.
Their first time had been lying on an old tarp and woolen blankets in the ruin of her childhood home in the freezing cold that was Ireland in February. Hardly the recipe for a comfortable night and yet, for all the disadvantages, Michael remembered the night fondly, his love for the woman in his arms taking hold of his heart, though he didn't know it or acknowledge it at the time. All he knew back then was that he had felt completely happy for the first time.
Fiona had sighed contently and he knew she had been remembering the same things he was.
"Thot's whot I want fer our baby, Michael. I want a farmhouse like this, like tha one whar I was raised. We wa' happy thar. I sometimes think Pat Junior moved us all ta tha city not fer our protection but cuz he wanted ta be nearer tha action."
He had wanted to remind her there and then that there was no way they could stay in Ireland, that a farm, regardless of how remote it was, unless it could be fortified without causing suspicion and was out of the question.
But instead of saying any of that, he had wrapped an arm about her shoulders and pulled her in closer. As dense as he was about real relationships, Michael did have a strong sense of survival. Right then, while his beloved was thinking wistful thoughts about her childhood, hadn't been the time to tell her he had already decided they were leaving the farm and Ireland for good.
The final device was out by the road, a length of fishing line tied across the road at hip height connected to a pipe bomb on either side of the lane. Balancing the two lengths of piping in his hand, the spy stared into the distance.
No, he would wait until the nurse had been round to examine Fiona. The tactical situation could change depending on what the woman found. Michael shook off the chill that the implications of his thoughts caused to run down his spine. The news could be good as well as bad, though he was prone by temperament and training to prepare for the worst in any given situation.
But whatever the news, they would be leaving nonetheless. Only the destination would change.
Once someone had seen their faces and knew Fiona was pregnant, they could not take a chance on how that information would travel. The more people they came in contact with, the more likely some intel would slip to the wrong person. It was all she could do to talk him into remaining on the farm last night and await the nurse after his three elderly hosts had gone to church and said God only knew what to whom in town.
Fiona was right about one thing. It was beautiful and peaceful here. But he also knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that it wouldn't stay that way and, despite his training, he had no desire to see the Coleraines or Mrs. Hooley get caught in the crossfire that was sure to be coming their way.
()()()()
Blitzkrieg, or lightning war wa' a strategy pioneered by tha Germans in World War II. It refers ta a fast attack designed ta inspire fear and confusion, penetrating quickly behind enemy lines. Ya capitalize on tha element o' surprise and attack aggressively so yar opponent has to react from a place of weakness. I've found it works a treat whether yer wanta be ambushing a Brit patrol or ya tryin' ta get answers out o' tha girlfriend o' a rapin', murderin' bastid.
"- Three!"
Liam went through the front door, striding swiftly and silently along the dark hallway. When he reached the control panel for the alarm, he leaned forward and hastily followed the instructions he had been given by one of his many shady associates, disabling the device before it had made no more than a couple of warning beeps.
Satisfied that they were no longer at risk of being disturbed by nozy neighbors or the local Gardai patrol, he straightened up and watched as his two accomplices completed their tasks.
Robin followed the older man straight through the front door, closing it quietly behind her before entering the living room on the right hand side of the hallway. After one quick sweep of the room to make sure there weren't any guests sleeping on the fancy leather couch they had missed during their hours of surveillance, the gypsy girl returned to the hallway to give Liam the all clear.
The instant his boss and the brunette went through the front, the Glenanne's newest recruit slipped through the kitchen door at the side of the single storey house. The young man had flushed when he had nervously picked the lock under the watchful scrutiny of his employer.
Joey Lovatt had been sure the older man knew of his criminal past, but it was still a nerve wracking thing to admit to when he was well aware of Liam Glenanne's part in the PIRA war against unsanctioned petty crime in the areas they controlled.
Gripping the shortened handle of the sawn off shotgun, the young man made his way from the kitchen into a small dining room set up with a highly polished round table and four high backed chairs. Satisfied that their target wasn't hiding in either of the rooms, Joey stepped into the hall and gave the two shadowy figures he could see the thumbs up.
Seconds later, Robin slipped past the older man and joined Joey, giving the youth an adrenaline fuelled grin while Liam turned his attention to the closed door on the left hand side of the hallway.
Under ideal circumstances, a good interrogation unfolds slowly. Ya bide yar time and give 'em time ta realise how much trouble thar in. But circumstances ar' nae always ideal. If yer operating on a clock, sometimes ya have ta get right in yar enemy's face an' turn up tha heat.
She couldn't scream, she couldn't breathe, her heart was thumping so wildly she was sure it was about to leap right out of her chest. Gasping and choking, the fifty two year old woman with tousled bleached blonde hair clutched at her duvet, as her eyes filled with tears tracked the tall shadowy figure approaching her bed.
"Patrick Moffatt... Whar is he?" the deep growling voice filled her with dread and she shook even more.
"I – I,"
"Gerrup!" The harsh Northern Irish brogue sent chills up and down her spine, robbing her of thought and speech.
"NO! Nooo! Ahhh! P-p-pleease, stop!" she suddenly shrieked, the touch of a strong hand wrapping about her bicep, tearing her from her bed, breaking the spell. Struggling with all her might, her bare feet slipping and sliding on the carpeted floor, the blonde widow was no match for the inhuman figure who relentlessly dragged her across the room.
Before she knew it, she was being slammed down onto one of her dining room chairs; the room in darkness all accept for the reading lights which usually stood behind her favorite comfy chair that were now positioned to shine their bright light directly into her face.
"Calm down, woman, an' quit yar wailin' Am not har ta hurt ya..." The hard open handed slap to her left cheek rocked her head hard over to the side and brought an end to her hysteria. "I promise as soon as ya answer me questions, this will all be over an' ya will never see us again."
Squirming on the hard seat, she ducked her head in an effort to escape the light hurting her eyes, only to stiffen and gasp as another set of hands grabbed her head, forcing her to stare straight ahead.
"W-what d'ya want? I-I have money. Jewels... N-not m-much -"
"Whot I want tis Patrick Moffatt. I wanta know whar ta find ham."
Sniffing, she hesitantly raised a shaking hand to wipe at the mixture of tears and snot streaming down her face. "I – donnae know whar he is. He comes an' – an' goes. I- barely see ham these days."
She could hear somebody else moving around, soft footsteps circling around her dining room, their grubby fingers touching her treasured photographs and ornaments. What had Paddy done? What had her young lover got her involved in?
Staring past the bright light which hurt her eyes, she caught the shape of her third attacker: a woman! She was holding several things up for her inquisitor to look at.
"This is yar one an' only warning," the cold hard voice informed her.
The room went dark and then just as suddenly, the main lights were turned on. Eileen Garetty would have jumped out of chair if she had been able to as she found herself staring into the coldest set of pale blue eyes she had ever seen.
"Ya donnae wanta be lying ta me again."
When ya're lookin' fer an angle in interrogation, it often helps ta let a subject watch ye go through tha details of his life right in front o' tham. Keepin' one eye on yar research an' one eye on thar reaction can often tell ya whot they want ya ta see an' what they don't.
"Ya have a nice family... A daughter and two sons... Ya donnae wanta be makin' tham orphans nar, do ya?"
Eileen could only sit and watch helplessly as her tormentor carefully placed a large frame holding various family photographs down on the table top.
"Has yar daughter-in-law had tha babby yet? In this one, she looks, oh, five or six months along."
His tone had softened, becoming almost conversational, but somehow that made his vague threats seem even more frightening.
"I- donnae know anythin'... W-whotever Pa-paddy has done, it is nothing to do with me...Please just go. I promise I won't say a word ta anybody, I'll keep me mouth shut," she pleaded.
"Oh, Am positive yer gonna keep yar mouth shut about tonight," the man barred his teeth in a smile. "Whot I donnae believe is thot ya know nothin' about whot yar young fella is up taa... After all, ya let him use yar address..."
Several envelopes were dropped down before her, letters from hire purchase companies, a credit card statement, subscriptions for Classic Truck and Trucking magazines.
"Ya paid fer a fortnights holiday ta Malta at Christmas." A stack of her most recent bank statements joined the letters and photographs. "I donnae think it twas yar family who shared tha honeymoon suite wit' ya." It went on and on as this stranger picked through her life.
"Why are ya doin' this? M-my family have nothin-" Two large hands slammed down on the table, making the photographs frames jump and several of the letters flutter to the floor, cutting off her words and making her cringe back in the chair.
"Who d'ya think ar' gonna end up paying fer yar folly? Putting loyalty ta family aside fer a piece o' vermin?" he sneered, his whole whole expression showing his disgust. "How d'ya think yar children ar' gonna feel when ya just disappear. Ya'll be dead an' gone, yar body dropped into tha Slieveamon peat bog, never ta be found an' all fer a man who any idjit can see is jus' usin' ya."
All of a sudden, she got it all, she understood completely.
Oh God! Vomit rose up in her throat as she went from hot to cold and back again. She'd heard all the stories, seen it all too often on the news. Her dashing young lover who had promised her a life filled with excitement had gotten her involved with the IRA.
Shoving her fist into her mouth, the traumatized woman began to rock back and forth, the soft moan building up in the back of her throat slowly turning into a wail.
"Ya've been dancin' wit' a devil, Mrs. Garretty... A devil whose gonna get ya thrown inta a cold lonely grave. Ya will disappear, never ta been seen again and it'll all be fer nothin'. Ya see, once Am sent after a man, I never fail. Yar fella tis already dead, he jus' donnae know it yet."
This wa' nae happening, this wa' nae happening… Tis just a dream, a – nightmare. A nightmare... No, no, no, no, nae Paddy. Her Paddy would never-
"No, Paddy. Yer wrong, nae Paddy, nae Paddy."
Lost in her panic, the shattered blonde didn't notice that her tormentor had turned away and stalked out of the room.
Thar's a reason fear donnae always work as an interrogation technique. Most times tha interrogation subject is already scared. Scaring tham more does nae get tha answers. Whot they need is a friend, somebody they can confide in...
Robin Hennessy folded her arms over her chest and stared sullenly from the older man walking past her as he left the room before glaring angrily at the sobbing woman rocking back and forth in the fancy high back chair next to the even fancier walnut table.
She didn't want to do this and she hated that Liam had put her in this position. Tha stupid ol' slag deserved everything she got.
Joey coughed, cleared his throat and pointedly gestured with a nod of his head to the broken figure sitting in front of him.
"Get on wit' it," he mouthed, his brow creasing when she didn't move straight away.
"Inna minute," she mouthed back, her lips forming a pout, before giving a dramatic huff and stepping forward.
"Thar, thar, donnae take on so. It'll all be over soon. Ya jus' have ta tell us whot ya know about Paddy. Thot's all." She dropped onto her knees and patted the older woman awkwardly on the knee.
"I-I donnae know, w-w-whar… huh - he is."
Robin stared into the other woman's face, seeing the pleading in her tear filled eyes and the wall of hate protecting the girl's heart cracked.
She recoiled, the color draining from her face. She was back inside her own home, the smell of gunfire filling the small space, her Da's dog lying on the floor, blood trickling from the hole in his head.
"It'll all be over as soon as ya tell us whot ya know about Fiona Glenanne."
She flinched as a phantom fist knocked the air from her lungs, while fingers gripping her hair stopped her from falling to her knees.
The sensation only lasted for a few seconds, but it left her breathless and nauseous.
"Get out!" Robin turned her brown eyes to the youth who was standing silently in the corner. "Get outta har, nar!" Her words became a snarl.
"I wa' tol -" Joey stammered.
"An' Am tellin' ya ta go! Get out nar, befer I knock ya inta next week." She was on her feet, pointing to the door with a shaky hand. She wanted to kill Liam Glenanne for putting her through this; but if she couldn't kill the big man, she'd settle for his pup if he didn't move his arse.
As soon as the youth scurried past her and out into the hallway, she slammed the door shut behind him and then turned back to the terrified older woman.
"Am sorry fer whot tis happening ta ya." Robin shuddered as she said the words. "Tis wrong, I know thot an' it shouldnae happen ta anybody."
"So, why me?" Eileen wiped away her tears.
"Because," Robin hesitated, her eyes flicking to the door and then back to the older woman. "Fer me own part, because yar fella did this ta me -"
She lifted her top showing her bruised ribs and then half turned, lifting her hair away from her neck to reveal a large bruise and the indentations caused by the teeth of one of her attacker.
"Yer Paddy," the gypsy girl snarled. "He an' two o' his friends killed me da, an' an' rap- attacked me cuz we knew sommit they wanted ta know."
"No – no I donnae believe -"
"Look har! Look closely nar, d'ya see thot? D'ya see thot mark. Look closer, ya bitch, an' ya will see tha mark left in me skin fram yar boyfriend's signet ring, right thar on me fecking ribs."
Robin couldn't stop now. With tears rolling down her cheeks, the younger woman described every horrible detail of the assault, forcing the older woman to see the truth of her words.
Finally the only sound was heavy breathing and deep gasping sobs.
"Am sorry taa," Eileen whispered, "Am sorry fer whot happened ta ya an' Am sorry I ever let thot sorry excuse fer a man inta my life... I donnae know much, but go tell yar friend I'll help ya in any way I can."
()()()()
Elsewhere, on another quiet farm albeit in the neighboring county next to where Michael Westen had been standing, contemplating his next move, Mrs. Bridget McCullough threw open her bedroom windows and turned to the unmade bed, pulling off the patchwork quilt and then the blankets, neatly folding them all before placing them in a tidy pile on top of her dressing table.
Today was going to be a good day, she could feel it in her bones; the sun was rising, causing a misty haze over the fields as the cold dew filled air began to warm up. Humming a soft tune, Martin and Kevin McCullough's mother dragged the flannel sheets off the bed, bundled the mass of material into her arms along with the matching pillowcases and then headed downstairs. It was going to be a perfect day to catch up on the laundry, she was sure of it.
Preoccupied with her thoughts, Bridget failed to notice the dirty boot prints on her usually immaculate stone flagged floor. Entering the kitchen, she was half away across the room on her way to the utility room at the very back of the house when she realized the figure standing beside the kettle making a pot of tea wasn't her husband back early from milking the cows.
"Mrs. McCullough, ya donnae know whot a pleasure tis ta ya see again."
For a brief second, she froze, immediately recognizing who he was and for that brief second, the older woman forgot how to breathe. He was her Martin's friend, the one with the devil may care smile and the soft brown eyes which could melt the hardest heart. But he was also the little monster she had caught torturing one of the farm cats when he was ten years old, and the stories she had heard him in later years had only proven what she'd thought of him then…
"Thomas O'Neill," she acknowledged, plastering a welcoming smile on her face and hoping the man didn't notice the tremor in her voice. "Whot are ya doin' here, lad? I heard ya war livin' in Spain wit' yar sister."
"Aye, I was," he answered as he gave the tea in the pot a stir. "But yar Martin called ta say one o' me old friends wa' in tha neighborhood an' I couldnae resist seein' tham again. Is Martin about?"
"He's been gone fer a coupla days nar... Whot happened ta ya, Thomas? No offense, but ya look like ya've been dragged through a hedge backwards."
Now that her initial fear had receded, Bridget pushed away all her bad memories of the man standing before her, replacing them with happy thoughts, of her eldest and Tommy O'Neill down by the river catching tadpoles or all three of the boys playing football in the garden.
Her boys war good boys, thar friends war all good boys taa. Thar wasnae one of them who would hurt a fly, nae one o' them ever and she would swear thot on a stack of bibles a mile high...
From the very first time she had been called into primary school when her boys had been accused of fighting in the playground, to the frequent visits by the Gardai to her front door and even when her two angels returned home with unaccounted for cash or fancy jewellery or clothes, those words had soothed away the heartache.
"Ohhh, tis nothin' nar, Mrs M. I hadda wee accident on me way over har... D'ya have anythin' I could change inta while I wait fer yar Martin ta come home?"
She blinked and abruptly turned away, hurrying towards the utility room, the smile on her lips becoming more strained by every passing second. It wa' supposed ta be over an' done wit'. Martin had promised har. When O'Neill had received tha call ta go off ta Belfast and har boys had thank god been turned away, it wa' all supposed ta over and done.
"Let me put this load in tha washer and then I'll get ya sommit fram Martin's closet... I supposed ya'll be wantin' a bath taa?"
"A bath an' a hot meal would be grand, Mrs M and would ya mind if I used yar phone ta give yar Martin a call? I need ham back har A.S.A.P."
()()()()
The cold of the early morning had been cleared away by the heat of the sun rising into the sky and by the light south-easterly breeze chasing away the few white fluffy clouds which had attempted to linger. But no matter how pleasant the day, or how busy the two elderly ladies of the house tried to keep their young female guest, nothing short of planning a year-long bombing campaign in the city of London was going to stop Fiona Glenanne from fretting over the late arrival of the community nurse.
She dinnae worry, she told herself firmly. Or rather she never used ta worry about anything,.
Fiona swung the wicker carpet beater with great vigour against the colorful rug draped over Cathy's washing line, sending a great cloud of dust into the air. But now worrying seemed to be all she did: she worried about Michael's injuries, if he was truly going to be there for their child or if one day the call of duty to his government would become too strong to resist.
She fretted about her own family, wondering if Liam would be able to keep her betrayal a secret, if Sean was recovering from his bullet wound, if her mother would ever find it in her heart to forgive her for what she had done.
Then there was the child she was carrying and all the normal worries which came with upcoming parenthood, never mind her own unique problems. How on earth war they going ta raise a child while they war running from all their combined enemies.
The young Irishwoman continued to pound on the rug, long after the last of the dust and dirt had floated away on the breeze, deaf to the calls from her hosts to stop.
"Saints preserve us, lass. Ya shouldnae be doin' thot. Come away fram thar befer yar make a hole in me best rug," Cathy pleaded.
"Tis nerves, thot whot it is," her sister declared knowingly. "Tha sooner yar Gerry's Sara gets har tha better. I wa' just tha same wit' my Ronnie. With our mammy dead and tha pair o' ya far away in Dublin, I wa' all on me own."
A mixture of exhaustion and the pleas of her new friends finally brought the young woman to a stop. Breathing heavily, she turned to face Mrs Coleraine and Mrs Hooley.
"Ya said tha rug needed a cleaning an' now tis dust free and ready ta go back in front o' tha fire." Fiona looked towards the house. "Would ya like me ta give tha fireplace a bit of a clean first?"
"NO!" the two old ladies shouted at the same time.
"Why dontcha go inside an' wash tha dust off ya face an' then go find thot young fella o' yours." Cathy stepped forward, taking the carpet beater from the other woman's hand and then gently directing her towards the house. "Tis too nice a day ta waste doin' housework. If ya take a walk up through tha fields, ya'll be able ta keep a look out fer our Sara's car. Tis a little green Mini wit' a white roof. Yar cannae miss it."
When you work for an intelligence agency, you operate within an official structure. There's a chain of command to report to, protocols to be observed. No one questions their mission. But when you freelance, you don't have those luxuries. Getting your team on board may require some convincing.
Once she had washed away the dust and grime from her over enthusiastic cleaning of Cathy's favorite rug, Fiona went in search of her lover, finding him in the barn with Gerry while both men talking intently as they tinkered with the Volvo engine.
"I think ya've got it, lad. Thot last lead wa' always a bugger ta reconnect… Ah, thar she is…"
Michael looked into Fiona's still flushed face and fought down a momentary feeling of fear.
"What have ya been up ta this morning, Kimmy?" he queried, keeping his voice calm.
"Oh, jus' helping Cathy wit' a spot o' cleanin' thot's all."
Gerry chuckled as he wiped his gnarled, greasy hands on a worn rag. "I dinnae think it wa' her beatin' on thot rug like thot. Her arthritis usually keeps her from getting' up ta such things."
The former spy cleaned his own hands as well before closing the hood. "I wa' jus' askin' him if we might borrow tha car, ya know, ta take it on a test drive inta town? I know ya'd like ta get a few things, Kimmy, since we lost damned almost everythin' back thar in tha woods and it would be tha least we could do ta pick up something fer tham at the store while war in town."
"Oh…" The look on his lover's face told him that Ms. Glenanne was putting two and two together and not liking the number she was coming up with. "Ar' ya done nar, Bobby? Cathy suggested thot a little walk in tha fields would be jus' tha thing ta calm me nerves."
"Donnae fret, lass, me cousin's usually runnin' a wee bit behind. Lots o' folks donnae see a soul fer weeks an' they cannae seem ta quit bendin' her ear when she comes round ta check on 'em."
"If it's alright wit' ya, Gerry, I think I'll be takin' a stroll with Kimmy. She does get worked up abou' things sometimes… sometimes her fists have been known ta do tha talking," he whispered the last bit, though Fiona heard him nonetheless. Fortunately, Mr. Coleraine took it as the joke Michael had intended him to, not knowing just how true the statement was.
"Off wit' tha pair o' ya then. Sara'll be har any minute, ya'll see."
The redhead waited until they were clear of the barn and she was sure they were well out of earshot of their elderly hosts before turning a sharp eye on her husband.
"Whot ar' ya up ta, Bobby? Cuz it sounds ta me like ya wa' planning on stealing Gerry's car."
Michael looked over his shoulder back towards the farm house before increasing his pace and lowering his voice before answering his lovely bride.
"We need to get moving as soon as the nurse leaves," he informed her quietly. "As soon as we get to town and get a location, we're headed for the nearest airfield. We've been here too long, Fi. We need to get out of town and out of Ireland as soon as possible. We can't afford anymore near misses like we had at the cottage or in the woods. We might not be so lucky next time."
Fiona's mouth fell open and she then closed it with an audible snap. "I thought ya had planned ta rest up and plan our next move. Yar knee—"
"We have rested and this is our next move. My knee is fine and my ribs are as good as they're going to get. We need to leave now before we get any more surprise visitors."
"I donnae have a problem wit' moving on," she replied, though it was clear the thought of leaving the little farm behind did trouble her. "Whot I have a problem wit' is ya leavin' tha three people who have been nothing but kind ta us ta face nae jus' questions from tha Gard, but from Liam and all those different agencies chasing after ya. It cannae be whot we do, Michael."
"I don't know what else we can do, Fi... I mean, I'll tell Gerry to call the Gardai and report his car stolen, that'll cover him with the cops. But as far as everyone else, he'll just have to keep his mouth shut. Hell, on second thought, he can tell them whatever he wants because I don't plan on giving him any useful intel... He can't tell what he doesn't know. He'll be fine."
She stopped walking and planted her hands on her hips, giving him a hard stare.
"Jus' because he donnae know tha answer donnae mean any o' them'll be fine. Or have ya forgotten whot kind o' people are chasing us?"
Michael took her face in between his rough hands, gazing deeply into her turbulent blue green eyes. "That's exactly why we need to leave tonight before those three get caught in the crossfire."
Laying her own hands over his, she answered him with equal determination. "Alright, what if we convince Esme to go home tonight? Then she could drive the car back, or better still she could take us to the airfield."
Michael was already shaking his head, his hands sliding down onto his lover's shoulders. "No, Fi. If anything happens, if anything goes wrong, I don't want an untrained civilian, especially one who's partially blind and almost deaf in the mix."
Pursing his lips, he turned his head to stare off into the distance, then finally turned back to face her. "Fine, then we'll ask Esme to drop us off in the first town we come across on her drive back to Waterford and assuming you don't have any more unexpected objections to grand theft auto, we'll get a car there and drive that to the airfield. How does that sound?"
"It sounds just fine," Fiona answered him. "As long as I get ta chose tha car. I promise it will nae be anything ostentatious, but I refuse ta have me last ride in Ireland be inna beige Mondeo or some other boring vehicle even me own mother would be ashamed ta be seen in."
"Deal," Michael agreed quickly with a smile and then kissed her softly, relieved to have gotten over the next hurdle with relative ease. Getting Esme Hooley to cut her visit short and drop them off without breathing a word to anyone would be child's play for Fiona. She'd had the elderly sisters eating out of her hand from day one.
All he had to do now was keep her from blowing anything up until the nurse arrived...
Throwing an arm around the redhead's slender shoulders, he turned her towards the greening fields.
"Come on, lass, I think thar's a good view o' tha road fram tha top o' thot rise. We can keep watch fram thar."
()()()()
Cindy's Cafe and Bakery on the edge of Clonmel had been in business for over twenty years, positioned on the N24 to catch all the passing trade traveling from anywhere in between Shannon and Waterford. Inside, Martin McCullough sat alone at a table for four with a view over the small car park, his weary eyes nervously scanning all the vehicles for any sign of trouble.
He had never killed a man before... He looked down at his plate of half eaten eggs and bacon, the grease already congealing around the remains of his breakfast and felt a growing sickness building in his stomach and rising up into his throat. His eyes focussed on his large work worn hands, at the bruised and split skin on his knuckles.
He had never beaten a man old enough to be his own grandfather into the ground like that... Why the fuck couldn't the stupid pikey bastard just answered his questions?
Frowning, he pushed his chair back. Thinking about last night was doing him no good at all. He had promised Tommy that he would find Fiona Glenanne and Thomas O'Neill did not take failure well. Better tha old Gyppo took a beating than he got his own teeth knocked down his throat by his long lost friend...
Getting to his feet, he made his way over the counter where a bored looking young lass sat on a high stool beside the till. Digging into his pocket, he pulled out a roll of cash and began to peel off a single five punt note when he was struck by a thought.
"This is fer tha meal, keep tha change." He handed over the fiver and a piece of paper. "An' thot is me phone number... Would ya do me a favour, luv? If ya see a young woman come in har wit' short reddish brown hair, bluey green eyes about five two or five three or maybe a tall fella wit' black hair, he's got a few old scars around his eyes, about my age, mabbe a bit older, can yar give me a bell?... They'd be a fair few quid in it fer ya." He waved the rest of the roll, giving her a chance to guess the amount he was carrying.
"In fact, if ya even hear tell o' some new folks like thot comin' ta town, thar'd be some as well."
He smiled when she snatched her hand away, placing the five punt note in the till and his phone number in the breast pocket of her blouse.
Walking back outside to where his car was waiting, he paused and pulled out his cell phone. This was the tenth time his mother had tried to call him this morning. Pressing down on the key to reject the call, he settled down behind the wheel of his car.
What was tha daft old mare playing at? Calling him at all hours… Whotever tha emergency was it would just have ta wait. He had enough problems o' his own.
Little did Martin McCullough know who was waiting for him back home… and neither did the couple he was searching so diligently for…but they would all find out soon enough….
()()
The story of Fiona and Michael's first night together can be found on the M-page in Purdy's Pal's, Who We Once Were. Chapter 8, Derry.