WHO WE ONCE WERE.
A/N: A big thanks to everybody who has reviewed these short stories and Dodging Raindrops which has inspired this series. I know many of you are eager for the bathroom scene which was hinted at in the main story, however I didn't want to write what would effectively be a plotless piece. So before our heroes reach the house with the luxury bathroom, they have to stop fighting and making up long enough to complete their mission.
A special thanks to Amanda Hawthorn and Jedi Skysinger for reading through this chapter for me. You ladies along with DaisyDay bring sunshine into these cold winter days. Also thank you Jedi Skysinger for fitting in a Beta during your busy days.
x
Belfast November 1998.
Part one.
A Brief History Lesson:
During October 1997, at a Provisional IRA General Army Convention, several members of the executive council denounced the leadership's decision to call for a ceasefire and their participation in the Northern Ireland peace process.
Shortly afterwards, several members of the executive council resigned and, along with other disaffected members of the Provisional IRA, set up a new organization. This new group had the ultimate aim of a united Ireland, but they had no wish to talk or make deals with the British government. Instead they planned on using physical force in much the same way as the Provisional IRA had done during the nineteen eighties and early-mid nineties.
Throughout the early part of 1998, this new violent organization planted bombs in city centers, land mines on roads used by the security forces, and fired mortars into police stations and Army barracks.
The term Real IRA came about when members staged an illegal roadblock. When asked who they were, they replied "We're the real IRA."
However their high profile actions had the effect of attracting a lot of attention and by mid-1998 many of their leadership had already been arrested or killed.
Their most infamous action occurred on the 15th August 1998 in Omagh, County Tyrone, when they planted a five hundred pound home-made bomb which killed 29 people and injured a further 220.
The bombing caused a major outcry throughout the world and the Irish and British governments introduced new legislation in an attempt to destroy the organization. RIRA also came under intense pressure from the Provisional IRA. Eventually, the remaining members of the RIRA called a ceasefire on 8 September 1998.
Initially unknown to the British and Irish governments and the Provisional IRA, the RIRA used the ceasefire to begin regrouping.
Playing in the Devil's Backyard.
Prologue.
"Ya need me thar ta watch yar back." Fiona stood with her arms crossed over her chest leaning against the bathroom door while Michael stood in front of the sink rinsing his toothbrush under the tap.
"We've talked about this," he began patiently. "It's too dangerous. If you're -"
Fiona snorted. "I've been dodging British Army patrols since I wa' fifteen year old. Ya don' have ta tell me about dangerous."
"You know what I mean. We need to play this by the book for right now. I can't keep bailing you-"
Her eyes went wide. "So who asked ya ta come rushin' ta me aid like some bloody white knight a few weeks ago? I wa' doing fine before ya-"
"Fiona," Michael sighed and looked down at the chipped enamel sink as if praying for the strength to deal with stubborn women.
They had been having the same discussion for the last hour and she couldn't, or more likely wouldn't, accept that he had an important job to do and that he couldn't do it worrying about what would happen if his new MI6 handler caught her shadowing him.
"How is me waiting close by while ya meet up wid tha' slimy English bastid any worse than ya nearly getting' yerself killed takin' on an army helicopter an' half Antrim's constabulary?" she pressed him to answer.
Straightening up, Michael placed his toothbrush back in the glass on the shelf in front of him and then slowly turned to face her.
"First of all, if I hadn't come -" He closed his mouth, realizing that she was trying to draw him into an even bigger argument. Taking a deep breath, he pushed down his growing anger. "It's my job and that English ba- he's my boss, Fi... For now he is my boss and -" He stopped when she raised a hand in a chopping motion.
"An' ya can't be seen draggin' yar Provo –" She paused and frowned. "Wha' war it I heard ya call me? Yar Provo asset inta yar secret meetings."
Michael took two hesitant steps towards the door, stopping inches away from her when she continued to block his exit. Pursing his lips, he looked into her blue-green eyes while tentatively reaching out to run his hands lightly up and down her arms.
"Fi. Fiona," he pleaded softly. He didn't need an argument just before what had sounded like an urgent call to meet up with his handler in Belfast. "It's just a boring meeting."
She huffed and abruptly moved away. Turning her back on him, she stalked through to the kitchen. He raised his eyes to the ceiling in despair and then winced when he heard cupboard doors being slammed.
Sighing, he went after her. His biggest fear was that she would follow him to Belfast and give somebody in MI6 one more reason to think it would be better for all concerned if Fiona Glenanne was locked in a prison cell. He was still holding out hope that given a bit longer he could convince his CIA handler Dan Siebels that Fiona's wide ranging skill set would make her a valuable asset for the Agency.
He found her furiously searching through the kitchen cabinets and drawers. "Fiona?"
She glanced in his direction, but continued banging doors. "Fiona! I'm going. I'll be back, but it might be late... I'll call." He hated the idea leaving her like this, but he had a job to do.
"Found it!" she announced triumphantly lifting a large stainless steel meat cleaver.
Michael paled and took a step back. "Whatcha got planned, Fi?"
She smiled wickedly. "Bernadette has gotta whole lamb in har freezer. She sold me a leg and a coupla steaks. Am going round ta get em, an I'm gonna pretend it's tha'MI6 bastid yer so fond of."
Gulping, Michael nodded and quickly picked up his coat and his keys. Taking her anger out on a piece of meat was far better than a lot of other things he could imagine her getting into while he was gone. Moving fast, he pressed a kiss on her cheek while warily keeping an eye on the cleaver and then he was gone, dashing along the balcony and down the concrete steps to the car park below.
He gave himself a full five hours to make sure nobody was following him before going to meet up with his present MI6 handler. He had deliberately left the little one bedroom flat he called home at eight A.M so he could make the journey north to Belfast during the chaos of the morning rush hour.
Ever since his previous MI6 contact had mysteriously disappeared a few months earlier, he had been on edge and taking some extra time checking for surveillance seemed to be a sensible precaution. So for an hour and a half, he drove around Dublin like an idiot, shamelessly committing every sin of the road to try to see if anybody was following him. He would indicate right and then cut across traffic to turn left, drive too slow and then suddenly speed up and go all the way around roundabouts sometimes as many as three times as if he was lost. Only when he was sure nobody was tailing him did he leave Dublin and head north to cross over the border into Northern Ireland.
Once he reached the outskirts of Belfast, he pulled off the main road and found a small shopping mall where he left the car and continued into the city center on the bus. After spending another hour wandering around a few of the large department stores, he made his way to the meeting at the Fitzwilliam Hotel.
Michael found his present MI6 handler, Richard Chambers, sitting in a corner booth in the hotel restaurant studying the lunchtime menu. He had been working with Chambers for months now, but in that whole time. he had found it impossible to form any sort of bond with the man.
"Westen, sit."
Biting down on a sarcastic retort, Michael forced a toothy smile and slid into the seat facing his handler. As on every other meeting. Chambers was strictly business. Right from the start of their relationship, he had made no bones about his dislike for American spies and his utter loathing of their Provisional IRA sympathizing assets.
"There is a meeting taking place in a week's time," Chambers drawled as he reached into a black leather brief case at his side. Pulling out a blue cardboard folder, he threw it casually across the table so it landed in front of his CIA asset.
"And a good day to you too," Michael muttered, annoyed at the man's lack of respect. Opening the file, he began to read while Chambers started to fill him in with the highlights.
"Members of an independent commission are coming to Belfast to hold talks with the leadership in the Provisional IRA. Primarily the talks are to discuss the timetable for the decommissioning of the terrorists arms supplies. But it is also a chance for us to see who are going to be the troublemakers and who the government might be able to work with."
Michael looked up at this. His handler's turn of phrase wasn't lost on him. MI6 and probably MI5 too were going to have agents watching and listening into the independent committee meeting. No doubt plans were already being drawn up to make sure the troublemakers not only lost their seats at the table, but more than likely their lives at a later date.
"We have intelligence that a small group of Real IRA are planning to undermine this meeting with a series of bombings throughout Belfast and Dublin. This is where you come in, or rather Mike McBride and his girlfriend Fiona Glenanne -"
"You want Fiona involved in this?"
It hadn't been that long ago that somebody in MI6 had tried to have Fiona arrested and identified as working for the British and now they wanted her for a mission?
"Unfortunately, I can't see another way for you to gather the necessary information in the time available." Chambers wasn't even trying to hide his distaste. "The intel we have places the bomb-maker and his unit operating out of various properties around the Falls Road."
"You have informers in the area? Can't -"
"Since the very public death of the Hanrahan family, our informers aren't informing, especially on something this big... Oh, you probably don't know. Toby Hanrahan committed suicide last week, jumped off a bridge over the A1 during the London rush hour. We think he was making sure the remaining members of his family were going to be left alone. So we need your asset to be our way in."
Michael's eyes widened at the news. The Hanrahans had been his last assignment. Toby Hanrahan had been a MI6 informer for close to six years. During that time, he had provided invaluable information that had saved a lot of lives and also helped put a lot of very dangerous people behind bars.
But he had been found out and, though he was extracted to the safety of a MI6 safe-house, his family hadn't been so lucky. It had been Michael who had found Toby's wife and three children's bodies, the walls of their lodgings daubed with Mrs Hanrahan's blood. It had been a grim wake up call to what fate awaited Fiona if it was ever discovered she had helped a spy.
Closing the file, Michael got to his feet. "I'll ask her to help."
"Without telling her anything of value," Chambers reminded him.
Michael felt a flush of anger. He didn't need to be told his job.
"Of course." He gave his handler another toothy grin. "You know me."
"Yes, I do. Oh and Westen, there will be a lot of eyes on how we handle this op... Don't let me down." The British agent was already back to studying the menu.
Leaving the hotel, Michael decided to walk back to where he had left his car. It would give him more time to think about the assignment. He couldn't help grinning. With such a short deadline, they were going to have to go in with no preparation. It had been a few years since he had been given this much of a free rein. It was the sort of job he used to live for, one that made his heart pump hard and set every nerve on fire.
There was another reason for his eagerness to complete the assignment If it went well, if they were successful, it could be the job that would finally convince his CIA bosses that Fiona Glenanne was worth cultivating as an official asset. He just hoped Fiona was going to be willing to help him. They'd had a few disagreements recently about her criminal activities interfering with his anti-terrorism work.
But she still wanted peace. He knew that hadn't changed and he was certain she would be against a bombing campaign that could kill innocent men, women and children. By the time he pulled up outside his little Dublin flat, he was positive this would be the job that would make it possible for him to bring Fiona Glenanne out with him when his Ireland assignment finally came to an end.
Keeping his head down against the icy cold wind and rain, Michael rushed up the steep concrete steps which would take him back to Fiona. He had to break the news about the assignment and convince her to help, all by the end of the evening. Because with so little time, they were going to have to be set up in Belfast by tomorrow afternoon at the latest.
Making plans.
While Michael was making his way back to Dublin, Fiona was in their flat reclining on the couch with a glass of red wine and several celebrity magazines spread out on the floor around her.
She had spent the morning in the flat next door chatting with her friend and neighbour, Bernadette Murphy, while helping to butcher the two whole lambs Bernadette's husband had brought home the night before. Riordan Murphy worked as a security guard at the docks and frequently returned home from work with items pilfered off the backs of the lorries that came through the port. Yesterday evening, he had arrived home with the carcasses of two lambs which had been his part in a large haul of meat stolen from a container which had been on its way to an English supermarket.
As they had worked on chopping up the meat for Bernadette to sell door to door, Fiona had vented about Michael McBride's lack of commitment and how he never considered her feelings when he put his friends first. By the time they were finished, she had felt a lot better and, after witnessing Bernadette's morning routine, had even gotten a little bit of perspective. At least Michael had never brought home stolen goods and then left her to prepare and sell said items, all while bringing up a houseful of kids.
After helping to get three children ready for school, clearing away the breakfast bowls and getting enough meat to supply a small butchers shop packaged up for sale, Fiona had been grateful to get back to her own flat. But not for long, as after a shower and a change of clothes, she decided what she really needed was a few therapeutic hours walking around the boutiques on Grafton Street.
By lunchtime, she was back home and spread out on the couch in front of the electric heater reading celebrity magazines. She was on to her second glass of wine when a blast of cold air alerted her to Michael's return.
He stepped inside, slamming the door behind him. Stripping off his heavy winter coat, he came towards her with a wide welcoming smile creasing his features.
"You look happy," she commented.
"Yeah," he agreed. Carefully lifting her feet out of the way, he sat down at the end of the couch. Placing her legs on his lap, he began to massage her feet.
"We have a job...That is if you want to help. There's a RIRA unit planning to disrupt the peace talks with a bombing campaign in Belfast and Dublin."
The magazine was forgotten; it dropped to the floor and her heart began to beat faster. "I thought we'd got all tha bloodthirsty bastids?" She sat up straight, her eyes sparking at the thought of having some Glenanne-style fun.
Destroying the Real IRA had been the reason for them working together in the first place. Michael had been sent by the British to disrupt and destroy this new more radical arm of the IRA and she, as a loyal supporter of the Provisional IRA, had been only too happy to help dismantle an organization which had split away from the PIRA and delighted in killing civilians. But it seemed they had missed a few.
"Not all of them apparently," he answered calmly. "But we only have a week to get the job done."
"A week!" She kicked her feet out of his hands and stood before him. "They want us ta find tham in a week? How tha hell are we supposed to do thot?"
"I have a list of suspects and all our intelligence points to them hiding out in the Falls." He brought out the file and dropped it down next to where he sat.
She felt a rush of anger. "Thot's why they've let ya bring me in ta tha loop... Ya need me ta take ya in thar."
He nodded solemnly. "We have one week to find them, discover where the bombs are and get something solid that can be used to get them arrested. Just knowing they're going to plant bombs and kill innocent civilians isn't enough, we have to have proof."
That sounded like a boring way to get the job done. "Or, you could tell me who yer after, an' I could give Sean a call an' we could go sort out yar problem fer ya," she suggested with a devil-may-care grin. Her fingers reached out for the file.
Michael instantly threw a figurative bucket of cold water over her idea. "We do it my way, Fi, or you stay behind." He moved the evidence out of her reach, pushing it down the side of the couch between his leg and the armrest.
So he wasn't going to let her loose on the murderous bastards who were planning whole scale death and destruction. But that didn't mean she couldn't have some fun. She just had to point out a few facts of life he'd seemed to have forgotten.
She dropped down onto his lap, her arms snaking up around his neck, her lips pressing kisses to his forehead and nose before laying claim his lips and mouth, her tongue pushing between his teeth. The kiss was long and deep and, when they finally broke apart, they were both breathing heavily.
"Yer a darlin' man, Michael McBride." She stared into his eyes. "But if ya go inta thot part o' Belfast without anybody ta vouch fer ya, at best nobody will talk to ya and some kids will come around ta whar yer stayin' an' make ya leave. Worst case, some poor bugger finds ya dangling fram a lamp post by a rope around yar neck." Her lips were now on his neck, sucking and nibbling the skin on his throat.
"So you'll help?" He tilted his head to give her better access, her touch warming him up far more than the little electric heater in front of them.
"Only if yer good an' fer once ya do exactly wha' I tell ya," she replied, gasping as his cold hands slid under her jumper and up her back so his fingers could work on the clasp on her bra.
The fastener came undone easily and he gathered up the jumper, pulling it and her bra over her head. Gently cupping the raised mounds of exposed flesh, he tore his gaze away from her breasts to look into her eyes.
"So wha' would ya like me t'do, luv?"
God, she loved it when his voice took on that tone! Her tongue flickered out and she arched into his touch as his thumbs rubbed over her sensitive nipples.
"How abou' this?" He held her in place and leaned forward, taking one breast into his mouth, suckling and mouthing while she writhed on his lap.
His touch set her a fire, her fingers curling into his hair and holding him to her chest. Under her, she could feel him growing hard and her own body responding as she ground against him.
Tomorrow they would travel to Belfast and into the notoriously republican area of her youth, where army patrols only entered when accompanied by armoured personnel carriers. Where Provo and Real IRA fought and sometimes killed each other for their differing beliefs in which way forward was best. It was going to be dangerous, violent and bloody – a shiver of anticipation ran up her spine and her nails dragged through his scalp at the thought of what was to come.
"Bedroom, now." Her words came as a throaty growl. She needed him now, to feel him inside her, pounding her into the mattress.
He looked up at her with lust in his eyes and, with a deep groan, he got to his feet, holding her in place with his hands on her butt and her legs wrapped around his waist.
Her lips clashed against his, her tongue demanding entry to his mouth while her strong fingers continued to grip his hair. They were going to face death together and bring down what had to be the last hold outs of the radical splinter group which blighted the chance for some peace. They were going to raise hell in the devil's own back yard.
He dropped her onto the bed and grasped the waistband of her leggings, pulling them and her panties down and off in one swift move. She grinned up at him, wantonly spreading her legs in invitation.
"Come here." She raised her arms, calling him to her.
Instead she had to wait while he took his time unbuckling his belt and unzipping his pants. His eyes remained on her as his pants and boxers pooled about his feet. Only when he pulled his jumper over his head did he break eye contact.
All the time she was looking back at him, at his hard taut muscular frame. There wasn't a hint of fat anywhere and, when his boxers had finally fallen to the ground, her smile had widened as she stared at his dripping length. He was as ready as she was.
He knelt on the edge of the bed, leaning forwards when she made her move. Her legs came up, locking around his torso just below his armpits, dragging him on top of her. "Now, Michael," she ordered, her hands urging him to enter her, to give them both what they wanted.
He slammed into her in one hard fast move which drove the air from her lungs and pinned her to the mattress. As her lips parted, he laid claim to her mouth, kissing her hard, his tongue ravaging her mouth and barely giving her a chance to breathe.
Then he began to move, slowly at first, long deep thrusts grinding their pubic bones together as the tension built and the pleasure grew, he sped up and all that time his lips never left her, her mouth, her neck, her breast.
It wasn't enough… the heat was growing but not fast enough for her, her nails raked down his back, dug into his buttocks urging him on, while her teeth fastened on to his neck, his shoulder, his arm.
Panting and cussing, they took their sweat covered bodies over the edge in a tidal wave of mutual ecstasy.
Later, much later, she lay staring up at the ceiling, her body sore but sated, every muscle relaxed and her mind gloriously clear. One of Michael's hands was lying possessively over her left breast as he slept on his side with his body pressed up against her.
They had been fighting a lot recently, both of them concerned that his time in Ireland was nearly at an end and neither of them knowing exactly what to do about it. The way she saw it, this resurgence of the Real IRA was a gift. Surely it would prolong his stay and give them a chance to find a way to be together.
Slowly, she lifted his hand off her and slid out of the bed. This assignment had to succeed and she was going to do her part to make sure it went ahead smoothly. They were going to need somewhere safe to stay and to plot the downfall of this latest bunch of murdering sons of bitches.
Picking one of Michael's T-shirts off a pile of freshly laundered clothes, she slipped it over her head and crept out of the bedroom. The living room was in darkness. Switching on the light, she closed the curtains and then went searching for her address book.
()
Fiona sighed and closed her eyes for a second. Jeannie Donahue was never the easiest person to deal with, but they needed somewhere to stay close to the Falls Road area.
"Beidh muid codlata i leaba ar leith más rud é go cad ba mhaith leat." She promised they would sleep in separate beds.
"Diabhal cailín ceart, beidh mé ag súil agat amárach," Jeannie replied.
"Go raibh maith agat." Smiling she thanked her relative for agreeing to let them stay and now all she had to do was break the news to Michael.
"Hey, Fi."
She jumped, nearly dropping the phone. "Hey," she greeted him with a smile, her eyes lingering over his bare chest.
"Who was that on tha phone?" He caught her in his arms, holding her close as he tenderly pressed his lips to her brow.
"We're goin' ta stay wid me Aunt Jeannie. I wa' just making tha arrangements." She tried to sound upbeat, wondering how much of the conversation he had heard.
"I thought I heard somethin' about separate beds?"
She'd forgotten that he knew enough Irish to follow a simple conversation. Blinking, she fixed her smile in place.
"Me Aunty Jeannie rents tha place off Liam and she doesn't want ta do anythin' ta upset ham."
Michael took two steps back and sat down on the couch, bringing her down onto his lap. "Liam's house? As in Liam, yar oldest brother who hates me?" he asked in a flat tone.
"He doesn't hate ya and it's not his house, not really... It's me Mother's. It was our family home fer a while, but Liam pays all tha bills and he lets Jeannie live thar."
"Fi, we're doing a job for the British government, we shouldn't be staying in the same house as your hard core republican brother."
She pressed the palm of her hand over his heart. "Liam doesn't live thar unless he is stuck in the city an' I know fer a fact he isn't stuck thar now."
"Can't you find us somewhere else to stay? There must be boarding houses or a hotel?" His ingratitude was beginning to grate on her nerves.
"Ya want to be inconspicuous, don'cha? How will it look if I go home an' instead o' stayin' with me family, I book inta B and B? No, we're staying wid me Aunty Jeannie... Unless yer've changed ya mind and now ya wan' me an' Sean ta sort out yar RIRA problem fer ya?"
"Fine," he reluctantly agreed. "Aunt Jeannie's, it is... But separate beds? This Aunt of yours knows we're not kids, right?"
Fiona smiled sweetly. There was something incredibly delicious about Michael when he pouted. She leaned in and kissed the side of his mouth.
"She's old fashioned." Another kiss, this one sucking on his lower lip, "She's not even a proper Aunt. She's me Mother's second cousin, but she's a favorite o' Liam's so we must be nice to her." This time he returned her kiss, his tongue stroking against hers before he drew back.
"It's fer one week, tha's all. It'll give us even more incentive ta get finished as quick as we can."
"Fine," he muttered, reaching down the side of the couch for where he had left the mission brief earlier. "We should -"
She stopped his words by popping the button on his waistband.
"Fi?" he questioned.
His fly came undone as she slid down off his lap. "I was thinkin'. If it's goin' ta be separate beds fer a week, we should spend some more time together now. What d'ya think?" Grinning up at him, her fingers stroked along his exposed manhood.
"I -" he gulped, "I- I think we should go through the intel first."
She continued to smile and shook her head, her hand closing about him as he began to harden.
"Fi," his lips parted, as she blew softly over his exposed flesh, the warm air causing his brain to momentarily blank.
"We've plenty o' time ta go through the intel... I wanta have some fun first."
When she tugged at his jeans, he automatically lifted his hips to help her gain better access. "Fi, plea -"
His final attempt to get her to concentrate came to a stop as her tongue licked up his length, swirled over the head and down the other side. Moaning softly, he gave into her ministrations. Wrapping his fingers in her hair, he lifted the auburn locks clear of her face so he could watch.
Swallowing him down until she felt him at the back of her throat, she hummed, her eyes turning to watch his expression as he became undone. She loved to watch him fall apart at her touch. Slowly releasing him inch by inch until she held just the very tip between her lips, she went down on him again.
When she felt his muscles tense and his breathing quicken, she reached up to drag her nails over his nipples, flicking the hard raised nubs and sending him into a frenzy. She ignored the way his hands twisted and pulled at her hair as he tipped over the edge into a state of bliss.
Letting him go, she slowly kissed and licked her way up his chest, smiling to herself as his muscles continued to twitch from the aftershock of his orgasm.
"Now isn't tha' better than readin' tha' daft little folder?" she asked as she helped him ease his jeans back over his hips.
He smiled down at where her head snuggled into his shoulder, slowly flexing his fingers so he could untangle them from her hair. Brushing the locks off her face, he kissed the top of her head.
"Fi, Fiona…" Cupping her cheek, he guided her to look up at him.
Her lips parted as they stared lovingly at each other.
He cleared his throat, while his free hand reached out across the couch. "We still have to go over – ooof."
She elbowed him hard in the ribs, as his hand closed on the MI6 intelligence file. Pushing him away, she got to her feet, her eyes flashing with anger.
"Fi, this is important... We need to know this stuff," he tried to explain.
She scowled at him through narrowed eyes, her hair trigger temper ready to snap. "Important? D'ya think thar's anything in yar sainted MI6 file tha' I couldn't find out after ten minutes in any one o' tha bars off tha Falls Road? I tell ya, fer the price o' a pint o' Guinness and a whisky chaser, I can get ya tha name of tha bomber without all this cloak and dagger stuff."
She watched his jaw clench and his fingers tightened their grip on the file. She couldn't see what his problem was, why he had to complicate everything they did. In her experience, there wasn't a problem that couldn't be solved with a bullet or the right amount of C4.
"This cloak and dagger stuff, as you call it, is my job, Fi. It's important. If this job goes well, if we can show them how well we work together -"
He left the rest unsaid, but she knew what he was hinting. If they stopped the bomb threat and did everything by the book, his bosses might give permission for them to continue working together.
"Fine." She forced a smile. She didn't want to think about being left behind in Ireland when he was ordered on to his next assignment. "Let's get this study session over and done with."
Sitting down next to him, she snatched the folder from his hands and placed it on her lap.
"But once war done wid it -"
He stopped her with a kiss, his arms drawing her in to a tender embrace. "Once we've gone over the intel, I'm all yours."
()()
The following morning, they packed their bags and, as far as the neighbors were concerned, they were off to visit Fiona's relatives in the North. While Fiona drove the whole way, Michael sat in the passenger seat reading through the MI6 file yet again.
After studying the photographs and the biographies of the suspects, he turned his attention to the street map of the area they were going into. He noted the deep red lines drawn along certain roads, marking out the boundaries between the Catholic and Protestant neighborhoods.
He was so wrapped up in the assignment that it came a shock when they pulled off the motorway and Fiona slowed the car and took them onto the side streets.
Aunt Jeannie's home turned out to be a semi-detached house on a long narrow street of almost identical houses; hers was surrounded by high untidy hedges with the entrance barred by a waist high wrought iron gate. Getting out, Michael opened the gate for Fiona to drive inside.
As he closed the gate behind her, he noticed curtains twitch on several houses on the opposite side of the road. He guessed word would soon be spreading that Jeannie Donahue had visitors.
"Jayzuz, Fiona! How long has it been since ya last came visitin'? Yer as skinny as a rake!" Michael turned and got a nasty shock.
For some reason he had expected Jeannie Donuhue to look something like Maeve Glenanne: small, birdlike and in her sixties. Instead he found himself facing a tall shapely woman who looked to be about forty, shoulder length bottle blonde hair framing a heavily made up face and surrounded by a cloud of smoke from the cigarette held between her two fingers.
He stared open mouthed, barely registering the small yapping dogs nipping at his high-top laced boots.
"Aunty Jean, this is Michael McBride." Fiona's voice broke the spell.
Michael found himself under the searching gaze of a pair of sharp blue eyes. She raised her cigarette and sucked in a lungful of nicotine while she looked him over.
Now he was over the shock, he could see the resemblance to his mother was only superficial. Jeannie Donahue had an aura of hardness about her. Something told him that if any man ever raised a hand to her, unlike Madeline Westen, she would make sure it was the last thing he ever did.
"Michael?" Fiona snapped.
"Sorry." He shook off the shock and took two steps in her direction, hoping the little furry monsters around his feet would go away. "Please ta meet ya, Miz -"
"Call me Jeannie, boy... Fiona, come along inside while yar man gets yar bags." Jeannie dismissed him as she ushered Fiona inside.
Collecting their bags from the trunk, Michael took one more look around. He could still feel eyes watching his every move and realized how true Fiona's earlier words had been. A stranger asking questions wouldn't last a day in this part of the city.
Entering the house, he was again hit by a weird sense of deja-vu; Nineteen seventies décor, the strong smell of floral air freshener fighting with the odour of tobacco and nicotine coming from the overflowing ashtrays spread about the room.
For a brief second, it was as if he had stepped back into his family home, even down to the overbearing heat, though here it wasn't caused by the tropical sun beating down, but by the central heating being run at full blast.
However surreal his surroundings were, there was one thing he was sure about: he was going to do his level best to finish their assignment as quickly as possible.