by Martina Cole
‘The blokes who nicked it ain’t cunts and they’re getting out one day, you can bank on that. I wouldn’t fancy them coming after me, no matter how much dosh I had. Let’s face it, that’s all they’re going to think about, ain’t it? Getting out, getting their stuff and getting on with lives that’ve been tragically foreshortened by the British judicial system. I bet even the fucking judge will shit himself the day that lot is released. But I digress.’
He took a large swallow of his drink and lit a Marlboro before continuing.
‘The only person left who knows where the stuff is located is Tommy Pasquale, and that prat O’Hare should have allowed for that fact. I thought Tommy would be hit the same day, so father and son were out of the way. Apparently O’Hare decided otherwise. Maybe he thought Tommy was a wanker, I don’t know. What I do know is Tommy Pasquale is a worthy successor to his father and will not be best pleased that you beat him to the job of killing the Scouser. Still, saying that, he’ll still want to shake your hand, I suppose. I know I would.
‘The only other person who might know the location is a face called Desrae. Joey Pasquale, married man and father, was also a shirtlifter in his spare time. Desrae is his boyfriend-cum-girlfriend. They recently opened a club in Wardour Street for rich men of a like persuasion. In other words, big wigs who like men in big wigs.’
Lee laughed at his own joke and carried on.
‘Tommy wasn’t trashed at his dad’s boyfriend. They get on well apparently. She, he or it also took in a little bird called Cathy Connor some years ago . . .’
As he felt his arm grabbed by Eamonn, Lee knocked his drink to the floor, the glass shattering and making everyone stare at them. It seemed to Eamonn to take an age for the barmaid to sweep up the glass, replenish their drinks and make her way back to the bar to start serving again.
‘Cathy Connor? What’s she look like? How old is she?’
Eamonn’s voice was low and upset. Lee Bonham realised he had stumbled on a piece of information that the man was definitely interested in.
‘She’s a blonde, about twenty or so. Nice little bird, big blue eyes and great big tits. But she ain’t on the game or nothing like that. She runs the bar with this Desrae and is quite respectable. Joey looked on her as a daughter, he really loved her. Like Desrae was the mum and he was the dad. What a weird fucking set-up, eh! But all that aside, they took good care of her. She lives with Desrae in a small flat in Soho - in Greek Street, I think. I hear she’s a right little madam in her own way. Don’t take no truck from anyone. But with Joey behind her, she wouldn’t, would she? I mean, he was heavy muscle, eh?’
Eamonn shrugged, apparently recovered. ‘Evidently O’Hare didn’t think he was that heavy.’
Lee grinned. ‘Whatever O’Hare thought is a bit fucking academic now, isn’t it?’
‘How do you know so much about everything?’
‘My job is specialist, see. There’s only a few of us and we tend to get told things in the course of our work. I mean, we have to be as trustworthy as the grave, don’t we? So we find that people talk to us a bit more fluently than they’d talk to other people. It’s funny, you know, but people try and justify the killing to me and to themselves. I don’t have no allegiance to any particular gang of people. I kill anyone, anywhere, any time.’
Eamonn smiled. ‘I’ll bear that in mind. And I’ll see you get your twenty grand.’
Lee nodded happily. ‘Another beer?’
Eamonn shook his head and grinned. ‘I’ll have a large Scotch.’
‘Have what you like, it’s your round,’ the other man joked. ‘I’m just going for a piss.’
Laughing genuinely, Eamonn went to the bar and got the round in. He liked Lee Bonham - there was an honesty about him that was rather refreshing.
Cathy made Desrae another coffee and laced it liberally with brandy. In the weeks since Joey’s death Desrae had gravitated between extreme melancholia and euphoric happiness as he tried to convince himself that Joey wasn’t really dead. Cathy knew that it would take the funeral to put it all in perspective for him.
All she could do was listen and try to be a shoulder to cry on for her old mate.
She had cooked him meals, made him eat and forced him to put on make-up and wig. The police and press had finally left them alone and they were relying on Tommy to keep others away.
People meant well, but it was wearing listening to them all enthusing about Joey and it upset Desrae who had really loved him.
The doorbell rang and they both tensed.
‘Ignore them and they’ll go away. And don’t let’s put the phone back on the hook.’ Cathy’s voice was annoyed.
The bell rang persistently for over five minutes and the two of them sat there and listened to it. Finally, Cathy stood up. Storming from the room, she said: ‘I’m going to tell them to fuck off and leave us alone!’
As she flung open the front door, she saw a face from the past, one she had never expected to see again.
‘Hello, Cathy. Long time, no see.’
Hearing Eamonn’s voice brought it all back to her so vividly, she felt as if she were once more back in Bethnal Green and Madge was shouting and hollering from the kitchen. It was the same old Eamonn, the man she had dreamed of, loved and trusted as a child.
And like Desrae, she realised, she would love only once and then with all her being.
‘Well, aren’t you going to ask me in? Offer me a cup of Rosie Lee?’
The tears came then. She threw herself into his arms. As he held her close and murmured words of comfort in her ear she felt that she had finally come home. Their last bitter parting was forgotten. He was the final part in the puzzle, the person who fitted in beside Desrae and Joey. Her first love, her only romantic love, her soulmate. Everything he had done was wiped out as soon as she heard his voice and they were back on their old footing.
Eamonn smiled, and Cathy was undone.
The first thing she noticed about him as she stood back and drank him in with her eyes was that he was all man. As soon as he touched her, she became all woman. It was an effect he was to have on her for years to come. Cathy saw Eamonn in a rosy glow; he had a sort of blinding brightness about him to which she responded. Nothing and no one would ever make her feel this way again.
As she pulled him into the flat and shut the door, she was smiling widely, her eyes tear-filled yet happier than they had been since Joey’s death. She gestured him into the lounge and called excitedly to Desrae, so full of her own emotions that she didn’t notice one crucial thing: Desrae and Eamonn took an instant dislike to one another. It was a quick, subtle thing but they were both aware of it from the second they clapped eyes on one another.
But Cathy, so pleased to have Eamonn near her once more, didn’t notice anything amiss.
Like the old days, all she saw was him.
Chapter Thirty
Desrae was quiet and Cathy put it down to upset over Joey. Coming into the riotously pink bedroom, she placed a cup of coffee on the bedside table and grinned happily.
‘I can’t believe that Eamonn’s back, I never thought I’d see him again.’
Pulling himself up in the bed, Desrae lit a cigarette and took a deep drag on it. ‘I thought he was never going to go,’ he said resentfully. ‘Up half the night, talking and laughing . . .’ His voice trailed off.
Cathy was sorry and her expressive blue eyes beseeched her friend as she said: ‘Please, Desrae, he’s a part of my life. I haven’t laughed like that since . . . I don’t know. Since Joey. We were just reminiscing, that’s all, about being kids and our lives then.’
Desrae suddenly lost his rag. ‘Tell him how you never ask after your mother any more, did you? Tell him that she’s banged up for the fucking duration, and that if it wasn’t for Susan P you’d know nothing about her? Tell him that they’ve put her on the psychiatric wing because she’s as mad as a fucking March hare - tell him that, did you? That she was attacked by another inmate and had her face slashed open
. . .’
Cathy’s face was white and stiff. Her eyes looked like twin pools of sea water, the salt tears making her shiny-lashed and vulnerable-looking.
‘Is all of that true, Desrae? Is it really that bad for her in there?’
Desrae swallowed deeply, sorry now for his outburst. He’d been jealous of the girl’s obvious feeling for Eamonn Docherty, whom he could tell was no good. He could smell people like Eamonn a mile away. Oh, they dressed nice and looked nice. Too nice, in fact. They collected people as they breezed through life, then used and discarded them like old rags.
Yes, he knew the Eamonn Dochertys of this world.
Desrae had wanted to protect Cathy from him, because he could see that the man was a predator. Now, in his chagrin, he had let the cat out of the bag about Madge and was instantly sorry.
All this time Cathy had thought her mother was well, as happy as she could be considering the circumstances, and that she was having an easy time of it in Holloway.
Desrae grabbed at the girl’s hand but Cathy pulled away from him.
‘How dare you, Desrae? How dare you decide what I should and shouldn’t know? I’m a woman now and have the right to know what’s happening to me and mine. I’m sorry that you don’t like Eamonn, but that’s too bad because I love him, and I always have. He’s the brother, the lover and the husband I’ll never have because I can’t live like normal girls. You know that, Desrae, that’s why I’m happy enough here in this excuse for a fucking flat, with its pink tassels and its chiffon fucking curtains and you - a raving queen who thinks he can dictate who I talk to, who I associate with and who I care about. Well, Desrae, you’ve gone too far this time. My mother is my responsibility. I’ll go and see Susan P now and see what the real score is.’
Desrae had never seen Cathy so upset. Never heard her raise her voice in such a manner. Unable to take back what he had said, he would have to take the consequences. Nothing would stop the girl from finding out about her mother now.
Oh, how he wished that Joey were here. He would have given Docherty his marching orders from the off. But Joey wasn’t here any more and never would be again - and the sooner Desrae accepted that fact the better it would be for all of them.
Caitlin Moore was a small woman with long auburn hair that curled into spirals, and icy green eyes. Her porcelain white skin was untinged with even a hint of pinkness and was without blemish. In a strange way she was beautiful, in another way she was striking. In all ways she was evil.
Caitlin was the product of a Northern Irish father and a Southern Irish mother. Her mother had the rebel inside her - that was apparent to anyone. Her father, on the other hand, was an amicable little man with a penchant for hard work and a hatred of drink and the Mass. His only interest was getting the North back for the Irish Free State. A United Ireland. But such was his benign countenance people tended to listen to him, and smile, then agree or disagree according to their own beliefs. If anyone had said he was a leading light in the IRA, his work-mates and associates would have laughed themselves hoarse. But the fact was, he was a very big man in the Irish Army and his daughter was a zealous disciple.
Unlike her father, though, she didn’t have the good nature to match her entrenched beliefs.
Caitlin was a hard woman, inside and out. She had planted two bombs already, though neither had gone off, the warnings being heeded now and strange Irish voices listened to. She looked forward to the day she could plant one and it would explode, taking English bastards with it. Raised from the cradle on rebel songs and the cause of a United Ireland, she was now as active as her father before her.
Living in her dingy flat and eking out an existence on a few pounds a week, like her neighbours, she waited and she listened. When the time was right again she would pick up the necessary paraphernalia and get her job done without a hitch as usual. Trained for three months in Beirut in the rudiments of bomb making and the art of self-defence, she was a seasoned and valued member of the Irish Republican Army.
She had no interest in men, in socialising or drinking. Her only vice was the cigarettes she smoked continuously one after another.
Her preferred reading matter was romantic novels and information on bombs. She read books on everything from the bouncing bomb in World War Two to the A Bomb in Hiroshima. Bombs and their devastating impact of carnage excited her. Even the big men of the Cause had expressed distaste for her gloating attitude.
But it was that attitude that had made her what she was; if she’d been more compassionate they would have tried to use her as a mouthpiece: the voice of modern Irish youth. As it was they kept her under wraps and used her as and when they needed her.
Abhorrent as she was to them, a woman could pass around London more easily than a man. But it didn’t mean they had to like her, though they feigned liking when it suited them.
If it had been left to Caitlin, she would have blown up Parliament, the Queen, and fecking Buckingham Palace too. It wasn’t just the Cause, though she believed in it passionately. It was also the heady feeling of playing God, having people’s lives in your hands. Killing people was easy.
Killing English people was the summit of her dreams.
Hearing a knock on her door, she pushed the book she was reading under the mattress, and called out in her harsh Northern Irish accent: ‘Who is it?’ Her mind was racing because she wasn’t due any visitors, and the cold sweat of fear trickled down her spine. She wasn’t afraid of being caught; she was afraid that by being caught she would lose out on an opportunity to maim and kill.
‘It’s the man from the bank.’
She relaxed as she heard the passwords. Opening the door, she saw a large handsome man standing before her. He was dressed well, though casually, and had the most amazing teeth, white and straight, revealed as he smiled at her in a friendly way.
He pushed past her and walked into the room. ‘Caitlin?’ He held out his hand. ‘Eamonn Docherty. I’m over from the States and have a message for you.’
Caitlin nodded solemnly. She knew of him, he was one of the Cause’s best collectors in the USA and as such was spoken of in hushed tones of respect. Without him, none of them would be working at all.
‘Pleased to meet you.’ She shook his hand and then, sitting on the bed, pointed to the only chair in the room. ‘Take a seat. I’ll make you a coffee if you like?’
Eamonn sat down and shook his head. He began to speak immediately. ‘You’re to be used in two weeks. It’s a car bomb, an English MP. You’ll hear more nearer the time. There’s a plant in the Houses of Parliament. She’ll get in touch through the usual channels and then you’ll know the name, the car and the location of your victim. I think he’s to be hit outside his mistress’s house - to add a bit of scandal as well as everything else. You OK with that?’
Caitlin nodded, her face expressionless as usual. ‘Is it the Home Secretary, do you know?’
Eamonn didn’t answer. Instead, he smiled easily. ‘Nice room you’ve got here.’
Caitlin smiled back but it didn’t quite reach her eyes, which unnerved the smooth handsome man before her. ‘It’s a shithole but it meets my needs.’
‘All your needs? Who fulfils the personal ones?’
Caitlin stood up from the bed and signalled the interview was at an end. ‘Have you anything else relevant to say to me?’
Eamonn shook his head, still smiling that maddening smile.
‘Then I’ll thank you to fuck off, Mr Docherty. It was nice meeting you at last. I’ve heard so much about you.’
‘All of it true, of course.’ His voice was mocking and she answered him in like manner.
‘Of course. I heard you were a womanising piece of shite with a lust that makes Casanova himself look like a complete novice. But I’ll give you a small piece of advice, shall I?’
She pointed a finger towards him as she spoke.
‘I have respect in the Army because I do the job of a man; there’s not a person in the Cause who would ever doubt me in that
way. Now you may look on women as toys, Mr Docherty, as your playthings, but I don’t understand those games and quite frankly you’ve greatly disappointed me. I had heard good things altogether about yourself, but now I see you’re like all the men from this English culture. You’re ignorant of women and how they think and feel. And that, Mr Docherty, will always be your downfall. Now take yourself and your supercilious smile out of here and we’ll say no more about it.’
Eamonn was stunned at her reaction. He knew that normally he could charm the women with his smile and banter. Most of the ones he had met in the Cause were only interested in him as a man; they liked him and guessed, quite rightly, that he’d give them great sex, a few laughs then forget them the next day. They were often lonely, starved of affection, and enjoyed their time with him immensely.
He had heard of this Caitlin and convinced himself that he could crack her. All it would take was a few drinks and some flattering words. He had been wrong, however, and now the humiliation of being blanked by this woman was beginning to bite.
‘You’re a bit ahead of yourself here, lady. I wouldn’t bed you even if you begged me for it.’
It was Caitlin’s turn to smile now. She knew she had hit him where it hurt. She was enjoying the situation and decided to milk it for all it was worth.
‘Now who’d beg you, I ask meself? Have you looked at yourself recently? You’re a man who thinks women like him but, you see, only a certain type of woman goes for the likes of you. A whore or a fool. That’s all. A real woman wouldn’t look at you twice and deep down you know that.