by Sam Blake
Cathy was through the door before Max looked up, the phone clamped to his ear. He raised his eyebrows, but his grin of greeting was broad, genuine. That was something. Max gestured for her to come over to the desk as he finished speaking.
‘Yes, tonight. It should have been here at six. And it better be bloody chilled when it gets here. You’ve got about five minutes.’
He hung up, tossing his mobile onto the desk, sitting back to look at her, drinking her in, from the top of her head to her boots, his eyes alight with mischief. For a second Cathy hadn’t a clue what to say, smoothed her hair behind her ear, avoided his gaze, had a good look around the office. Like she was relaxed, like she wasn’t dying inside.
‘Cathy Connolly. And how are you? To what do I owe the pleasure? This isn’t an official visit, I hope?’
‘Hi Max.’ The words stalled in Cathy’s mouth, her mind going blank. She had rehearsed this so many times.
The truth. The words loomed large in her head. Max needed to know the truth.
Sensing Cathy’s discomfort, seeing she was struggling, Max stood up, slipped out from behind the desk, a moment later was there beside her, his arm around her shoulders like it was the most natural thing in the world.
‘Come on, sit down, spit it out. You pissed with me because I didn’t call?’ He kissed the top of her head. ‘Mm, you smell good.’
Cathy felt her knees wobble, leaned in to him, closed her eyes in exasperation. ‘Max . . . !’
‘I know – I’m a dog. Here, sit, I’ll get coffee or maybe a glass of wine? Bloody champagne’s stuck on the quays somewhere.’
‘Don’t, I’m fine.’ Max was already heading back to the desk, looked back at her in surprise. She’d put her hand up like she was stopping traffic. He crooked an eyebrow, then turned around to face her, crossed his arms, his eyes narrowed. He’d copped it, knew something was wrong. Something big.
‘What is it? What’s happened?’
Cathy sat down on the sofa with a bump, could feel a hot flush working its way up from somewhere in her middle. She put her head in her hands, massaging her temples with her fingertips.
‘What is it? Jesus, Cathy, what? Has something happened to Pete?’
Cathy shook her head, resisting the urge to laugh.
‘Pete’s fine . . .’ Pete was always fine . . . There wasn’t an easy way to say it. ‘It’s me. I’m pregnant.’
There, she’d said it. For the first time out loud. Now it had to be real. Cathy waited for the bells and whistles, the trumpet fanfare. It didn’t come. Nothing came. Cathy moved her hands from her face. Max was looking at her, his mouth open. Wide open.
‘Fuck.’
His face, his choice of words – it was all ridiculous. Cathy smiled, hysterical laughter trying to fight its way out. Max looked exactly how she felt: shell-shocked. At least she wasn’t on her own in that.
‘Fuck.’ Max said it again, more quietly this time.
And the tears came.
Cathy tried to stop them, catching them with her forefingers before they headed down her cheeks, but there were too many. A moment later Max was at her side, pulling her to him, cradling her head against his shoulder.
‘How long? When?’
Cathy sniffed. ‘You know when. Pete’s party. I’m six weeks.’
‘Fuck.’
‘Will you stop saying that?’
Max looked frightened. ‘Sorry’ – he moved one hand to massage her stomach – ‘we need to remember little ears.’
Cathy shook her head, God he was an idiot. ‘What am I going to do?’ All the anguish, all the worry was wrapped up in that one sentence.
There was a long pause. Laughter drifted up from the gallery below, the gentle strains of a piece of classical music, she didn’t know what. Why didn’t he say something?
‘What do you want to do?’ Suddenly focused, practical, Max leaned back, tipped Cathy’s chin, his eyes meeting hers, searching like radar. ‘What do you want to do?’
Cathy blinked away the tears, trying to look at the floor. ‘I don’t think there are that many options. I’ve thought about . . . about everything . . . but I couldn’t get rid of it, or give it away . . .’
‘OK. Fine. That’s fine. I mean great,’ Max corrected himself hastily. ‘That’s great.’
‘It is?’
He kissed the top of her head again, smiling sheepishly.
‘It is.’ Max sounded surer than Cathy thought possible. ‘We’ll work something out.’ He paused. ‘You don’t want to get married or anything, do you?’
‘Christ, no.’
‘Cool. I mean that’s grand.’ Max shook his head like the words weren’t coming out right. ‘OK, OK . . .’ For once it seemed like he didn’t know what to say, was struggling with it himself. Then, as if he had made a decision, Max said, ‘Eh, there is one thing.’
‘What?’
It was the way he said it. He was married and she didn’t know; no, he was gay . . . as if this wasn’t bad enough already.
‘Erm, I’ve got another kid. Well, he’s not exactly a kid, more like a teenager now.’ Then, seeing Cathy’s face, Max said hastily, ‘I don’t see his mum, we’re not together or anything, weren’t ever, really. Well it’s a long story . . . she’s been in and out of rehab.’
Feck. Feck. Cathy’s gut twisted. Her baby already had a half-brother . . . and his mother was what? An anorexic, a drunk . . . a junkie? Rehab? There was no way she’d thought this could get any worse . . .
‘But look, don’t worry about that now. Let’s get you sorted out. Money’s no problem. You’ll need somewhere to live.’ Then, half to himself, ‘And you could work here part-time after it’s born.’
‘What?’
Max wasn’t really listening. ‘When you’ve had it, you’ll need something part-time.’
‘But I’ve got a job.’ Cathy moved away from him on the sofa.
‘You can’t work those hours with a kid.’
‘Of course I can . . .’ She looked at him in disbelief.
Her job was her life. She loved it, everyone knew that. She socialised with Guards – she lived with Guards for God’s sake. She’d spent Christ knew how many evenings grafting for her criminology degree, was about to take her sergeant’s exams and he wanted her to work part-time in an art gallery . . .
‘I am not leaving my job.’ Max looked at her, picking up on the finality in her tone. ‘No way.’
‘Don’t worry, you don’t have to decide now.’ He paused. ‘You’ll need to think about that kickboxing stuff too, all that training . . .’ He shook his head.
What? Cathy’s mouth fell open. Before she could say anything more, Max stood up, heading for his desk.
‘You’ll need a house – with a garden, for swings and things. And a dog. Every kid needs a dog. We never had one, always wanted one. And schools, we’ll have to think about schools. St Andrew’s maybe . . .’
Max was firing ideas at Cathy like she was his secretary, his voice excited, like he was planning a new project, but she was still reeling from the idea of giving up her job, her kick boxing . . . was hardly listening. Suddenly realising Cathy wasn’t responding, Max turned back to look at her. ‘What?’
Cathy shrugged. What should she say? Thanks? Thanks for what? For taking responsibility? For not demanding she had an abortion? Or thanks for screwing her on a fire escape when he already had a permanent connection to his junkie ex-girlfriend? Feck . . . It was all swirling around inside her head like she was caught in a whirlpool, the water deafening. Right on cue, Cathy’s phone began to ring again. Wrestling it out of her pocket, she looked at the screen. Number withheld. Jesus, she didn’t need Decko acting the maggot again now. She turned it off. He could leave as many messages as he liked on her voicemail.
Ignoring the distraction, Max said, more to himself than to Cathy, ‘Steve’s always saying, your day will come. I’m forty on the 29th of December. Reckon th
is is mine . . . I never saw Zac grow up, I don’t even really know him.’ His voice was suddenly serious. ‘Maybe this is my chance to make that right.’
‘Maybe.’ Sighing, Cathy ran her hands over her face.
47
Cathy heard the car draw up just as she put the key in her front door.
It was eight o’clock. She’d left the gallery just as the flashbulbs started popping, slipping out of the door behind the crowd listening to Max’s introduction of ‘a sensational new Irish artist, who will be making a huge imprint on the international art scene . . .’ He was in his element, his excitement contagious.
And now she was home. And a very new, very shiny navy-blue BMW had pulled up outside her house like it had been hovering at the end of the street waiting for her.
O’Rourke.
Half turning, Cathy watched as he slipped out of the driver’s seat in that easy way he had, looking at her over the roof of the car. He leaned his forearm on it, the other hand on the open door.
‘Your phone flat?’
She paused a beat. Had he been trying to ring?
‘The lads were messing.’ She nodded back towards the house. ‘Turned it off.’
Even from this distance, in this light, she could see him cock one eyebrow.
‘You eaten?’
Cathy shook her head, hesitating, realising at the same time that she was starving.
‘Come on then.’ O’Rourke was back in the car before she could refuse.
‘They’re going to get them.’ O’Rourke spoke as Cathy pulled the door closed behind her, slipping her bag into the foot well as the courtesy light faded gently. O’Rourke loved this car. Everyone said he was mad using it for work but with his back he reckoned he’d spend more time at the physio than behind his desk if he didn’t.
‘Going to get who?’
‘Kuteli, Hierra’s mafia pal.’ O’Rourke said it like she should know exactly who he was talking about. He was smiling like he’d got a gold star – probably had. ‘Hierra is going to testify.’ O’Rourke made it sound like he’d won the lottery. ‘The two FBI guys arrived and took him straight to the airport. The lads picked up the two honchos following Hierra no problem – they were in the Patriot Inn.’
‘Making friends with the Provos? That would be right.’
O’Rourke nodded. ‘The international brotherhood of gougers. Surveillance have a guy on the inside, they’ve been in and out a few times, apparently, seemed very friendly with the locals. Perhaps Kuteli was thinking of expanding his operations over here. Anyway, they’re in the Bridewell for the night. More secure than Dún Laoghaire. The FBI is sending someone to collect them tomorrow.’ He glanced at her again, a you won’t believe this expression on his face. ‘They’ve got six separate teams ready to close in on Kuteli, DEA, LVMPD, FBI, the whole lot.’
‘Whew, they must want him.’ Cathy’s eyebrows shot up.
O’Rourke nodded. ‘Apparently so far every case they’ve tried to bring against Kuteli and his cronies has fallen apart. He specialises in witness intimidation, from the judges right through to the prosecuting cops. If they can keep him alive, Hierra’s testimony will be the clincher.’
‘And then he’ll go into witness protection?’
O’Rourke grimaced. ‘He will. He’ll have to serve a few years first, but it will be somewhere secure. I still reckon he had something to do with Lavinia Grant’s death, but with Saunders convinced it’s natural causes the Director of Public Prosecutions won’t entertain it.’ O’Rourke paused, decisively flicking the car into drive.
‘And Trish O’Sullivan?’
O’Rourke scowled like he had a pain. ‘She’s admitted being present on the night the babies were born and that she knew one of them had died but failed to report it. We’ve charged her with wilful neglect, but much as I would like to, unless we can get a confession that she smothered the child, we haven’t got enough to charge her with murder.’ Cathy could see O’Rourke was clenching his jaw.
‘Going on her past form, I don’t think Trish’s the type to break down and admit it. She’s already realised she’s gone too far saying she was in the house that night.’
‘She has, which gives us enough to get her into court. We’ll see how she copes in front of a judge when she’s asked about Valentine’s letter. She’s got a lot of explaining to do.’ O’Rourke’s voice was hard. ‘At least the FBI is happy.’ He checked his rear-view mirror. ‘Hierra was really playing with fire; this Kuteli is a big player.’
‘Weird name.’
‘That’s what I thought. Albanian, apparently. I thought he was Italian.’
Albanian? Cathy felt a shiver go up her spine. That stupid accent had sounded vaguely . . . why hadn’t it occurred to her earlier? She shook away the idea. Decko was always messing, winding them up. There was no way . . .
‘So you hungry?’ O’Rourke interrupted her thoughts.
‘Bit.’
It must have been the way she said it. O’Rourke flicked the car back into park, twisted round in his seat to look at her. ‘OK, so what’s up?’
What’s up? The words ricocheted between them, gathering weight with every deflection. Cathy shrugged, her face a picture of innocence, eyebrows raised like she had no idea what he was talking about. Had he guessed? Surely not . . . he was a bloke . . .
‘Come on, Cat. We go back a long way.’
A long way. A long way to a cold dark night, to a Section 49, the driver of the car they’d stopped so pissed he couldn’t even walk, to an armed robbery at a warehouse on the other side of the street, to being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
‘You can talk to me, Cat. I owe you, girl. You took that bullet for me – that gouger didn’t even know you were there, you know that, don’t you?’
Cathy sighed, looking at the roof of the car. O’Rourke continued like the words had worn into a groove in his head: ‘You were on the other side of the car looking in the guy’s glove compartment. Bent over. The shooter didn’t even know you were there. If you’d have kept quiet, not yelled, he’d have wiped me out. He had a clear shot.’
O’Rourke was right. They both knew he was right.
‘Gardaí. Put your weapon down!’ Cathy’s voice had reverberated off the walls of the warehouse, off the road, echoed inside her head like it was yesterday.
Distracted by her sudden appearance over the roof of the drunk’s car, the shooter had gone wide, the bullet shattering the driver’s window, heading straight through the interior, straight for her. She still heard it in her dreams. Bang. Bang. The Glock discharging, the windscreen exploding. Like the explosion of pain as the bullet seared her side, leaving her ribcage on fire.
‘Anyone would have done the same.’
O’Rourke laughed, shaking his head. ‘What, anyone would have put themselves in the line of fire? Yeah, I bet. You stuck your head up there like a coconut on a fecking shy.’ Cathy wrinkled her face like she was about to say something, but O’Rourke didn’t let her. ‘You put your life on the line for me, Cat. I had my back to them. Wouldn’t have known what hit me.’ She was shaking her head, but he kept going. ‘Anyway, what I’m trying to say is you’re stuck with me now. I’m your guardian angel, girl.’
Laughter bubbled up inside her as Cathy shook her head. ‘Won’t wings spoil the suit? You’re some eejit.’
‘I am? I’m the eejit? What about you?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Are you going to tell me or do I have to guess?’
‘Tell you what?’
‘That you’re pregnant.’ O’Rourke inflected the end of the sentence like a belligerent teenager. Could have added a duh. He shook his head, disbelief all over his face. But it wasn’t disbelief that she was pregnant, she knew, it was disbelief that she hadn’t told him. ‘Apart from the fact that we’ve known each other for what – years? – you’re operational, Cat, we both know what that means better than anyone else. It’s the type of thing I need to know.’ O�
�Rourke said it like she was five years old.
Feck. FECK.
‘Have you told anyone?’
Cathy shook her head, her elbow on the window ledge, fingers locked into the roots of her hair. Turning away from him, she stared at the straggly patch of grass in front of her house, at her beautiful laser-blue Mini Cooper gleaming under the street lights, avoiding his eye.
‘The father?’ O’Rourke’s voice was incredulous.
‘Yes, I told him.’ Cathy couldn’t bring herself to inject any enthusiasm into the statement. He wanted her to give up her job . . .
O’Rourke let out a sigh like gas escaping. ‘Well, that’s something, I suppose.’ Then, ‘I didn’t know you were seeing anyone.’ The comment was loaded.
‘I’m not.’
‘Right.’ O’Rourke’s voice brightened. ‘So no one’s going to get upset if I take you out for dinner then?’
‘Nope.’ Cathy turned back to look at him, their eyes meeting, connecting for a split second before she looked away quickly, a smile twitching at the corner of her mouth. ‘No, you’re grand there.’
O’Rourke pushed the car into drive, pulled away from the kerb.
‘Good, that’s good.’ Then, embarrassed, trying to hide it, ‘So what do you think about the Russian mafia, or Albanians or whatever they are? Reckon we’ve won a major feather there. Yanks are singing our praises already. They’ve been working on nailing Kuteli for over a year.’
‘Good, it’s good.’ Cathy bit her lip, she’d better say it. ‘Look, I got this weird call. I thought it was one of the lads messing, but the accent was . . . Maybe it was Eastern European, sort of Albanian, maybe?’ O’Rourke slammed on the brakes, the car lurching to a halt in the middle of the road.
‘What?’
Cathy looked at him out of the corner of her eye, wincing. She was going to get a bollocking for not telling him, she knew it. Another bollocking . . .
‘I’m sure it’s nothing. That’s why I turned the phone off. It sounded like Decko but I wasn’t really concentrating. Maybe they left a message . . .’ Reaching into her bag, she rooted for the phone. ‘Shit, I left it in the car. I’ll get it.’ Cathy had the door open before he could protest.
