Fireproof (27 page)

"Yeah, I'm happy to be here." Again, he rolled his eyes. Cathy felt like gouging one out with a pen.

"And what's your name?" Margaret asked, sounding every bit the ex-schoolteacher.

"Dave O'Brien. Now, can we get on with this?"

Cathy kept her composure. Her jaw didn't drop and her eyes didn't widen. There was no sharp intake of breath. In fact, she'd become momentarily paralysed. The man who had ended Mike's life, the last of the four men from Mike's hit squad, was called Dave O'Brien. And even though she'd tracked him down on the internet then invited him to the centre, the thought of what he'd done to Mike chilled her to the bone. Whether or not she'd orchestrated the encounter had no bearing on her preparedness for a face to face meeting with the evil shite.

"Cathy." Margaret's voice sounded distant, but Cathy snapped out of her paralysis.

"Sorry, I was daydreaming."

"I think you'll have me daydreaming too, you wee ride." This was muttered by O'Brien, and Mary and Margaret pretended not to hear it. Cathy followed their lead.

"We'll do the interview here," Margaret said. "Our meeting rooms are designed to accommodate one-on-ones. We'll be more comfortable out here."

O'Brien nodded and threw his notepad on Cathy's desk. He wheeled Mary's orthopaedic chair from her desk and sat in it. He didn't seem to mind that it wasn't tailored to fit his spine. Mary didn't even give him the satisfaction of a dirty look. She sat in one of the visitor chairs wearing a soft, round poker face.

The photographer clattered in through the door, banging a steel case on the frame as he tried to balance a folded tripod stand in the crook of his shoulder and pull the door open. Cathy went to his aid, holding the door for him and grabbing the tripod as it fell from its precarious perch. The photographer thanked her with a smile.

"Thanks for helping me in with the stuff, Dave."

"Not my job to carry cameras, Pete. Now shut your mouth."

Pete the photographer didn't need to open his mouth to let the rest of the room know how much he liked Dave. His facial expression did that for him. His nose wrinkled and his eyes narrowed. The corners of his mouth sank lower than DeNiro's.

"Get that look off your face, Pete." Dave hadn't turned to look at Pete, but some things were easily read in the atmosphere they created. Pete faked a smile. He unpacked his camera equipment as O'Brien ruffled through his notepad in search of a blank page. The ladies had not offered a cup of tea, an insult too subtle to be picked up by the likes of the journalist. It gave Cathy an opportunity to slip out of the main office.

"I'll just go put the kettle on."

"Three sugars for me, love," O'Brien said.

Cathy nodded and lifted her handbag on her way to the little kitchen at the back of the building. As the kettle was boiling she pulled her mobile phone from her handbag and dialled Mike's number. His muffled answer told her he was still in bed.

"S'up?"

"Mike, you need to get yourself over to the centre, right away."

"Why?" His voice was clearer now. She heard the creaking of bedsprings and the thud of feet on floorboards. "Are you in trouble?"

"No, but there's someone here you'll want to see."

"Who?"

"Dave O'Brien."

Mike didn't ask any more questions. Cathy made a pot of tea and carried the pot, a plate of biscuits and some cups on a tray back into the main office. She left her handbag in the kitchen and forgot the sugar on purpose.

"Were you talking to someone in there?" Margaret asked.

"No, I was singing a rap song. Sounds like talking I suppose."

"Rap?" Pete asked. "Do you like Fifty Cent?"

"He's okay," Cathy said, thinking on her feet. "More of a Wu Tang fan to be honest."

"Cool."

Cathy shrugged.

"Usually, we talk about the article first, take some pictures and then record some quotes," O'Brien said. "Is that all right?"

"Fine," Mary said. "Let's get on with it."

O'Brien reached for his cup of tea. "Where's the sugar?"

"We're all out."

O'Brien shrugged and lifted two plain biscuits from the plate. He broke them into pieces, dropped the pieces into his tea and stirred it. Mary actually gasped at his sacrilegious treatment of the beverage of champions. Margaret turned up her thin, pointy nose. O'Brien scribbled the date and location of the interview at the top of a blank page and looked at the space between Margaret and Mary, who sat side by side.

"So, what are you dolls doing here?"

To their credit, Margaret and Mary maintained professional composure as they explained the new concept behind their community service. Cathy didn't contribute. She was too busy watching the door. Mike would either burst in with a machete and behead the journalist there and then or tackle the situation with a little more subtlety. The former sounded exciting, but the latter was probably the more sensible option. Either way, she knew she had to be alert.

Cathy could see Mike through the glass panel in the front door when he arrived. He wore a broad smile as he pushed it open. He barely glanced at the journalist but gave Mary and Margaret a warm hello. They responded in kind.

"What's going on here, ladies?" Mike asked.

"This
gentleman
is from the Andersonstown News," Margaret said. "He's doing a piece on the centre."

"Very good, that'll be great publicity."

"Do you work here too?" O'Brien asked.

"No, I'm Cathy's boyfriend. I just called in to see if she had plans for lunch."

"
You're
seeing
her
? Fuck off."

"I'll take your disbelief as a compliment."

"Whatever."

Mike smiled a shark-like grin and O'Brien shifted a little on his seat. He looked back down at his pad and Mike turned to Cathy. He mouthed the words, "It's him!" and Cathy almost puked. Mike had just made it official. She raised her eyebrows to ask "What now?" and Mike shrugged.

"So, do you want to go somewhere nice for lunch, Cathy?"

Margaret and Mary sighed. Cathy said, "Yes. Let's go to the wee sandwich bar up the road."

Mike nodded.

"Will you have a cup of tea?" Mary asked.

Mike considered it for a few seconds. "I'd love one, Mary. Thank you."

"And eat some of those biscuits," Margaret said. "Before you slip through a crack."

Mike pulled another visitor chair to the desk, which was getting quite cramped at this stage. Cathy hoped he could hold himself together in O'Brien's company. She didn't want Mary and Margaret to be involved with anything crazy Mike might do. It wasn't fair. O'Brien's personality didn't help matters.

"Do you think all those tattoos are attractive?" O'Brien asked Cathy.

"Yes."

"Do you not think they look a bit dirty?"

"No."

"You're talkative."

"Okay."

Cathy's one word response had the desired effect. O'Brien's mischievous probing went nowhere and he went back to asking the ladies about the centre. Mary finished explaining the concept of their new proactive approach and Mike waited until O'Brien finished scrawling on his notepad before he asked his own question.

"How long have you been writing for the Andersonstown News?"

"About a year. Why?"

"You seem to have lost your passion for it."

"What do you mean?"

"Your questions are kind of shit."

O'Brien put his pen and pad down on the desk. "Is that right, Tattoo Boy?"

"Yes. I understand that this is hardly coverage of the Iraqi war, but you could inject a bit of passion into this article. These ladies are doing important work in the community."

Cathy felt her body tense. This would not end well.

"Ah, dry your eyes, son. You're just trying to impress your bird. Don't make me slap you and have you look like a prick in front of her."

"I'd love you to try, dickhead."

"Mike!" Margaret said, "Don't lower yourself. Let's just finish this and let Mr O'Brien go about his business."

Mike and O'Brien locked stares. They were at a stalemate. If either of them broke contact first they'd look weak. Cathy stood up and walked into the space between them, blocking their view of each other. She took Mike's hand and led him towards the kitchen. O'Brien mumbled something under his breath. Mike tensed a little but Cathy gave his hand a tug and he didn't rise to the provocation.

In the kitchen, with the door closed, Cathy gave Mike a hug. "Well done, babe. I can't believe you didn't break his neck."

"I don't want it to be over that quickly."

"What are you going to do?"

"You don't want to know."

Mike was dressed in casual clothes. He must have gone home before coming to the centre as all he had at Cathy's was the suit he wore the night before. Today he was wearing a white T-shirt and a pair of combat trousers. He pulled a brown paper bag from the leg pocket.

"What's that?" Cathy asked.

"Sleeping pills. Lots of them."

"I hope you left enough for Cerberus."

"I have enough of these to knock out all the demons in Hell. Don't worry."

"So how are you going to get them into him? We've no sugar, so I don't think he'll take another cup of tea."

"I'm going to walk out there and shove them down his throat."

"In front of everybody?"

"I don't think he has any fans out there. Do you?"

"No, but you'll be connecting everyone to a crime."

"I'll make it look like I punched him in the mouth. They'll cheer as I escort him out and then they'll forget about him. Nobody reports fist fights around here."

"I don't know. Mary and Margaret really hate thuggish behaviour."

"So I'll hit him in self-defence. Let him throw the first dig. I'll look like a hero."

"You devious bastard."

"That's why you love me."

That and a million other things, she thought to herself.

Cathy walked ahead of Mike, as if to shield him from the journalist's rotten attitude. Pete was taking photos of Mary and Margaret in different parts of the office and O'Brien watched in sneering silence. O'Brien glanced up as he heard Cathy and Mike return. He sneered some more.

"Mike would like to apologise for suggesting you weren't putting any effort into your column."

"And he needs you to talk for him, Doll Face?"

"Will you not just accept his apology so we can put this behind us and act civilised?"

"Fine, but it's got to come from him."

Mike approached O'Brien. He kept his hands by his side and kept his body language non-threatening. O'Brien didn't move from his spot, wanting Mike to make the whole effort.

"I'm sorry, Mr O'Brien. I didn't mean to antagonise you."

"If I wasn't on the clock here, I'd have punched your teeth out for calling me a dickhead."

"Well, I appreciate that you didn't. I'd hate to think I was responsible for getting you in trouble with the paper."

"Me getting fired would have been the least of your worries."

"I hardly think so."

"Boys," Mary said, "can we not just agree to disagree and get along?"

O'Brien ignored her. "You hardly think so? What the fuck does that mean?"

"Have you got a learning difficulty? I'll try to keep my sentences more simple for you. How's this? You don't scare me. You're a piece of shit. Did you get that? Need me to say it slower?"

To Cathy, O'Brien's arm was a blur, but Mike snapped his head back and the tight right hook sailed past his face. Mike stepped forward and landed a straight left to O'Brien's eye, then a knee to the groin. O'Brien's jaw flopped open in a silent scream of agony and Mike's right shoulder twitched. Because Cathy was looking for it, she saw the pills Mike had just shoved into O'Brien's mouth on his tongue. Next Mike shoved the palm of his left hand under O'Brien's chin, closing his mouth. He pinched the journalist's nose closed with the index finger and thumb of his right hand. Mike released his grip as O'Brien's Adam's apple bobbed, closed the distance between them to kissing range and put out O'Brien's lights with an elbow to the chin.

Margaret and Mary cheered. Pete took a picture.

"So, what now?" Cathy asked.

"I guess I should take him to the hospital. I think I felt his jaw give. Margaret, can I borrow your Mini?"

"Certainly, Mike."

"I could take him in my car," Pete said.

"No, that's okay. You should go back to the office and let them know Dave is indisposed at the minute. Mary was an English Literature teacher. She could maybe write an article and you could put your name to it. Do you think you'd have time to do that, Mary?"

"No problem, Mike. I'll whip something up this afternoon and email it to Pete."

"But I'm a photographer, not a journalist."