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𝐀 𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐏 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐂𝐊 𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐒 door of The Garrison's backroom interrupted a young brunette in her daydreams over the pub's purchase list for the month. The letters and numbers had started to dance around her vision some time ago, and all she could think of was a hot bath and a cold drink once she came back home, an oasis she would reach only once the list was finished. Caterina raised her eyes, chin propped by the palm of her hand, gone numb from disuse.
Tommy's head was first to pop into the small room, Michael following closely behind.
"To what do I owe the pleasure?" She asked, leaning back into her chair as the duo shuffled in and closed the door behind them.
"We'll be out of your hair in a moment. Michael here needs to make a call."
"It's fine, I'm done for the day anyway," she closed the books, tucking some half written letters in it. Their interruption had come in the right moment, a perfect excuse, and the list was doomed to wait another day. "Who are you calling?"
"My mother," even to his own ears it sounded off and more unusual than before. Michael shifted on his feet. "I mean..."
"She's still your mother, I know," Cat smiled, gesturing to the phone hanging on her right. "And what are you going to tell her?"
"I'm going to tell her where I am," the boy started, voicing his determination only to be cut off in the middle of his sentence.
"And you're going to tell her you're going home," Tommy interrupted crassly, staring pointedly at the young man.
"Polly said I could stay for a few days," Michael protested, taking his cap off and seating himself on one of the chairs, confusion evident on his face. In the end, it had been Tommy that first approached him, why would he want him gone now?
"You really want to stay?" Cat questioned, though she shouldn't have been surprised. Who wouldn't want to reconnect with their family after a decade of separation?
Michael nodded firmly. "I've only just arrived," his voice held an accusing note pointed directly at the stern man hovering by the door.
Tommy disregarded his cousin's rising temper and leaned against the wall, taking out a pack of cigs. "What age are you Michael?" He asked, observing Polly's son.
"Seventeen."
"Seventeen," he mused. "Which means it's not up to you, right?"
"I'm eighteen in a few weeks," Michael defended himself. "I make up my own mind."
"You smoke?" Tommy ran the filter of his cigarette over his lip before placing it between them and striking a match in a fluid motion of his hand.
