Part Four - Why Hugh Grant is Trying to Destroy Me.

I didn’t buy a flat with my six-figure salary; I felt the money was immoral. Tabloid wages, led to bad karma. I was an energy reader and money was a hook that evil threw you but it had attachments, especially if it was from an immoral group or company. The press ruined lives - I wasn't about to hurt others - but the money off of them was still hooked up with attachments of karma. So, I pulled out those hooks by wasting it - I bought shoes and waited to sell a book I was writing and buy a house straight up with my best seller. Mainstream Media was fundamentally evil - it seethed with it - some kind of controlling elite's energy ran through the corridors like the fresh blood of all of it's victims.
I felt filled with an urge to push as a war reporter in Belfast Northern Ireland and the warring factions of their terror groupings of paramilitaries. I felt an idea come inside my mind that I would make a lot of money by writing a book on the IRA.
I ultimately got to know a ruthless terrorist leader who lived in Dundalk, a no-go area for the British Army. Greg encouraged me to use my body to become a better reporter. He was coming to my flat and using that same body himself. I had no boundaries, no ability to say get lost – I don’t like you. I had no will. I wanted to keep my job at The News of The World so I let him paw all over me incase my refusal would mean he would drop me as a journalist. Like I did with Phil - I hated every minute. I was waiting for J to save me from the grip of men who felt like sheep or street dogs to my sharper self.
I followed Greg’s advice and appropriated the terror leader as my lover. I wanted to get inside the Real IRA; their leader was Liam McDonagh (name changed) – Officer Commanding, Real IRA. I was suddenly ambitious for a book on them.
He was easy to seduce. Once inside Dundalk he invited me to his house. after I became his lover I had access and I touched everything. I walked around naked inside his home, I eavesdropped on all of his possessions that told me a tale.
Liam trusted me because our sex was so bonding and intense. I eventually knew all his hideaways, he walked around naked showing me his secret places.
My journalism on the Real IRA became known for it’s accuracy.
I got my intelligence inside this ultra-dangerous British Army no-go area, that the army called, XMG. Strangers and Army got killed if they went to XMG, soldier Robert Nairac who went there to look around was chopped up, his body fed to the pigs.
I strolled around Crossmaglen whistling and breakfasted in Dundalk in their café opposite The Emerald Bar. Noone dared touch me I was a known hack - respected by all.
I was soon taken out to dinner by the editors of the broadsheet newspapers in Belfast about my stories being exact in detail. Rosie from The Guardian, Henry Mc Donald from the Observer all wanted me to introduce them to my contacts.
I decided to take the more honest offer by Liam Clarke of The Sunday Times to write for him and I began to hang with him on jobs such as meeting UDA’s Michael Stone - appreciating having by-lines in a broadsheet newspaper.
The tabloids had only given me sporadic by-lines, The Sunday Times was more honest. I had achieved The Times a front page on poor Syrian worker, Mr. Bignall beheaded by ISIS; so, I felt as if I was riding high.
The haters raised their heads but this time it wasn’t resentful, Graham Johnson, it was shark like Peter Rose of The Mail. Both men didn't like mere women strutting their stuff esp in the Male Dept of Investigations. Both saw the Real IRA as 'theirs' since they were billed as Investigations Dept. But unless they both grew a set of tits and grew out their hair they were sorely out of luck.
Peter told me- '...if you don’t talk to my MI5 contact about your knowledge of XMG – I’ll make your life a misery by telling all my cop contacts you’re a Real IRA supporter and then they’ll hassle you.'
I couldn’t comprehend the Real IRA’s political ideology - it seemed shit. I loathed their ridiculous stance. Peter Rose was envious of my relationship with the high up editors, he was venting on me for going to Dundalk. So, I went crying to lover boy Greg – who sorted it out by making sure when Rose arrived at The News of the World he left again very quickly and a skit on him threatening me appeared in Private Eye.
I made good progress with Liam McDonagh the Real IRA’s leader; the notorious gun-running clique inside the Provisional IRA.
I got all I needed to fill a weekly report in The Sunday Times.
South Armagh PIRA Brigade had morphed into the ultra-dangerous and unreachable ‘Real IRA.’ And I was now making TV appearances to talk about who they were. I knew them up close, I could smell their desires and dreams. A Lost Boy Army made up of friends; they’d been the engine room of the Provos. They were not amenable to the offers of millions from the British Government – like the 7 million they’d paid out to the INLA – because they were addicted to violence, power addicts and they were in pain and PTSD from war – they needed healing as did their poor bomb victims physically.
I soon felt becoming a defence reporter would further my career and be a niche for me so I also joined the RAF on a voluntary basis as a PRESS officer but quickly got sacked from my voluntary position for hitching a lift in a PUMA without permission.
I needed The Priory as a sanctuary for stress. Dundalk was hard going and some of the men thought I was a spy – I still pushed myself going -but I was also meeting victims of their bombs like Michael Gallagher and doing stories with the victims, it made the Real IRA hard to stomach.
Dr Collins helped me - just like he did Brittany Spears in America when he flew out to his clinic in Hollywood. The Priory had always been my sanctuary since undergoing Art Janov's, Primal Therapy in Los Angeles. John Lennon had also undergone Primal Scream and then did his White Album as a dedication to PT. The Priory was where the child side of me got healing; a side that recalled cane beatings from my adoptive Mother. My child side was compliant and had PTSD. I called the hot shot, strong, seductive side of me Catherine, you know, like Catherine Trammell in Basic Instinct. She owned my sexuality, she was seductive with a powerful objective – I just didn’t know what that objective was. All I knew was I preferred her to who I usually was - dull - mousy and scared of life.
My work was bothering me – I told Dr Collins. Like - I would wake up naked next to Liam McDonagh the head of the Real IRA and feel absolute terror. It was like I wasn’t the person who had gone there. I knew I had gone there – but it felt crazy to be there …I woke up and felt trapped in horror; my naked body so intimate, black bra, thongs, handcuffs strewn about the bedroom floor, and a sleeping enemy of the State lying naked beside me. I was buried away in the Irish countryside in a no-go area. And I’d have to play a role so I could leave, I was so terrified he’d chop me up like Robert Nairac and feed me to Slab Murphy's pigs.
For my trouble the News of The World called me - 'Our Girl' on my front and middle page spread - and Graham Johnson was livid at the editors reaction to me.
I couldn’t work it out – why one minute I was enjoying myself – cavorting with a man of terror to get stories for The Sunday Times and next minute I wanted to scream for help. She came and went. I never knew when she'd leave or appear. Then I'd wake up to her life. Her strange life of fucking terrorists and working Magick for the press.
I wondered what was next.
My career grew via her. I got my name on dispatches; by-lines in the Sunday Times. McDonagh, still enamoured of me, after being jailed for what they found in his secret hold in the floor of his living room.
Liam passed me comms through another leader in Dundalk from their prisoners in jail and issued me bomb warnings against the English. His middle name was initial J and I wondered for a while was he J – he liked me so much, yet I felt no like for him and any of the terror groupings I dealt with in Belfast like the UDA - they needed slapping.
After running to the sixth sweaty phone booth – I received a bomb warning from the Real IRA to bomb post boxes from a strange Irish accent using the Real IRA’s secret codeword, Marigold. I gave it to Greg Miskiw who passed it to MI5. But no bombs went off; so I guessed they must have met their demands.
Word spread and I was approached through The Observer by a lawyer who turned out to be CIA. He wanted me to get close to ISIS in the Uk and also to recruit Muslims to go undercover in Mosques.
He had heard via Alex Marunchak who had introduced me to some CIA men in Belfast and later at The Ritz that I had got close to John White of the UDA and the Real IRA.
I had pulled the same sexual game on John White - leader of C-Company, UDA and written a front page story in the 'News of The World' - 'UDA Talks Peace With Hated INLA'. The other men turned against White after it ran and violent killings occured - it then escalated and John White and Johnny Adair had to run to live in the UK.
The story wasn't true; it had seemed like a good idea at the time to make it up and I had used my body to make sure John White beleived that it was a misunderstanding.
'Sorry babes, I thought that was what you told me. Forgive me, I was distracted.'
John refused to speak to any reporters bar me - even though the BBC were after him and all the Irish reporters he had known most of his life.
John rang me on my mobile at 2am when I was in a Belfast club dancing with a local INLA leader.
'I'll let you interview me, only you.'
The Sunday Times editor wanted to send a UK local rather than pay for me to fly back over from Belfast, but they still gave me a by-line.
John rang me after. 'What about us?'
I had felt so thirsty for his touch it had been uncontrollable, yet now it was as if he was a stranger who I had no feeling for.
'I'll ring you,' I told him - but I knew I wouldn't.
Alex Marunchak told the CIA he was hanging with in Belfast the whole story and soon I was dining with the CIA at The Dorchester back in London. The CIA vanished out of my life after serving me up some books on Bin Laden, I never heard from them again. I knew they'd probably tapped my phone and come into contact with my douche side. ... I knew who it was who they wanted - Catherine.
I went shooting at Bisley with an ex FRU soldier and his mate Charlie who was SAS. I saw myself as a hot shot journalist wining and dining – leaking information here and there – a player in a game I had no idea of. A honey bee, going from flower to flower, a tool for a hive who had long rejected me.
What was happening?
I afforded rent on an expensive London penthouse and I was happy for a while. I noticed it was only me - at weekends I just longed for work week to begin again - I ate alone - I watched TV and I cried - because I don't think anyone should ever be that alone in the world, yet know so many people.
James Fairer returned from the Sudan and saw my money and life-style in Shadthames.
‘Forget your journalist crap - just give me the details and your contacts?’
I refused and only when my adoptive Aunt, who was still a Sister in the Vatican ordered me that I must let James inside my Fleet Street world (‘it’ll allow you to concentrate more on book writing – just do it.) did I find myself introducing James Fairer into Fleet Street.
James, met up with Greg Miskiw and then cut me out - unknown to me he even knew about that kind of cyber-crime, he bought them cyber and phone hacking. Greg and Phil childishly adored all the illegality he had to offer and dumped me like a hot potato - they had never liked my hocus pocus, they wanted real data.
I couldn’t work out James when I found out – he literally had millions – property in Aspen and a trophy wife – why risk prison for carrying out illegality for stupid people?
Newspaper hacks hated private eyes and if one did anything illegal for them – one day they would expose you for it. I was warned this by Barry Trigwell – a old salted PI who was later murdered in his bath tub.
Idiots Greg and Phil soon wanted to drop James because he charged five grand per hack. They decided in typical ‘newspaper hates private eyes’ style to steal his office boy called ‘Glyn’ that James had trained to hack and steal data and then dump James after they stole his office boy Mulcaire.
John had no idea, but he was livid they owed him 200k and refused to pay up. John then blackmailed the new editor, Andy Coulson. 'I think you'll pay me or youll find that I'll inform all the politicians and celebrities you hired me to hack.'
They paid up, but John was still bruised at the insult.
Over lunch with me, Greg Miskiw spoke to a man called Glyn non-stop.
Later on, while sleeping with James, as was usual and I felt numb to it - I inadvertently told James in pillow talk, 'Hey, you know after they dropped me for you - I think they dropped you for a man called Glyn.'
John recognised the name immediately. His office boy.
James wasn’t a man to cross – I even suspected he had his enemies murdered. But Greg was lucky; in revenge James grassed them all up to the cops. The News of The World closed down, Greg and Glyn went to prison and Greg got the shit beaten out of him in his cell – a vicious touch I was sure was James’ work.
No one mentioned ex Eton school boy, James Fairer in the world-wide expose of the phone hacking. Not even the man who called me York in his book – Nick Davies; James was a ghost who other men were scared of. James was safe in his 8 million pounds mansion in Sussex where the boys of Operation Weeting couldn’t even get inside his gates. Hacked Off never requested his invoices. James was an untouchable. Why? Who was he really? Why could no one on Fleet Street profile him for the public?
George Clooney paid The Guardian's investigative top man, Nick Davies so much money that he retired. I wondered how could George do a movie of a book where James was left out of the story (like he had been in Nick's book.) The movie was never made - Davies just got his pay off.
The fact there was no mention of James and the way illegality was bought in - made me think the whole thing was a 'Project' to crash UK’s last investigative newspaper and any investigations into the world’s controllers and their human trafficking and paedophile activities.
Newspapers shit themselves after the phone hacking scandal that they might end up beaten up in a cell like Greg - the State now had full control of Mainstream Media and it was now all PR stories for the Government.
Hungry young bucks entering Fleet Street from University who would usually get experience working as investigative hacks and then become feisty young editors bucking the system - or go off freelancing like John Pilger around the world kicking down closed doors, would now no longer get any training.
Old style investigations and expose had died with the phone hacking scandal - a darkness had risen - no more Clark Kent/Superman to save ailing Gotham City.

I gave birth to a child whom I called, Arthur Charles Jay, after Jay Gatsby.
I discovered that being an ex-journalist meant nothing to the rich, stay at home wives in London’s suburbia. My son was left out by the women in my village because I was a single Mother. All the parties – all the treats and trips in the area run by the Mothers, the women made sure he was left out. My son howled as he watched the other kids in his class yet again go snaking hand in hand off to a balloon party he was intentionally left out of. I wondered how it felt to be one of those moneyed protected women …a life minus fear…a life belonging in a community. I both hated and envied the other Mothers who seemed to not know pain so it was easy to inflict it on others- even a child.
I was smeared with phone hacking, even though I had no idea even how to do it or that James was likely to do such a thing. I was judged as being like them because I had once been a private eye.
I couldn’t go back to spying – because they knew I was a journalist who would report back on any illegalities they were up to at their agencies; so I was applying for jobs on store check outs at Tesco and not getting them. I felt terrified.
After my son was bullied at school I appeared on GMTV to talk about bullying in schools - I was still doing various appearances as a hack on BBC radio and Ch 4 to talk about the nature of evil - plus BBC World Service.
None of it paid anything, so I was starving in a garret with my little boy when I finally published my own non fic, journalistic book through Hodder and Stoughton on my rise to Fleet Street from the squalor of a kid’s home.
‘Searching for Daddy’ inspired people, so they said – reading it was like having a good friend. It made me proud I'd helped others who had been sexually or violently abused in childhood.
Peter Allen meanwhile recommended me to The Sun and I worked for them for a while. They became curious about The Priory and I hated that. I fobbed them off by regurgitating info they’d told me. I needed to support myself and writing advances were not lucrative unless you were Joan Collins. I enjoyed the good stuff from The Sun and worked for them as a reporter assisting those like Andy Parry, Chris Pharos and Guy Patrick. In 2009 one of their reporters did a bad scam on Heather Mills then threw me a dummy phone to lie to her – it was a really messy investigation. Heather screamed at me for half an hour how she was treated like Yoko. Nick Parker blamed the mess on me when she spoke to me. I tried to calm Heather down because I had always admired her for her work exposing the health risks of cow milk. Fleet Street's men hated her because of her strength and delighted in trying to degrade her. Nick referred to her as 'the slut.'
I was sacked out of the blue after six and a half years of helping The Sun get front pages.
The Daily Mail let go of me at the same time because Nick told them I was a screw up who had upset Heather Mills by fake emails. I had not. Nick had. But he kept his job.
I thought about Nick a lot and wanted to somehow hurt him. I also hated James Fairer with a passion. The enormous hate and bitterness grew until it consumed me.
I had once had a career – I had been careful to not commit anything illegal when pushed over The Priory and I felt this meant I would have my career for life. I had protected people. I felt sick that men had stolen it from me. I grew obsessive in my hatred.
James Fairer then introduced me to one of his very rich ex MI6 chums and I got work for a while spying in nuclear plants for KCS Ltd the ex MI6 firm I was working for in Knightsbridge. Yet every task held a risk of being murdered and soon I had to refuse the jobs because I had a toddler to take care of.
I waited patiently for J – believing the psychic because everything else he had told me had come true. I had no savings – so I began to feel the skids underneath us. I couldn’t sleep I was so afraid of life on the streets in middle age. I feared most for my beautiful little boy, Arthur, who was my whole life.
Trees shed their leaves in a flurry of Autumn 2012 as I sat mid publication tour on my second book published by Transworld in a quaint little English book shop in London book signing, ‘In for The Kill.’