Toby’s offer of a free pint was unlikely to materialise, he’d decided to buy the round himself.
‘I’m waiting for someone,’ she said, as if the old man might be in the process of propositioning her.
‘Don’t you want to know where your daddy is?’
Iris’s mouth dropped open. She could feel the blood draining from her face, a coldness running through her. The response, when she finally got it out, sounded thick and croaky. ‘W-what do you mean? Who are you?’
‘Just a friend,’ he said, ‘a friend who wants to help.’
‘What do you know about my dad?’
‘Not here,’ he said, glancing uneasily over his shoulder. ‘Meet me tomorrow night, half-six at the Monny. You know where that is?’
Iris nodded, too bewildered to say anything else.
‘Half-six,’ he repeated. ‘Don’t be late, eh?’
Then without another word he turned and walked away. Iris, unable to move - she felt as though her legs were full of lead - watched as he pushed rudely through a small group of people and swept out through the rear set of doors. There was a brief gust of winter air and he was gone. She was still in a state of shock when Michael came back with the drinks.
‘What’s the matter, love? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘Do you know that man?’
‘What man?’
‘The scruffy one, the old guy in the red scarf.’
‘Nah, I didn’t see him.’
Iris, a delayed shot of adrenalin rushing through her body, suddenly jumped up. She wanted to run out of the pub, to chase after him, but then had second thoughts. She sat back down again.
‘What’s up?’ Michael said, looking worried. ‘Did he . . . did he do something to you?’
She was about to blurt it all out, but then changed her mind. Michael, like her mother, was convinced that Sean O’Donnell was dead. She didn’t want to go causing any upset. But there was another reason for her silence too. She couldn’t bear to hear what she knew he would say - that the old man was crazy, that she shouldn’t take any notice of him. Sometimes the truth was too hard to take. A little bit of hope, she decided, was better than none.
‘No, er . . . nothing like that. Just a tramp trying to cadge a few quid. Maybe I should have given him something. He looked kind of hungry.’
‘He’d only spend it on the booze.’
Iris squeezed out a smile. ‘Yeah, you’re probably right.’
It was another half-hour before she felt comfortable about leaving. She didn’t want Michael to think that she was rushing off, but as he had recently got into conversation with a trio of middle-aged but well-preserved ladies who had joined them at the table, she knew he wouldn’t miss her too much. With his usual gift of the gab, he was regaling them with stories of the good old days. One of the women in particular, a giggly blonde with a generous amount of cleavage on view, was giving him the eye. And Michael, always up for a flirt, was giving it straight back.
‘I’d better make a move,’ Iris said. ‘Luke’s going to be back soon.’
Despite his pulling prospects, Michael didn’t hesitate. He started getting to his feet. ‘I’ll walk you home.’
But Iris shook her head, put a hand on his shoulder and gently pushed him back down again. ‘Don’t worry, it’s early. I’ll be fine.’ She didn’t want to cramp his style. It was only a ten-minute walk back to Silverstone Heights and her thoughts were still spinning from what had happened earlier. She needed time alone, time to think.
He hesitated, but she was insistent. ‘Stay where you are.’ She leaned down and kissed him on the cheek. ‘I’ll call you, okay?’
Iris turned up her collar as she stepped outside; the temperature had dropped a few degrees since she’d first arrived. Digging into her pockets, she found her gloves and pulled them on. There was snow forecast and she gazed up at the dark sky. Then she set out for the flat. She had only gone a few yards when she heard the thin clatter of the pub
‘I’m waiting for someone,’ she said, as if the old man might be in the process of propositioning her.
‘Don’t you want to know where your daddy is?’
Iris’s mouth dropped open. She could feel the blood draining from her face, a coldness running through her. The response, when she finally got it out, sounded thick and croaky. ‘W-what do you mean? Who are you?’
‘Just a friend,’ he said, ‘a friend who wants to help.’
‘What do you know about my dad?’
‘Not here,’ he said, glancing uneasily over his shoulder. ‘Meet me tomorrow night, half-six at the Monny. You know where that is?’
Iris nodded, too bewildered to say anything else.
‘Half-six,’ he repeated. ‘Don’t be late, eh?’
Then without another word he turned and walked away. Iris, unable to move - she felt as though her legs were full of lead - watched as he pushed rudely through a small group of people and swept out through the rear set of doors. There was a brief gust of winter air and he was gone. She was still in a state of shock when Michael came back with the drinks.
‘What’s the matter, love? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘Do you know that man?’
‘What man?’
‘The scruffy one, the old guy in the red scarf.’
‘Nah, I didn’t see him.’
Iris, a delayed shot of adrenalin rushing through her body, suddenly jumped up. She wanted to run out of the pub, to chase after him, but then had second thoughts. She sat back down again.
‘What’s up?’ Michael said, looking worried. ‘Did he . . . did he do something to you?’
She was about to blurt it all out, but then changed her mind. Michael, like her mother, was convinced that Sean O’Donnell was dead. She didn’t want to go causing any upset. But there was another reason for her silence too. She couldn’t bear to hear what she knew he would say - that the old man was crazy, that she shouldn’t take any notice of him. Sometimes the truth was too hard to take. A little bit of hope, she decided, was better than none.
‘No, er . . . nothing like that. Just a tramp trying to cadge a few quid. Maybe I should have given him something. He looked kind of hungry.’
‘He’d only spend it on the booze.’
Iris squeezed out a smile. ‘Yeah, you’re probably right.’
It was another half-hour before she felt comfortable about leaving. She didn’t want Michael to think that she was rushing off, but as he had recently got into conversation with a trio of middle-aged but well-preserved ladies who had joined them at the table, she knew he wouldn’t miss her too much. With his usual gift of the gab, he was regaling them with stories of the good old days. One of the women in particular, a giggly blonde with a generous amount of cleavage on view, was giving him the eye. And Michael, always up for a flirt, was giving it straight back.
‘I’d better make a move,’ Iris said. ‘Luke’s going to be back soon.’
Despite his pulling prospects, Michael didn’t hesitate. He started getting to his feet. ‘I’ll walk you home.’
But Iris shook her head, put a hand on his shoulder and gently pushed him back down again. ‘Don’t worry, it’s early. I’ll be fine.’ She didn’t want to cramp his style. It was only a ten-minute walk back to Silverstone Heights and her thoughts were still spinning from what had happened earlier. She needed time alone, time to think.
He hesitated, but she was insistent. ‘Stay where you are.’ She leaned down and kissed him on the cheek. ‘I’ll call you, okay?’
Iris turned up her collar as she stepped outside; the temperature had dropped a few degrees since she’d first arrived. Digging into her pockets, she found her gloves and pulled them on. There was snow forecast and she gazed up at the dark sky. Then she set out for the flat. She had only gone a few yards when she heard the thin clatter of the pub
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