The dogs spotted him too, racing across the sand to greet his father, fairly knocking him off his feet. Liam hurried to rescue him. “Dave! Jazz! Down! Dad, what are you doing here? Rosa said she was taking you to Hunstanton today.”
“Aye, and she did. Tried taking me to the bloody bingo hall too. Whose fecking idea was that?”
Despite his obvious vexation, Len Mallaney’s gentle Derry accent washed over Liam like an old friend, bringing with it soft memories of his childhood. “Not mine, Dad. I swear. I told her you’d rather go to the bookies. She said bingo was pretty much the same thing.”
Len grunted. “Let her go, then. See how she likes it.”
“You know she means well.”
Len let him have that one and blew cigar smoke into the wind. Liam regarded him for a moment, taking in his lined face and stature that was becoming more stooped by the day. His weathered hand wrapped around the walking stick he’d once threatened to burn in the fireplace of his tiny cottage, a mile up the road from Liam’s converted barn. His faded brown corduroy trousers and battered— “Dad, where’s your shoes?”
“Hmm?”
“Your shoes. You’re wearing your slippers.”
“Am I?” Len glanced absently down at his feet. “Oh yes. Silly me. I had half an eye on the races when I left. Must’ve slipped my old mind.”
Liam tried to smile, but it was hard, and Rosa’s ominous warning echoed in his mind. “It won’t be long now. He can’t stay in the cottage forever . . .”
“Come on, Dad. Let’s get you home.”
Len came willingly enough. Liam and the dogs walked him to his cottage and settled him by the fire with the Racing Post and a warm dram of his favourite Irish whiskey. The dogs fell asleep at his feet while Liam took his customary place on the old, threadbare couch—the one Len refused to let him replace.
“You okay there, son?”
Liam tore his gaze away from the flickering flames. “What’s that, Dad? Oh yeah, I’m fine.”
“Sure about that? You look a little peaky.”
“You always say that.”
Len raised a greyed eyebrow. “Then it must be true. Get some whiskey down you. Warm you up.”
“I’m plenty warm enough, thanks.” Liam made a mental note to make sure Len wasn’t just having Celtic Cask for his dinner.
“You know your sister’s worried about you?” Len returned his gaze to his betting paper. “She thinks you’re keeping to yourself too much.”
“Chance would be a fine thing.”
“Wouldn’t it just?” Len fixed Liam with intelligent blue eyes that were as bright as they’d ever been. “Your boy wouldn’t like it.”
He said no more, but he didn’t have to. Len Mallaney had always been a man of few words, and Liam heard his message loud and clear: Don’t be lonely.
Ha. If it was only that easy.
Thursday morning found Liam pulling up outside Zac’s King’s Lynn flat fifteen minutes early. For some reason, he wasn’t surprised to see Zac already waiting for him, slouching on a wall by the pavement, hood up and smoking a joint.
Liam stopped the van and wound down the window. “Herbal breakfast?”
“What if it is?” Zac regarded him from the depths of his hood, his green eyes glinting moodily. “Not my mother, are ya?”
“I’m not anyone’s mother. Just wondering if you’re off your tits on something more than a spliff.”
“Like what?”
Liam shrugged. “Crack? Smack? Whatever you kids are calling it these days.”
“Do I look like a junkie?”
