‘We stuck to walking and pub grub after that.’
‘What about the guys who rescued you? Did you ever see them again?’
‘Oh yes,’ I say matter-of-factly. ‘One of them was our best man …’
We fall into silence. Finally he says, ‘Have you been into the city before?’ A line of traffic in front of us stops us by a harbour of small boats. I shake my head. There are swans being fed by parents with children. On the other side of the harbour is a row of brightly coloured cottages. They look like something out of a children’s programme.
‘Where do you need to go?’ He sees a parking space and pulls in.
‘I need a pawn shop.’ I reach into my pocket and pull out my ring. ‘My back-up plan,’ I say with a tight smile.
‘That’s very sensible. Why haven’t you used it before?’ He reverses and straightens the van.
‘Because I wasn’t ready to.’ I put it back in my pocket.
‘And you are now?’ He pulls on the handbrake with a crunch.
I just nod.
‘Well, I have to go and talk to the bank, it’s on Shop Street. Then I’ll take you somewhere to sell it.’
‘How come you don’t go to the bank in Dooleybridge?’ I ask as we get out of the van.
‘I like to keep my business affairs private.’
He shoves his hands into his pockets and begins to walk towards a bridge over a fast-flowing river. I follow him. We fall into step side by side.
‘Y’know, English …’ He seems calmer now. ‘We’re all allowed to make one mistake.’
‘Is that when you made yours, when you went to prison?’
He throws his head back and laughs. ‘So the gossips have been at work.’ He pushes his hands further into his pockets.
‘I just heard you were in prison.’
‘I was. In America. For working without a visa.’
‘Is that all?’
‘I was working in an oyster bar. The owner didn’t want to pay me what he owed me and called the cops on me.’
‘How come they don’t know that, in the town?’
‘Because,’ he lights up a cigarette and blows out the smoke, ‘they never asked.’
We carry on over the bridge and then cross the road. In front of me is a cobbled street. It’s busy and there’s bunting strung across it from shop to shop. Sean heads up the middle in between the bars and cafés on either side.
‘Spanish arch,’ he says, pointing to an old stonearchway on the other side of the road as if he feels obliged to play tourist guide. ‘And here we are.’
There are musicians playing in the street. Everyone seems to have a spring in their step and there’s chatter and music everywhere. People are outside the pubs and cafés, smoking and drinking. I’m almost getting caught up in the Shop Street atmosphere, forgetting everything that has happened, when Sean stops halfway up the street and says, ‘I won’t be long,’ and heads into the big grey stone building of a bank without me.
A young girl is on the opposite side of the street playing the fiddle. She’s not very good, hitting wrong notes, but she keeps going and every now and then someone throws money into her case on the ground. I realise her mother is standing beside me, keeping a watchful eye.
‘She’s very brave,’ I say.
‘Well, she’s giving it a lash,’ says the mother, one foot against the wall. ‘It’s all yer can do, isn’t it, give it a go?’
The girl stops and smiles at her mum.
