who turns her face towards me, her wide, green eyes fastening on me.
‘Terry? What the fuck are you doing here?’
Iris’s propensity to curse was the only thing my mother did not like about her.
My mouth is dry and the relief has deserted me and my body is pounding with … I don’t know … adrenalin maybe. Or fear. I feel cold all of a sudden. Clammy. I step closer. Open my mouth. What I say next is important. It might be the most important thing I’ve ever said, except I can’t think of anything. Not a single thing. Not one word. Instead, I rummage in my handbag, pull out her letter, do my best to smooth it so she’ll recognise it. So she’ll know. I hold it up.
When Iris sees the page, she sort of freezes so that, when the queue shuffles forward, she does not move, and the person behind – engrossed in his phone – walks into the back of her.
‘Oh, sorry,’ he says. Iris doesn’t glare at him. She doesn’t even look at him, as if she hasn’t noticed his intrusion into her personal space, another of her pet hates. Instead, she nudges her luggage – an overnight bag – along the floor with a crutch, then follows it.
I stand there, holding the creased page.
People stare.
I lower my hand, walk towards her.
‘What are you doing?’ I hiss at her.
She won’t look at me. ‘You know what I’m doing. You read my note.’ She concentrates on the back of the man’s head in front of her. The collar of his suit jacket is destroyed with dandruff.
I fold my arms tightly across my chest, making fists of my hands to stop the shake of them. I should have thought more about what I was going to say. I don’t know what I thought about in the car. I don’t think I thought of anything. Except getting here.
And now I’m here, and I can’t think of what to say. Or do.
‘Iris,’ I finally manage. ‘Say something.’
‘I’ve explained everything in my letter.’ She looks straight ahead, as though she’s talking to someone in front of her. Not to me. People in the queue crane their necks to get their fill of us. ‘I’ve read it,’ I say, ‘and I’m none the wiser.’
‘I’m sorry, Terry.’ She lowers her head, her voice smaller now. A crack in her armour that I might be able to prise open.
I put my hand on her arm. ‘It’s okay, Iris. It’s going to be okay. We’ll just get into my car. I’m parked right outside. Dad’s in the car by himself so we need to …’
‘Your dad? Why is he here?’
‘There’re rats. In Sunnyside. Well … vermin, which I took to mean … but look, I’ll tell you about it in the car, okay?’
‘How did you know I’d be here?’ Iris says.
‘I saw the booking form. On your computer.’
‘You hacked into my laptop?’
‘Of course not! You left your computer on, which, by the way, is a fire hazard. Not to mention the security risk of not having a password.’
‘You broke into my house?’
‘No! I used the key you keep in the …’ I lower my voice ‘… shed.’
The queue shuffles forward, and Iris prods her bag with her stick, follows it. She is nearly at the head now.
‘Iris,’ I call after her, ‘come on.’
‘I’m sorry, Terry,’ she says again, looking at me. ‘I’m taking this boat.’ Her voice is filled with the kind of clarity nobody argues with. I’ve seen her in action. At various committee meetings at the Alzheimer’s Society. That’s another thing she hates. Committees. She prefers deciding on a course of action and making it happen. That’s usually how it pans out.
I stand there, my hands dangling uselessly from the ends of my rigid, straight arms.
‘I am not going to allow you to do this,’ I say then.
‘Next,’ the man at the ticket office calls.
Iris bends to pick up her overnight bag. I see the tremor running like an electrical current down the length of her arm. I know better than to help. Anyway, why would I help? I’m here to hinder, not to help.
I’m not really a hinderer, as such.
Iris says I’m a facilitator, but really, I just go along with things. Try not to attract attention.
Iris hooks her bag onto the handle of the crutch, strides towards the man at the hatch. Even with her sticks, she strides.
I stumble after her.
‘I’m collecting a ticket,’ she says. ‘Iris Armstrong. To Holyhead.’
The man pecks at his keyboard with short, fat fingers. ‘One way?’ he asks.
Iris nods.
DON’T MOVE FROM ONE TRAFFIC LANE TO ANOTHER WITHOUT GOOD REASON.
I run outside. My father is still in the car. The car is not on fire. I fling open the door. He looks at me with his now familiar face; the one that is somehow vacant, like an abandoned house. Or a space where a house used to stand.
‘Dad, I …’ My voice is high and tight with fear. Crying seems inevitable. My brother called me a crybaby when we were kids.
‘Your mother should be back by now,’ he says. ‘She’s been gone a long time.’
I clear my throat. ‘She’ll be back soon,’ I say. I don’t have time for crying. I have to think.
THINK.
I could call the guards. Couldn’t I? I have Iris’s letter. That’s proof, isn’t it? But is it illegal? Iris’s plan? She’d never forgive me. But maybe she would, in the end. Maybe she’d be grateful I forced her hand?
I look at my watch. The boat leaves in an hour and a half.
THINK.
I ring home. I don’t know why. Nobody is there. But the ring tone, the sound of it ringing in my own home in Sutton, in the hallway that smells of the floor polish I used this morning, the phone ringing in its own familiar way, is a comfort to me.
In the early years, I did nothing but worry about the house. The lure that it represented to would-be burglars. The strain of the mortgage on Brendan’s salary. And on Brendan himself. I worried that he would end up like his father, who died a week before he retired from the building sites.
‘We
