Page 119 of Forever, Maybe
“Pal, you gettin’ in or no’?” he asked, sending them both a belligerent glare. The street was congested and too narrow for a taxi to wait on one side for too long.
“Better not.” Daniel pulled his hand gently free. “Safe home, Jennifer. Drink loads o’ water when you get in.”
Her eyes narrowed, lips curling into a snarl. “Dougie the crime reporter, of course. He’sveryinterested in the article.”
In an instant, she seemed to sober up completely, her voice cutting through the night like a blade. “The relative who lent you the money for the van and the shop… Shane O’Malley, right?”
The name hit him like a punch to the chest. Daniel jerked back from the car, slamming the door shut as if to block out her words. The taxi pulled away moments later, disappearing into the glow of the West End’s streetlights.
He stood there, staring after it, his mind reeling. Uncle Shane. He’dnevermentioned that name to her. How had she—or Dougie the crime reporter—made the connection?
Then again, it wouldn’t have been that hard with the right contacts. Uncle Shane’s name wasn’t exactly buried in obscurity, but surely, after all these years, it couldn’t come back to bite him on the arse… could it?
A cold weight settled inside of him, dragging his thoughts into darker corners. Thoroughly rattled, Daniel turned away, unable to face the thought of returning to his parents’ house. His mother would be up fussing, and his father would be planted in front of the TV, blissfully oblivious.
Instead, he trudged back up the hill toward the shop. The office armchairs weren’t exactly luxurious, but they were plush enough to pass out in for a few hours. Not that sleep was likely tonight.
Not with the ghost of Shane O’Malley—and the sword of Damocles dangling over him—looming large in his mind.
Chapter forty-eight
“Nell,isn’tit?”
Nell, engrossed in the express supermarket’s display of discounted near-expiry food, turned toward the voice. The red-headed man, his twinkling blue eyes and familiar grin, was already gesturing to the packet of prawns in her hand.
“Buy that, and the stir-fry sauce,” he suggested, plucking a packet of Blue Dragon hoisin sauce from the shelf. Its yellow sticker proclaimed it reduced to ten pence.
“Bargain basement meal,” he said cheerfully. “Two pounds thirty for something that’ll feed you and your husband for at least three nights. Tadgh, by the way. We met at Lock Down, a few months ago.”
Oh. Him. The friendly stranger from a time when her worst problem was Danny’s relentless workaholism. That felt like a lifetime ago. She’d returned home last night, still numb from Cate’s diagnosis, only to find the house eerily empty, with Danny’s wardrobe and drawers stripped of his clothes and shoes.
She managed a polite smile and added the prawns—destined for Corrie as a peace offering for her absence—into her basket. “Hi there. Do you live around here?”
He shook his head. “Nah. My dog’s outside. Thought I’d take her for a walk around Queen’s Park.”
“Nice day for it.”
Tadgh balanced the hoisin sauce back on the shelf, but it teetered and fell to the floor. He didn’t bother picking it up. “Ma gran lives near here too. She’s in the old folks’ home on the other side of the park, so I’ll probably pop in tae see her afters. Not that she’ll know who I am—she’s doolally these days.”
The word hit her like a slap. Should she correct him? If someone called her mum doolally… For what felt like the hundredth time that week, tears welled in her eyes. She blinked rapidly, willing them not to fall.
“Are you alright?” Tadgh asked, his eyes flicking to the hand she used to brush away her tears. That morning, in a fit of despair, she’d wrenched off her wedding ring, telling herself it was time to get used to the idea of it not being there.
“It’s nothing,” she muttered.
“Well, that’s a lie,” he said bluntly. “Tell you what—why don’t you come wi’ me to walk Coco?” He gestured behind him toward Queen’s Park.
Still irked by thedoolallycomment and ready to refuse, Nell hesitated. The truth was, she was sick of her own company. Maybe peppering a stranger with questions about his life would distract her from her own.
She paid for the groceries—just prawns, some stir-fry vegetables and a modest loaf of wholemeal bread—then watched as Tadgh insisted on carrying the bag, even though it weighed next to nothing.
Outside, Tadgh’s dog—a boisterous chocolate Staffordshire bull terrier—was tied to a bike stand. The moment she saw them, Coco practically launched herself at Nell, paws landing on her legs as Tadgh offered half-hearted scoldings.
“Down, Coco! Stop embarrassing me.”
Coco ignored him entirely, tail wagging furiously.
They crossed the road to Queen’s Park. It was mostly empty, it being a Tuesday morning. Small children teetered unsteadily around the playground, darting between the swings, the slide, and the roundabout, while anxious parents hovered, ready to scoop them up at the first sign of danger.
