Henry plonked himself down on one of the stools by the breakfast bar, the litre of Bells clutched in both hands. ‘You know, I rather like Alice: she’s a trooper.’ ‘Still throwing up?’ I scraped langoustine tails and chunks of smoked haddock into the frying pan, gave it all a shake. My phone vibrated in my pocket – not an incoming call, a text message. The kitchen clock was pointing out ten to two. That would be Mrs Kerrigan then, wanting to know where her money was and which kneecap I’d like shattered first. Well screw her. I left it where it was, unread. Henry made a little harrumphing noise. ‘I’m sorry about earlier. It was… After what happened last time…’ Sigh. ‘Maybe my delightful daughter is right: I’m just a bitter selfish old man.’ A shrug. ‘Tell Sabir I’m sorry, but I can’t face it any more.’ I shredded some fresh parsley and spring onions, chucked them in, then added the double cream. ‘Did you know there’s bugger all in your cupboards, other than bottles of whisky, empties, and a packet of stale Bran Flakes?’ ‘I have Bran Flakes?’ ‘Had to go shopping.’ It wasn’t as if I’d had anything else to do while the pair of them banged on about stressor events and psychological trigger-points.
