“You don’t look so good, kid,” says Vera, shaking her head so that the sharp bones in her neck protrude through the thin weave of her skin.

“Don’t call me kid,” says Iris.

“I ain’t come for a fight,” says Vera. “I only come ’cos she said.” Vera points at me with the lit end of her cigarette. “Terry, ain’t it? She was very insistent on the blower.”

“Oh. Hello. Vera,” I say. “It’s...lovely to meet you.” My voice is strangled. I can’t look at Iris.

“Terry?” Iris glares at me.

“It’s raining,” says Dad, as if he’s just noticed. He hates the rain, which is unfortunate given the inclement nature of Irish weather. “Does anyone have a...a...” He makes a dome above his head with his arms.

“You can get under mine, sweetheart. Or the three of us can shelter in my motor if you prefer.” Vera nods towards a BMW, old enough to be called vintage, and rotted with rust. There are no hubcaps on any of the wheels and there is a substantial dent in the fender, which harks back to my point about Vera’s eyesight. The car is parked in a disabled parking spot, in front of the casino.

“We don’t need to shelter,” says Iris.

“Suit yourself, lovie,” says Vera.

“Can’t you just call me by my name?” says Iris. “You do remember it, don’t you?”

I need to come up with something.

It is Dad who comes up with something in the end. He sets off at a brisk trot towards Vera’s car.

“Ooh, he’s keen,” Vera says in a vaguely coquettish way, and my regret sharpens like a pencil in a parer.

“Dad! Wait!” I have to follow him. When he gets an idea into his head, he just keeps going. Like a lemming racing to the edge of a cliff.

He reaches Vera’s car and yanks on the handle. “I can’t...” He shakes his head, as if the rest of the sentence is stuck there, and he’s trying to dislodge it. He looks at me. “I don’t know what we’re doing here. Your mother will worry. I told her I’d be back soon.” He starts to cry. Before he got dementia, I had never seen my father cry. Not when his mother died. Or his younger brother. Not when Mam had the cancer scare that time.

Now, he can cry. It’s a sad sound. Like he is overcome all of a sudden. Like the dementia shows its hand and Dad realizes that nothing he plays can beat it.

Dementia holds all the cards.

“I’m sorry, Dad.” I reach him, rub his arm. I’m supposed to distract and divert, but it’s not always easy to know how.

What on earth was I thinking?

Vera holds her umbrella over his head. “The car’s open, darling,” she tells him. “It don’t lock no more, see?” She opens the front passenger seat, smiles brightly at Dad. If she notices his tears, she doesn’t mention them. He doesn’t move, looks at Vera warily.