“BRENDAN!” I shout it, and a wood pigeon in a nearby silver birch tree takes to the air in a frenzy of wings.

Brendan stops talking.

“I was just...” I say, “...trying to get your attention.”

Down the line, I hear the rasp of his fingers across his jaw, which will already be shadowed by stubble in spite of the rigorous shave he will have subjected it to this morning.

“You have my attention,” he says.

“Oh. Okay. Good.”

“What were you going to say?” he asks.

“I can’t remember,” I say.

“Maybe you were ringing to let me know where you are?”

“Yes,” I say, although I’m not entirely sure why I rang. And I wish I hadn’t now. I wish I didn’t know about Kate.

“So,” he says after a bit, “where are you?”

“Dover.”

“Dover? I can’t believe you’re—”

“Listen, Brendan,” I say, and even though I’m not shouting or even raising my voice, he stops in the middle of his sentence. Stops short.

“I’m going with Iris. As far as I have to. I’m not leaving her on her own. She’d do the same for me. So I would appreciate it if you could stop exclaiming every time I tell you where I am. Is that something you can do?”

“Your timing couldn’t be worse,” says Brendan.

“There’s no need for you to tell me that. I already know,” I say. “And I already feel bad about it. But as I say, I’m not going to leave—”

“This is serious, Terry. You could be in real difficulty with the authorities.”

“You haven’t told anyone, have you?”

“Of course not.”

“Because there’s no need, you know. I’m going to stop her.”

Brendan laughs. A short, brittle laugh. “Nobody can stop Iris. She’s like an army tank, once she gets going.”

“Well I will. I’m going to make her change her mind.”

He pauses for a moment, then says, “You really think you can, don’t you?” His tone is surprised. It makes me want to hang up.

“So listen,” I say, “you’re going to have to phone the hotel in Galway yourself. Sort out whatever needs to be sorted out, okay? It’s much too expensive for me to be ringing them from England. Or France.”

“France? Bloody hell, Ter—”

“I’m going to hang up now.”

“No! Wait, I...how are you fixed for money? Did you bring your laser card? And your American Express?” This is how Brendan apologizes, I suddenly realize. He throws money at the situation.

“I have everything I need,” I tell him.

“Okay. Okay, good. That’s...good.”

And I should probably leave it there but instead, I say, “My mother left me some funds in an account.”

“Oh, you never said.”

“No.”

“I mean, it’s fine, I just...”

“She called it a running away from home account.” It’s like I can’t stop talking.

“Is that what you’re doing?” A bemused tone now. As if it is a ludicrous notion. Me. Running away from home.

Or just leaving. Leaving is more dignified.