Pluck of the Irish

“It’s a good likeness, though,” Paddy says.

Roberts throws the newspaper across the room. Or rather, he tries to; it flops down on the breakfast table, on top of the toast and jam that Paddy’s prepared. Roberts tries to extricate the paper from the stickiness and gets jam on his fingers. They stick to the paper, making it even harder to perform the operation.

“That’s all I bloody need,” he says, several days of stress making the utterance strained, almost tearful.

“Here, let me—” Paddy says, moving over to help Roberts.

“Get away!” he snaps, still wrestling with the paper.

“I just wanted—” Paddy bleats.

“I’m not an invalid, you Irish fool!” Roberts says and laughs. “There’s a nice bit of tautology for you.”

“Tor … what?” Paddy asks, screwing up his face.

“Never mind. But that photo ... was it just in The Sun, or...?”

“Nah, plastered over the front page of all of ‘em,” Paddy says breezily. “Except maybe the Financial Times. So not that bad, eh?”

“Oh no, not that bad … you bloody idiot! I’m well and truly cooked!”

Roberts finally unsticks the newspaper and lets it fall to the floor, grabbing a piece of toast and attacking it with his teeth.

“Not everyone reads a paper these days, though,” Paddy offers tentatively, fully on the lookout now for another outburst from Roberts … which comes immediately.

“You bloody nincompoop! You don’t think it’s going to be on the TV too?!”

“I don’t know.” Paddy replies.

“You don’t … jeez. Stick the telly on and let’s find out!” Roberts nods towards the set in the corner.

Paddy takes the remote and presses a button. The default channel is showing cartoons.

“Is this what you watch all day?” Roberts scoffs.

“I like cartoons,” Paddy says by way of justification.

“Give it here!” Roberts snatches the remote out of Paddy’s hand.

“Don’t get jam—” Paddy begins but stops himself.

“What?!” Roberts glares at Paddy.

“Nothing.” Paddy says and picks up the newspaper. He notices that in the photo, Roberts now has a raspberry-jam beard. He manages to suppress a smile.

Roberts flicks through the channels until he gets to BBC News. They’re talking about the storm the night before, which Roberts used as cover to switch hideouts. He mutes the volume.

“See,” Paddy says encouragingly. “Nothing about you.”

“Yet,” Roberts mutters.

He picks up another slice of toast and munches at it, watching the floods on the TV.

“What you said about that photo…” he says to Paddy with his mouth full, bits of toast flying out.

“What did I say?” Paddy asks, bracing himself.

“About the likeness being good. It’s too bloody good. I’ll be recognised as soon as I set foot outside.”

Paddy gives Roberts a worried look; the implications of this last remark do not escape him.

“I’ll have to grow a beard, get a haircut,” Roberts says. “You’ll have to give me one.”

“I can’t, Robbo. You’d end up looking like … like…” Paddy casts his eye around the room for a simile, or at least the inspiration for one, but it eludes him.

“Well, I can’t do it myself, so it’ll have to be you. And maybe I could dye it, too. When you go to the shops later, you can get me some. Blond, I reckon. I’ve always fancied that – blond hair and beard.”

Paddy takes his time to summon up courage before speaking.

“But Robbo, it takes weeks to grow a good beard.”

“So?” Roberts doesn’t see the problem.

“Well … I’ve got my Siobahn. She’ll be wanting to come over.”

“Siobahn? Who’s Siobahn?”

“My girl. I told you about her in the nick.”

“Did you? I don’t remember.”

“Yeah, and she normally visits a couple of evenings a week.”

“‘Visits’?! You dirty ol’ bugger. So … is she due to visit today?”

“Nah, tomorrow. But you can’t be here, can you? I mean, she’ll see you, and then…”

“And then?” Roberts has just finished buttering another piece of toast and points the knife at Paddy.

“Oh, nothing. I mean, she wouldn’t snitch. I know Siobahn. She’s a good girl.”

“Not so good, I hope!” Roberts leers. “So, that’s your bit of fluff, is it?”

“Well, no…”

“What then?”

“We’re thinking of getting married. Buy our own little flat.”

Roberts gets some toast caught in his throat and starts coughing. When he recovers, he’s laughing.

“You?! Buy a flat?! What with, buttons?”

“It’s called ‘work’, Robbo.”

Roberts stops laughing.

“Are you trying to be funny?”

“No, no!” Paddy back-pedals. “It’s just … we’re in love, see, and she has quite a good job. I’m doing casual stuff, too. It’s just a question of saving up for the deposit.”

“You’ll be drawing a pension before that happens,” Roberts says, taking a long draught of his tea.

Paddy tops him up from the teapot.

“Maybe you’re right. But about tomorrow. It’s easy enough. I can tell her not to come. Say I’m ill or something.”

“No, let her come. I actually think I might like to meet this … Siobahn,” Roberts says, the leer returning to his face. “It’s been a while…”

“Look here, Robbo, I don’t think—”

A shout from Roberts interrupts Paddy’s protest.

“Here we go!” Roberts points the remote at the TV and turns the volume up.

He’s fully focussed on the screen. Paddy watches him out of the corner of his eye.

When the report ends, Roberts switches the TV off and sits back in his chair, staring at the ceiling.

“Bloody ten thousand quid reward! Is that all?!” he says, finally.

“It was the same photo,” Paddy observes.

“Oh, full marks, Einstein,” Roberts snorts. “But you know what that means, don’t you?”

Paddy does but keeps quiet.

“You’ve got me for the next few weeks … if they don’t put two and two together and come up with you, that is.”

“Well, we didn’t share a cell,” Paddy says, “so maybe they won’t make the connection.”

“That’s the smartest thing you’ve said all day!” Roberts’ praise is as faint as he can make it. “Now…”

Images of Siobahn flow through Paddy’s mind; he’s dreading Roberts returning to the subject. But he doesn’t.

“… get off down the shops, then. Beers, ciggies, a bottle of whisky would be good, eggs – you haven’t got any – bread, sausages maybe. And remember, blond dye.”

Relieved, Paddy grabs his keys from the table and makes to leave.

“Oy!” Roberts calls him back.

“What else, Robbo?”

“Give it here.”

“What?”

“Your phone, dummy!”

“But Robbo, I wouldn’t—”

“Sure. Just in case, though, eh?”

Paddy hands Roberts his phone and leaves.

On his way to the shops, Paddy furrows his brow, deep in thought. By the time he gets there it’s smooth and his eyes are bright – untroubled now.

He stops off first at a corner shop. The bell on the door tinkles as he enters.

“Morning, Paddy,” the shopkeeper says.

“Morning, Mr Khan,” Paddy says, going straight to the counter. “Listen. Can I borrow your phone?”