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Patrick said he’d found the bookshop specialising in works about the Travellers.
    â€˜They let me sit and read there,’ he said. ‘It’s marvellous.’
    â€˜You’ll have to lash out and buy something eventually.’
    â€˜I will. When I’m ready.’
    â€˜When d’you want to head back, Pat?’
    â€˜Never, mate. No, don’t look like that. I’m joking. Pretty soon, pretty soon.’
    That sounded a bit strange, as if he had a definite schedule to meet that I wasn’t aware of. That made me curious. Also, I was getting bored and that’s probably another reason why I decided to follow Patrick one day when he set off after telling me he was skipping our usual breakfast at the hotel. I’d spent years watching for changes of behaviour in people and then watching them as they moved about. It was my stock in trade and I couldn’t resist the urge to give it a go in Dublin town.
    â€˜I’m off to the bookshop,’ he said. ‘Buying something today, and we should talk about a flight. Okay?’
    I skipped breakfast, too. I picked him up in the street, staying on the other side and keeping close to other walkers. I told myself I was seeing if I still had the old skills.
    Patrick didn’t go anywhere near the stretch that featured the city’s many and varied bookshops. Dublin had an efficient light rail system that I’d used a few times. Patrick bought his ticket at a stop where there was a fair-sized crowd waiting. I hung around on the fringes and bought my ticket when the double car swung into view. Patrick got into the first carriage and I got into the second.
    It was a tricky situation; if he was the only one to get off at his stop and turned back he’d spot me. I’d have to go on to the next stop and hope to catch him when I doubled back. But I was in luck; he got off in the midst of a bunch of passengers and all of them moved forward so that I could hang back again. It was raining, a plus—hurrying people and umbrellas are always a help.
    Patrick turned into an arcade and tracked the shop numbers as he consulted a slip of paper. He opened a door and went in. I waited before I moved past. The place was a veterinary clinic. I kept going and took shelter from the rain in a pub. I’d enjoyed the exercise. It looked as if Patrick was getting serious about horses.
    Patrick was quiet that night, almost morose. Just to make conversation I asked him if he had any ideas about what business to get into when he got home. He sparked up a bit.
    â€˜Have you got a proposition?’
    â€˜Me? No.’
    He nodded. ‘I have a thought or two.’
    We flew from Dublin to London and caught a connecting flight home. During the stopover Patrick shaved his beard off because it was itching. So we looked very alike again. We were in the bar at Heathrow when Patrick grinned over his third whiskey.
    â€˜Want to have some fun, Cliff?’
    â€˜I might.’
    â€˜Let’s swap passports and tickets. See if we can get away with it.’
    I’d had a couple myself and was tempted, just for the hell of it. He took out the documents and waved them.
    â€˜Show them their security’s not worth a pinch of shit.’
    I looked around and took in the warnings about leaving baggage unattended, the urgings to report anything suspicious and the security men standing about, bristling with firearms and communication equipment.
    â€˜It’s not worth the risk,’ I said. ‘Level of paranoia’s too high.’
    He sighed and put the papers away. ‘Guess you’re right. It’s a terrible time to be getting old in, to be sure.’
    On the flight Patrick sent and received text messages and I asked him how his business was doing.
    â€˜Running like clockwork. I’m selling it, didn’t I say?’
    â€˜No. And then . . .?’
    He shrugged. ‘Something’ll turn up.’
    My grandmother’s