Postcards to America (17 page)

‘What happened?’ Liam asked, curiosity getting the better of him.

Bobby finished most of his first drink in one swallow before replying. ‘They questioned me in relation to a ramming incident that occurred at the Social Welfare office. I told them about my business meeting at the time of the incident. So, as soon as they checked my alibi out they let me go.’

Liam’s ears picked up at the sound of the word “alibi” and he smiled.

‘Do you know what happened to the priest?’

‘We were both released together and shared a taxi here. He is shattered. He has gone back to pack. Say’s he cannot face his parishioners. He told me that he expects to spend six months abroad receiving treatment. Apparently, a mix-up over the name O’Connor led to the parish priest’s arrest. And we know another O’Connor, don’t we?’

Liam nodded to signify that he understood.

‘And I don’t see him here?’

‘He never turned up. I suppose that family that turned up in church has something to do with it. And there is the missing bicycle and mail…’

‘I heard the whole story about the bicycle in the car that took us to the station.’

‘Before you go on your honeymoon, I want to wish you all the best for the future. You know where to find me if you want me.’

The two friends shook hands.

Later, as the taxi pulled away taking the married couple to their honeymoon hotel, Patrick and Henry stood on the kerb and watched the vehicle accelerate out of sight. ‘Do you think the marriage will last?’ the doctor asked his friend.

Patrick rubbed his chin and after a minute replied; ‘Only time will tell, Henry. Only time will tell.’

The postman whistled as he turned his bicycle into Highbury Close, an exclusive cul-de-sac of thirty houses. Dismounting from the bicycle, the postman searched through the mail until he found a letter. Leaving the bicycle propped up against a wall, the postman opened the ornate gate and walked to the door numbered 12. Opening the letterbox, he slipped the letter through the slot where it landed face side up on the carpet. The writing on the letter read 21, Highbury Close and contained divorce papers for a man residing at that address. In twenty-four hours, all the details of his divorce would be known around the cul- de- sac.

The next house visited by the whistling postman happened to be numbered 15, the residence of an elderly woman. The small parcel dropped through this letterbox bore the address 25, Highbury Close and contained a selection of fruit flavoured condoms destined for a frisky lady at that address. Within a day, the woman started to get cheeky grins and winks from all the men living in the cull-de- sac.

Happy with his deliveries, “Corner” fastened the straps on the postbag and cycled away from the cul-de-sac.