We went out to where the white Commodore was parked and Patrick said he'd given Kevin the night off and would drive me home. I felt obliged to invite him in for a drink and we talked amicably. He saw For Whom the Bell Tolls lying open and said he was a great admirer of Hemingway. I asked him about the name of his security outfit and he said Pavee was the name the Irish Travellers gave themselves. I'd read that but forgotten.

'You're really into all that, aren't you?'

'I am. Dunno quite why. It's an interest.'

We parted as something like friends.

The next time I saw him was a week or so later at the Victoria Park pool. He swam more laps than me with a slow, powerful stroke better than my surfer's choppy action. We had a coffee afterwards and he drew a line down the centre of his chest with an index finger.

'You're in the zipper club?'

'Yep. A while ago now. I had a heart attack in America. Lousy medical system if you're poor, but probably the best in the world if you're not.'

'That's what killed my dad. Quite young, poor bugger.'

'Mine too. You look fit, Pat. You are fit, but you must be about the same age as me and with the family connection and all it wouldn't be a bad idea for you to have a check-up. I didn't see it coming.'

'I'll do that.'

He rang me a few days later to say that he'd had the tests and they'd found a blockage.

'Not as serious as yours must've been,' he said. 'I have to have this thing called a stent. No big deal. But I'm glad you alerted me. Look, they want me to go into hospital for a day or two. D'you mind if I put you in as next of kin? Just a formality.'

'Sure. I never asked-no wife or kids?'

'Divorced years ago. No kids that I know of.'

'I'll visit you.'

I did. He had a private room in Strathfield Private Hospital. The nurse who escorted me to the room looked at me with wide, startled eyes.

'I know,' I said, 'we're cousins.'