Free The People Next Door by Roisin Meaney

arrangement.
    Over the course of a few more dinner conversations – the only time, really, that they were together – it emerged that Kieran had worked as a reporter for years in various parts of the country. ‘I wrote for a number of different provincial papers, everything from obits to sports results. I moved around a fair bit.’
    ‘But you grew up in Castlebar.’
    ‘That’s right, and Mother still lived there, so I used to go home as often as I could to keep her company. And when she got the stroke, I gave up the job I had then, which was in Athlone, and moved back to Castlebar.’ Kieran shook a wok of chopped vegetables, sprinkled soy sauce in, and everything sizzled loudly.
    ‘Back to the home place.’ Dan was sitting at the table, a can of beer in his hand. Picasso was sprawled on the floor in a square of sunlight.
    ‘That’s right. Mother needed someone with her and I didn’t like the idea of paying a stranger to do it.’
    ‘So you got another job.’
    ‘Well, I did and I didn’t. As long as I was making a move, I decided to try my hand at being my own boss. I made contact with the publications I’d worked for in the past and offered my services as a freelance contributor. I told them I’d do anything as long as I could work from home – review books, write a cookery or gardening slot, make up crosswords, that kind of thing.’ He added strips of beef to the wok and splashed in more soy.
    The salty, savoury smell wafted around the kitchen. Dan’s stomach rumbled loudly in response. He drained what was left in the can.
    Kieran shook the wok again. ‘So that’s what I’m still doing. I write a cookery column for one and review books for a few others, and in the summer I do the occasional gardening feature.’
    Book reviewer – that would explain the scatter of paperbacks in the sitting room, the bundle perched on the side of the bath, the collection on top of the fridge.
    Another evening, Dan took cutlery from a drawer, filled a jug with water. ‘You said your mother died eight years ago.’
    Kieran was whisking a sauce for their roast lamb. ‘Right. Eight years in August.’
    ‘So … you were ten years in the flat altogether?’
    ‘That’s right.’
    ‘What made you move?’ Dan took two glasses from a shelf. And why did you choose this place?’
    Kieran’s story intrigued him, as much for what wasn’t being said as for what was. There had been no mention of his ever being married or attached to anyone. And what had prompted his move to Belford, eighty miles from Castlebar? His work hadn’t changed. He hadn’t mentioned friends or family here.
    Kieran shrugged and stirred the sauce. His back was to Dan. Ah, it was just time for a change, I don’t know. And why Belford … no idea, it could have been anywhere.’ He lowered the heat under the broccoli and bent to take the lamb from the oven.
    And that was it. Not very informative, but Dan could hardly demand a fuller explanation.
    Perhaps inevitably, Dan was becoming more interested in food. In the supermarket he picked up a loaf of bread called ‘garlic and rosemary foccaccia’ and brought it home. The crust was hard, but inside it was the colour of avocado, soft and holey as a sponge, and it tasted interesting. He explored the salad section and came home with radicchio and Chinese leaves, leaving the butterhead lettuce alone. For the first time in his life he bought potted mussels and goat’s cheese.
    And then, one night, it was Kieran’s turn to ask the questions. He sprinkled salt on a baked potato and said, ‘I’m guessing you haven’t always lived on your own.’
    Dan had assumed it would come up eventually. ‘No. My marriage broke up a couple of months ago.’
    Kieran nodded. ‘Sorry to hear that. Must have been tough.’
    ‘Yeah.’ Dan dug his fork into the floury potato. ‘We were married two years.’
    ‘Right.’
    ‘Picasso is really her cat. She left him here.’
    ‘I see.’ Kieran looked at the cat,