•••
“WHATan incredible story,” Libby said when she and Dylan had said good-bye to Sunny and disembarked at Stockwell Station.
“It doesn’t surprise me at all,” Dylan said. “Frank’s made friends with half the passengers on the 88 over the years. And he’s always loved helping people.”
“Which makes it all the more important that we help him now while there’s still time.”
Dylan didn’t reply and just reached into his bag to get out a poster.
“What is it?” Libby said.
“Frank had another episode yesterday, the longest one yet. I had to call Clara.”
“Oh, no, what did she say?”
“She’s keen to get him assessed soon, for obvious reasons. But Frank is still refusing to go through with it, won’t even hear the words ‘care home.’ ”
“Poor Frank,” Libby said. “I can’t imagine what he’ll do if he can’t ride the bus.”
“I know. His routines riding the 88 and walking up Parliament Hill are so important for his mental health, he’s going to be lost without them. But there’s no denying his dementia symptoms are getting worse.”
“I wish there was more we could do to help,” Libby said as she pulled off a piece of tape.
“I don’t think there’s much more we can do, aside from carrying on being his friend.”
Dylan held the poster up against the side of the bus stop shelter and Libby attached the first strip of tape. As she did, he moved his thumb out of the way so she didn’t stick that down too. They had their routine down to a fine art now, their hands moving round each other like dancers in a well-rehearsed ballet. But as Libby was attaching the last piece of tape, her hand brushed against Dylan’s, sending a jolt of electricity through her body. Dylan must have felt it too, because for a moment he didn’t move, his body so close behind her that Libby could almost feel his heart beating against her back. For a brief second she imagined turning round so she was facing Dylan, lifting her face up to his, and—
“Excuse me. What are you two doing?”
They swung round in unison at the sound of an unfamiliar voice. Two police officers were standing behind them.
“Is that poster yours?” the female officer said, pointing at the yellow sheet that Libby was very clearly taping to the bus stop.
What the hell should she say? “I’m so s—”
“No comment,” Dylan interrupted, putting his hand on Libby’s arm.
The police officer eyed Dylan up and down. “Are you aware that fly-posting is illegal?”
Shit. Libby had had no idea they were breaking the law. Dylan didn’t say anything, staring back at the officer with his arms folded.
“Unless you have permission from the owners of this bus stop, then you’re breaking the law and liable for a fine,” the officer continued.
“I’m so sorry,” Libby said. “We had no idea. We’ll—”
“No comment,” Dylan said again.
The police officer let out an audible sigh. “I’m going to have to ask you to remove this poster and any others you’ve put up.”
Libby looked at Dylan to see if he’d agree, but he didn’t move.
“Sir, did you hear what I said? What you’re doing is illegal.”
“This is fucking ridiculous,” Dylan said, and it was the voice she remembered from the first time they met, laced with rage.
“Dylan, it’s all right,” Libby muttered.
“No, it’s not.” He glared at the two officers. “Are you telling me that every time someone puts up a poster for a missing cat, you stop them too? Or are you just harassing us today because of the way I look?”