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local paper.
    'Ah, Lewis. Sit down, son.'
    Lewis sat. The Old Man neatly folded the paper and placed it on the seat beside him.
    'You look unsettled, Lewis. What's wrong?'
    Lewis told himabout his meeting with Manon, about making a kind of peace with her, about his proposal of marriage, but he left out the detail of possibly fleeing to New York with her. The Old Man listened intently to Lewis's words, sipping at his whisky, shaking his head in disapproval when Lewis rolled a cigarette. When Lewis had finished speaking the Old Man drank the last of his Scotch and put his elbows on the table. He leaned over it towards Lewis and said:
    'So this bothers you, does it? What you asked Manon to do, you're having second thoughts about it now, are you?'
    Lewis shook his head. 'Not at all. What's bothering me is that she'll say no.'
    'When're you next meeting her?'
    'Tomorrow. Back room, here, half past two.'
    The Old Man stared at Lewis. He dug his fingers into his candy-floss beard and scratched at the chin that was hidden somewhere in there. Then he said:
    'The barman here, you know him?'
    Lewis nodded. 'Course I do, yes. He's worked here for ages.'
    'And d'you see the young man at the pool table over there? With the white shirt on?'
    Lewis turned to look and nodded again.
    'Well, he's the barman's son. Only neither of them know that. The barman met a woman twenty years ago, bang, she gets pregnant, buggers off without telling him. Has the baby, a boy, puts it up for adoption. The foster family live in this village, so the baby comes back to where he was conceived. The woman – the mother, like – knows this, but thinks it best to say nothing about it. So there they are, father and son, except neither knows the other. They speak to each other every night, aye, but it's only to ask for another drink or a bag of bloody peanuts. What d'you make of that?’
    Lewis shook his head. The Old Man went on:
    'And d'you see the fat feller at the end of the bar, with the bag of pork scratchings? Well, he doesn't know it, but he's got a half-sister in Bristol. Nothing unusual there, no, except she's on the game like and every month or so that man goes to Bristol to see her. To have sex with her. He's been doing it for years – paying his own half-sister to have sex with him.'
    'Jesus Christ.' Lewis shook his head. 'How d'you know all this?'
    'I know the mother. The man's father was a docker in Cardiff, the daughter's dad is a welder from Merthyr. But they share the same mother. Who I know. She'll never tell them that they're related ’cos it would destroy them. Imagine that: you find out that you've been paying to have sex with your half-sister. For years. That news would just about kill you, wouldn't it?'
    Lewis nodded. 'Why tell me all this, tho’? What's the point?'
    'What, these stories? No point really, except to show you that everything's connected. In ways you'd never dream of. There are enough secrets in this village alone to make a library full of books, boy. We're all mysteries to each other but we're all linked to each other, too. Everything's connected. D'you know what I mean?'
    Lewis gave no answer. Just sipped his lager.
    'Ah, you'll find out for yourself, soon enough,' the Old Man said. 'But everything's connected. Remember that, son. In ways you'd never dream of. The links are everywhere. You've just got to learn to look for them.'
    The Old Man's words were coming out a little slurred and Lewis realized that he was a bit drunk. Probably been in the pub all afternoon, drinking whisky, that's why he was talking gibberish. Just rambling, that's all the Old Man was doing. Not making much sense. Interesting stories, but did they mean anything to Lewis? Was there a point in telling them? Christ, the whole world was a soap opera.
    Robat and Marc came over with a tray of drinks and soon Lewis had forgotten the Old Man's tales; had forgotten the link between the barman and the pool-player, would've been surprised to