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‘Take it.’ She smiles. ‘There’s no rush.’
I answer the phone.
‘Is that Mrs Williams?’ A Scottish woman.
‘Yes?’ Who would call me Mrs Williams?
‘This is Raigmore Hospital, in Inverness.’
You can run… – Jez
The early morning light hits hard after the dimmed night of the hospital. It bangs off the washed grey Inverness pavements. A pink tinged pigeon with a dirty scrap of bread. Bob the Builder yellow of the dustcart. Like the day after Ken died: everything too candy brash. What you on about, girl? Gethin hasn’t died. They said he was stable, right?
The taxi pulls into the bus station and I pay with the fake looking money. The driver points me to the white curvy bus.
Five frigging hours to Durness, via Ullapool. It’d take about two on the bike. But the bike’s in Durness.
My bus is even called the Bike Bus. Yeah, there are a couple of cyclists. All Lycra and fleeces, loading their bikes onto the bus’s special trailer. Also, an old guy in raincoat and flat cap, battered brown suitcase. Middle aged woman fussing over much older lady, matching anoraks and beige slacks. I buy a cappuccino from the stand and get on the bus.
There are plush reclining seats with tables like in a train. I sink into the upholstery. Sip my coffee.
Was I going to sit and watch someone else die? The question flashes electric current. What am I talking about? No-one’s dying, right? That shrunken world of the hospital: beep of machines, subdued voices, hushed footsteps. The still bulk of him lying there. When they said his mum would be there soon, I was like, right, I’ll get out the way. No problem.
The engine starts up and I’m glad to be moving. It’s not long before we’re on the main road alongside the river out of Inverness. I close my eyes, flash to the image of Gethin lying among the tubes with the bubble of the oxygen machine. What is it about finding people to look after? Really not my plan with this trip. How come one look of those lost boy eyes sent me chasing him with a stolen crash helmet?
The road pulls away from the river just as it starts raining. I finish my coffee and recline the seat as far as it will go. Sleep would be good.
A wave of loneliness hits like nausea. How would this trip have been without Gethin? Hurtling to a kind of critical mass after Ken died – that was only, let’s see, about ten frigging days ago. Gethin looked after me as much as I did him, right? Shift my position for better neck support. Drift into that night on the beach. How sweet was he, his heart on his sleeve? OK he’s a self-obsessed middle-class kid – won’t be the love of my life. But he did, actually, help me. Can’t I hang onto that without the image of him unconscious punching in every time I close my eyes?
I do fall into a rumbling kind of sleep, woken by the warmth of the sun as we drive alongside a long loch. The clouds have cleared, and the flag blue of the sky bounces off the loch. Reflects in each raindrop still clinging to the window. Can’t wait to be back on the bike. Follow the road wherever it takes me.
You gotta run, run, run, run, run… from that Velvet Underground album Mum plays. How does it go?
Fag break in Ullapool. Stand on the front staring blank at the sea. You gotta run, run, run, run, run…Smell of the sea in my hair as I get back on the bus. Run, run, run, run, run…Tell you whatcha do.
This time I’m dozing most of the way. Blur of grey and violet and flashes of blue to remind me I’m still in Scotland. Run, run, run, run, run –echoes of the song as I drift.
It doesn’t take long to take down the tents and pack up the panniers. Back on the road, I pause to look at the signpost pointing in every direction. That photo of Gethin with the thumbs up: that was the day of the whales, right? The world at his feet and he made it half a mile up the road before being air-lifted to Inverness. I take a breath. Where to go now? Could head around the top to John O’Groats, then down the east coast. That’d bring me to Inverness before long. So, I’m going back, right? Can’t just fuck off, not knowing if he’s OK.
I swing the bike round when I see Aiden running towards me, waving his arms madly. Fuck, wasn’t reckoning on having to talk to anyone. Shouldn’t have hung about.
‘Jez, I was no’ sure it was you.’ His thin pale face peers into my visor.
I pull off my helmet. ‘Hey, Aiden.’ Give a weak smile.
‘I heard they took Gethin in the air ambulance. Is he awright?’ He pulls at his hoody.
‘How the heck did you know?’
‘You hear about everything here.’ He looks around him, his movements jerky. ‘Is he…?’
‘They say he’s stable. But he only came round for a short while.’
‘So, he’ll be right, yeah?’ His eyes widen. I’m surprised again by their vivid green.
‘Yes, I mean, I hope so.’ My chest tightens – realise I don’t know. ‘They said the first twenty-four hours are critical – keeping a right close watch on him.’
‘Christ, he’s no’ going to die?’
