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‘Aye, you don’t seem like your average. What got you into bikes?’
‘The Harley’s like my first proper bike.’ I toss my head, flicking my hair over my shoulder.
‘Well, that lump of polished chrome did no’ cost nothing. Land yourself some sugar daddy, did you?’
I look at the photo of Miss E Sturt. Demure smile hiding who knows what. Now’s the moment.
‘Not that sort of daddy,’ I start. Tell him about Ken and the gold in the briefest, most matter-of-fact way I can manage.
He looks straight ahead. Rubs his chin as I tell my story.
‘I’ve perhaps heard stranger tales, but no’ for a while.’ His deep-set eyes soften – hitting me with the flash of Gethin in them. ‘Stroke of luck him leaving you that gold, eh?’
‘I wouldn’t be here without it, right? But I was chuffed to have that time with him before he died, whatever.’
‘Ah, well, yes…?’ he shuffles his feet, looks towards the workshop.
‘He’d have made a crap dad.’ Don’t let him escape! ‘But I was right glad to know him. Got to be worth more than a flashy motorbike? Not that I’m complaining.’
He pulls his arms tight to his sides. ‘Aye, you could do worse, even than a Harley.’ He looks away. ‘Must get on. Bikes won’t fix themselves.’
I push my sunglasses up onto my head. ‘You don’t remember me, right?’ It’s the now-or-never moment.
He frowns, taking a step back. ‘I told you, I never forget a bike.’
‘I was here when your son came looking for you. I deleted your photo from his phone?’
He stops, eyes wide open. Panic mode. Then he turns and makes towards the workshop.
‘We’ll be closing shortly.’ He steps over the police tape.
‘I’ve got your tent.’ I move towards him. ‘He asked me to get it back to you.’
He turns and stares at me. ‘Who?’
‘Gethin, your son, right? I’ve spent the last couple of days with him in Durness.’
Frozen moment. Him staring. Me forgetting to breathe. Think of Gethin lying out cold on that hospital bed. Have to push this.
‘Then you’ll know I told him I dinnae need no son,’ he says slowly, folding his arms over his chest.
Heart banging. What the heck do I say now?
‘You can fetch me my tent and be on your way. Like I said, we’re closing.’
Air smells fresh, washed with a recent shower. Light sparking off the distant sea. I stand for a minute in a patch of sun – warmth on my face. How am I going to Inverness without trying everything? Un-strap the tent and go back. Don locking the museum door. He sees me and stands, hands by his sides. Deflated and pathetic. How painful is this for him?
‘Here,’ I say. ‘Thanks for lending it to him.’
He takes the tent. Nods and bites his lip. ‘Tell him thanks for returning it.’
‘He would have come himself, right?’ Choking on the words. ‘But he’s like had an accident. Fell off a cliff in Durness.’
He jolts at this, eyes bulging. ‘He’s all right then, is he?’ A tremor to his voice.
‘I, I don’t know.’ Tears pricking. ‘It’s just, he asked me to talk to you, before his accident. I thought there’s no harm. Just to talk, right?’’
‘You say he fell?’
