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‘Unusual read for a lass like you?’
‘And what would you expect?’
‘I dunno, one of them celebrity fashion magazines.’
Look down at black top with ripped off sleeves, combats and pink Docs. ‘And I look like a slave to celebrity fashion?’
‘Pesky motorbikes…?’
I skim an article about touring the north of Scotland. Superbly twisty empty roads, and not a speed camera past Inverness…
‘Roll us a fag, love.’
It’s just gone three. Cigarette, then afternoon meds. Routine set for a lifetime in just over three weeks. I find his illegal import Old Holborn. Make the thinnest possible fag.
‘You’re right lucky I turned up. Can’t see social services rolling you fags.’
‘Don’t need bleedin’ social workers. Don’t need you neither.’
‘No? I’ll just find my dream bike and bugger off up the top end of Scotland, shall I?’ I fish out my fags, light us both up.
‘What sort of bike could youdream of?’ He coughs with his first drag.
I flick through the glossy pages. Sexy curves of a Yamaha V-Max catch my eye. ‘There. Just a question of, like, sixteen grand and a crash course in how to ride the fucker.’
‘Crash course’ll be about right,’ he wheezes.
I tell him how Foster Bruv Martin got me well into bikes, then how Boyfriend Stan used to let me blast his Honda CB500 over the moors. Was that the most powerful buzz ever? Shame it wasn’t so simple with the boyfriend.
‘Well you can be off whenever you please.’ Ken strains for the ashtray.
I shift the trolley table across the bed, and he focuses on flicking his ash.
‘Tempting,’ I say, ‘but I’m not one for making plans. Like, did I plan to come here?’
‘So, what brought you nosing your way into my life?’
Here we go again. ‘The search for adventure?’
‘Your mum turfed you out, more like.’
So, back on repeat, I tell him again how Mum needed me to clear out my room for a new foster kid. At twenty-three years old, I was only like, home between jobs.
‘Nice kind of mother you ended up with. She chose to adopt you, didn’t she?’ He bangs the bed with his fist.
Deep drag on my cigarette, exhale slowly. Pull back from pointing out it’s hardly his place to criticise my mum. Don’t rise to that one, girl!
‘Won’t be keeping you long…doctor gave me six weeks and that were…?’
‘Four weeks and five days ago? Don’t worry, I’m not in a hurry.’
‘Bugger off whenever it pleases you. Just like me bleedin’ proper kids.’
‘And I’m not a proper kid, am I?’ I go to the drawer for his medication. Slam the bottles on the counter.
‘You know what I’m on about.’ He closes his eyes.
I lean back, calm my breathing. Getting upset is helping how? The proper kids don’t even know he’s ill. The argument is just part of the routine.
