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‘I was looking for the Motorcycle Museum?’
She raises an eyebrow, looks amused. ‘It’s not so far. Though you’ll take potluck to find it open.’
‘Ah, well, I’ll give it a try?’
She sketches me a map on the back of a leaflet, explaining it as she goes. ‘It’ll take you no more than twenty minutes.’
‘Does Don McCalstry still run it?’ I hardly dare ask.
‘Last I heard.’ She pulls her arms in tight. ‘Let’s just say he keeps a low profile.’
‘Oh yeah? Why’s that?’ My heart pounding at this unpromising information.
‘Friend of yours?’ She shoves the map towards me.
I take a breath. ‘Well, kind of…?’
‘Och, you’ll be the first in a while.’ She laughs, then goes back to bagging up her change.
I want to ask what the hell she means, but she’s muttering her counting. Conversation closed? Nothing for me to do but grab the map and leave.
It’s a steady uphill from the village, and already my hair is damp with sweat. I feel rank and uncomfortable, but mainly I’m bricking it. It’s like I’m being propelled by some outside force, as in my feet on automatic, pushing me forward. Dreading finding him, dreading not. I pause for a moment at the top: there’s a line of heavy-duty mountains on the far side of the bay. Massive, dark, like great rough pyramids. The sea glints dull metal to the horizon. I take a deep breath of damp salty air, hear the screech of seagulls.
My heart thumps as I approach a whitewashed low-rise building, but it’s just a couple of bungalows. Then a bit further and I see something like a garage ahead of me. Could that be it? Totally ready to shit myself now.
Getting closer, maybe it’s not? A long one storey shack with corrugated tin roof and like battered shop-front shutters padlocked at the ground. No light from the one small window. It would be easy to miss the faded sign hanging from the roof supports.
HIGHLAND MOTORCYCLE MUSEUM
Oh My God! It literally really is fucking well it. I stare at the notice, can’t take it in. There’s a handwritten sign stuck to the inside of the window.
Opening times are roughly Monday – Friday 10.00 – 4.00, Saturday, Sunday 11.00 – 6.00. If we’re not here, try coming back later.
It can’t be much later than five and it is Saturday, but still there is zero sign of life. Maybe it’s closed for good? I wander round the back. There’s a yard with some outhouses and a dilapidated caravan at the side. I pull my hood down, rub my hands through my hair, and force myself to knock on the door.
Nothing. I knock again, then try the door handle. Locked. The tiny windows, curtained with swirly orange and brown, reveal nothing.
The thud of my heart subsides as I make my way to sit on a pile of breeze blocks. I rest my head on my arms.
Now what?
He might be back soon.
Or not.
How long am I going to give him?
He’s probably gone away, it’s like totally shut up.
So, then what? Idiot.
Fuck.
I pull out my baccy and focus on rolling a fag. I cup my hands to light it and study the deep lines of dirt on my palms, wondering which is the lifeline.
I shift to look out to sea. The cloud has lifted, revealing a smudge of mountains on the horizon. The sea is a pale grey-green now, the sun catching the flickering ripples. I take a deep drag and exhale above my head to keep the midges off.
Come on then, let’s make a plan, as Mum would say.
