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Don clenches his fists, face reddening. ‘Look at all this!’ He waves at the jumble of bike parts in the workshop. ‘I’ve no room for anything else.’
‘As if I’m like an inconvenient pile of junk?’ Gethin looks down at himself and then across to the workshop. ‘What do you reckon?’ He turns to me. ‘Can you see the family resemblance?’
And suddenly I can, it’s the eyes, the shape of the sockets, the heavy lashes. ‘I can see you might be related,’ I say.
Gethin laughs, ‘As in me and the scrap metal? But yes, he’s like supplied half my genes. Big of him, eh?’
Adopted. Knew it.
‘You’ll no’ shout your way into my life,’ Don says, arms tight around his chest again.
Gethin does his big-eyed thing at me. What the heck does he want me to do about it?
‘You can’t make someone let you in, Gethin,’ I try.
‘You think it’s OK then? To spread your sperm and fuck the consequences?’
I shrug. ‘I don’t think about it, not having any sperm.’
‘Oh ha, ha. What the hell has it got to do with you anyway?’
Fuck’s sake, how is it a good move to get clever with him? I take a step back. ‘I’m sorry. Just thought maybe I could help.’
‘As in you could tell him to give me my phone back?’ Gethin shakes his head, quieter now.
Don takes the phone out, turns it over and over. ‘You’ll have it back, laddie. But the lady’s right, you’ll agree to go now.’ He fiddles with the screen, frowning.
‘Just fucking give it me.’ Gethin’s voice rises again as Don keeps messing with the phone.
‘Here,’ I hold my hand out. Flick the camera open and delete the picture of Don. ‘Gone.’ I hand it to Gethin.
‘What the fuck?’ Gethin shouts. He points the phone as Don raises his hand to cover his face. Then Gethin turns and marches towards the door, kicking at the Scottish Trials display stand. The display wobbles for a few seconds before toppling against Miss E Sturt’s bike as Gethin slams the door behind him.
Don walks slowly to the display and sets it right. Goes around adjusting the bike’s position. His body is set rigid. The rain has stopped hammering the roof, but there is still the random drip rhythm. I watch him for a few minutes. Rooted to the same spot.
He finishes with the bike and looks up at me. ‘You can bugger off out of here and all. Interfering little bitch.’ He chucks a spanner to clatter on the floor as he retreats to the far side of the workshop.
Blood banging in my head. I take a breath to steady it. Then I step forward to go and notice some old helmets lying to the side.
Don clanks away with his back to me and I grab one of the helmets before I’ve had time to think. Hold it in front of me as I walk out of the door.
The Harley stands shiny wet, bouncing pale blue from the clearing sky. I retrieve my helmet from the clip. Strap the spare helmet to a pannier. Start the bike, heart leaping with its familiar roar.
Top of the World – Gethin
I kick my way through a line of puddles. Fuck Bastard Fuck Bastard. That’s it, is it? Brick wall? No contact? Tossing Motherfucking Shitting Bastard.
My brand-new walking boots hold out against the wet and even now I’m pleased about this. After spending pretty much all yesterday down and mooching, following my drunken outburst, I woke this morning and remembered my cheque will have cleared. Thinking I can get him his money, see the museum, grovel apologies, I walked into town in the pissing rain, grabbed some cash and passed by a sale of outdoor gear in the community hall. Proper Berghaus Gor-Tex jacket and Hi Tec walking boots with change for £60. New kit and money in my pocket. Laugh out loud how I thought this would make a difference.
Skye’s mountains emerge pale grey from the clearing cloud. The sea’s still choppy with flecks of white surf breaking up the surface. White horses, Mum used to call them. I feel a lurch in my stomach remembering walks along the cliffs in Wales, that time we spotted a colony of seals. Tears in my eyes for when things were so simple.
ET Home Phone. A flash of my favourite film as a kid: as in that image of the alien’s finger beckoning me to safety and comfort. Fuck it, I will ring her. There’s zero signal on my phone, of course. I’ll find a phone box. All I want now is to crawl home and spend a long time under the duvet.
The road bends inland and I wipe the tears away with my sleeve – Gor-Tex not exactly the best for this. Then I hear it, the roar of a motorcycle engine behind me. My heart pounds. It’s him, coming after me, like the first time. The grumpy old sod’s already regretting it, we’ll go back and have more kippers.
I’m barely breathing as I stare at the bend and the noise comes closer. Hold on, I don’t want him to think I’m waiting. I carry on walking, willing myself not to look back until the bike passes and pulls in just in front of me. I hurry to catch up and it’s only as I get near and the rider lifts their visor that I realise it’s not him at all.
I’m stopped in my tracks, literally winded with disappointment.
