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‘No, you take them, I’m heading north. How often do you get to be in spaces like this?’ She spreads her arms wide, then starts up the bike and pulls her helmet on.
I freeze, still holding out the tent and money. I was actually starting to enjoy the ride. I need to get out of Lochgillan, but do I need to go home? What the fuck have I got to go home for?
She lifts the side-stand on the bike and gives it some revs. The exhaust fumes fill my lungs with the sense of adventure.
‘Good luck, Gethin!’ She waves a leather gloved hand then manoeuvres the bike round.
Something snaps in me as I lurch forward, flapping my bags. She carries on turning like she hasn’t noticed. I tap her on the shoulder.
‘OK,’ I say. ‘Let’s hit the Top of the World!’
I swear I’m a pro by the time we reach Ullapool. Jez suggests I put my arms right round her rather than clinging to her jacket, keeping my arse back and bracing with my feet and thighs. I get the hang of straightening myself out after, not during, the bends. I start to embrace the blurred rush of scenery, the blast of cold air, the throb of the bike. Adventure, what the hell? Awesome!
We pull up at a hotel on the Ullapool seafront and park next to a couple of little Honda bikes laden with luggage and a guitar strapped on top. I manage a more graceful descent from the beast and can’t stop grinning as I pull my helmet off.
‘Epic!’ I say, blowing into my ice-block hands.
We pass a family tucking into mounds of fish and chips on our way to the bar.
Jez smacks her lips. ‘Fancy some of that?’
‘You reckon? As in I could eat a fucking whale.’
Jez attracts the barman’s attention. ‘Two large fish and chips.’
‘Certainly.’ The barman sounds Eastern Europe. ‘Have you come far?’
‘Just Lochgillan today,’ I say. ‘We’re on our way to the top.’
‘Ah, Cape Wrath?’
‘Durness,’ Jez scans the beer pumps.
My phone starts dancing vibrations in my pocket. ‘Hey, signal!’ I shout.
The only actual message is from Emily, the rest are Facebook notifications. The top one catches my eye: Fran has changed her status: in a relationship with Jarvis. ‘You are fucking joking me!’ I feel the crash of all that is certain. That is just wrong.
‘You will see Cape Wrath, very wild place,’ the barman continues, pulling a pint.
‘Jesus!’ I move to Emily’s message. Thanks for telling us you fucked off to Scotland. How’s Daddykins? Your Mum’s not happy. E. Fucking hell, where do I start? As in, thanks Ben for snitching on me? Thanks for the caring message, Emily? Mum not happy? She’s not exactly the only one. Oh, and Jarvis and Fran? Brilliant.
‘Gethin? What are you having?’ Jez takes a gulp of dark amber beer.
I frown at her. ‘Should you be drinking?’
She tosses her head, flicking her ponytail. ‘I’ll be fine with one. Chill.’
I’m too distracted by Emily’s message to care. ‘What is that?’
‘Pint of Heavy.’
‘Heavy it is, then.’
We take a table next to a young couple dressed in matching biker suits. He’s all round face in a fuzz of baby beard, fingers like fat speckled sausages. She’s thin as anything with wispy blond hair and sharp blue eyes.
Jez takes herself to the toilet and I take another look at Facebook. A different Fran notification: Big Up to my parents getting married. Fuck’s sake only a week ago we were in trouble for mentioning such a thing. Probably more chance for Fran and fucking Jarvis. I literally don’t want to know any more. I remember my 360-degree photo, my one proud moment from Lochgillan yesterday. I upload it to my status and try to think of a tag line. Something a bit elusive to show them I’m above their petty bollocks.
‘Those your baby bikes outside?’ Jez asks the young couple as she sits down.
