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More shuffling as his boots emerge from the flysheet and he hauls himself out. Blinks as he pushes back his floppy dark hair. He stumbles forward and trips on his bootlaces. Plonks himself down to tie them then sits and groans with his head in his hands.
‘Too much of the Heavy? Och aye, young folk noowadays, nae got the stamina.’ My best fake Scottish.
‘Yeah, whatever.’ Refuses to be amused.
‘Aw, this air’s gotta be the best hangover cure, right?’
He makes a pathetic attempt to stand and falls back again.
‘Come on.’ I offer him my hand and haul him up. Not difficult, he’s skin and bone. ‘Let’s have a run on the beach, clear the cobwebs. Then we’ll mosey on round the village – see what’s buzzing.’
‘I’m not running nowhere,’ he moans.
‘OK, mardy arse, a stroll, right?’
He shuffles beside me as I head towards the path to the beach.
‘Even you can’t feel bad for long on a day like this.’ I grin at him.
‘You reckon?’ He manages to twitch his dimple.
I stride ahead then pause at the top of the stone steps cut into the cliff. Watch the sun catching tiny lines of surf. Flash of gulls dive-bombing the sea.
I think of last night’s sesh in the pub by the campsite. It took a few pints and a couple of whiskies to absorb the massive drama of the deer. For me, a total thumbs up, bigging me up from that lapse a couple of days ago. And the whole adrenalin rush kept Gethin right high well into the sixth pint. But when he started on maudlin ramblings about Donor Dad Don and his lack of male role model, I pleaded exhaustion and retired to my tent. Leaving him to sink another few, no doubt.
Down on the beach I splash my Docs through the line of the incoming tide, skipping along the length of the bay. Turn back to see Gethin lurking among the dark rocky outcrops. Laugh to see him startled by a dog hurtling towards him.
‘Come on, let’s explore the village,’ I say as I approach him. ‘Maybe score you some paracetamol, right?’
We walk along the road and stop at the signpost on the cliff top. Tall white pole with about fifteen signs pointing in different directions. Landwards it’s London 886 km; Rome 1926 km; Lands’ End 1018 km. Out to sea there’s New York 4695 km; Tokyo 10668 km and North Pole 3057 km.
‘Fan-fucking-tastic!’ I say, pulling out my phone. ‘Stand underneath it.’
He moves into position and as I frame the shot, he points to the sky.
‘The only way is up!’ he shouts.
I pat him on the shoulder. ‘Yay, Go Gethin!’
A smell of frying drifts from a burger van parked in a lay-by. Suddenly I’m hungry as fuck.
‘Let’s get some chips.’ Gethin reads my mind. Links arms to pull me towards the van.
There’s a young lad with shorn mud coloured hair, flipping burgers. Thin pock-marked face frowning. He doesn’t look up, so I cough and ask for chips.
‘Oh, right.’ He fetches a plastic tub and slings a couple of shovels-full into the fryer. ‘Be a few minutes,’ he says, finally looking at us. Sea green eyes you’d swear were designer contacts, but he’s not remotely the type. He steps back as he sees Gethin.
‘Fucking hell, you stalking me, man?’
Gethin stares at him, light bulb hits. ‘It’s Aiden, is it? Inverness?’
‘Yeah man, you’re the soft kid almost got me nicked in Black’s. Did you find your Da, then?’
Gethin lowers his head, saying nowt.
‘Kinda sore subject,’ I explain. ‘So, what’s the story with Black’s?’
Gethin shuffles his feet. ‘Let’s just say Aiden helped me when I like dossed with him and his mates in Inverness?’
