Scott listens with half an ear because his own personal pride is just about bubbling over. Bottom line is, no one thought he could do it, not really. Other than Luca, who was encouraging and affirming throughout, Scott still remembers the looks of surprise on the other guys’ faces when he’d rocked up as Mikail’s last-minute replacement. Their reticence was fair enough, he figures. An old guy with limited experience might compromise the group dynamics and hinder progress, which was the last thing anyone wanted. His need to prove himself caused Scott to push himself further, deeper, harder than he’s ever pushed himself in his life. And he can feel the results of it now. Every muscle aches. His backside feels like a sea of blisters, and the tendons in his hands are ragged from hour upon hour of vibrations passing through the handlebars and into his fingers. His calves are practically crippled with cramps and muscle fatigue.
He smiles at the oldest and most experienced of their group, a sixty-eight-year-old called Gareth (never Garry, that’s for the young ‘uns) when he gives him a congratulatory tap on the shoulder. ‘You did good there, son,’ he says. His praise is worth a thousand medals.
The rest of the lads are loading the bikes onto the back of the truck. A couple are chucking backpacks onto the back seats. Everyone seems keen to get back to some home comforts.
‘Ready for the three S’s?’ Luca shouts to the back of the van once they’re all loaded up and belted in.
‘The three S’s?’ Scott asks quietly so no one will notice he’s not up with the lingo.
Gareth, on his right, helps him out: ‘A shit, a shower and a shave. First things we need when we return to civilisation.’
Scott nods, although top of his list is a firm bed (he’s forgotten what a real mattress feels like), a cold beer and some decent Wi-Fi.
Once back at the hostel, he digs his phone from his rucksack. It’s been consigned to the depths of the main section, useless in the terrain they’ve just navigated and gazumped in importance by loo roll, blister plasters, kinesiology tape and emergency hydration gels.
The battery’s flat. Surely, he’d put it into sleep mode? The beginning of the ride was a hazy mix of complex instructions, last-minute nerves, and logistics. Should he ride with both water bottles on the frame, or use the bladder on his hydration vest? Is his lip balm better in his back pocket or his rear pannier? He smiles at how green he was when he’d first started out.
His phone reboots, the battery replenishes, and he logs into the patchy hotel Wi-Fi. Several messages download. Good luck wishes from work colleagues who’d had to take up the slack when he announced his last-minute travel plans; something from Lorraine which is effectively a long list of emojis, the implications of which are painfully clear to him; and a message from Heather, sent six days ago, about a road trip with Brianna to fricking Birmingham.
Heather might not know what’s behind Brianna’s motivation. But he sure as hell does. Lorraine has contacted her niece, that much is clear.
Is he okay with it the message asks, “because if I don’t hear back, I need to assume you are. Let me know as soon as you get this message”.
He checks, then re-checks the date. She sent it last Thursday. It’s Wednesday today. The day before the visit to Birmingham is scheduled.
And he’s not okay with it.
He’s not bloody okay.
APRIL
Chapter 33
HEATHER
Therainfallsinsheets from a steel grey sky when Brianna indicates to leave the main road.
‘What are we doing here?’ Heather asks as she reads the signs stating they’ve just arrived at His Majesty’s Prison, Birmingham.
Brianna pulls the compact car she’d bought in secret into a parking space. It lollops to the side due to the severity with which she tugs at the handbrake. The windscreen wipers continue to screech against the glass. Heather looks up at the ominous sky through the car’s small sunroof, wishing for about the tenth time today that Scott had picked up his messages earlier or, preferably, was here to handle this situation on his own.
‘It’s a mediation visit,’ Brianna says. ‘Turns out, not letting me learn to drive isn’t the only thing Dad’s been keeping from me. It seems the guy who killed my mum has been trying to get in touch for months because he wants to meet me. Dad’s been saying no for himself, which is fair enough. But he’s been saying no for me too. And I don’t think that’s on. Do you?’
There’s a ferocity in Brianna’s glance that Heather’s never encountered before. She reaches over and places her hand atop Brianna’s, which is still gripping the handbrake.
‘I’m sure he had his reasons, honey,’ she says whilst her mind whirs with all the mixed messages she’s had from Scott recently.
‘So, he gave me Aunt Lorraine’s number in case of emergencies when he was away, and it turns out she’s been calling him practically every day asking him to visit or at least allow me to decide if I want to. And all he’s done is reject her calls or say he’ll decide later. Well, the time is now, because Leon – that’s his name - is getting out in a couple of days.’
There’s so much to process from Brianna’s small outburst, but Heather can’t help but fixate on one thing: the familiar name.
‘Lorraine?’
Heather thinks back to all the rejected calls and stilted discussions she’s heard Scott take part in over the last few months.
‘Aunt Lorraine. My mum’s sister. Dad moved us away right after the accident and hasn't let me see her for years.’
‘Your aunt Lorraine’s been calling your dad?’ Heather replies stupidly.
