Jamie made straight for the second room on the left, pushing open the door and stepping inside before I could stop him.
“Erm, Jamie,” I called sharply. He stopped. “That’s where I’m sleeping and I’m afraid you aren’t invited.”
He cocked his head in my direction, taking in my rumpled shirt and jeans in a single sweeping glance that seemed to suggest he was giving me serious consideration. “Oh well, if you’re sure,” he murmured, backing out. “Although, as that used to be my room, technically speaking I’m not the one who’s in the wrong bed.”
For a moment I considered offering to move, but he was already grabbing for the handle of the door opposite instead. I shrugged, but slid the bolt on my door once I was safely inside. Then I climbed back into bed and slept like the dead for what remained of the night.
***
I woke around seven the next morning, courtesy of my in-built alarm clock. A lazy mist hung over the trees and the river, promising another long hot day ahead. I glanced down onto the forecourt and saw a snazzy little race-replica Honda RVF400 with a Northern Irish plate on it parked up next to Jacob’s old Range Rover. Nice bike. It seemed that in amongst the rest of the genes, Jacob had also passed on his love of biking to his son.
I slipped into the bathroom first, then climbed into my leather jeans and a clean shirt, glad I’d made that detour. I looked in briefly to the bedroom Jamie had taken but he was spark out, lying diagonally across the bed in a face-down sprawl.
I went downstairs and let the dogs out, then rang the hospital again for news of Clare. Comfortable, they told me, which seemed absurdly optimistic of someone with as many broken bones as she had.
The sun was already throwing out warmth, beginning to heat up the stones of the old house. I drank my first coffee of the day sitting out on the terrace in peaceful solitude, soaking it up. The events of yesterday seemed remote, like a dream. I remembered my conversation with Sean and almost wondered if I’d imagined that, too.
Away to my right came the sound of water running down the drainpipe from the bathroom. Sleeping beauty awakes. I went back inside to put a fresh pot of coffee on.
I was halfway through filling a cafetière when the drive alarm went off. The dogs scrambled out of their beds, barking furiously like they’d been practising the drill. The combination of the two made me jump and slosh hot water onto both the kitchen floor and down the leg of my jeans. Good job they were leather or I’d have been scalded.
When I looked out of the window onto the forecourt, it was just in time to see the post van pull up outside.
“Oh yes, very dangerous he looks,” I told the dogs, sarky, as the mail dropped through the letterbox in the front door. They whined and avoided my gaze and looked embarrassed. I wondered if it was the alarm rather than the vehicle the dogs reacted to, like some Pavlovian experiment. Was that why they hadn’t kicked up a fuss last night?
Jamie arrived just as the coffee was brewed. He didn’t wait to be invited but helped himself, retrieving a mug from the cupboard next to the kitchen door without hesitation.
“Know your way around, don’t you?” I said, nodding to the mug.
He paused, startled for a moment, then he grinned at me. “That’s where they’ve always been kept,” he said. “Dad’s nothing if not a creature of habit.”
He was wearing the same leather bike trousers he’d had on the night before, and a clean T-shirt with a designer label on the front. He pulled out a chair from the kitchen table, turned it round and sat astride it, leaning his forearms on the back.
“I’ve rung about Clare and they tell me I can go in and see her this morning,” I said. “You want to come?”
He frowned for a moment, warring emotions flitting across his face.
“It’s not compulsory,” I put in mildly. “She may not even be awake enough to talk to.”
“No, no, I’ll come,” he said quickly. He nodded towards the kitchen window where we could just see his Honda outside and gave me a smirk. “If you’re feeling brave enough I can give you a lift on the back of my bike.”
“Yeah, I can well imagine that getting on the back of your bike would be a pretty quick way to a hospital,” I returned with an answering smile. “But no thanks – I prefer to ride my own.”
***
Jamie watched rather anxiously as I wheeled the Suzuki out of the coach house. He only relaxed when he recognised the bike for what it was and worked out how much smaller it was than his own four hundred. Size matters – it’s a guy thing.
Like my two-fifty, Jamie’s bike was no longer a current model but it was in good nick, with a titanium exhaust can and an after-market steering damper.
Jamie already had his helmet on and the Honda revving as I locked up. I kicked my bike’s engine over and, just to give it half a chance to warm through, took my time shrugging my way into the borrowed backpack containing the nightie and washbag full of bits and pieces that I’d thought Clare might appreciate. As it was, Jamie barely let me get my gloves on before he was away up the drive.
“Prat,” I muttered under my breath. I had no intention of racing him. Not when it meant going hand-to-hand with a load of dopey car drivers in the Monday morning rush-hour, that’s for sure. By the time I reached the top of the drive and pulled out into the stream of traffic on the main road, he was nowhere to be seen.
Maybe it was with the realities of the accident well forward in my mind, but I found myself riding more defensively than usual. A couple of vehicles behind me was a Ford Transit van with two men inside. Nothing sinister in itself, but Clare’s words in the hospital came back and made me twitchy. At the next opportunity I toed the Suzuki down a gear, hit the narrow power band, and hopped three cars further up the line.
I’d just pulled back in when there was a flash of high-beam headlights in my right-hand mirror. Three big bikes came thrashing past a rake of traffic to slot in alongside me with the neatness and precision of jet fighters.
I glanced over automatically. The lead bike was an Aprilia RSV 1000, all dressed up in race replica paintwork that made it look like a cigarette packet on wheels.
Behind that was a two-year-old special edition Ducati 996, with carbon trim on the exhaust can and the fairing.
Bringing up the rear of the tight formation was a sleek Kawasaki ZX-9R in lurid green. The riders were all wearing leathers to suit the bikes and they had their heads turned in my direction but the iridium coating on their visors gave them a completely blank stare. All I could see was my own reflection.
I nodded, the usual friendly acknowledgement of one member of the fraternity to another. They totally ignored the greeting, staring at me for a moment longer. Then, as if at some signal, the trio blasted away down the white line like they were overtaking a slow-moving mule train, leaving me feeling small and pedestrian and ever so slightly insulted in their wake.
***
If I’d bothered to wonder where the three bikers were heading, it didn’t take long for me to find out. About two of them, at least.
When I got to the hospital I found the Ducati and the Kawasaki both in the car park. They had pulled up on either side of Jamie’s machine, dwarfing the little four hundred like schoolground bullies. The Kawasaki rider was still on board. He was big enough for the bike to look small under him. Through the partly open visor I recognised William’s features, cheeks squeezed by the foam padding inside his helmet.