given her a hiding with his slipper.
Swallowing hard, she gripped her hardback with both hands and turned the corner into the shop, eyes wide, ready to strike.
‘Hamish!’ she yelled, spotting the scruffily-dressed chap standing in the middle of the shop flicking through a copy of the newspaper
Vive!
‘Hello, sis!’
‘You gave me the shock of my life,’ she said, lowering her hardback to a less threatening height.
‘You really should lock that door, Mags. Any old oddball could be walking around.’
‘So I see!’
‘Haven’t you got a kiss for me, then?’
‘Aw, back off,’ Maggie said, pushing her oil-stained brother away. ‘I’ve just had a shower.’
‘And I’ve just done a hard day’s work. What do you expect me to look like?’
‘Cleaner than you do! You’ve got a shower at the flat, haven’t you?’
‘That old thing! Have you been in that room lately? There’s more mould than wall in there.’
‘Then you should get your landlord to do something about it.’
Hamish scoffed and ran a hand over his hair. It was about as short as it could be and made his eyes look huge and cartoon-like.
Maggie shook her head. ‘You really should give your hair a chance to grow. Girls don’t like short hair like that.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Hamish said. ‘I’ve had a fair few brushing their fingers against this crop.’
Maggie sighed. ‘Well, you’d better get changed and spruce yourself up a bit. You’ve still got some clothes in your old room, haven’t you?’
‘Gawd, sis, you sound just like Ma. Why would I want to go to all that bother? It’s just a night at The Bird.’
‘You’ll be sorry if you don’t,’ Maggie said in a sing-song voice.
‘I just want to put me feet up for half an hour. Be a love and make us a cuppa.’
Maggie rolled her eyes.
They went through to the kitchen where Hamish read his paper whilst Maggie filled the kettle.
‘All right if I stay the night?’ Hamish asked over the top of the paper.
Maggie nodded absentmindedly. She was used to her brother’s company when he wanted to sink a few pints and not worry about getting back to Strathcorrie. ‘Sure.’
‘Oh, guess who’s back in town?’ he said.
‘Who?’
‘Mikey.’
Maggie stopped stirring sugar into Hamish’s mug. ‘Michael Shire?’
‘Well, of course Michael Shire. And he’s crashing at mine. Snores like a pig. I’ll be glad of a night’s peace and quiet here.’
Maggie sighed, her eyes wide. She wouldn’t have cared if Mikey snored like the Loch Ness monster if only he’d crash at her place instead of her brother’s.
‘He’s back from his travels at long last,’ Hamish added.
‘Where’s he been?’ Maggie asked, trying not to sound overly interested as she hung on her brother’s every word.
‘Everywhere,’ Hamish said. ‘Hitching and hiking in India, Nepal and China. Arizona. South America too.’
‘Wow!’ Maggie said.
‘He’s got the best tan in the world.’
‘I bet he has,’ Maggie said, thinking of what those strong biker arms would look like bronzed and toned from all that hiking in the sunshine.
Michael Shire
.
Handing Hamish his cup of tea, Maggie wandered through to the bathroom to finish drying her hair before it set in a fleecy lump. Closing her eyes, she thought of Michael.
Mikey the Biker
, he was known as because of his obsession with motorbikes. He was always saving up for a new one or tinkering around with an old one until it roared and reared into life, and then you wouldn’t see him for dust as he raced around the Highland roads, the wind blowing his hair back in a dark comet’s tail. Maggie was always absolutely terrified for him and yet felt exhilarated by his passion too as she imagined him traversing the country on those two powerful wheels. She’d once climbed to the top of Ben Torran to watch him on the roads below. She’d sat down on a slab of granite, the wind turning her cheeks pink, watching the tiny motorbike and its
Swallowing hard, she gripped her hardback with both hands and turned the corner into the shop, eyes wide, ready to strike.
‘Hamish!’ she yelled, spotting the scruffily-dressed chap standing in the middle of the shop flicking through a copy of the newspaper
Vive!
‘Hello, sis!’
‘You gave me the shock of my life,’ she said, lowering her hardback to a less threatening height.
‘You really should lock that door, Mags. Any old oddball could be walking around.’
‘So I see!’
‘Haven’t you got a kiss for me, then?’
‘Aw, back off,’ Maggie said, pushing her oil-stained brother away. ‘I’ve just had a shower.’
‘And I’ve just done a hard day’s work. What do you expect me to look like?’
‘Cleaner than you do! You’ve got a shower at the flat, haven’t you?’
‘That old thing! Have you been in that room lately? There’s more mould than wall in there.’
‘Then you should get your landlord to do something about it.’
Hamish scoffed and ran a hand over his hair. It was about as short as it could be and made his eyes look huge and cartoon-like.
Maggie shook her head. ‘You really should give your hair a chance to grow. Girls don’t like short hair like that.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Hamish said. ‘I’ve had a fair few brushing their fingers against this crop.’
Maggie sighed. ‘Well, you’d better get changed and spruce yourself up a bit. You’ve still got some clothes in your old room, haven’t you?’
‘Gawd, sis, you sound just like Ma. Why would I want to go to all that bother? It’s just a night at The Bird.’
‘You’ll be sorry if you don’t,’ Maggie said in a sing-song voice.
‘I just want to put me feet up for half an hour. Be a love and make us a cuppa.’
Maggie rolled her eyes.
They went through to the kitchen where Hamish read his paper whilst Maggie filled the kettle.
‘All right if I stay the night?’ Hamish asked over the top of the paper.
Maggie nodded absentmindedly. She was used to her brother’s company when he wanted to sink a few pints and not worry about getting back to Strathcorrie. ‘Sure.’
‘Oh, guess who’s back in town?’ he said.
‘Who?’
‘Mikey.’
Maggie stopped stirring sugar into Hamish’s mug. ‘Michael Shire?’
‘Well, of course Michael Shire. And he’s crashing at mine. Snores like a pig. I’ll be glad of a night’s peace and quiet here.’
Maggie sighed, her eyes wide. She wouldn’t have cared if Mikey snored like the Loch Ness monster if only he’d crash at her place instead of her brother’s.
‘He’s back from his travels at long last,’ Hamish added.
‘Where’s he been?’ Maggie asked, trying not to sound overly interested as she hung on her brother’s every word.
‘Everywhere,’ Hamish said. ‘Hitching and hiking in India, Nepal and China. Arizona. South America too.’
‘Wow!’ Maggie said.
‘He’s got the best tan in the world.’
‘I bet he has,’ Maggie said, thinking of what those strong biker arms would look like bronzed and toned from all that hiking in the sunshine.
Michael Shire
.
Handing Hamish his cup of tea, Maggie wandered through to the bathroom to finish drying her hair before it set in a fleecy lump. Closing her eyes, she thought of Michael.
Mikey the Biker
, he was known as because of his obsession with motorbikes. He was always saving up for a new one or tinkering around with an old one until it roared and reared into life, and then you wouldn’t see him for dust as he raced around the Highland roads, the wind blowing his hair back in a dark comet’s tail. Maggie was always absolutely terrified for him and yet felt exhilarated by his passion too as she imagined him traversing the country on those two powerful wheels. She’d once climbed to the top of Ben Torran to watch him on the roads below. She’d sat down on a slab of granite, the wind turning her cheeks pink, watching the tiny motorbike and its
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