Scrap Metal by Harper Fox

on the turf, then after a moment in which I could neither breathe nor think, leapt back onto his feet and went chasing after the bike.
    The power of speech returned to me. “Bloody hell.”
    Harry didn’t comment. Then, soft and wicked as the February wind off the sea, I heard that dreadful barrel-organ wheeze of his begin again.
    “Granda,” I said, as reprovingly as I could. The worst thing about that laugh was its power of infection. Twice in forty-eight hours I’d heard it now—both times at someone else’s misfortune, granted, but better than the desolate silence. “He might’ve broken his neck.”
    “Aye.” Apparently that hazard just added zest to the fun. I rested on my elbows, lowered my head. He heard the snort I couldn’t repress and gave me a shove on the arm. “Aye, it’s consairned you are about him!”
    “I am. I’m not laughing, just…” I was, though. My throat convulsed. “For God’s sake. Stop it.”
    Neither of us could, for the best part of a minute. Afterwards I stood fighting for breath, knocking away tears with the heel of my hand. Beside me, Harry calmed down enough to pick up his train of thought. “You know, I heard in Campbeltown that Jimmy Clyde took a stroke and dropped dead.”
    “I heard that too. I’m not sorry, not for Shona’s sake anyway.”
    “No, she’s a bonny lass. And she’s free now, Nichol. You could do worse.”
    I suppressed a groan. I couldn’t believe I was getting this from the old man too. And, come to think of it, whether I announced my sexuality to him or not, how the hell had he managed to miss me and Archie chasing each other round his barns and paddocks all these years? Wilful blindness, I supposed, although while Al had been alive he hadn’t had to worry about the Seacliff succession. Probably there were a couple of little grey-eyed beauties flourishing in the villages already.
    Then, did I care what he thought? I was doing my best for him now. I didn’t have to swear away my future for him too. The sun was blazing down. Off in the field, Cameron looked up and flashed me a smile whose brilliance could warm me across any distance.
    “I tell you what, Granda,” I said. “You’re still a fine figure of a man. Why don’t you set your own cap at Shona? You’d probably have better luck than me.”
     
     
    I intercepted Cam on his way back into the yard. He had parked the bike and was making his way on foot, his movements stiff. That had been a spectacular dive.
    “Hi there, Billy Idol.”
    “Oh, God.” He came to a halt in front of me. “It hasn’t worked, has it?”
    I stepped close to take a better look. There were still streaks of black amongst the pale chemical gold, I could see now. Daringly, I reached to take a lock between my fingers and thumb. “Well, you’re very dark. My ma used to put some kind of bleach on hers before she tried to go blond. Why’d you do it?”
    “I wasn’t sure I was going to. I bought it when I went to get my farm gear—the last thing I got with my own money. When all those delivery lads turned up from Brodick, I thought maybe one of them might know Bren McGarva, might recognise me, so…”
    “Oh, it’s a disguise, is it?”
    “Protective coloration, maybe.”
    I chuckled. “Jesus. It’s anything but that.” The breeze stirred the sable and gold. He looked like an ermine caught short on a bright summer’s day. “It’s…kind of conspicuous, Cam. Actually it looks bloody gorgeous.”
    Our eyes met. And there we were on that brink again—the same place we’d found ourselves the night before. My mouth went dry. “Sorry. I don’t mean to… Er, Bren McGarva—is he your guy in Glasgow, your loan shark?”
    “Yeah. Don’t ask me about him, Nichol. Please.”
    “All right. But—it might not be as bad as you think. I mean you might not have to be this scared. If this bastard’s after you… One of my mates is a policeman. Maybe he could help.”
    “No. No police.”
    “He’s not a scary