The little girl crept up beside the bikers booth so quietly that he nearly missed her, only noticing when she breathed a faint, Excuse me, sir
He turned, fork still mid-air, and spotted a tiny girl swamped in a yellow shirt standing in the muted glow of the roadside café. Her cheeks were smudged, her brown hair a tangled mop, and her wary eyes kept darting to the young fellow at the counter.
The bikers hardened face softened.
Are you alright, sweetheart?
She leaned in, so close her voice barely escaped, shaking as she spoke.
That man isnt my dad.
Time stopped in his head before it stilled in the room.
His jaw tightened. He gently drew her beside him into the worn red booth, laying an arm in front of her like a sturdy gate.
Stay behind me, he murmured.
The lad at the counter turned, slow as a Sunday morning.
The biker stood, leather waistcoat creaking, chair scraping the tiles with a stubborn screech.
We ought to have a word, the biker said.
The girl gripped the seam of his waistcoat. Her tiny fingers paused on the silver wolf patch stitched across the battered leather. Tears welled in her eyes.
Mum said if I ever saw that patch I should run to you.
He stopped breathing.
His voice became a whisper.
Whats your mothers name?
The girls eyes flicked toward the counter, then she whispered, soft as a sigh:
Rose.
The name landed like a blow.
Rose.
For a moment, the biker saw nothing but a memory. A girl with wild red hair laughing with the night, standing beside a Triumph motorcycle outside a petrol station, the same silver wolf patch in her hands.
His face changed again.
Not kinder.
Harsher.
The little girl shrank deeper behind him.
At the counter, the young man straightened slowly.
Mid-twenties.
Neatly cut brown hair.
Faded denim jacket.
Confident. Too confident.
His tea sat untouched, steam curling away.
Have you got a problem? he said, steady as you like.
The biker didnt reply at once.
His eyes never left the stranger, his heavy hand shielding the child in the booth.
Whats your name, love? he asked the girl, voice low.
Emily.
He felt his heart stutter.
Rose had always said, if she had a daughter, shed name her Emily.
The young man came closer. Not rushing. Not flustered.
That show of composure grated on the biker more than any bluster could.
Emily, the man called, trying to keep calm, Come back here.
The girl only clung harder to the old wolf patch.
No, sir, she whispered, almost inaudible.
The café seemed to change its tune.
The waitress by the coffee urn stopped her charade of cleaning cups. An old lorry driver lowered his paper. Even the cook nudged open the service window a little wider.
The biker stood tall, the booth sighing under his weight.
He squared his shoulders, black leather shifting.
You mentioned Rose, he said.
The young man nodded coolly.
Yes. So?
The bikers eyes sharpened.
Rose rode with my club.
That had an effect.
A flicker. Brief but telling.
The younger mans jaw tensed, almost imperceptibly.
She told me once, the biker continued, if her child came looking for us, it meant she couldnt keep her safe.
Emilys sobs grew softer, more desperate.
The young man let out a sharp breath through his nose.
You havent got the right idea.
The biker ignored him.
When did you last see her?
No answer.
Thunder rolled down the A-road outside, shaking the windowpanes.
The man stepped closer.
Emily, he barked, firmer now, were leaving.
But the biker blocked his way, broad and immovable.
A hush settled over the room as if everyone was holding their breath.
Funny thing, the biker said, voice low and pointed, She never called you her husband. Only ever that man.
The whole café caught that jagged edge.
Not my dad.
That man.
For the first time, a tremor passed through the young mans face.
Only a little.
But enough.
Move, he hissed.
The bikers smile was sharp, dangerous.
I dont think so.
A lorry driver slipped off his stool by the rainy window.
Another leather-clad rider in the back placed his pint gently on the table.
Nobody declared sides.
They simply gathered.
The young man spotted it too.
His eyes snapped to the door.
Calculating.
The biker understood instantly.
This one was a runner.
Not a father.
Not family.
A runner.
Wheres Rose? the biker asked again.
Emily suddenly sniffled, voice watery and small.
He said Mum went away Her voice cracked. but I heard her crying in the inn bathroom.
The young man lunged.
Quick. Too quick for most.
But the biker had survived men quicker than this for forty years.
His fist struck the counter
BANG.
Cutlery clattered.
Tea spilled.
Emily shrieked.
The biker seized the man by his jacket and hurled him against the café wall with a violent crash.
Old sepia photographs shook on their hooks.
The silver wolf nearly glowed on his back.
This is your last chance, he growled.
The young man went pale as milk.
And then
Bloody headlights swept through the drizzled windows.
Motorbikes.
More than one.
Engines humming low through the storm.
Emily looked up, eyes brimming with tears and hope.
On one of those bikes, clinging to the back
was a woman.
Even drenched by rain, the biker knew her straight away.
Rose.
