The little girl appeared beside my booth in the roadside café so softly I almost missed heras if shed materialised from the patch of afternoon sunlight on the linoleum.
Excuse me, sir she whispered.
I turned, mid-mouthful of steak and chips, my fork frozen halfway to my lips. Standing there was a tiny, pale-faced girl dwarfed by a yellow t-shirt, with cheeks smudged by London road dust and wild, knotted brown hair. Her worried eyes flicked constantly over her shoulder towards a smartly-dressed young man at the counter.
I felt something in me shift.
Are you alright? I asked gently.
She leant in close, barely able to get the words out, trembling so badly I could hardly hear her.
Hes not my dad, she breathed.
A chill ran through me; the whole world seemed to fade into stillness, even before the room itself quietened.
I gritted my teeth. Come and sit, I said, guiding her onto the bench beside me and putting my arm in front of hera human shield.
“Just stay behind me, I told her quietly.
From across the old Formica counter, the young man turned around slowly.
I stood up, my leather jacket creaking, chair legs scraping on the sticky linoleum.
We need to have a word, I said.
The girl gripped my jacket, fingers tightening reflexivelythen her eyes caught on the wolf-shaped patch stitched on my back. She blinked through welling tears.
Mum said if ever I saw that patch, I had to find you, she managed.
My chest clenched so hard I couldnt breathe.
I dropped my tone to a whisper. Whats your mums name?
She looked towards the man at the counter, then said in the faintest voice:
Rose.
The name struck me harder than any fist.
Rose.
For a split second, everything the buzzing lights, the hum of lorries outside, the burnt pies disappeared. All I saw was a flame-haired girl, twenty years ago, beside a Triumph on a foggy night in Yorkshire, holding that same wolf patch between her fingers and laughing beneath a petrol station lamp.
My face twistednot with softness, but something darker.
The little girl shrunk even closer.
The young man at the counter stood up at last.
Mid-twenties. Cropped hair. Stonewashed jacket. Too calm by half.
His tea stood untouched.
Is there a problem? he said, smooth as gravel.
I kept my eyes on him, stretching my arm protectively back over the girl.
Whats your name, sweetheart? I asked softly.
She swallowed hard, pushing the word through her fear. Emily.
My chest felt as if it might split. Rose always said shed call her daughter Emily.
The young man started moving towards us.
No hurry. No nerves. Just the steady confidence of someone whod done this before. That unsettled me more than a threat would have.
Emily, come back here, he said in that cool, patient voice.
Emilys fingers dug into my jacket, clutching at the wolf sewn on the leather.
No, she whimpered.
The air changed. Even behind the counter, the waitress stopped clattering coffee cups. An old van driver peered round his newspaper. From the kitchen, the cook pushed the serving hatch open a bit more.
I rose to my full height, feeling the seat complain behind me.
Cracking my knuckles, I stepped into the aisle between us.
You mentioned Rose, I said.
He dipped his chin, just once.
So?
I let the anger show.
Rose used to ride with my club.
A flicker there on his facesmall but real.
She told me, I continued, slow and cold, if her girl ever found one of us, it meant she couldnt help her herself.
Emilys shoulders shook with silent tears.
The young man took another quick breath.
You dont know what youre on about, he said, voice strained.
I ignored him. When did you last see her?
He didnt answer.
Outside, thunder grumbled down the A-roads.
He stepped closer. Emily, were leaving. Now.
I shifted immediately, blocking him.
Every eye in that café was on us.
Thing is, I murmured, she called you that man.
The words rang in the silence.
Not my dad.
That man.
The young man flinchedjust for a heartbeat. Enough for me to see.
He spat, Move.
My mouth twisted into a cold grin.
Not a chance.
From the corner, a van driver slowly got to his feet, and a fellow biker from another booth set down his pint without a word.
Nobody picked sides out loud. They didnt need to.
The young man saw them too, darting a glance at the door.
Calculating.
I knew the type. Runner. Not a dad. Not family. Just a runner.
Wheres Rose? I asked again.
Emily sobbed, He said Mum went away
Her voice broke. But I heard her crying in the hotel bathroom.
The man lunged.
Fast. But not fast enough.
Reflexes born from four decades in biker clubs kicked in. My fist pounded the counter
THUD.
The cutlery jumped, tea sloshed, Emily screamed.
I gripped the man by his denim and rammed him hard against the wall.
Frames rattled.
The wolf patch stretched taut, alive with old memories and muscle.
Last chance, I growled through my teeth.
The mans face drained of all colour.
And then from outside headlamps swept over the rainwashed windows.
Motorbikes.
Engines rumbling low as they parked under the dripping eaves.
Emily looked up suddenly, face streaked with tears.
Because on the back of one of those bikes rode a womanher hair caught in the rain, jacket gleaming.
Even through the window, through the stormI knew her straight away.
Rose.
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