The little girl appeared next to the bikers booth so quietly, he barely clocked her until she breathed,
Excuse me, sir…
He turned mid-chew, still gripping his fork, and spotted a tiny girl in a baggy yellow t-shirt, standing beneath the tired glow of the greasy spoon. Her cheeks were smudged with dirt, her hair a tangle, and she kept glancing nervously toward the chap at the counter.
The bikers burly face softened.
You alright, love?
The girl edged in closer, voice wobbling.
Thats not my dad.
His mind froze before the whole room did.
His jaw set as he gently pulled her onto the faded seat next to him, laying a heavy arm across the table as a sort of barrier.
Stay behind me.
Across the cafe, the young man at the counter turned. Slowly.
The biker rose, leather creaking, chair scraping harshly against the floor.
Time for a word, mate.
The girl gripped his vest, eyes wide on the wolf stitched into the leather. Tears brimmed.
Mummy said… if I ever saw that patch… I should run to you.
The bikers face and lungs stopped dead.
His voice became a rasp.
Whats your mums name?
She glanced nervously at the man by the counter, then whispered,
Rose.
The name landed harder than a right hook.
Rose.
For a flash, the biker forgot about the chippy chips, the acrid whiff of burnt filter coffee, and the drizzle pattering at the windows.
Only memory remaineda lass with auburn hair next to a motorbike, twenty-some years gone, cackling under the harsh forecourt lights at a service station, a silver wolf patch turning over in her hands.
His face shifted in an instant.
And not for the better.
The girl noticed and pressed further into him.
At the counter, the man slowly stood.
Mid-twenties.
Hair slick, neat as a new shilling.
Denim jacket.
A shade too calm.
His tea cupuntouched.
Is there a problem? he asked, all fake sweetness.
The biker said nothing at first. His steely gaze fixed on the man, one enormous hand keeping the girl snug at his side.
Whats your name, pet? he muttered.
The girls voice caught.
Poppy.
His chest tightened.
Rose always used to joke shed name a daughter Poppy.
The young man strode closer.
Not rushed, not anxious.
That confidence grinded the bikers gears worse than if hed come out swinging.
Poppy, he called, voice flat, come over here, now.
The girl dug her fingers into the wolf patch as if it would save her.
No, she squeaked.
Now the whole café seemed to tip into a new sort of silence.
By the ancient percolator, a waitress stopped pretending to ignore them.
An old lorry driver peered over his Daily Mail.
Even the cook peeped out through the pass.
The biker stood tall. So tall the seat groaned beneath his weight.
He stepped into the aisle, leather pulling taut over broad shoulders.
You mention Rose, he said.
The young man nodded, expression blank.
So?
The bikers eyes narrowed.
She was with my club.
That did it.
A flicker. Brief, but there.
The young mans jaw twitched minutely.
She told me, the biker pressed on, if her kid ever showed up to one of us, it meant she couldnt keep her safe anymore.
Behind him, Poppy began sniffling softly.
The young man huffed out through his nose, defiant.
Youve got the wrong end of the stick.
The biker ignored him.
When did you last see her?
Silence.
Outside, thunder grumbled above the dual carriageway.
The young man drew nearer.
Poppy, he said, sharp now, were going.
The biker put himself squarely in the way.
The whole greasy spoon stilled. Even the clock seemed to tick more slowly.
Funny, the biker murmured, she called you that man.
The words cut.
Not my dad.
That man.
The young mans composure slipped. Only by a fraction.
But enough.
Move, he snapped.
Now the biker grinnednot the sort seen in birthday cards.
Nah.
One of the lorry drivers stood up, slow as you like.
In the back, another biker laid down his pint with a clink.
No one called sides. They didnt have to.
The young man sensed it, eyes flicking to the exit. Reckoning up his odds.
The biker knew that look.
Runner.
Not family.
Wheres Rose? he demanded.
Just then, Poppy found her voice amid the tears.
He said Mummy went away…
Her voice trembled.
…but I heard her crying in the motel toilet.
The young man lunged.
Quick as a ferret up a trouser leg, but the biker had been guarding his skin for four decades. He swung first
BANG.
Cups rattled, tea sloshed out, Poppy shrieked.
The biker seized the mans jacket and thunked him hard into the café wall.
The photos of seaside days and retired punters hung askew.
The wolf patch on his back stretched as though alive.
Final warning, he growled.
The others face drained of all colour.
Right then, headlights swept through the steamed-up glass.
Motorbikes. Several.
Engines rumbling, storm and all.
Poppy looked up, still sniffling, hope flickering.
One of those bikesa woman riding pillion.
Even through the rain-splattered pane, the biker recognised Rose, plain as day.
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