Preparation

Please start here… https://schnark.home.blog/2024/10/16/the-man-who-wrote-real-fiction/

Or, if catching up, go here for chapter selection… https://schnark.home.blog/category/other-things/fiction/

Mikey decided to let his flat go. He didn’t know how long he’d be away, but he didn’t like the responsibility of an empty flat; the boiler, the plumbing, the roof, the windows… It was an old building, and there were any number of things just waiting to go wrong, and with no one there to deal with it…. He gave his notice right away, one month, and decided he’d leave in two weeks. He didn’t have much stuff, and the important stuff would fit in a rucksack, the rest he’d soon get rid of.

Callum had inherited his dad’s farm, not long before Mikey had left for London, they’d been firm friends, but neither had been in touch since then, but that was how it went with guys, you just picked up where you’d left off. To call it a farm was stretching it a bit, it was a bit of scraggy land by a loch, just off the Applecross peninsular, down towards Lochcarron. Mikey fancied he could make himself useful enough and use it as a base for some decent hill walks, and find out what the hell was going on with his family. He wasn’t sure about tree planting, he’d done it before, it was back breaking work, but he wanted to help.

He also liked the idea of being somewhere where the council might not think to look for him.

He looked at his few things that wouldn’t go in his sack, the biggest was his ancient mountain bike, it’d be just the thing for the single track roads, and the farm tracks, but it wouldn’t go on the bus, and Mikey didn’t like the train. He decided to take it out for a spin for old times sake. Mikey loved riding in heavy rain, when it felt totally impossible to make any progress at all, let alone at speed, he’d ride through puddles big enough to drown a baby, and get up to great speed on the flats as there was little risk of overheating, but the downhills on muddy wet roads could be terrifying. The forecast for the next day was damp, but not too wet, so Mikey scheduled a ride, and got on packing stuff, mostly into boxes for the charity shops.

George looked out of the window, pleased that finally things were on the move again. It was exactly the kind of day that thrilled but terrified Mikey on his bike, the rain was coming down in angular stair rods, almost no one in the little park across the road, people here and there in the street, hanging on to knackered umbrellas, pigeons flying backwards if they were foolhardy enough to take to the wing, motorists screaming at escaping cyclists. He wondered about Debs on her way to work. She was working across town today, down the East End, they’d been getting on a bit better for a while.

George looked forward to describing the bleak hillsides and the lonely places and wild weather up on the west coast, confident that Mikey would have a great time, but most importantly there would be a story. George still didn’t know what it would be. Details in Mikey’s back story were starting to fill in in George’s head, but he still couldn’t fathom what the family drama could be. Why would the council be involved? He was beginning to regret, those letters, it was just starting to seem a bit melodramatic, especially with Mikey just taking it in his stride and making a holiday of it. He decided to cook something nice for Deb’s dinner. He would see if he could get her a nice trout fillet.