Mungo glanced up and down the empty road, unsure if he could trust this man. He considered the stranger, tallied his light-blue eyes and his soft jowly face against the way he tapped his hand impatiently on the steering wheel. His shirt was freshly laundered, a sharp crease ran down the sleeve, and Mungo took that as a sign that some woman cared for him, that he was worth something to someone. Mungo havered on the road. The man asked him if he was getting in, and in the end it was a strange thing that decided it for him: Mungo could see two dogs in the back seat, fat, cuddly, tail-thumping beasts.
The man was watching Mungo closely as he pulled the seatbelt across his chest. Despite the bright sun, the man reached forward and turned on the heat vents full blast. The two Labradors in the back seat – one the colour of toast, and the other the colour of tea – took turns to shove their heads into the front and sniff at the boy. They inhaled deeply, and snuffled his crotch as though they were fascinated by the stories he held there. Mungo must have looked uncomfortable because the man gripped their collars and pushed them into the back. “Sorry about that. This is Crystal and that one is Alexis. Never let your wife name your pets.”
The Defender lurched as the man threw it back into gear. They drove along pitted roads in silence and Mungo kept his gaze on the road ahead, grateful for every single fence post, every solitary sheep, they put between him and the loch. The man’s waxed jacket was slung over the back of Mungo’s seat. It smelled of damp places, foustie from waterproofing wax, and Mungo began to worry what he might smell like to this man. When he thought the man was not watching he scratched at his crotch and then slowly brought the fingers to his nose. If he stunk, the man said nothing. The dogs were already dozing on the back seat.
Saying he knew a shortcut, the man turned off the A-road and on to a narrow B-road. The track curved around a denuded hillside and in the thinnest places it became a single lane. The man had to pull over occasionally to allow cars to pass in the opposite direction. Each time he did, he waved at the other driver as if he knew them. His hands were broad and strong, the backs were mottled with liver spots, but the fingernails were the scrubbed pink of a life of leisure. Mungo wondered if the man was retired.
“So, what are ye doing all the way oot here?”
“Nothing. Camping.”
“What? By yourself?”
“Aye.”
The man reached forward and angled all the air vents towards the boy. “Hope ye don’t mind me saying, but ye don’t half look like ye’ve been through the wars.”
Mungo laid his hand over the worst of the scrapes on his leg. “I fell down a hillside.”
“Aye? How many times?”
Mungo missed the smirk on the man’s lips. He answered him earnestly. “Just the once. I slipped.”
The man seemed like he would say no more about it. The toast-coloured dog was licking her forepaws, chewing the pads with frantic little nibbles. Then the man said, “Ye know, I have four sons of my own. Guid boys. I’ve learned that they never get hurt when they’re by themselves. It’s when they’re together that they get awful clumsy. Together they trip, they fall through the skylight into the lambing shed, they dare one another to ride their bikes into dykes, they chuck themselves into bonfires for laughs. Funny that.” The man opened his glove compartment and took out a roll of fruit pastilles. He offered them to Mungo. Mungo politely took one and his mouth flooded with saliva. The man protested and pushed the whole packet on him. The dogs sat forward at the sign of food, before the man elbowed them away. Mungo was glad of how the sugar rinsed the taste of loch water from his mouth. He sucked the first sweetie and tried not to wolf it down. He felt the man’s eyes linger on the side of his face as he considered the bruises and the matted hair. “So who was it that shoved you down that hill, then?”
“Nobody.”
“Really?” The man was holding the wheel steady as they bumped through the puddles in the road. “Since the minute I picked ye up, ye’ve been sitting pressed up against that door like some mongrel.”
Mungo looked down at himself, and he was indeed perched on the edge of the seat, as far away from the man as he could be. His hand had been worrying the door handle. “Sorry.” Mungo eased the seat belt. He relaxed into the centre.
“Look, no need to be sorry. I’m Calum, by the way. I should have said that earlier.”
“David,” said Mungo.
“Well, nice to meet you, David.” The man saluted him with his left hand. His wedding ring glistened in the sunlight. It seemed like it was embedded in to his finger, like a brace slipped around a young sapling that was now stuck, as though the tree had grown up around it. “So, ye heading home?”
It was a simple question but it gave Mungo pause. All weekend he had dreamt of the East End. The image of the tenements lay before him, but “home” didn’t feel like the right word anymore. “I suppose so.”
“Brave of ye to be oot here on your lonesome. Not sure I’d let any of my boys do that.”
“It’s awright.”
Calum pulled over to allow a camper van full of hippies to ease on by. He drummed his hands on the steering wheel. “Where’s yon tent then?”
“My what?”
“Tent.” The man nodded at his small backpack. “If you were camping, then where’s your tent?”
Mungo swallowed the pastille. “Oh. I must have lost it.”