Dougie ran with them around the head of Loch Meavaig.
‘Lads,’ he said, ‘I’m going to turn at the top of that wee climb and go back for JB – he’s probably set up residence in the castle as we speak.’
Predictably, there was nothing wee about the climb.
‘Ten miles,’ said Taylor. ‘Drink.’
‘Yep,’ said Drew.
They drank as they ran.
‘I wish this was half way.’
‘Don’t think like that.’
‘I know.’
‘Nirvana or Foo Fighters.’
‘That’s stupid.’
‘Answer, goddam you.’
‘You first.’
‘No.’
‘Paris to Harris, man.’
‘Parree to Harree!’
‘Do you know that guy Harry? Lives with Tom and Billy and that lot?’
‘Yeah, I know him.’
‘I like that dude.’
‘Me too.’
And then only silence. The road underfoot. A breeze cooling their sweat. An eagle overhead. The gather of the North Harris Hills like an amphitheatre. Ripples on the water. The road, always the road, forever ribboning on.
Taylor’s hair was getting on his nerves. Sweat had made spikes of the ends of his curls and they were flicking at his neck, his cheeks, his forehead. No way would he grow it to ponytail length. No way.
‘I might just shave it all off.’
‘Your hair?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I’ll shave mine too, then.’
‘Okay.’
‘What do you think of a moustache?’
‘I try not to think of them.’
And on they ran.
