Adam couldn’t see anything except the choppy waters and emerging peat moors of the island.
‘And young gannets.’
Adam looked again, thought he maybe saw tiny blades of white dive-bombing the surf, but couldn’t be sure.
‘Really?’ said Ethan, following Luke’s gaze.
Ethan was the most normal of them, Mr Average with his supposedly sensible RBS career-ladder computing job, new-build suburban semi in Gilmerton, conventionally pretty but conservative wife, Debs, and full range of Berghaus and North Face to keep the January cold out. He was average height, average weight and his brown hair was even in a carefully combed side parting, for Christ’s sake. Adam liked to be condescending about Ethan’s averageness, but who was the mug? Adam rented his tiny Abbeyhill flat, lived alone and still did a job he hated in the arse end of retail at the age of thirty-eight.
But this weekend would change that. The other three thought he was researching a whisky book, the same hypothetical book they’d been taking the piss out of since he mentioned it one messy night two years ago. Truth was, the book had stalled almost before it started. He couldn’t decide whether to make it a serious whisky guide, a novel, a memoir or a diatribe about the industry, and had given up months ago around page twelve.
No, he wasn’t here for a book but to get Roddy on board with the plan that was going to turn his life around. He’d spoken to the right people, done his research, worked everything out. Now all he needed was the backing, which was where Roddy came in. Adam was going to spring it on him tomorrow at the site he had in mind, hoping the spirit of the weekend would win him over. But he was nervous. He patted his jacket pocket, felt the reassuring thickness of the folded papers in there. He checked his watch. Ninety-two bpm. Jesus, he had to calm down.
He sipped his Port Ellen. Maybe he’d been a bit harsh on it. It was more complex on the palate than he first thought, heather blossom and tar battling it out, and the finish was pleasantly dry and smoky. Nowhere near his top ten, and wildly overrated and overpriced, but a decent dram nonetheless.
‘Hey, man,’ said Luke, noticing his glass. ‘Where’s ours?’
‘Cool it, hippy,’ said Roddy. He produced two more glasses, filled them and handed them to Luke and Ethan. ‘There’s plenty of this bad boy for everybody.’
Adam gazed at Islay approaching through the squally gloom.
2
Roddy gunned the engine with a shit-eating grin as they sped off the ferry and past the hotel and corner shop that constituted Port Askaig. As they rose steeply away from the harbour past snow-flecked pine and fir, Adam examined the car. It was a huge beast of an Audi, top of the range apparently, an embarrassing display of four- wheeled affluence. Roddy had insisted on bringing it to show off to the locals. At least there was plenty of room for the four of them and their stuff. Thank fuck they hadn’t come in his soft-top Porsche or high-end Beemer, both of which were nestling in the garage at his ridiculous Victorian mansion in Merchiston. Roddy made no secret of the fact he didn’t have a mortgage on the place, that’s what ten years as a fund manager with White Stone Investments got you, enough cash to buy the same postcode as J. K. Rowling, with outdoor hot tub and tennis court thrown in.
‘What are the roads like on this rock?’ said Roddy. He lurched the car forward to pass a whisky tanker on a bend, then selected the Killers on the futuristic sound system.
Adam gripped the dashboard. ‘Unbelievably bad, except for the main road south.’
‘Which is the one we need to take, right?’
‘We’re on it already.’
‘This is the good road? Fuck me sideways.’
Adam looked at the speedometer. They were clocking eighty on a road full of bends and bumps, twisting past small villages and farms.
‘Take it easy, will you?’ he said.
‘We’re losing valuable drinking time, Tiger,’ said Roddy, swerving to pass an old couple in a Honda.
Adam wondered if there was any ice on the roads as Roddy bombed past another car. Did they have a gritter on the island? They approached a junction too fast and blurred past a sign saying Port Ellen 11 Miles.
They scudded through Bowmore, past the distillery at the bottom of the hill and the strange cylindrical church at the top, then headed inland across flat moor. The road straightened and Roddy floored it, quickly reaching a ton. Adam checked his watch — Ninety-seven bpm. He looked out the window at a familiar chocolate landscape of peat bog and tussocky grass. Now and then they passed trenches dug by peat cutters, thousands of squares of the stuff piled up alongside the trenches like fibrous mud bricks. They passed fields of grazing geese, Adam pointing them out to Luke in the back seat.
‘Barnacle,’ said Luke. ‘Down from Greenland. Fifty thousand of them.’ He turned to Roddy. ‘Got any decent music, man?’
‘Screw you, hippy,’ said Roddy, looking in his mirror. ‘Aw, fucksticks. Adam, I thought you said there weren’t any police in this backwater.’
Adam turned to see the flashing lights of a police car right up their arse.
‘I said there weren’t many. Well done on finding one within fifteen minutes.’
For a moment it looked like Roddy was going to try outrunning them.
‘Roddy,’ said Ethan from the back, a tremble in his voice. ‘Come on, pull over.’
Roddy considered this for a long moment, then took his foot off the pedal. ‘OK, Mortgage Boy, have it your way. But I’m waaaaay over the limit if this clown’s got a breathalyser, so hold on to your fucking hats.’
They pulled over and sat, the Killers still blasting away.
‘Turn that off,’ said Luke.
Adam reached for the button and looked at Roddy. ‘Just take it easy, OK?’
Roddy stared at him as if he was a stroppy toddler. ‘Trust me, kiddo. When have I ever let you down?’
An officer approached the car. Roddy pressed a button and his window whirred open. The occasional snowflake fluttered down outside as the officer filled the window.
‘Out, big guy.’
Roddy smiled around the car as if this was all a huge laugh then got out with an exaggerated sigh. Adam leaned over to get a better view. The copper was big and mean-looking, tight muscle under his protective vest. Roddy was gym-fit, but this guy looked like he’d earned his physique in knuckle-fights or the army. He was a few years younger than them and Adam noticed a heavy gold chain round his neck. Was that police regulation?
‘Name and address,’ said the copper.
‘Is there a problem, mate?’ said Roddy, smiling like a visiting dignitary amused by quaint local customs.
‘I’m not your fucking mate,’ said the copper.
‘No need for that language, officer.’
The copper stopped at that and slowly scoped Roddy up and down. Roddy put on a big gleaming smile at the attention. The copper narrowed his dark, glistening eyes and smiled. Adam looked round in the car and shared a worried glance with Ethan.
‘A fucking comedian, aye? Just give me your licence and keep the one-liners for open mic night.’
Roddy handed over his licence and the copper walked to the squad car to radio it in.
‘For Christ’s sake,’ said Adam, ‘give it a rest, will you? You’re gonna get us all nicked.’
‘Relax,’ said Roddy as the copper returned. ‘It’s all in hand.’
‘Visiting the island long, Mr Hunter?’ The copper handed back the licence.
‘Couple of days.’
‘Business or pleasure?’ the officer asked, throwing a contemptuous look into the car.
‘I’m all about the pleasure, officer.’
‘Well, watch how you go, the roads are dangerous this time of year, especially the speed you were going.’ He dug a pad out of a pocket and began writing. ‘Here’s your ticket. You were doing at least ninety.’
Roddy looked like he was about to tell the copper that the real speed was three figures when Adam chipped in.
