‘Sorry, officer,’ he said cheerily through the window. ‘It won’t happen again.’
The copper looked at him as if he was dogshit on his shoe then turned back to Roddy, giving him a hard stare.
‘Like I say, watch yourself this weekend. Islay’s a pretty wild place. I wouldn’t want you getting into any real trouble out here.’
‘Thanks for the advice,’ said Roddy, bouncing on his heels then opening the car door.
The copper watched as Roddy started the engine and revved off, spraying gravel behind them.
‘For God’s sake, Roddy,’ said Ethan. ‘You’re a magnet for trouble.’
‘Easy in the back,’ said Roddy as he raced through the gears and put the Killers back on.
‘I can’t believe he didn’t breathalyse you,’ said Adam. ‘Isn’t that standard?’
‘Fat fucking chance,’ said Roddy. ‘If he’d tried I would’ve had him. I could smell a whole fucking distillery on his breath, he’s more loaded than we are. I guess that’s one of the perks of being the law on an island full of whisky, eh?’
Serenity now. Adam made a conscious effort not to look at his watch as they headed past a tiny dreich airstrip then more expanses of bleak bracken.
Luke hunched forward between Adam and Roddy.
‘Can we please listen to some decent music, man,’ he said.
3
They walked round the crescent of Port Ellen’s main street, a slate sea and gritty beach to their left, a row of twee, whitewashed fishermen’s cottages on the right. Snowclouds were breaking up into a dappled sky as a sharp westerly brought salty freshness to their noses.
As the only previous visitor, Adam was tour guide. They’d already dumped their bags in the B amp;B at the other end of Frederick Crescent and were heading to the closer of the town’s two pubs for a liquid lunch. After that the plan was to head out the coast road for some distillery visits. Laphroaig, Lagavulin and Ardbeg were all within four miles. Three of the best whiskies in the world, all made on the same stretch of remote, craggy coastline. Adam could taste the peat and seaweed already, or maybe that was the finish of Roddy’s single-cask Port Ellen still on his tongue.
The Ardview Inn was indistinguishable from neighbouring B amp;Bs and homes, sea-blasted white walls and black window frames, stunted palm tree planted in a half barrel across the road. As they approached, a slim figure came outside and lit up. She was young and tall with a long mess of scraggy black hair, and she shivered against the wind in skinny T-shirt and combats.
‘Aye, aye,’ said Roddy. ‘High Street honey at twelve o’clock.’
The rest of them had already noticed, of course, but only Roddy would comment. As they reached the door she lifted a shoulder to let them past, Roddy going first, passing close and eyeballing.
‘Hi, there,’ he said, lingering at the door.
She raised a weary eyebrow and put on a smile that said she had his number.
Roddy checked her out a moment longer then fired in, the rest in his wake.
Inside, four locals turned and stared. An old couple with collapsed faces and blood-burst noses turned back to their cloudy half-and-a-halfs, two younger guys in Meatloaf and Maiden sweatshirts getting back to swapping bullshit over shiny Kawasakis in a magazine. Adam looked at his watch and resisted the urge to press the button.
‘Grab a seat, amigos,’ said Roddy, ‘I’ll get them in.’
They sat at a scuffed wooden bench with shiny grey leatherette padding.
‘So what’s the plan, like?’ said Luke.
Adam grinned and rubbed his hands together.
‘Couple of distillery visits this afternoon,’ he said. ‘Laphroaig, Ardbeg and Lagavulin are all just along the coast, I thought we’d take in a couple of them.’
Ethan nodded keenly. ‘Did you see that Ardbeg’s Uigeadail got World Whisky of the Year in Jim Murray’s new Whisky Bible?’
Adam snorted. ‘That old hack is obsessed with Ardbeg. There are eight bloody pages of Ardbeg in there. Don’t get me wrong, Uigeadail is a fine malt but the basic ten-year-old is better, so’s that Corryvreckan they’ve been punting.’
‘Have you tasted Lord of the Isles?’ said Ethan.
Adam nodded. ‘Way more fruity than the others, cherries and tangerines. Stupidly overpriced, though, it’s? 200 in the distillery shop.’
‘That Ardbeg at the Society was the business, man,’ Luke drawled.
It always surprised Adam what a good memory Luke had, considering how much he toked. All four of them were members of the Scotch Malt Whisky Society back in Edinburgh where they had nights out every couple of months, usually at the ancient Vaults bondhouse in Leith or occasionally in the corporate-whore cash-in joint on Queen Street. A few months back they’d tried a young first-fill sherry-butt Ardbeg, only nine years old but complex and challenging.
Their expeditions to the Society were just about the only time they saw each other these days, twenty years on from when they’d first met as fellow maths students at Edinburgh Uni, four outsiders who didn’t fit the geeky cliques and nerdy stereotypes. Over those years their lives had drifted apart, but their love of whisky had somehow kept them tethered together, that and a shared reluctance to give up entirely on the promise of their teenage years.
Adam looked around the bar. The low ceiling and small windows made it feel like they were in a ship’s hold, with wood panelling, battered chairs, seafaring memorabilia and cheap tiles all straight out of the seventies. There was an acrid stench coming from the bogs. He’d been in here a few times on previous visits to the island, only for a nightcap, as he didn’t like nursing a pint on his own, especially when the locals were all shitfaced. Why expose yourself to that when you’ve got a bottle of quality malt back at the B amp;B?
He’d been six times in the last ten years, always on his own, a busman’s holiday away from the shop. He’d worked at Edinburgh Whiskies all that time and had talked about leaving for most of it. The shop sat amongst all the tartan tat sellers at the top of the Royal Mile, and as a result made most of its money selling Bell’s miniatures, whisky fudge and malt-scented soap to ignorant tourists. They actually stocked some of the best malts in the world, but trying to get vacant-headed visitors interested was like pulling teeth. He got plenty of perks — free tastings, staff discount and occasional jollies to industry events — but that didn’t compensate for the daily grind of explaining the basics to arseholes, and punting shortbread and branded golf balls. Adam grimaced as he pictured his daily walk to work up the length of the Royal Mile, trudging past the endless string of garish, embarrassing tourist traps, elbowing through gangs of foreigners taking pictures of crumbling buildings, a dark cloud over his head the whole way.
All the time he’d worked there he’d never made it near management, always been passed over. He knew he wasn’t a team player; he couldn’t give a fuck about promotional campaigns or innovative stock control methods or whatever, so he wasn’t surprised. These days his boss was an amiable Canadian with a beer belly and a mullet, and he worked alongside a student with model looks who spoke Japanese, German and Swedish, and a keen little shit doing night classes in business management.
He looked over at the bar. Roddy was chatting away to the girl from outside, who turned out to be the barmaid. Her body language was aloof but she was smiling as he leaned over to her, then she laughed and played with her hair as he offered his money.
‘He’s well coked, man,’ said Luke, following Adam’s gaze. ‘Still buzzing from last night?’
All of them had been invited to Amber, Roddy’s idea of a pre-weekend whisky warm-up, but Ethan and Luke had perhaps wisely declined. Adam had a vague memory of stumbling out of the place into a taxi, leaving Roddy chatting to a waitress as the place closed up.
‘Could be.’
‘He needs to calm down,’ said Ethan.
