‘Fat chance,’ said Adam.
Roddy quit flirting and brought the drinks over. Adam noticed the barmaid checking out Roddy’s arse as he walked towards them. Jesus, how did he do it?
‘Man, that is one dirty little minx,’ said Roddy.
‘Don’t be a twat,’ said Adam. ‘You only spoke for two minutes.’
‘Long enough.’
‘Did you even get her name?’
‘I did as it happens. Ash.’
‘And how did it go with the waitress last night? Can you remember her name?’
Roddy gave him a pitying look. ‘Her name was Julie. I should remember, I was howling it all night long.’
‘You were up all night?’ said Ethan.
Roddy nodded. ‘In both senses of the word, Mortgage Boy. A few lines and a couple of little blues.’
Adam knew he shouldn’t ask, but couldn’t help himself. ‘Little blues?’
‘Viagra, you fuckwit, get with the twenty-first century.’
‘You take Viagra?’
‘Got to keep up with the ching. Hard as a fucking brick for six hours. Still got a semi now.’
Roddy didn’t have an off button, no sense of embarrassment could penetrate his shield of self-delusion. On the other hand, he was the millionaire at the table, so maybe the delusion was all Adam’s.
He couldn’t resist. ‘And how’s Imogen? Wedding plans going fine?’
Roddy didn’t flinch. ‘Midge is great, thanks. And yes, plans for the nuptials are proceeding apace. Invites will be in the post in a few weeks. I know what you’re getting at, Mr High Ground, but it’s human nature, I’m just sowing my last few wild oats before taking the final plunge.’
‘So all this will stop when you’ve got a ring on your finger?’
Roddy grinned. ‘Of course.’
Only Roddy would have the bollocks to screw around behind the back of a gorgeous model fiancee, but then only Roddy could’ve got a gorgeous model fiancee in the first place.
Roddy pointed at the table. He’d bought four double nips.
‘Come on, then, gaylords,’ he said.
They went through the routine of eyeing and swirling, nosing then sipping. Adam looked at the bar. It was only a crappy wee local but they had dozens of malts on the gantry. Whisky was soaked into every facet of life on Islay, eight distilleries amid a population of only three thousand producing millions of gallons of the stuff every year, generating billions of pounds which all left the island to multinational owners in Italy, Japan and America.
They guessed in turn. Ethan nailed his maker, Caol Ila, but not the age, while Luke was way off with his Bruichladdich seven-year-old Waves, guessing at Bowmore. Luke didn’t really have the palate for tasting but didn’t seem to give a shit; he liked the whole vibe. Ethan was better but a bit trainspottery, while Roddy didn’t care as long as he got to flash his cash and buy them. Adam took another sip. It was smoky, all right, and salty, but something wasn’t quite right. There was a shitload of spice and pepper in there, chocolate too. Then it clicked.
‘Talisker,’ he said as Roddy beamed. Skye whisky, not Islay.
‘Thought I’d get you by going off the island. What age?’
Adam sipped again. Not the basic ten, but not a pensioner either. ‘Eighteen?’
‘Spot on,’ said Roddy and raised his glass. ‘Here’s to a great fucking weekend.’
They all clinked.
‘And to unleashing a couple of little blues on that number over there,’ he said, nodding at the barmaid.
4
‘Man, what a stink,’ said Luke as they poured out of the Audi into the Laphroaig car park.
Adam smiled. It was the first thing that struck him every time he visited, the pungent aroma, an overpowering blend of smoked fish, seaweed, tar, peat and iodine, a belt at the back of his sinuses that felt like home.
‘That’s the antiseptic smell of success,’ he said. ‘The best whisky in the world. Thought we might as well start at the top.’
They sauntered down the slope towards the sprawl of sturdy whitewashed buildings, pagoda roofs puffing hazily into a silent sky.
‘Hey, what’s your obsession with Laphroaig?’ said Luke as they walked behind the other two. ‘You’re always banging on about it.’
‘You know what it tastes like,’ said Adam. ‘It’s just a huge dram. The biggest balls in the world. It’s not afraid to smack you in the face, you know? It’s not a fruity Speyside or a heathery Highland, it’s sea and sand and sky and peat and everything that’s great about Scotland. Part-time drammers hate it, that’s good enough for me.’
‘Dude, you are such a whisky snob.’
‘I just appreciate when things are done right.’
Luke chuckled. ‘You’re ridiculous, man, the things you get worked up about. It’s just booze.’
Adam stopped, turned and pressed a finger into Luke’s chest, only half joking. ‘It is not just fucking booze. You don’t believe that any more than I do, or you wouldn’t be on this trip.’
‘I’m just here for the ride, mate, take it easy.’
They walked on, a beautiful rocky cove emerging behind the buildings, tufted crags flanking a sheltered natural harbour of icy blackness.
‘Listen, man,’ said Luke. ‘When are we gonna find ourselves some peatreek?’
Adam raised his eyebrows.
‘Hey, I can google,’ said Luke. ‘This island has a fine reputation for illegal hooch over the years. I want to taste some moonshine, get a bit of that bootleg action.’
Adam shook his head. ‘It’s just a myth, I don’t think there are illicit stills here any more.’
‘Come on, the history of this place? I bet there are hundreds of farmhouses and sheds on the island pumping out new spirit as we speak. You’ve been here before, you must’ve heard rumours.’
‘Occasionally, but that’s all they are.’
Luke smiled to himself as they reached the waterfront. ‘You just need to get a bit more friendly with the natives, man. I’m telling you, I’m gonna taste peatreek before this weekend is over.’
They caught up with Roddy and Ethan and stared out to sea. Two large black birds flapped low across the bay and out towards open water.
‘Cormorants,’ said Luke.
Adam pointed to a low dark hummock in the far distance. ‘See that? Northern Ireland.’
‘Wow, are we that close?’ said Ethan.
‘About thirty miles.’
Ethan turned round to face the distillery. ‘Check it out.’
They all turned to see LAPHROAIG painted in thick black lettering twelve feet high on a huge white wall. Ethan pulled out his phone and took a quick snapshot as they gazed at the humungous sign.
Adam thought about all the history soaked into the buildings here. Two hundred years since the place was established by a couple of farming brothers on the make, and hundreds more years of under-the-radar distilling before that. Generations of families had dedicated their lives to making whisky here, lived and died with the smell of the place permeating their bones, the peaty taste of it on their lips from cradle to grave.
He reached into his pocket and rubbed the folded sheets of paper in there between his fingers, thinking about what might happen tomorrow when he put the whole idea to Roddy. His chest rose and fell with a sharp breath.
‘OK, pooves,’ said Roddy, breaking the silence. ‘Let’s get inside and drink some of this shit, shall we?’
