'Have it your way, then,' said Wally and swaggered through the lounge to
the bar-room door. He put his foot against the lock and the flimsy
mechanism yielded to the pressure. The door flew open and Wally marched
across to the counter, laid his rifle on it and reached underneath to
the shelves loaded with Simba beer.
The first bottle he emptied without taking it from his lips. He belched
luxuriously and reached for the second, hooked the cap off with the
opener and inspected the bubble of froth that appeared at its mouth.
'Hendry! Wally looked up at Mike Haig in the doorway.
'Hello, Mike.' He grinned.
'What do you think you're doing?' Mike demanded.
'What does it look like?' Wally raised the bottle in salutation and then
sipped delicately at the froth.
'Bruce has given strict orders that no one is allowed in here.'
'Oh, for Chrissake, Haig. Stop acting like an old woman.'
'Out you get, Hendry. I'm in charge here.'
'Mike,' Wally grinned at him, you
want me to die of thirst or something?' He leaned his elbows on the
counter.
'Give me a couple more minutes. Let me finish my drink.' Mike
Haig glanced behind him into the lounge and saw the interested group of
civilians who were craning to see into the bar-room. He closed the door
and walked across to stand opposite Hendry.
'Two minutes, Hendry,' he agreed in an unfriendly tone, then out with
you.'
'You're not a bad guy, Mike. You and I rubbed each other up wrong. I
tell you something, I'm sorry about us.' 'Drink up!' said
Mike. Without turning Wally reached backwards and took a bottle of
Remy Martin cognac off the shelf. He pulled the cork with his teeth,
selected a brandy balloon with his free hand and poured a little of the
oily amber fluid into it.
'Keep me company, Mike,' he said and slid the glass across the counter
towards Haig. First without expression, and then with his face seeming
to crumble, older and tired-looking. Mike Haig stared at the glass. He
moistened his lips again, With a physical wrench he pulled
his eyes away from the glass.
'Damn you, Hendry.' His voice unnaturally low. 'God damn you to hell.'
He hit out at the glass, spinning it off the counter to shatter against
the far wall.
'Did I do something wrong, Mike?' asked Hendry softly.
'Just offered you a drink, that's all.' The smell of spilt brandy arose,
sharp, fruity with the warmth of the grape, and Mike moistened his lips
again.
The saliva jetting from under his tongue, and the deep yearning aching
want in his stomach spreading outwards slowly, numbing him.
'Damn you,' he whispered. 'Oh, damn you, damn you,' pleading now as
Hendry filled another glass.
'How long has it been, Mike? A year, two years? Try a little, just a
mouthful. Remember the lift it gives you. Come on, boy.
You're tired, you've worked hard. Just one - there you are. just have
