Smokeheads (2 page)

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&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&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&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.

‘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 fiancée, but then only Roddy could’ve got a gorgeous model fiancée 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.

‘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?’

The visitor centre was empty, an untended bar and reception area swathed in the racing green and white of the distillery’s logo. Shelves of spotlit bottles, clothing, glassware and other tourist guff lined the walls.

‘Hey, no fuck’s home,’ said Roddy, slinking behind the bar. ‘Reckon we can help ourselves?’

He lifted a bottle of thirty-year-old from the gantry and pretended to neck it. As he was doing a comedy glugging motion the door behind him swung open and a woman walked through. She was early thirties, short and curvy with long fair hair cut in a no-nonsense fringe and tied back. She wore a branded green T-shirt and short black skirt, showing off full breasts and shapely legs. She had green eyes that matched the Laphroaig bottles and a kind smile which faded when she spotted Roddy dicking around. She tilted her head at a reproachful angle and put out a hand.

‘If you don’t mind?’

Roddy handed over the bottle and sauntered out from behind the bar. ‘Just mucking about.’

‘So I see.’ She had a soft accent, a lilting rhythm to every word. She returned the bottle to the gantry, turned and spotted Adam.

‘Oh, hi there,’ she said, her smile switching back on. ‘Haven’t seen you for a while. Adam, right?’

‘Right,’ said Adam, feeling his cheeks flush a little. ‘Yeah, I don’t think you were working last time I was here.’

‘When was that?’ she said, leaning on the bar.

‘April, I think.’

Her eyes darkened a moment. ‘Yeah, took some time off around then. Needed a break.’ She refocused on the room. ‘You here for the weekend?’

Adam nodded.

‘And you’ve brought company this time, I see.’

‘Sorry about this idiot, we can’t take him anywhere.’

She waved it away. There was a moment’s awkward pause.

‘So, are you wanting to go on the tour? I mean, I know
you
know all about the place, but for the rest of them?’

‘Exactly,’ said Adam. ‘We’re doing a few distilleries while we’re here, I thought we’d start with the best.’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘Bet you say that to all the tour guides.’

Adam flushed again.

‘Next tour starts in ten minutes,’ she said, looking at her watch. ‘You can wait in the lounge, since you’re a Friend.’

‘Thanks.’

Adam led the others into a separate room with plush leather sofas and casks for tables. As they walked, Roddy nudged him in the ribs.

‘Well?’

‘What?’

‘Don’t be fucking coy,’ said Roddy. ‘All this time, you’ve had a woman stashed on Islay.’

‘Molly?’

‘Is that her name?’

‘I think so.’

Roddy laughed. ‘Fuck off, you know so. She remembers you, anyway.’

‘So?’

‘So? How many times have you met?’

‘I dunno, two or three. Maybe four.’

‘And when was the last time?’

‘Piss off with the interrogation, Roddy.’

‘When?’

‘The whisky festival they have here on the island, the year before last. Eighteen months ago, I suppose.’

‘A year and a half and she remembers your name? You are
so
in there.’

Adam sighed. ‘She’s a distillery tour guide, Roddy, she’s paid to be nice to visitors.’

‘I bet she doesn’t remember everyone’s name, though, does she? And she called you a friend.’

Adam smiled. ‘That’s Friend with a capital “F”. It’s a gimmick where you sign up online and get a square foot of peat bog or something. I only joined to get priority on new expressions.’

Roddy started singing. ‘Adam and Molly up a tree, F-U-C-K-I-N-G …’

‘Shut the hell up,’ said Adam, punching his arm and looking round. ‘She’ll hear you.’

‘You like her,’ said Roddy in a childish voice.

Adam rolled his eyes. ‘This isn’t primary school, Roddy. Besides, she’s married.’

‘How do you know?’

‘She mentioned her husband last time I met her.’

‘That means fuck all,’ said Roddy. ‘She’s probably just playing hard to get or warding off psychos. Midge is always telling guys she’s married to get them to back off. Anyway, eighteen months is a long time, a lot can happen in a year and a half.’

They were joined in the lounge by three bald, geeky guys dressed like Arctic explorers.

‘Swedes,’ whispered Luke as Roddy continued to goad Adam.

‘How can you tell?’ said Ethan, but Luke just shrugged.

Adam looked over at Molly behind the counter. He’d first met her a few years back when she’d given him the tour here, Adam lurking amongst Japanese and German visitors. She was friendly and liberal with the measures at the end of the tour, and he’d lingered and chatted after the others had gone. She knew her stuff, knew all about the history of whisky on the island and the chemistry of distillation, but more importantly she had a wide smile, shining eyes and a bottle of twenty-five-year-old in her hand.

Ever since then he’d looked out for her, his heart sagging a little if she wasn’t working. He hadn’t seen her on a couple of visits and had almost forgotten about her by the time he visited the whisky festival the year before last. When he spotted her at the Laphroaig stall she’d been as friendly and chatty as ever, but his heart sank again when she mentioned her husband.

Not that he thought for a minute he’d ever have a chance with her – she was younger than him, better looking and full of life and smiles. Why would she be interested in a cynical dramhead like him? And besides, she lived here on the island, several hours by road and ferry from Edinburgh. Anyway, he would never have the bottle to make a move on her, so it was entirely hypothetical. Then again, there was the big plan he had in his pocket. If Roddy went for it, Adam would be spending a whole lot more time on Islay, time he could use to get to know Molly better. He shook his head as he felt his heart race; he was getting way ahead of himself as usual.

Molly checked her watch and made her way to the lounge. She had a comfortable, sexy walk, a lack of self-consciousness that Adam envied. She grinned warmly at him then addressed the room.

‘This way for the tour, gentlemen,’ she said, holding open a large door.

Roddy slid up to Adam. ‘Spot that?’

‘What?’

Roddy made a goon face and pointed at a finger on his left hand. ‘No ring, Loverboy. She’s not wearing a fucking ring.’