Doug Johnstone - Smokeheads

He remembered something and knelt to open his holdall. He took out his jacket, went through the pockets and pulled out a wad of congealed paper mulch. It was his distillery plans, soaked in the loch and then dried along with his clothes, utterly useless now, just a shapeless lump of indecipherable pulp. He tried to prise a few sheets apart, but bits just flaked off in his hands, crumbling to pieces that were whipped away by the wind. He leant over the railing and opened his fingers, releasing the paper wad so that it tumbled down into the dark. He watched as it quickly dissolved and was scattered by the relentless waves.

He thought about his own body following, tipping over the small handrail and into the inky, oily mass of the sea. What would it feel like to throw yourself into the water? The sudden shock of the cold knocking the breath from your lungs, the icy fingers of water surrounding you, dragging you under into blissful oblivion, wiping all the evil thoughts from your mind, erasing your whole being, absorbing you into its unfathomable vastness, its cold, unthinking expanses.

His hands gripped the rail tightly, his fingers numb. He could easily imagine his body moving quickly up and over, then falling freely down into the deep. Then it seemed like he was really doing it, felt like he was climbing up onto the handrail, his blank mind watching it all from afar. He couldn’t work out how his body was moving, but it was, he was being drawn inexorably towards the churning wash beneath the ferry, hypnotised by the endless ebb and flow of the water below, calling him downwards, pleading for him to join with it.

He felt a strong tug on his arm and fell back from the edge.

‘What the fuck are you playing at?’ Roddy shouted, holding on to his sleeve. ‘You could’ve fallen in.’

‘Maybe that’s the point.’

Roddy rolled his eyes. ‘Oh please, fucking spare me. I’m not going to have to spend this whole trip on suicide watch, am I? Come on, you’re better than this.’

‘Am I?’

‘Yeah, you fucking well are.’

‘I’m not so sure.’

Roddy shook his head. ‘I’m not going to give you the whole “You’ve got so much to live for” bullshit, you know all that.’

‘Don’t you feel anything?’

‘About what?’

‘About everything that’s happened. About Ethan and Luke.’

‘Of course I do,’ said Roddy. ‘I’m not a complete fucking moron. I know you think I am, but I’m not. I’ve been through the wars same as you, seen some terrible shit and lost two friends, you think I don’t feel it? Maybe I just deal with that sort of shit better, maybe I just put it behind me and get on with life.’

‘I don’t know how you can do that,’ said Adam. ‘Put it behind you and get on with life.’

‘I just do,’ said Roddy. ‘What else is there to do? Jump in the fucking sea? What does that prove? Nothing, except that cunts like Joe and Grant have won, they’ve got to you so much you can’t take it. I refuse to let those pricks win, and if you do by ending it all then you’re just as big an arsehole as them.’

‘Piss off, Hunter.’

‘Fuck you, Strachan.’

Adam felt his blood heating up and surging wildly through his veins.

‘This was all your fault anyway,’ he said, voice rising.

‘We’ve been over this fucking shit,’ said Roddy. ‘You’re right to be angry, but not at me, dickhead.’

‘If you hadn’t been such a prick behind the wheel, none of this would’ve happened.’

‘If, if, if,’ said Roddy, exasperated. ‘You can’t live your life thinking about what-ifs. You just have to get on with it. Live your life, be a man of action for once.’

‘A man of action?’ Adam’s vision went blurry, his muscles tensed, a burning sensation rose up in his throat.

‘That’s right.’

Adam grabbed Roddy and swung him round against the handrail. He punched Roddy’s injured shoulder, making him cry out and crumple in pain, then pushed him back against the rail, bending him backwards over it. He had a hold of Roddy’s coat and shook him with all his might, the wind gusting and whipping around them in a frenzy.

‘What if I just throw you in right now!’ He was screaming in Roddy’s face, spit flying.

Roddy had an elated look on his face. ‘That’s the fucking stuff, let it all out.’

‘Shut the fuck up.’

Roddy was grinning. ‘If you push me over, I’ll take you with me. Then we’ll be fucking living, won’t we? Until we drown, of course.’

‘Maybe I really don’t give a shit,’ said Adam, keeping Roddy pinned. ‘Maybe we both deserve to die.’

Roddy raised his eyebrows then spoke quietly. ‘I don’t think you mean that.’

Adam felt his resolve weaken and knew Roddy was right. He could feel his fury abating already, his hold of Roddy’s coat loosening, the black fog of his mind clearing as he pictured the two of them tumbling over the side of the ferry and into the water, gripping each other until the force of the impact split them for ever.

He couldn’t kill Roddy, just like he couldn’t kill himself. He would have to keep living, with everything in his head, whether he liked it or not. A fucking life sentence.

He eased off on Roddy, let him back up, then finally let go of his coat and stepped away.

Roddy smiled, eyes wide. ‘That was quite something, eh? Felt the blood pumping, didn’t you? I know I fucking did.’

He rubbed his shoulder and grimaced, then pulled a bottle of pills out of his pocket. He shook out four and put them in his mouth. He got his hipflask out and took a glug to wash them down.

‘Codeine,’ he said. ‘Got ’em by chatting up one of those nice nurses. Bollocks weak compared to the morphine, but they take the edge off. Fancy some?’

Adam looked at the bottle. Take the edge off. That sounded like something he could use.

‘Why not.’

He popped four in his mouth and Roddy held out the hipflask.

‘I got the barman downstairs to fill up with something special from under the bar,’ he said. ‘See if you can nail it.’

Adam shook his head but took the flask, swigging quickly to wash the pills down. He took a long sniff then another big sip, letting the malt roll around and over his tongue, his tasting skills kicking in instinctively. He lost himself in the process, letting the aromas curl over his tongue, the taste sensations coming at him thick and fast, a blast of salty sea breeze to match the wind buffeting them, huge flavours developing, sticky sweetness of toffee, a kick of mustard, oak smoke and worn leather. It was a thing of beauty, one of the finest malts he’d ever tasted, definitely one of the big guns.

‘Ardbeg,’ he said.

‘Which one?’

‘It’s old. Maybe twenty-five years. From a vintage year like ’74 or ’77.’

Roddy smiled. ‘Come on, then.’

‘The ’74 Provenance?’

Roddy shook his head. ‘You are a fucking enigma, Strachan. I seriously don’t know how you do it.’

Adam shrugged and took a big hit from the flask, this time drinking it straight down. He hoped it would warm his chest. He waited for the effect to kick in, but he still felt cold.

Roddy took the flask off him and put a hand on his shoulder.

‘Come on, let’s get in out of this fucking wind, I’m freezing my bollocks off out here.’

Roddy turned and went inside, holding the door open. Adam stared one last time out to sea then followed Roddy into the lounge.