Doug Johnstone - Smokeheads

He leant on the bar and examined the gantry. They really did have an impressive collection of malts, dozens of familiar and rare bottles neatly lined up. Something caught his eye towards the far end, a squat, stunted bottle with ‘X4+1’ in large lettering on a plain black label. He’d never seen it before; it didn’t seem to have a distillery logo.

‘Deliverance.’

Adam turned. It was the old guy with the blood-burst nose who’d been in with his wife at lunchtime. He nodded towards the bottle Adam had been looking at.

‘What?’

‘Bruichladdich Deliverance, from the Feis Ile.’

Adam hadn’t been at the most recent whisky festival, that’s why he didn’t recognise it. Must be a special bottling.

‘What’s the X4+1 all about?’

‘Quadruple distilled, one year old.’

‘What? That’s insane.’

He’d never heard anything like it. What the fuck were Bruichladdich doing selling one-year-old spirit? They couldn’t even call it whisky till it had lived in a barrel for three years. And quadruple distilled? He knew they were doing some experimental shit up there, but that was ridiculous.

The old man nodded slowly.

‘I’m going to have to try some of that,’ said Adam.

The man sucked his teeth. ‘It’s not cheap. Eight bar a nip.’

‘Fuck it.’ Adam waved the barman over. ‘Give me a nip of that Deliverance stuff.’

He looked apologetically at the old man. ‘I would get you one, but

…’

The old man raised his hand, waved a large dram at him. ‘I’m fine with this.’

The barman clunked the shot on the table and Adam paid. He nosed it — toffee and candyfloss, very woody. It was powerful stuff. He took a sip and got an explosion of fruit, apricot and peach, liquorice folding into a fizzy sensation like lemonade. The finish was like cheap sweets full of E numbers, somehow spicy too.

‘Wow, that’s one weird dram.’

‘Aye,’ said the old man.

Adam examined the glass. ‘You think quadruple distilling will catch on?’

The old man sighed. ‘Stranger things have happened.’

Adam looked at him. ‘What do you think of what they’re doing up there?’

The old man shrugged. ‘Fair play to ’em, they’re bringing the whole thing into the new millennium, aren’t they?’

‘I thought you’d be against them pissing about with the island’s tradition.’

The old man laughed. ‘Tradition? Half these places were mothballed for years, and before that almost every Islay whisky got used for cheap blends anyway.’

‘Yeah, but you’ve been making whisky here for centuries.’

‘Aye, often undrinkable shite.’ The man broke off with a racking cough, like his lungs were mutinying.

‘So you’re in favour of new operations starting up, then?’

The old man nodded. ‘If they use local expertise and stay as part of the community, where’s the harm? The big guys pump all their money off the island at the moment. What we need are local businesses adding to the economy here on the island. Every new distillery brings the tourists in, no bad thing for the Ileach.’

Adam took another sip of Deliverance. It was a complete shock to his palate.

The old man coughed again, snorting and gagging a little.

‘Time for a fag,’ he mumbled. He picked up a rolly tin and headed towards the door.

Adam turned back to the bar and examined his glass for a moment, letting the white noise of the pub wash over him.

‘All alone?’

He turned to see Molly in a long green parka. She pulled the hood down and ran a hand through her hair, which fell in long curves to her shoulders.

‘Hi,’ said Adam, suddenly self-conscious. ‘Yeah, Roddy’s just gone to the loo, the other two are still at the B amp;B.’

Molly smiled. ‘And you wanted to get a head start, eh?’

‘Something like that.’ Adam looked round. ‘Where’s your sister?’

Molly followed his gaze. ‘Meeting her here. She’ll be lurking in the shadows. She’s never far from a drink.’

Adam fought the urge to look at his heart rate. ‘What can I get you?’

‘Pint of Nerabus, thanks.’

‘What?’

Molly pointed to an Islay Ales tap at the bar. ‘Nerabus. A winter warmer.’

He’d seen the ale taps earlier but hadn’t got one, scared Roddy would take the piss out of him for being an old fogey. He downed what was left of his Deliverance, sending a shudder slithering through his neck and shoulders, and ordered two Nerabus. When he turned back Molly had her coat off. She was wearing a long-sleeved top with a Dangermouse T-shirt over it.

‘I used to love Dangermouse,’ said Adam, staring at her breasts.

‘Got it online,’ she said. ‘Cool, eh?’

‘Very.’ He lifted his gaze eventually. ‘Well, cheers.’

They clinked glasses and drank. The beer tasted of caramel and chocolate. It was comforting after the madness of Deliverance in his mouth. Adam lifted his glass and looked at the deep ruby colour.

‘Very nice,’ he said, nodding.

‘Told you.’

Adam heard a commotion and turned. Roddy and Ash had stumbled into a nearby table and were apologising and laughing. They pitched up to Adam and Molly, wiping their noses, leaning on each other, eyes like pinpricks. Adam cringed.

‘I see you’ve already met my little sister,’ said Molly.

‘Hey, Moll,’ said Ash, sniffing loudly. ‘You know these guys?’

Adam and Roddy stared at the two women, Roddy recovering first.

‘Looks like we can skip the introductions,’ he said, getting his ridiculous alligator-skin wallet out and riffling the notes stacked inside. ‘Why don’t you all grab a table and I’ll get a round in. It’s time to get this party started.’

‘So you guys are smokeheads?’ said Ash, her gaze drifting round the table.

Ethan and Luke had turned up and the six of them were hurtling headlong towards hammered thanks to Roddy’s magic porridge pot of a wallet. Drunken noise made a swirling blizzard around them.

‘Smokeheads?’ said Roddy.

Molly leaned in to the middle of the table. ‘It’s what we call fans of Islay malts. Outsiders, not the Ileach.’

‘The what?’ said Ethan.

‘Ileach,’ said Molly. ‘People of Islay. It’s Gaelic.’

‘Adam’s the malt expert,’ said Ethan.

‘You work in a whisky shop, right?’ said Molly, turning to Adam.

Adam sipped his dram, a decent Bunnahabhain but nothing special. ‘A tourist trap really, but we have some good stock.’

Roddy had his arm on the back of Ash’s seat as he shouted over the table. ‘Fuck’s sake, you two are made for each other, a distillery guide and a whisky-shop worker. Imagine the little dram-soaked nippers you’d have, suckled on cask strength.’

Adam shifted in his seat. ‘Sorry about him,’ he said quietly to Molly. ‘He’s king of the arseholes.’

‘Is it him or the coke?’ said Molly.

Adam raised his eyebrows, but then realised it was obvious what fuelled Roddy’s bullshit. ‘Hard to tell them apart, it’s been so long since I’ve seen him without it.’

Molly looked at Roddy whispering in Ash’s ear, Ash giggling away. ‘I know what you mean, I haven’t seen Ash sober in ages.’

Adam looked at Molly, who seemed suddenly downcast.

‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s stick some tunes on the jukebox.’

By the time he caught up with her at the ancient, glowing wall-mounted machine she was already punching in numbers off by heart. He flicked through the album covers to find what she’d put on.

‘Abba?’ he said. ‘Seriously?’

Molly smiled in mock offence. ‘What’s wrong with Abba?’

Adam looked at her. ‘Just not my kind of thing, that’s all.’