Andrew Ervin: Burning Down George Orwell's House

“Dance around a fire?”

“Naked men?” Fuller asked.

“Where do you get these ideas, eh? Where does she get these ideas, Pitcairn?”

“It’s that fucking school over there putting ideas in her head.”

“Fuckin’ Islay,” Sponge said: the first words he had spoken all evening.

Ray stood and tried to put as much distance between himself and that stew as possible, but he felt drunker than he had realized and had to grip the table for support. The men chuckled at his clumsiness. Molly rolled her eyes in embarrassment.

“Not much of a drinker, are you, Chappie?”

“I do all right. It’s just been a long day. Enjoy your nude fire dance or whatever it is you have planned.”

“Just a little expedition, that’s all, eh?”

“Thanks for the dram,” Farkas said. He was by far the friendliest of the bunch.

“What time will you be needing a ride up to Barnhill, then?” Pitcairn asked.

“A ride?”

“It’s over twenty miles, isn’t it? And there are your supplies from The Stores. What are you going to do, carry them on your back?”

“I—”

The other men were laughing at him now.

“I’ll come pick you up after breakfast, how does that sound?”

“Nine o’clock?”

“Six o’clock, seven o’clock, eight o’clock. I don’t know. Jesus. After breakfast.”

“One word of advice,” Fuller said, “you won’t be needing your watch any longer, not here.”

“Not unless you’re hoping to catch old Singer down at the ferry,” Farkas said.

“Fuckin’ Islay,” Sponge said.

“Where is Singer? That codger said he’d be here.”

“Doing some preparations, I imagine, eh?”

“Trying to shoot a nonexistent animal, I imagine,” Molly said.

Pitcairn slapped the table with both palms. “Would you kindly shut the fuck up, girlie?” he yelled.

“Be a good girl now,” Farkas said.

“Okay, I’ll see you after breakfast,” Ray said. He needed to lie down. “Good night.”

“Good night,” Farkas said.

Pitcairn’s angry whispers followed him to the lobby and up the stairs. Ray stopped at the landing to eavesdrop but couldn’t make out what the men were saying. He was curious about what they had planned but felt way too exhausted to care.

Then it hit him. He raced his legs back up the stairs, pushed through the unlocked door, and tore off his damp pants just in time to relieve his bowels of that stew. It poured out of him in torrents. He expelled what felt like a lifetime’s accumulation of poison, then crawled naked under the damp quilt and closed his eyes. Sleep — that was all he required now. Eight uninterrupted, unmoving hours.

They did not arrive.

Sleep and Ray Welter had never learned to play well together. Every night, as long as he could remember, he had always looked forward to morning. He hoped things would be different here, where he wouldn’t need to wake up at any certain time to get to a job he hated. He no longer had to do anything. Yet he remained awake for hours with his eyes propped open by excitement, alcohol, jet lag, anxiety.

The hands of the bedside clock didn’t budge and Ray realized that the batteries had gone dead or the cord had come unplugged. The bed grew less comfortable by the minute. Hard lumps in the mattress familiarized themselves with the tenderest parts of his back. He heard noises — not necessarily in the room, but not necessarily outside either. Then there was some commotion down in the parking lot. Car doors slamming. Something that sounded like a gunshot followed by a lot of laughter. There might have been a party going on. The noise got to be too much. He threw the covers off and crept to the window. It looked as if the entire population of the island had gathered. They formed a rowdy convoy of rusted trucks with squeaky axles and drove off into the night. Ray put a pillow over his head.

After another hour, or maybe two or three, he threw the blanket off and got up. The noise outside had stopped. He found the driest of his clothes and slipped down the stairs, which creaked enough to wake the other hotel guests, if there were any.

A voice asked from the lounge, “Is that you, Ray?”

It took a moment to discern the hirsute shape sitting next to the dying fire. Spilt or drooled whisky glimmered in Farkas’s beard. Only a few small embers remained in the fireplace.

“What are you doing up?”

“Oh just enjoying a wee dram. Pour yourself one.”

Ray went to the bar and grabbed the first bottle within reach. It opened with a corky pop. He picked up two glasses that smelled mostly clean.

“Just a wee bit for me. Do you see that slip of paper that says ‘Wolfman’ on it?”

“Not really.”

“That’s my tab. Put two tick marks on it.”

“Is that your nickname?”

“Gavin’s idea of a joke,” he said, “not that I find it all that humorous. You might have noticed that he’s what you might call unhinged, especially when it comes to outsiders. I’ll ask you to stay on his good side, if you can find it.”

“That’s good to know — I’ll stay out of his way.”

“Aye, please do. I once watched him pummel a tourist senseless in the hotel parking lot for no reason anyone could see. They had to airlift the poor sod to a hospital.” Ray took the chair next to Farkas’s and handed him the glass, which he held to his nose. “A bit of the cask strength, then? A good choice.”

“Cask strength?”

“Not watered down, like we do. This is the pure thing. Slàinte.”

“Is that Gaelic?”

“Aye. ‘To your health.’ ”

“Slàinte.”

The whisky was stronger than anything Ray had ever tasted. It felt like molten lead in his windpipe. The pain felt great.

“I don’t mean to pry,” Farkas said, “but I would be remiss if I didn’t ask what you’re doing here. You’re obviously a clever man — we’ve all read about your advertising awards.”

“Thanks,” Ray said, but heard more sarcasm in his voice than he might have preferred. “It’s hard to explain. I knew I needed to get out of Chicago. I considered Nova Scotia, but that didn’t feel authentic or something. I’m kind of obsessed with George Orwell, so I decided I wanted to see — I needed to see — where he wrote Nineteen Eighty-Four .”

“I can respect that, I suppose. But most sensible people might have come for a short holiday, a couple of days at most, but six months?”

“For starters. Maybe I’ll stay longer. Who knows?”

“Who knows? ‘Nobody knows,’ ” Farkas sang. “ ‘No-body knows.’ Cheers, Ray.”

“Cheers, Farkas.”

“So how do you find the local malt?” Farkas asked.

“Delicious. I drink quite a bit of it back in Chicago. I drank quite a bit, I should say.”

“And you know that we keep the best of it for ourselves, don’t you?”

“That would make sense.”

“Sense, aye — that’s precisely what it makes! We make scents at the distillery. You’ll have to let me show you around one day.”

“You work at the distillery? I’d love to see it,” Ray said, and meant it. “I’m going to pour one more of these and call it a day.”

“Jet lag is it?”

“Among other things. One more for you too?”

“I wouldn’t say no.”

Ray poured two more drams and with his eyes now fully adjusted to the low light was able to find his own tab. It said “Chappie” at the top and had more tick marks on it than he could count.

“Cheers, Farkas.”

“Cheers, Ray. Down the hatch!”

Farkas drank the entire glass in one long gulp and against his better judgment Ray did the same.

“Okay, I’m going to get some sleep. Or try to.”