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.
