Mort

“It says it’s Melon Brandy,” he said doubtfully. “It says it’s bottled by some monks to an ancient recipe,” he added.

I WILL TRY IT.

The man looked sideways at the empty glasses on the counter, some of them still containing bits of fruit salad, cherries on a stick and small paper umbrellas.

“Are you sure you haven’t had enough?” he said. It worried him vaguely that he couldn’t seem to make out the stranger’s face.

The glass, with its drink crystallising out on the sides, disappeared into the hood and came out again empty.

NO. WHAT IS THE YELLOW ONE WITH THE WASPS IN IT?

“Spring Cordial, it says. Yes?”

YES. AND THEN THE BLUE ONE WITH THE GOLD FLECKS.

“Er. Old Overcoat?”

YES. AND THEN THE SECOND ROW.

“Which one did you have in mind?”

ALL OF THEM.

The stranger remained bolt upright, the glasses with their burdens of syrup and assorted vegetation disappearing into the hood on a production line basis.

This is it, the landlord thought, this is style, this is where I buy a red jacket and maybe put some monkey nuts and a few gherkins on the counter, get a few mirrors around the place, replace the sawdust. He picked up a beer-soaked cloth and gave the woodwork a few enthusiastic wipes, speading the drips from the cordial glasses into a rainbow smear that took the varnish off. The last of the usual customers put on his hat and staggered out, muttering to himself.

I DON’T SEE THE POINT, the stranger said.

“Sorry?”

WHAT IS SUPPOSED TO HAPPEN?

“How many drinks have you had?”

FORTY-SEVEN.

“Just about anything, then,” said the barman and, because he knew his job and knew what was expected of him when people drank alone in the small hours, he started to polish a glass with the slops cloth and said, “Your lady thrown you out, has she?”

PARDON?

“Drowning your sorrows, are you?”

I HAVE NO SORROWS.

“No, of course not. Forget I mentioned it.” He gave the glass a few more wipes. “Just thought it helps to have someone to talk to,” he said.

The stranger was silent for a moment, thinking. Then he said: YOU WANT TO TALK TO ME?

“Yes. Sure. I’m a good listener.”

NO-ONE EVER WANTED TO TALK TO ME BEFORE.

“That’s a shame.”

THEY NEVER INVITE ME TO PARTIES, YOU KNOW.

“Tch.”

THEY ALL HATE ME. EVERYONE HATES ME. I DON’T HAVE A SINGLE FRIEND.

“Everyone ought to have a friend,” said the barman sagely.

I THINK—

“Yes?”

I THINK… I THINK I COULD BE FRIENDS WITH THE GREEN BOTTLE.

The landlord slid the octagon-bottle along the counter. Death took it and tilted it over the glass. The liquid tinkled on the rim.

YOU DRUNK I’M THINK, DON’T YOU?

“I serve anyone who can stand upright best out of three,” said the landlord.

YOURRRE ABSOROOTLY RIGHT. BUT I—

The stranger paused, one declamatory finger in the air.

WAS WHAT I SAYING?

“You said I thought you were drunk.”

AH. YES, BUT I CAN BE SHOBER ANY TIME I LIKE. THIS ISH AN EXPERIMENT. AND NOW I WOULD LIKES TO EXPERIMENT WITH THE ORANGE BRANDY AGAIN.

The landlord sighed, and glanced at the clock. There was no doubt that he was making a lot of money, especially since the stranger didn’t seem inclined to worry about overcharging or short change. But it was getting late; in fact it was getting so late that it was getting early. There was also something about the solitary customer that unsettled him. People in The Mended Drum often drank as though there was no tomorrow, but this was the first time he’d actually felt they might be right.

I MEAN, WHAT HAVE I GOT TO LOOK FORWARD TO? WHERE’S THE SENSE IN IT ALL? WHAT IS IT REALLY ALL ABOUT?

“Can’t say, my friend. I expect you’ll feel better after a good night’s sleep.”

SLEEP? SLEEP? I NEVER SLEEP. I’M WOSSNAME, PROVERBIAL FOR IT.

“Everyone needs their sleep. Even me,” he hinted.

THEY ALL HATE ME, YOU KNOW.

“Yes, you said. But it’s a quarter to three.”

The stranger turned unsteadily and looked around the silent room.

THERE’S NO-ONE IN THE PLACE BUT YOU AND I, he said.

The landlord lifted up the flap and came around the bar, helping the stranger down from his stool.

I HAVEN’T GOT A SINGLE FRIEND. EVEN CATS FIND ME AMUSING.

A hand shot out and grabbed a bottle of Amanita Liquor before the man managed to propel its owner to the door, wondering how someone so thin could be so heavy.

I DON’T HAVE TO BE DRUNK, I SAID. WHY DO PEOPLE LIKE TO BE DRUNK? IS IT FUN?

“Helps them forget about life, old chap. Now just you lean there while I get the door open—”

FORGET ABOUT LIFE. HA. HA.

“You come back any time you like, y’hear?”

YOU’D REALLY LIKE TO SEE ME AGAIN?

The landlord looked back at the small heap of coins on the bar. That was worth a little weirdness. At least this one was a quiet one, and seemed to be harmless.

“Oh, yes,” he said, propelling the stranger into the street and retrieving the bottle in one smooth movement. “Drop in anytime.”

THAT’S THE NICEHEST THING—

The door slammed on the rest of the sentence.

———

Ysabell sat up in bed.

The knocking came again, soft and urgent. She pulled the covers up to her chin.

“Who is it?” she whispered.

“It’s me, Mort,” came the hiss under the door. “Let me in, please!”

“Wait!”