Water's Edge

Chapter XVII

Ælfric's Colloquy

It was getting late, and I needed a proper beer. Not the swill Becky had got me.

"Half a Stella." I asked, settling on the stool at The Thornbush.

Thursday night was Karaoke night. And people had a lot of steam to get off their lungs. If there was one easy way to handle rage it was to put on Bat Out of Hell and get rid of the day's troubles. I hated karaoke.

The TV was just winding down on BBC News. I had no idea why they had kept the B, the British, seeing as Britain had ended years ago. Four independent nations: England, Alba, Cymru and Éire. No Kingdom under God any more. I didn't really have a dog in that race. Didn't care if the countries were as one or apart. I just wish people would get on. It was a naïve thought, for a detective especially. People would never get on. We love each other too much.

I sipped the Stella, watching the far smaller weather map try and fill the time with county reports. Not as much to say when you can't complain about the weather in Scotland. It really laboured how small an isle we really were. No wonder we were fighting over every little thing—maybe when the racists argued there wasn't enough room for more immigrants, they were right, but there wasn't a hell of a lot space for even the locals any more.

A wide-bottomed man set up the karaoke mic. I thought about the funerals that would come to town, who would be attending, what it all meant. I put the roll-up between dry lips.

And my theory was trashed. The environmentalists definitely had something against Winthrop; one Tory is the same as any other for people like Joseph Quintana. Killing one would have sent a message. And to add insult to injury, why not pop off one of their kids. But that had never sat right with me: hippies might get violent in their protests, but only in warranted retaliation. Smashing up windows, the odd kidnapping. Throwing a kid into the estuary just didn't add up. And now one of their own was found dead. Who had it out for both the left and the right? The right and the wrong?

I winced. The mic had some awful feedback. It was the bird call of the open mic, of the karaoke bar. I hated it, but if I wanted to watch people get rid of their woes, here would be the place. And if I got to ogle Becky and Sally—it doesn't matter how good you try and be, some part of you will never balance the scales.

"Didn't expect you here!" I smelt before I saw: Cola Bux had found a seat beside me. Weirdos clung to me like lichen.

"I could say the same to you."

"Oh, I love karaoke. I'm pretty good." Sure. "Get ya a drink?"

"Half a Stella."

"Why not get a pint, if ya gonna drink that much anyway." I just shrugged. I had always done it that way, "Suit yaself. You talked t' Babbitt yet?"

I wracked my brains. Babbitt? "The scholar?"

"Aye. Historian. Archaeologist I think? Professor Particular Babbitt." He seemed to enjoy saying that, "He yoozooly comes for a sing-song."

"He any good?"

"Nah." The drinks arrived. I took a sip, "That girl got the eye on ya."

I turned to look where Cola Bux pointed to find Becky Aster and Sally laughing at my plight. I gave a half-smile, beckoned them over. Becky gave a very obvious inclination she did not want to come within yards of Mr. Bux and went out the back into the beer garden.

"I must go." I said.

"Dunt blame ya. Give 'er one from me."

When I got out the back they weren't to be found. I couldn't focus as well I should; how many had I had? I put it down to Dad, how I just left him, alone in that damned room. I couldn't focus on such things. I hoped when I got back inside the startling image of Becky Aster would be staring back at me. The carpark was empty, except one van, grumbling away—

No luck. I had to push through the crowd, brushing shoulders, which still gave me a chill since the pandemics. No one looked my way. All the voices were too young, or too old, for my liking. I found myself back beside Cola Bux. But he had been joined by another, who Bux seemed very fond of. He was a round man, in a stone-white suit that did not suit the rest of the atmosphere, a bright cloud-white Panama hat, and thick green spectacles that bounced around a thin nose. He leant right over the bar and rummaged on the shelves, the landlady and her staff seeming not to mind.

"Detective!" I had to admit, for all of Bux's oddities he had attracted the most interesting acquaintances, and I included myself in that list, "Meet Professor Babbitt."

The man shook my hand and poured us three glasses of something very thin, very clear, and very strong; I could smell it before he passed me over.

"Ond hwæt drincst ∂u?" He presented the drink, his voice the ululating Oxfordian patter, a luvvies theatrical pronunciation, "Ealu, gif ic hæbbe, o∂∂e wæter gif ic næbbe ealu." He downed his drink, "Ælfric's Colloquy. That's the quote. It's also what I call the drink." He poured himself another, "C'mon. Not often you get to try a Saxon moonshine."

That was true. But I had the suspicion it wasn't often you got to ever try it again, for it smelt like paint-stripper mixed with methylated spirits. I drank it nonetheless.

I wondered why. How many had I had? I had drunk at lunch with Becky? Had I eaten? What was going on with me? What was wrong?

I definitely knew something had gone awfully awry because the last thing I remember was singing Spirit in the Sky on the karaoke machine, then all was black.