Water of Death

by Paul Johnston

  “I don’t pay much attention to what those wankers say.” He grinned at Davie. A dark blue vein was pounding away on his misshapen skull. He’d taken a blow from a raider’s crowbar years back. “Nicotine poisoning,” he repeated with a guffaw. “Pretty fucking good in a city where smoking’s been banned for twenty years.” He glanced at me. “Someone dead?” His voice was suddenly more sombre.

  I nodded. “A male citizen.”

  The serious tone vanished. “So it was definitely his ultimate—”

  “That’s getting to be a bit of an old joke, Harry,” I interrupted, pulling a mock-up of the label from my pocket. “Ever seen this in the consignments you’ve seized from raiders or smugglers?”

  He held it close to his face then shook his head. “No. It doesn’t even look vaguely like any I’ve come across.” He gave me a macho grin. “And I’ve come across more illicit whisky labels than you’ve had hot dicks.”

  His crewmen let out another roar.

  “Any of you maniacs seen this?” Harry shouted, waving the label at them.

  The roaring gradually died away.

  “I’ll take that as a no then, shall I?” I asked, retrieving the mock-up.

  Now for the difficult bit. The Fisheries Guard commander had a shortage of hair and a reputation as one of the most violent men in the city. He also came across plenty of previously unknown whisky on the vessels he boarded. Could he be the mystery man that Frankie Thomson’s neighbour saw and heard? Several things counted against that already, things I’d pushed to the back of my mind till I saw him in the flesh again. For a start, unlike the man in Bell Place, Dirty Harry was built like a Sewage Department outside lavvy. Also, his voice was as deep as a bull elephant’s, baritone in triplicate. And the clincher was that, like all his crewmen, he had a thick beard.

  I had to be sure. “Were you guys on patrol last night?” I asked, trying hard to make the question sound innocent. I failed.

  Silence fell over the mess like a sodden blanket. All eyes were fixed on me, including Davie’s. He was staring in disbelief, his lower jaw loose. The crewmen’s faces were set hard, but Harry grinned and came over to me. Close up, I registered that his left eye was glassy and immobile and remembered that the first time I met him he was wearing an eye patch. Apparently the Medical Directorate had found a false eye that fitted the cavity left by some no doubt long-dead assailant. Unfortunately it was green and the big man’s other eye was brown.

  “Is that an official question, citizen?” Dirty Harry asked, pronouncing my rank like it was a disease of the bowel. “Or are you just being sociable?”

  “Sociable?” I laughed nervously and glanced at Davie. He was shaking his head hopelessly. “Just answer the question, Harry,” I said, hardening my tone.

  The big man stared down at me, the vein pulsing hard in his skull. He raised his hands and flexed the fingers in front of my face. The skin was deeply stained by oil and the fingernails were full of some dark-coloured earthy muck. For several very long moments I thought I was dead meat. Then he laughed loudly.

  “Aye, citizen, we were on patrol.” His good eye didn’t shift off me. “All of us. Got the logs to prove it if you want.”

  I held his gaze then nodded. “I’ll take your word for it.” The tension in the room began to slacken as soon as I said that. I felt an even greater stickiness in my armpits than normal during the Big Heat. “Time to go, Davie,” I said, making for the door.

  Dirty Harry suddenly appeared in front of me, moving much faster than I imagined he could.

  “No, citizen. Time to drink.” He gave me a leer to tell me that refusing the invitation would be an even worse decision than checking his movements. “We auxiliaries may not be allowed to do the lottery like ordinary citizens but we still get our hands on better booze than the winners are given. And since our masters and mistresses decided to cut back on patrol time to save fuel costs last spring, we’re on for a heavy session more nights than not, aren’t we, boys?”

  The piratical mob yelled and whistled its agreement. I wasn’t aware that the Fisheries Guard’s activities had been curtailed. The Council had probably run short of ammunition to supply them with. After the land-based drugs gangs were driven out of the city years ago, Harry’s guys were the only auxiliary unit authorised to carry firearms apart from the guards on the city line and border posts.

  He led me back to the table.

  “Right then, how many have we got?” He started counting the different brands in front of him. One of them was Braes of Oblivion so it was pretty clear who’d brought that into the city. “You’re in luck, citizen. Only seventeen.” He grinned. “That’ll mean doubles.”

  I looked at the bottles. At least six of them were unopened. It was going to be a worrying night whether or not there was any nicotine around. Either way, oblivion was definitely on the cards.

  I woke up on the floor of the mess hall, my mouth open and a pool of dribble next to it on the threadbare carpet. I thought I’d pulled off the great escape till I moved my head.

  “Look at it this way, Quint. At least you’re alive.” Davie was sitting on one of the ruptured sofas, the skin above his beard pale but his voice jaunty. His capacity for drink never failed to amaze me.

  I had my hand over my eyes as the sun was streaming in the unshuttered windows. “Where is everyone?”

  “Don’t ask me. They were gone when I woke up. Playing with their toy boats probably.”

  I staggered out of the building and took refuge from the sun in the Land-Rover. On the way out of the port area we saw no sign of the crews, though their boats were tied up in the Enlightenment Dock.

  “Where to?” Davie asked as he waited for the gate to be opened.

  “Pull up outside while I make some calls.”

  I spoke to Hamilton, who wanted to know why the hell I hadn’t been answering my mobile. Not that he had anything spectacular to report. There had been no other bottles of the ultimate magic found, no traces of nicotine in the whiskies tested and nobody admitted to the infirmary with symptoms that could have resulted from poisoning. I told him no news was good news and signed off. Then I tried to get hold of Sophia. An auxiliary told me she was resting so I didn’t disturb her – just wondered for a few moments if she’d been looking for me. And if she’d missed me like I would have missed her if I hadn’t been forced to get shit-faced.

  Davie was peering at me. “Where to then, Quint? I want my breakfast.”

  I examined my watch. It was smeared with something that looked like it had come from deep inside my body. Eight o’clock. My old man’s retirement home in Trinity wasn’t far away. I told Davie to head there and got a sour look.

  “The food’s terrible in that place.”

  “Oh, you’ve eaten there before, have you, guardsman?”

  “I have to do something during your regular bloody visits to Hector.” He drove off through central Leith. Unlucky citizens with the Sunday morning shift were on their way to work, faces grim and clothes already soaked with sweat. At least for one morning in their lives they weren’t being subjected to trial by headache. Unlike me.

  “Hello, failure,” my father said, glancing up at me from the book of Latin poetry he’d propped up on the table in the communal dining room. “God almighty, lad, what’s happened to you?”

  “Essential Council business,” Davie said, pulling up a chair and helping himself to charred toast. “Whisky testing.”

  “Weren’t you keeping an eye on him, guardsman?” Hector demanded, the twitch at the corners of his mouth showing how serious the question was.

  “He had to try every single one for himself.”

  “All right, you two, that’s enough,” I said, pouring out the stewed tea from the bottom of the pot. Eating was not a viable proposition. “Let’s get out of here,” I said to the old man. The noise of his twenty-nine housemates clattering their false teeth and bickering over what the cook thought was porridge had got to me. I led him to a shaded part of the g
arden where there were a couple of tattered deck chairs.

  “You should take better care of yourself, Quintilian. Excessive drinking destroys brain cells.”

  “Spare me the lecture, old man. You’re not in the university now. Anyway, we really have been testing the city’s whisky stocks. Didn’t you notice that your dram wasn’t distributed yesterday?”

  Hector finally finished lowering his tall frame into the chair. “Dram? We’re lucky to see that more than twice a week. That bloody nurse . . .”

  “Have you seen her this morning?” I asked, suddenly realising that I hadn’t noticed the auxiliary who was in charge of the home.

  “Aye, she’s around.” My father looked at me. “What’s going on with the city’s whisky, lad?”

  I told him about the dead man and the Ultimate Usquebaugh.

  He rubbed the stubble on his shrunken cheeks. “Sounds like you might be up against some real wise guys.” He grinned. “Isn’t that what they call them in those appalling American crime novels you used to read when you were young?”

  “How would you know?” I often suspected that Hector raided my bookshelves when I lived at home before the Enlightenment, but he’d never admit to it. “You don’t remember any cases of poisoning when you were in the Council, do you?”

  I wasn’t sure why I was asking him. Hamilton had been a guardian from the beginning and he would have told me of any case dating from before I was in the directorate. But I’d got used to sharing my problems with my father and, for all his physical decrepitude, he could still get to the essence of things.

  He was shaking his head. “No. In those days the drugs gangs were more inclined to use automatic weapons and high explosives than Agatha Christie’s methods.”

  I nodded then squeezed my eyes hard as the headache kicked in again. Time to hit Sophia for some pills.

  “Look after yourself, old man,” I said, getting up painfully. “And don’t drink any spirits till I give you the all clear.”

  What must have been a seriously large bullfrog made its presence known from the trickle of the burn at the bottom of the garden.

  “Brekekek-koax-koax,” my father said. “Excellent symbolism, don’t you think?”

  I looked at him unenthusiastically. “This isn’t the time for a lesson in ancient Athenian satire.”

  “At least you recognised my allusion to Aristophanes, laddie.” It seemed I’d made Hector’s day. “The Frogs, of course. And where does most of the action of that play take place?”

  I racked my brains, coming up with more pain but no answer.

  “In the underworld,” Hector said, looking inordinately pleased with himself. “As I say, the symbolism really is excellent. For what is this city nowadays but hell on earth?”

  I wished him joy of that observation and headed for the Land-Rover. As I got there, it struck me that what I told him about the poisoning had immediately made him think of the drugs gangs. It hadn’t occurred to me to link poisoned whisky to the drug traffickers who would give an arm and a leg, if not a burned-out oesophagus, for access to the city. But my head was too dealt with to take that idea any further for the time being.

  Before we got into the guard vehicle I put in a call to Hamilton and asked him to send an inspection team round to the Smoke on the Water club. The forensics squad hadn’t reported any sign of grass or any other controlled drugs in Frankie Thomson’s flat but maybe there was more going on at his place of work than met the eye.

  “Where to?” Davie asked when I finished.

  “I need the infirmary,” I mumbled, cradling my head. “The brain surgery unit and make it snappy.”

  Sophia handed me a bottle of aspirins with a severely disapproving look. “I told you to cut down on that poison.” She shook her head in annoyance when she realised what she’d said.

  I slumped against the wall, too knackered to argue.

  “Oh, for goodness sake.” She glared at Davie as if it were his fault and raised her eyes at her assistant, who smirked at me. Then she led me into her private office and closed the door. “Was it necessary for you to carry out your own form of whisky testing? Didn’t you consider the risks?”

  At first I thought she was giving me an official reprimand, something that guardians normally form a queue to do. Then I noticed that her eyes were wide open and moist at the corners.

  “Hey,” I said, going round unsteadily to her side of the desk, “I’ll be okay.” I touched her shoulders. “At least we know the Fisheries Guard haven’t come across the Ultimate Usquebaugh.”

  Sophia shook my hands off. “You could just have asked them, Quint. You didn’t have to show off like a wee boy.”

  I couldn’t think of much to say in response to that, so I swallowed the pills and washed them down with water from the bottle she gave me. A heap of folders marked “Senior Guardian’s Eyes Only” was piled up in front of her.

  “Are you coping all right?” I asked, putting a hand on the back of her neck. This time she let it stay.

  “I can manage,” she said, looking up at me. “We have seminars to prepare us for the month as senior guardian.” Her light blue eyes were circled with black rings.

  “Oh, seminars.” I risked a grin, which didn’t do my head much good. “You’ll be all right then.” I leaned over her and put my cheek against hers. “Didn’t you sleep last night?”

  She shook her head, looking embarrassed. “Not much. I went to your place when I finished at around one. When I couldn’t raise you on your mobile, I went back to Moray Place. I . . .” She pushed her chair back into me and got up, then went over to a filing cabinet and pretended to be looking for something.

  “You . . . ?” I said, following her over.

  She slammed the drawer shut and turned into my arms. “Oh, stop it, Quint. I was worried about you.” She looked down. “I missed you, all right?”

  I kissed her on the lips. “It’s all right. I missed you too.”

  Sophia’s cheeks reddened. “I don’t know what I think I’m playing at.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She glanced away awkwardly. “Oh, chasing you like a lovestruck teenager.” Her eyes came back towards me and flashed angrily. “You think I’m naive, don’t you, Quint? I was celibate for years and now I’m like a nymphomaniac who throws herself at the first man she finds.”

  “Thanks very much,” I said. I put my hand on her shoulder. It stayed there a couple of seconds before she shook it off. “I don’t think you’re naive, Sophia. There’s very little evidence to support that conclusion.”

  She let out an angry sob. “There’s . . . there’s a lot going on at the moment, Quint,” she said, swallowing hard. “I just . . . I just need some support.”

  I held her tight, ignoring the heat that our bodies generated in close contact.

  “It’s okay, Sophia. There’s nothing wrong with needing support. What the Council used to preach about self-reliance is bullshit.”

  She rested her head against my shoulder for a few moments then pushed me away gently. “Come on, we have to work.” She went back to her desk and picked up a notebook. “So where have you got to?”

  “Utopia.”

  “What?”

  “It means ‘nowhere’ in Greek.”

  “Indeed.” Her eyes flashed angrily. “Be more precise if you can, citizen.” She had suddenly turned back into the senior guardian.

  The aspirins seemed to be having some effect. I sat down and looked at my own notes. “Right. I spoke to the guard command centre and the chief toxicologist on my way up here. No more bottles of poisoned whisky have been found. Checks are continuing in the bars and stores, and the chemists are still making tests.”

  “Tests that will take days to cover all the city’s whisky,” Sophia said, shaking her head. “We can’t rely on random samples. Just because one batch of Spirit o’ the Nor’ Loch is clean doesn’t mean that bottles from other batches haven’t been poisoned. And whoever was behind the Ultimate Usquebaugh is p
robably capable of slipping bottles into the distribution chain even after testing.”

  I nodded. “You want to maintain the ban on supplies to citizens and tourists, don’t you?”

  “As a health professional, what else can I do? Even one more death would be a terrible responsibility.”

  “On the other hand, citizens might riot outside Supply Directorate stores and end up dead if the supplies aren’t restored.” I caught her eyes. “Remember what happened during the drugs wars.”

  Sophia bit her lower lip so hard that I thought blood would appear. Then she let it go and breathed in deeply. “Do you really think the citizen body will take to the streets over whisky?”

  “What else have they got to look forward to after a day sweating their guts out at work? An hour standing in line outside the swimming-baths, a few pints of watery beer, an evening class on Plato’s philosophy of education? Whisky’s all that keeps a lot of them going, Sophia.”

  Her back stiffened and her gaze became truly glacial. Now she was the Ice Queen again, Big Heat or no Big Heat. “I cannot accept that analysis of Edinburgh society,” she said. Not even my mother in her most reginal manifestation as senior guardian managed such a tone. “The Council has provided many benefits for citizens – housing, health, full employment, lifelong learning . . .”

  “No cars, no television, no cigarettes,” I continued. “No drugs, no music that the Council hasn’t approved, no travel outside the city borders, no free will, not even the option of suicide . . .”

  Sophia banged her hands down on the files in front of her. “Enough, Quint,” she shouted. “Are you seriously telling me that applying sanctions against the families of people who attempt suicide is a bad thing?”

  I gave up. Either you get the point about personal freedoms or you don’t. Guardians have always subjugated the individual to the collective whole.

  “Forget it, Sophia, okay? Just keep the chemists testing round the clock and then release stocks that have been fully tested. I reckon you’ve got another day before the pressure really starts building up.”