Wednesday, March 28, 2007


The four of them met at the Mount as it was the closest pub to the High Kirkyard. The plan was to have a pint then walk to Ali’s grave, then across the river to where Drew was buried, conveniently close to the Normandie Inn. They had a bottle of Yamikaze 12 year Old Japanese Malt to sprinkle on the ground at each site.

“There’s floaters in it, though”
“They’ll no mind” said Stevie, “they’re deid after all.”

They walked down the hill. It was a bright spring afternoon.

“Remember Kenny Morgan? He died young.”
“He drank, didn’t he?”
“Aye Paraquat” said Stevie, limping into the Kirkyard. Stevie had long suffered from some ailment which kept him intermittently short of breath. 14 pints of Guinness a day probably didn’t help either.

Time wore on. The sun was blazing and the distance between the graveyards was about a mile and a half, but seemed more. They had to stop quite a few times to let Stevie, by this time very red in the face, catch up.
They couldn’t find Drew in the second cemetery.

“Christ You cannae track him down even now. He still owes me a ten spot you know.”

It was a vast necropolis, apparently packed with men called Andrew who’d died before their time. The party split up, reformed, this time with no sign of Stevie.
Finally they gave up and drank what was left of the Yamikaze. It did have floaters. As the shadows lengthened, they set off to the Normandie Inn, then after a few pints, towards town.

“Where do you think Stevie got to?”
They were passing St Mary’s.
“That’s where his Mum’s buried isn’t it?”

They all nodded, noting its convenient proximity to the Fleshers’ Arms.

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