Chapter 2
two
OWEN
The last of the stills let out a hiss in the quietening room. I loved the family-run distillery by day, but night was my favourite. When all the tourists left clutching bottles of amber fire, and the staff went home to their families, leaving me amongst the chrome, copper, and brass.
I wiped down the workbench as I’d done every night since I was tall enough to reach it.
Circling the cloth until everything gleamed.
Righting the place for another day. The scent of malt and smoky wood filled the air, and I sighed happily.
Some people would call it unpleasant. But I called it home. It was all I’d ever known.
A thud behind me announced Detective Meowrse, arriving for his nightly patrol.
He sported half a tail, and one ear had chunks missing from a fight with a particularly fat rat.
But those middle-aged eyes were still sharp amongst his tufty orange fur.
He leapt onto the bench with no care for my cleaning, bumping my arm with his solid head.
‘Evening, Chief,’ I said, scratching behind his ear until he gave me a tractoresque purr. ‘All clear? No smugglers among the barley?’
His purr deepened as I moved my hand beneath his chin.
‘You’re a right greedy little thing.’ I said. He didn’t deny it. I continued to pet him until he batted me away—ever the boss.
Even with someone as exacting as me.
Satisfied, Chief Inspector Meowrse—or Chief, Meowrse, Mousey-pants and a dozen other names—dropped to the floor and wandered off, likely to fill his stomach with furry little thieves.
I hit the lights as I left the main distilling room, my keys jangling in the lock as I struggled to delay the inevitable any longer.
Family supper night.
Every Monday, without fail.
I loved my family, but all too often I became the topic of conversation.
Why are you single, Owen? Maybe you should get back with Becky. Why did you guys break up? We loved her… And so on.
Crossing the grounds, the breeze hit me with its autumnal nip. Along with the early September chill, it carries the salty smell of the sea and the woody scent of smoking chimneys.
Glowing orange windows awaited as I neared my house.
The one I’d grown up in. My parents had moved to my grandparents’ old cottage in the village to downsize when I’d taken over the distillery.
A lovely four-bedroom ex-farmhouse, with just Chief and me bumbling about in it.
The slow cooker had been bubbling all afternoon, and the smell of beef stew wrapped itself around me like a warm hug when I entered.
As much as I loved the long summer days, autumn was where my heart lay.
Perfect whisky weather. Time for thick jumpers, wood burners, and bubbling casseroles.
Lifting the lid had my stomach rumbling.
Rich, thick gravy and falling-apart meat.
Carrots from the farm shop and perfectly soft potatoes.
Unable to resist, I tore a crust from a slice of bread and dunked it deep.
It burned the roof of my mouth, but darn did it taste good.
By the time I’d set the table, the door burst open. Isla, my younger sister, never waited to be invited in. She stormed through the door, all pink cheeks and windswept hair.
‘Smells unreal,’ she said, planting a brief kiss on my cheek before tearing a corner of bread and dipping it into the pot. ‘Better than last week.’
‘You said that last week,’ I muttered while doling out the stew into bowls that were older than me.
Her husband, Jeff, soon followed with an armful of beer cans. ‘Thought this might wet the old whistle.’
‘Beer’s not dinner,’ I said.
‘Beer’s the best part of dinner,’ he shot back with a grin.
Mum and Dad brought up the rear. Dad was slowing down and still pretending he hadn’t been out moving barrels despite all his promises about retirement. The way Mum supported him as he lowered onto a chair wasn’t lost on me.
‘Hope you didn’t skimp on the barley. Stew’s not stew without barley.’ Dad helped himself to one of Jeff’s beers, knocking the cap off on the dented corner of the long wooden table. The indent spoke of so many dinners, and decades worth of beers.
I hoped that one day I would leave such an indelible mark on something. Until then, I felt like a kid wearing my dad’s wellies. I’d stepped right into his footprints and harboured such big hopes about how I would leave my imprint on the distillery’s legacy.
But in a world where it was no longer good enough just to produce a cracking whisky, I might well be remembered as the Harris who failed the family business.
‘Yes, there’s barley,’ I said. ‘It’s Gran’s recipe.’
We took our usual Monday night seats. Dad sat at the head of the table as always. I didn’t even sit in his seat when I was on my own in the house. The only one who dared was the cat, and he had balls of steel. Well, technically, an empty scrotum of steel.
Bread passed from hand to hand, spoons clinking over the comfortable chatter of family.
Isla moaned about the village committee and the plans for the upcoming autumn fair.
Jeff pitched another half-baked business idea.
Dad muttered about the weather, despite my insistence that he could put his feet up at home and stay out of the wind.
I listened more than I spoke. My job was keeping the bowls full, and glasses from running dry. Holding the fort while trying to avoid them bringing up their favourite topic.
My love life.
Or lack thereof.
Inspector Meowrse curled up at my boots, purring loud enough to compete with the chatter.
It wasn’t a fancy life. But it was good. Steady.
Stew, bread, family, and a roof that had seen the Harris family through over a century of winters. I’d take that over most things.
‘Have you heard from Becky?’ Isla asked when we sat with full bellies while nursing our drinks.
Fantastic. Just the person I didn’t want to talk about.
‘No.’ I hoped my brash answer would cut her probing off.
As if Isla could ever be stopped.
‘I saw that she was in Edinburgh for a couple of weeks with work. Maybe you guys could work things out?’ Isla continued.
‘Oh, we love Becky,’ Mum added.
Yeah, I loved Becky too until she stomped on my heart. Until she threatened to blast pictures of me tying her up to everyone I knew unless I paid her off. Five grand. For a holiday with the man she cheated on me with.
I’d come out of that looking just great.
No. I’d stuffed any thoughts of Becky in the attic with my rope and kinks.
‘I’m not seeing Becky. What’s done is done.’ The finality in my voice curbed any further probing for one night, at least.
Because in Otterleigh Bay, little changed from one week to the next. Or year to year. Life remained steady.
Simple.
Boring.