Harkness staggered under the weight of whisky sloshing around in his forebrain. Not the good stuff either; this didn’t seduce or lull, it bludgeoned. His pulse struck up a merengue in his temples and his stomach agreed to join it on the dance-floor. Heat chafed him everywhere save between his toes where he’d found grass dampened by beer. A fugue of gossiping voices underscored by his least favourite eighties compilation encircled him. So much to think about. But he had a job to do, if only he could focus. His forearms prickled, a plastic bottle crumpled in his hand and thick fluid arced from its nozzle. A high octane tang found his nose and squeezed his eyes half-shut. An evanescent wall of light brought a blaze of pain. His feet let him stagger back.
“Jesus wept, Rob.” A familiar voice separated itself from the
fugue. “Look what you’ve done to my sausage.”
The bottle was torn from his hand by Sugden’s familiar shape, reduced to a jumble of impressions; pink limbs, too short shorts, an Iron Maiden t-shirt, a goatee making up for what a bald-patch lacked. Beyond grey stinging smoke, the crackle of a barbeque could be heard.
“Earth to Rob.” Sugden wafted a hand in front of his face. He found himself staring into the ruby eyes of Eddie, the trademark skeletal ghoul plastered across Sugden’s pert beer gut. At least Eddie was amused. Another shape arrived, unmistakably Charlotte, hands held fidgeting at her hips as she resisted the temptation to fold her arms and sigh. He imagined a dozen other faces looking at anything but him.
“What?” he demanded, more loudly than he’d intended. Important to stay in charge of the situation. Better to be drunk and in charge of something than to sit in a corner waiting for something to take charge of you. Who were they to take charge of this highly charged situation when he was so good at charging in and making the charge stick? If he didn’t take charge, he might be dishonourably discharged. He twitched his head, hoping to jumble more sense from his inner monologue. He knew he was drunk when he couldn’t walk or think in a straight line. A vague burning smell was defying all attempts to shake it off.
“Bring him inside, Sug,” said Charlotte as she moved towards the patio doors. Someone had turned off the music and glances were being flicked at watches. He hadn’t noticed the darkness falling on them, as hot and black as ash. This didn’t feel like the kind of night that would bring relief from the day; it would only thicken the heat and poach them in their sopping beds.
“Water, Sug. Why won’t it rain? Have a word, would you? Someone should grip it. Too hot.”
“I hope you weren’t too attached to your eyebrows, sparrow. And you’ll have a tan like a Scotsman.”
“What?”
“About two minutes ago, you flame-grilled your face. More accelerant and enthusiasm than my cold sausage dilemma warranted. And you’re absolutely shitfaced. And you’re on call.”
“Balls. Big balls of fire.” His forehead crumpled into a frown which showed him exactly where it hurt. “Need first aid kit. Need fluids.”
“This we can do.”
In the time it took Sugden to catch a sympathetic eye through the dissipating smoke and open his mouth to speak, Harkness had traversed the patio in a headlong lunge, ripped the lid from a water butt and plunged his head into its mossy depths. The plastic resonated to the muffled pounding of Harkness screaming into water. He withdrew his head, glistening and red, and grinned.
“Better! Again.”
A phone was ringing somewhere in the house.
