Mort

but also odds and ends that bottles of real drink would never stoop to contain, such as whole fruits, bits of twig and, in extreme cases, small drowned lizards. No-one knows why barmen stock so many, since they all taste like treacle dissolved in turpentine. It has been speculated that they dream of a day when someone will walk in off the street unbidden and ask for a glass of Peach Corniche with A Hint Of Mint and overnight the place will become somewhere To Be Seen At.
    The stranger was working his way along the row.
    W HAT IS THAT GREEN ONE ?
    The landlord peered at the label.
    “It says it’s Melon Brandy,” he said doubtfully. “It says it’s bottled by some monks to an ancient recipe,” he added.
    I WILL TRY IT .
    The man looked sideways at the empty glasses on the counter, some of them still containing bits of fruit salad, cherries on a stick and small paper umbrellas.
    “Are you sure you haven’t had enough?” he said. It worried him vaguely that he couldn’t seem to make out the stranger’s face.
    The glass, with its drink crystallizing out on the sides, disappeared into the hood and came out again empty.
    N O . W HAT IS THE YELLOW ONE WITH THE WASPS IN IT ?
    “Spring Cordial, it says. Yes?”
    Y ES . A ND THEN THE BLUE ONE WITH THE GOLD FLECKS .
    “Er. Old Overcoat?”
    Y ES. AND THEN THE SECOND ROW .
    “Which one did you have in mind?”
    A LL OF THEM .
    The stranger remained bolt upright, the glasses with their burdens of syrup and assorted vegetation disappearing into the hood on a production line basis.
    This is it, the landlord thought, this is style, this is where I buy a red jacket and maybe put some monkey nuts and a few gherkins on the counter, get a few mirrors around the place, replace the sawdust. He picked up a beer-soaked cloth and gave the woodwork a few enthusiastic wipes, speading the drips from the cordial glasses into a rainbow smear that took the varnish off. The last of the usual customers put on his hat and staggered out, muttering to himself.
    “I DON’T SEE THE POINT , the stranger said.
    “Sorry?”
    W HAT IS SUPPOSED TO HAPPEN ?
    “How many drinks have you had?”
    F ORTY-SEVEN .
    “Just about anything, then,” said the barman and, because he knew his job and knew what was expected of him when people drank alone in the small hours, he started to polish a glass with the slops cloth and said, “Your lady thrown you out, has she?”
    P ARDON ?
    “Drowning your sorrows, are you?”
    I HAVE NO SORROWS .
    “No, of course not. Forget I mentioned it.” He gave the glass a few more wipes. “Just thought it helps to have someone to talk to,” he said.
    The stranger was silent for a moment, thinking. Then he said: Y OU WANT TO TALK TO ME ?
    “Yes. Sure. I’m a good listener.”
    N O ONE EVER WANTED TO TALK TO ME BEFORE .
    “That’s a shame.”
    T HEY NEVER INVITE ME TO PARTIES, YOU KNOW .
    “Tch.”
    T HEY ALL HATE ME . E VERYONE HATES ME . I DON’T HAVE A SINGLE FRIEND .
    “Everyone ought to have a friend,” said the barman sagely.
    I THINK —
    “Yes?”
    I THINK …I THINK I COULD BE FRIENDS WITH THE GREEN BOTTLE .
    The landlord slid the octagon-bottle along the counter. Death took it and tilted it over the glass. The liquid tinkled on the rim.
    Y OU DRUNK I’M THINK, DON’T YOU ?
    “I serve anyone who can stand upright best out of three,” said the landlord.
    Y OURRRE ABSOROOTLY RIGHT . B UT I—
    The stranger paused, one declamatory finger in the air.
    W AS WHAT I SAYING ?
    “You said I thought you were drunk.”
    A H . Y ES, BUT I CAN BE SHOBER ANY TIME I LIKE . T HIS ISH AN EXPERIMENT . A ND NOW I WOULD LIKES TO EXPERIMENT WITH THE ORANGE BRANDY AGAIN .
    The landlord sighed, and glanced at the clock. There was no doubt that he was making a lot of money, especially since the stranger didn’t seem inclined to worry about overcharging or short change. But it was getting late; in fact it was getting so late that it was getting early. There was also something about the solitary customer that unsettled him. People in The Mended Drum often drank as though there was no tomorrow, but this was the first time he’d actually felt they might be right.
    I MEAN, WHAT HAVE I GOT TO LOOK FORWARD TO ? W HERE’S THE SENSE IN IT ALL ? W HAT IS IT REALLY ALL ABOUT ?
    “Can’t say, my friend. I expect you’ll feel better after a good night’s sleep.”
    S LEEP ? S LEEP ? I NEVER SLEEP . I’ M WOSSNAME, PROVERBIAL FOR IT .
    “Everyone needs their sleep. Even