Allegiance: A Dublin Novella by Heather Domin Page A

risky,
    Whenever you want to nick the thread,
    Just try our Glesca whisky.
     
    William could not recall how much he’d had to drink that night, but he knew it wasn’t nearly enough to cause the giddy feeling swelling in his chest. The energy coming off Adam was more potent than tumbler or bottle, and William soaked it up and poured it back out in the shape of the second verse.
     
    The poison stuff the doctors sell
    You scarcely can get any,
    But Glesca whisky bears the bell
    It’s flavoured with so many;
    And poison selling’s so fenced around
    To buy it is but risky;
    But ye may cut throats, or hang, or drown,
    When primed wi’ Glesca whisky.
     
    Someone called William’s name, and he turned to see David holding up another bottle – without missing a beat he tossed his empty one over and caught the replacement, and he was plucking out the stopper with his teeth when Adam’s arm fell across his shoulders and drew him close for the finish.
     
    So try our Glesca whisky
    Aye try our Glesca whisky!
    It gives us pleasure wi’ our death
    So hey for Glesca whisky!
     
    William listened to the cheering as he drank a long pull from the bottle until his lungs threatened to burst from lack of air; when he opened his eyes, Adam was watching him, face red and chest heaving, gray eyes lit with drink and delight. William knew he looked the same when he handed Adam the bottle and watched him bend back his head to swallow every drop.
     
    “Hold up your end, Elliot, before you tip us over.”
    “I am holding my end, Young, it’s you who’s gone lopsided.”
    “If you drop this crate Mary will skin you alive. She makes her spending money on these bottles, you know.”
    “Well she should have thought of that before she went to bed and left a drunkard like you to tend them for her.”
    William stopped short, causing Adam to stumble; the empty bottles wobbled in their crate.
    “Are you implying that I am intoxicated?”
    Adam’s cap had fallen down over one eye; it slipped a little more when he grinned.
    “I’m implying nothing, Mr. Young, sir.” They hefted the box again and moved forward a few steps. “I am stating quite plainly that you are knackered off your Scottish arse.”
    It was a fair description of them both, truth be told. They stumbled down the narrow basement corridor with the crate of empty bottles between them, bumping first into one wall, then the other, then into each other, puffing and swearing in pungent little grunts.
    “Wasn’t me who was makin’ a fool of m’self with every lass in the pub, shooglin’ about with my braces hangin’ off.”
    “No, ‘twas you who was leaping on the table like one of the Wee Folk, and your face as red as the port.” Adam chuckled at William’s indignant splutter. “You do have Wee Folk in Scotland, don’t you, Glasgow? You must have, as you do such a fine impression of one.”
    William opened his mouth to reply and tripped over his left foot. The box came down between them and hit the floor with a crash and the sound of breaking glass. They froze where they stood, eyes round like two lads caught in the candy jar – but no sound came from upstairs, no call of what the devil is that racket? from Gerald or Mary, and suddenly they were both sagging against the wall and shaking with stifled laughter. Adam set his cap aright and put a finger to his lips, whispering in that ridiculous way that only the inebriated think is actually quiet.
    “Shhh, you’ll wake the house with your drunken screeching.”
    “Would be your fault entirely – you caused me to lose my balance.”
    “Me?” They were struggling to lift the crate, winded and off-kilter. Adam grinned. “I would never think of disrupting your balance, my friend.”
    “You’ve been doing so since the day I met you,” William said.
    Adam stopped moving. William’s eyes widened, but he could not unsay what he had said. Instead he turned back to the crate and pushed, trying to move them further down the