Free Bootlegged Angel by Mike Ripley Page B

can I borrow some milk?’
    ‘Yeah, yeah,’ she said over her shoulder.
    ‘And some bread? And orange juice? Oh, and you haven’t got any Corn Flakes, have you? I’ve got a distinct touch of the munchies. I must have missed dinner.’
    From the bedroom she shouted:
    ‘No, you didn’t.’
    Ooh. Sharp.
    She was getting good and I felt a twinge of pride. It had been me who’d taught her everything she knew.
    The pieces began to fall into place but it wasn’t the sort of jigsaw you’d give your aunty for Christmas.
    I remembered being in the Sampling Cellar down in Seagrave and suggesting to Murdo Seton that as he’d always wanted to drive a real, live London taxi (or as near as damn it) and he was
going ‘up to town’ that evening, why didn’t he drive Armstrong back – as I sure as shooting wasn’t in any fit state to do so.
    Naturally, he’d loved the idea and said it was perfect because he could finish briefing me on the way, but would I mind staying in the Sampling Cellar for an hour or so while he nipped
home to change into his dinner jacket? I had agreed to this, reluctantly of course, I convinced him that I could work my way through the rest of the Powerpoint presentation on his laptop while he
was gone, so I could get up to speed. (For some reason, bringing yourself ‘up to speed’ really impresses people in business.)
    He hadn’t been gone five minutes before I was into his Jazz Jackrabbit 2 program and, fuelled by another pint of Seagull Special or whatever, had made it to Level 3 before the killer
tortoises cornered me in a treasure cave and zapped me to pieces. Or at least I think that was what happened. Either way, I managed to shut down the laptop just as Murdo returned, fairly confident
that he would have saved his economic presentation somewhere in the memory.
    Murdo, thankfully, didn’t ask what I thought of his presentation. He wanted to continue the briefing as he drove and could he have the keys, please, as he was really looking forward to
this?
    So was I. I’d never been driven by a man in full evening dress before.
    Somewhere between the Sampling Cellar and Armstrong, I acquired a crate of bottled beer which fitted neatly on the floor of the cab while I stretched out on the back seat. Murdo even gave me a
metal opener embossed with the legend ‘Seagrave’s Seaside’. I do remember asking him why the word ‘Ales’ seemed to be missing and he muttered something about it being
faulty stock, but I didn’t mind: it worked fine.
    I was grateful for Murdo’s souvenirs of my visit for the way he drove I certainly needed a drink. I began to work my way through the crate as Murdo talked, keeping my head down so I
didn’t have to see either the road or the speedometer.
    Amazingly, some of it went into my fuddled brain and stayed there, because even the morning after, with four out of the five voices in my head telling me to call in sick, I could still remember
the gist of it.
    Murdo was obviously the moderniser in the family firm. Not only was he getting the business computerised but he was trying to be environmentally friendly along the way. Where possible, he had
enrolled his pubs in a scheme called Bottleback, which basically involved a large plastic bin in the carpark so that people could recycle their empty bottles. Country pubs helping to keep the
countryside tidy was the tag line and it made a lot of sense, with a truck coming round once a month or so to take away the full Bottleback bin and leave an empty one.
    Some bright lad down at the local waste recycling plant (though I remember when they were called rubbish tips) noticed that one of the Bottleback bins was crammed full of small, French lager
bottles and nothing else. When it happened again he phoned the brewery and reported it, having checked which collection route it had come from. Murdo investigated and identified the actual pub
where the bin had been parked, one of his small country tenancies called the