‘Whisky works well enough.’
She turned her head, eyes heavy as the thick-bottomed
tumbler she clutched with both hands in her lap and nigh matching the peat
brown quarter inch still remaining.
‘As what?’ Regretting
the sourness but, since it hadn’t leached fully away, unable to hide it. Their exchange of words less than an hour ago
had been truly vitriolic and he could never rid himself of the belief that you
couldn’t give voice to such unless you’d already thought them. Believed them. And each accusation, each insult, each saying
of the unsayable had solidified and fallen to earth, scattering themselves
across the flagstones, a rash of corpulent black maggots which, like marbles,
would trip up every attempt at reconciliation.
‘As a painkiller.’
He sighed, resigned. ‘So does strangulation.
Eventually.’
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