BREWHAHA

Graham Andrews

“Hit the trail, Janet.” Tom Bremner snuggled forcefully up against his wife and driver. He waved a pudgy hand, forwards. “Thataway!”

“Careful, darling .” Janet had just clunk-clicked her seat-belt. She nudged him in the rib-cage. “It's all worked out precisely as we planned, but that's no reason for you to get carried away.”

“You're the one who should be carried away – to an old bat's home.”

But Janet was no longer listening to her hyperactive husband. Either that, or she couldn't be bothered to reply.

Never trouble trouble till trouble troubles you , Tom mused. Her favourite motto . Then, reluctantly: Janet isn't really such an old bat. She might've filled out a bit, but it's all in the right, tight places.

The day had been a hot, Indian-summery one, and much of the heat still lingered in the still air. A strong breeze had risen since sunset, driving litter along the streets. It was lighting-up time; streetlamps winked into sodium-vapour life.

Tom was annoyed by his wife's apparent indifference. He moved far away from her, gazing reflectively at the bleak façade of the hostelry they had so recently left.

Meanwhile, Janet was edging their car out into the sporadic mid-evening traffic flow. Tom redirected his gaze to High Heaven. “Mirror, signal, manoeuvre,” he said, in the loudest possible whisper. “The copy-book driver. You'd think she was driving a Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow, not a clapped-out Fiord Fiasco.”

But Janet ignored his scathing words. She drove with all the nervous energy of Queen Boadicea riding a scythed chariot into battle against the Romans. They finally left the city centre – much to Tom's consternation. It was late-night shopping in Bloomfield , and he'd been grading nomadic females on a one-to- eleven scale of lustability.

The traffic thinned out until another vehicle became an object of momentary interest. Janet stuck to the main road, avoiding any possible short cuts.

Slow but sure wins the race .

Tom knew that Doctor Janet Bremner appled the same cautious philosophy to her work as a biochemist. She'd once told him that biochemistry was physiology considered from the chemical point of view. (“No, dear. Physiology has got nothing to do with the manufacture of fizzy drinks.”)

“Opposites attract,” Tom murmured. Janet had always been the impractical dreamer, he the hard-headed businessman. “Gordon Gecko meets Madame Curie. Things would've turned out all right for me, if only . . .”

Tom was entering his habitual self-pity mode when he caught a glimpse of himself in the off-side wing mirror. “Not bad, not bad at all. The hair parting might be a bit wide, but – Sean Connery! Women still find me attractive, and I'm still attracted to women.”

“What are you babbling about?”

“Nothing, dear.”

Tom came near to the foetal position. It wasn't my fault that Bremner Enterprises went bust , he thought (for the n th time). Mismanagement be damned!

Today –tonight, now – was their tenth wedding anniversary. Tom had to admit that Janet looked much younger than her thirty-nine years. The men, from seventeen to seventy, in the Muscular Arms had certainly shown a keen interest.

“And I'm still hanging together at forty-one,” he more smirked than said. “If I'd been alone, that little cracker wouldn't have turned her back – “

Ker-rash!

“Female driver! Can't even change gear without wrecking the clutch. I've never heard such a racket.”

“You're no sort of driver, these days,” Janet shot right back at him. “If you hadn't lost that commercial travelling job with Acne Novelties . . .”

Tom groaned.

“. . . we'd still have the company BMW.”

Tom groaned again.

“This is my car, and I'll drive it my way.”

“Steady on, Jan- “

“If I had any disposable income left after supplying your creature comforts, we could afford a half-decent car.”

Tom couldn't even manage a groan, this time.

“And if you hadn't lost your driver's licence for the second time . . . Well, I've ensured that something like that can never happen again. To anybody.”

Tom saw the error of his conversational ways.

“Janet,” he said, with a cow-eyed stare.

“Tom,” she said, guardedly.

“Tell me more about your Great Discovery, Jannikins.”

“If you insist.”

“I do insist.”

Janet ignored the wasp-sting in Tom's voice.

“I'll begin at the beginning.”

“A very good place to start.”

“ As you know, alcohol is the common name for ethyl alcohol, also called ethanol. It can be obtained naturally, by distilling a saccharine liquid. Or synthetically, from its elements: carbon, hydrogen, and oxygen. Absolute alcohol is colourless, with the specific gravity .79 and a boiling point of – “

“78.5° F. I'm not sure about the centigrade equivalent.”

“Alcohol is, of course, the essential ingredient of all spirits. Beer and wine also contain it, in smaller proportions. The amount may be as low as 2% in very light beer – “

“Lyre lager, for example.”

“ – or as high as 70% in a strong liqueur. Alcohol is used to make chloroform, ether, methylated spirits, perfumes, and as a solvent for superglue. It can be made from potatoes, wheat, malt – “

“Rice, beetroot, honey, apples, et cetera bloody et cetera.”

This time, Janet took overt heed of Tom's interruption. She looked at him with annoyance and sorrowful vulnerability mingling in her tiredly expressive green eyes.

Tom considered the long hours that his wife spent in the labs at King's University. Ditto how she did all the housework and grocery shopping. But he wasn't giving in to such blatant emotional blackmail.

“Yes, Janet. You were saying?”

The light seemed to fade even more out of Janet's eyes. She paid closer attention to the road ahead.

“Alcohol is a chief bane of human life. The ill-effects of alcohol, I should say. Intoxication, nausea, hangovers, liver diseases, brain damage, road accidents. The list goes on and on.”

“Doesn't it just,” Tom said, mainly for the sake of something to say. “The Demon Drink is more than just a disfigurement of speech.”

Janet did not respond to Tom's laboured badinage. There was a pensive look on her suddenly too-white face. Disconcerted, he thought back to their afternoon and early evening in the Muscular Arms very public house. The celebration-cum-field experiment.

2.45 P.M.

Tom and Janet had taken a corner table. They'd polished off a bottle of vin blanc (Schlumberger 2004: VIGNERONS ALSACIENS FOURNISSANT DU VIN LEGIONS ROMAINES) and were now sampling the house red. Or vin du pays , as Norbert Clarke, the la-di-da landlord, liked to call it.

The Muscular Arms didn't do much lunch-time trade. Its cuisine was basic pub grub; appetizing enough but no real competition for the several nearby restaurants. Most of the regulars waited for the cheap-drink Happy Hour, from 5.00 to 7.00 P.M.

TOM: “I'm starving.”

JANET: “Join the club.”

TOM: “I could murder a meat pie.”

JANET: “There'll be plenty of time to eat, later.”

TOM: “But – “

JANEY: “ Much later.”

4.15 P.M.

“Boobiana!” Annie, the plump barmaid, shot Tom a death-ray look – which he ignored. “Another glass of that Fingal's Caveman whisky, and make it a double-double.”

“I'll have . . .” Janet paused for thought. “. . . a Horse's Neck.”

“A what ?”

“Take a whole lemon rind, spiral it in a tall glass. One end over the edge. Add ice, then three ounces of whisky. No – brandy. Hennessey's. Then fill ‘er up with ginger ale. All right, Annie?”

17.55 P.M.

The Muscular Arms was now chock-a-block with Happy Hour alcoletes eminently qualified to drink for their respective countries. It was no fit place for social drinkers or people of a nervous disposition. Taped music ranged from Beethoven to Roxette – and sometimes beyond.

Annie gave Tom an over-generous measure of Captain Morgan's rum (“It's my pleasure. Just keep drinking yourself to death.”) He noticed that Janet had been bought yet another cocktail – a Blue Lagoon, this time – by yet another smarmy bastard.

A wall-poster caught Tom's still damnably clear blue eyes: TABLE QUIZ TONIGHT! EIGHT-THIRTY START!! COME ONE – COME ALL!!! ONLY TWENTY QUID PER TABLE OF FOUR CONTESTANTS!!!! GRAND PRIZES!!!!!

“The First Prize must be a table,” Tom quipped. “Still, it makes a nice change from karaoke, bungee jumping, fun-sacks, and bouncy boxing. Not to mention male strippers – like that poxy Boston Dangler.”

Tom came out of his self-imposed trance just as a pedestrian lurched across the street, almost directly in front of them. Blare! went the horn. Janet swerved past the grimy little man. He staggered back to the pavement, tripping on a loose flagstone.

A large glass bottle shattered redly against the pavement. The now-tearful tramp, as Tom considered him, fell to his knees and tried to save something from the wreckage.

Janet sighed.

“Poor old duffer. But Interacton should put a stop to that kind of thing.”

Tom giggled.

“Yes, indeedy.”

“Interacton is a new drug which, well, interacts with – “

“You've explained all that to me before.” Tom didn't bother to stifle a yawn. “Over and over again.”

“Here's something I haven't told you before,” Janet said, puckishly. “Pavel Tchelitchew's painting, Hide-and-Seek , captures the interplay between mind and environment that affects the brain's development as well as its structure. Roots, branches, and vines suggest neuronal arborisation and the ability of such – “

“Botanical bullshit!”

Janet ignored him.

“Alcohol is, basically, a slow poison. The bloodstream becomes super-saturated with toxins, and the liver has got to remove them – after some time. Oxidation of ethanol produces acetaldehyde; a colourless, fruit-smelling liquid. CH CHO, boiling point 21° C. Further oxidation gives acetic acid. CH COOH. Vinegar, to you.”

Janet was now turning right into Silverstream, the suburban estate where they lived and had their choleric beings. Suddenly, a bright yellow Lotus Esprit shot straight out of Berwick Avenue . She almost rammed the roadhog, an unrepentant young man who leered at her and gave Tom the traditional two-fingered salute.

“Madman!” raved Tom. “He's probably stoned out of his mind. A danger to himself and everybody else on the road. If he'd stopped to fight it out like a man, I'd have . . .”

When Janet failed to respond, Tom half-turned. He couldn't miss the gleam in her eyes or the accentuated dimples.

“You enjoyed being ogled by that . . . hooligan!”

Again, Janet ignored him.

“I wonder what'll happen next,” she said to herself. “These things usually happen in threes.”

“You – you were telling me all about Interacton.”

“Interacton is an artificial enzyme, or protein catalyst, which enables the blood to break down pure alcohol into more harmless hydrocarbons than acetaldehyde. A simple injection and – wallah! – complete protection from alcoholic poisoning for up to twenty-four hours. Some people feel intimidated by needles, so I'm working on a gelatine-coated capsule.”

“It works, Jannikins!” cried the suddenly electrified Tom. He jumped about in his seat. “We've been drinking beer, wine, and everything else since two o'clock this afternoon. Yet look at us – still stone-cold sober.”

Janet allowed herself a wry smile.

“The bottom will soon fall out of the breathalyser market.” Then, with a pointed glance at Tom: “Interacton might have some un -welcome side-effects. Such as a cure for brewer's droop.”

“ What did you say?”

“Sorry, dear. I was just thinking out loud. We've got to be very careful. At best, I'm guilty of unprofessional conduct. At worst, illegal experimentation. With you as an accomplice before, during, and after the fact.”

“Or I could make myself out to have been the unwitting victim of perverted science. You , on the other hand, might end up in prison. Catch a foxy lady and put her in a box and never let her go.”

Janet made as if to reply. Then a truck pulled out from the kerbside. She slowed the car to a near-stop.

“You'd look good in a prison uniform,” Tom burbled on. “Which reminds me of . . . nothing at all, really.”

“I found that Bumper Issue of Jugs ‘n' Jails magazine. In the bathroom. Where you left it. Open at what they so rightly call the centre-page spread.”

“Every man needs a hobby. And I only bought it for the articles.”

“Let's get back to the issue at hand, and forget the hand at issue.”

Tom developed a sudden fascination with the floor-mat.

“We overdid things at the Muscular Arms.” Janet shook her head. “The way you staggered from the table, making all those driving-wheel motions. Annie wanted to telephone the police. If I hadn't told her we had a taxi waiting . . .”

“But the experiment worked! Like a charm. Low difficulty-benefit rate. Very little danger, considering. Near-zero risk-benefit rate. And it's just about finished. Negligible time-benefit rate.”

Tom giggled.

Janet glared.

“Pardon my management-speak. Oh, and I've just realized that Interacton will make drunkard jokes a thing of the past. Like this one . . .

“The police stop a man who's been driving his car all over the road. They ask him to blow into a breathalyser, but he tells them about his recent throat operation.

“Urine sample? He's wearing a catheter bag. Blood test? He's a haemophiliac.

“In desperation, they ask him to take the walk-a-straight-line test. ‘Are you mad?' he replies, scornfully. ‘I'm drunk. I can't even see a straight line.”

Janet groaned.

TOM: “You can't beat the old jokes.”

JANET: “Much as you'd like to, sometimes.”

The truck in front of them came to an unsignaled halt.

“Damn!”

Janet lost all patience. She jerked the steering wheel to the right. With gears clashing and tyres squealing, the car sped into the other side of the road.

“Janni- “ Tom's voice rose in pitch. “ – kins ! Look OUT! There's a traf- “

Janet immediately saw what Tom was so excited/terrified about. The truck stood immobile at a familiar-but-forgotten set of traffic lights. It being too late for her to stop dead, she drove right on through.

As luck would have it, no vehicles were coming from either right-angled direction. But visibility was far from perfect. The night would have been pitch black, without the 1950s film version War of the Worlds -type streetlamps.

“-fic light,” Tom finished. He ran a hand across his now-clammy forehead. “Never mind. We're almost home and dry.”

“ High and dry would be more like it.” Janet was looking in the rear-view mirror. A police car with flashing lights was just behind them. “I'd better pull over.”

And pull over she did.

The black-and-white police car drew up about ten yards behind the Bremer's Fiasco. The two constables – a hefty young-old man and an attractive twentyish woman – seemed to be in no particular hurry. They stood together on the pavement, talking earnestly.

“Cat and mouse,” Tom murmured. The truck trundled past them, in mocking counterpoint. “Making us sweat a bit.” He caught sight of their semi-detached house. “ Hazel Court . So near and yet so far.”

Janet said nothing, but she looked everything. Tom felt sympathy for his pale, tight-lipped wife. But the worthy emotion couldn't overcome years of entrenched negativity.

“All I wanted was a square meal,” he said. “And now look at us.”

“Food?” The colour came back into Janet's face with a rush of hot blood. “Is that all you can think about? At a time like this ? With the police breathing – “

Tap, tap .

Tom watched Janet lower the driver's window. Manuall y, he thought. Not by electric push-button, as in my old company car. The head and shoulders of the thick-set policeman loomed into view.

“Good evening, madam. You too, sir.”

“Good evening, Constable . . .”

“ Jordan ,” the policeman informed Janet, not unkindly. “Are you the owner of this vehicle?”

“Yes.”

Tom grimaced.

“May I see your driver's licence, please?”

“Of course, Constable Jordan .”

Janet rummaged in her handbag.

“They can't touch us for being drunk in charge of a vehicle, thanks to Interacton,” Tom sub-vocalized. “What do I mean – us? They can't touch me for anything. Janet is the one who's been caught driving without due care and attention.”

“Here you are.”

Flick, flick.

“That seems to be in order, Mrs. Bremner.”

Tom felt aggrieved. I might as well be the Invisible Man . He rocked to-and-fro in his seat. Poor Jannikins, all the same . I hope they aren't TOO hard on her .

“. . . without due care and attention,” P.C. Jordan was saying. “There could've been a nasty accident, you know.”

“I – we – couldn't be more sorry, officer.” Janet deployed her best little-girl-lost smile on the impassive police officer. “It's our tenth wedding anniversary. We've just had a few celebratory drinks. At the Muscular Arms. In Lombardy Street . Do you know it? And, well . . .”

“You were in a hurry to get home.” P.C. Jordan was getting less impassive by the moment. He even gave the ghost of a blush at Janet's demure nod. “I understand, madam . . . sir. I've been married myself for nigh on twelve years.”

“Thirty-odd years old,” Tom wanted to say, but didn't. “And still a Woodentop. Why am I not surprised?”

“Of course, there can be no excuse for reckless driving.”

Janet hung her head in shame; or a reasonable facsimile thereof.

“But I can sympathize with your explanation. So you get off with a caution – this time. In future, however, pay more attention to your driving.”

Tom couldn't listen to any more. He'll never make the Flying Squad, that's for sure . Then he felt an immaterial but nonetheless palpable tingling at the back of his neck. I'm being watched .

Tom glanced leftwards, then – “Wow!” – turned his head by a full forty-five degrees. The petite policewoman was looking straight at him. He rolled down the window and set up an optical search pattern. Not even the asexual uniform could hide her small-but-perfect form.

“How long have you been – “

“Long enough, Mr. Bremner.” She smiled, pleasantly. “Long enough.”

“Our policewomen really are wonderful.” Would-be ‘roguish' smile. “You can pinch me at any time. Day or night. Preferably night.”

The policewoman continued to smile, but no longer pleasantly.”

“I am Police Constable Duffield.”

Tom didn't notice, however. He was too busy taking girl-stock. Come on baby . . .

“Light my fire.”

“ Mr . Bremner.” There was a dangerous glint in her grey-blue eyes. “Leave not-well enough alone.”

“It's all right, officer.” Janet had turned away from P.C. Jordan, who was taking forever about handing back her driver's licence. “My husband hasn't been feeling himself, lately. Or so he tells me.”

“Don't listen to her. ”

Tom blew a kiss at the now-smirking W.P.C. Duffield.

“I'm not drunk, you know. And neither is Bossy Boots here. Thanks to Inter - Oops! Nearly blabbed the Toppest Secret since the location of THRUSH Central.”

W.P.C. Duffield reached into a pocket of her tunic and brought out the customary little black notebook.

“Perhaps you aren't drunk, sir. But I am sure about one thing. You are not wearing a seat-belt, as prescribed by law.”

Tom leaned his forehead against the dashboard. He felt the world swim out of sight and, especially, sound.

“. . . full name . . . address . . . not obliged to say . . . court of law.”