Double Or Nothing
By William Meikle

The day started like any other. I dressed, I had a smoke, and I sat in my empty office, waiting for a case.

The shutters rattled loudly against the window frame, and I heard rigging rattle and masts creak on the dock beyond. The wind was an autumn southerly, whistling in over the Sleeping God’s Pizzle, bringing with it the tang of salt spray and the faint but unmistakable stench of decaying whale meat. I lit another smoke, but the shutters kept rattling, and the tickle in my throat would last until the wind changed or I threw up.

Face wanted to talk, but my hangover wasn’t ready for her today. I wiped her away after her second admonishment on the perils of rum and put her in the desk drawer.

The day dragged on, and so did the hangover. The rum bottle had just started to call to me again when a knock came on the door.

I took Face out of the drawer and sat her on the desk facing me. She started in on me straight away.

“Your mother would never have—”

“Shush,” I said. “We’ve got company.”

She had the good sense to go quiet.
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