The Sister Surprise by Abigail Mann (read full novel TXT) 📗

from her glass. ‘Equine, specifically. I’ve got an interview, but … ah, I don’t know.’ Moira cups her chin in her hands, a dreamy look passing over her face. ‘I can’t tell you how much I’ve read about it. When I close my eyes, I dream of teeth rasping.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Basically, you get a massive metal file and rub down all the sharp bits inside a horse’s mouth.’ Moira simulates a back and forth motion, her face screwed up in concentration. ‘It’s the dream job, you know?’

‘She’s pulled out three of my uncle’s teeth,’ says Kian, slurring his words.

‘That’s because he refuses to travel thirteen miles to a proper dentist,’ says Moira.

‘So you’ve got an interview? For this course?’ I ask, knocking back another mouthful of whisky that singes my throat.

‘Aye, but she’s not going to it,’ says Kian.

‘Why?’

‘Because she’s a walloper who can’t see how good an opportunity it is.’

‘No, that’s not it,’ she says.

‘What’s holding you back?’ I ask.

Moira taps her heels against the chair leg as she plucks at the frayed hole in her sleeve. ‘The course is all based down south. Even with a bursary, it’s too expensive. I want to help out at home with the bills and stuff, but I can’t do that if I’ve blown it all on rent. I don’t know, it feels selfish. I like it here, anyway. I can’t see myself leaving,’ she says, glancing up at Kian. He gives her a small smile.

I feel a little swell in my stomach. If this were a Doctor Seuss book, there’d be a window through to where my wrinkled heart sits curled up in my ribcage, growing plumper with each heartbeat.

Moira swallows a burp. ‘What would our dads say if they could see us now?’

I glance at them both, blinking.

‘Seeing as my dad pickled his liver until it shrivelled up and died, I’d say he has very few opinions on excess drinking,’ says Kian.

He pushes the bottle towards Moira. She takes it, tipping it in the general direction of her glass, which is marginally successful. I wait for her to continue talking, but instead she squints at the whisky, her eyes bloodshot and unfocused. Moira lowers her finger into the glass, pauses, then lunges like a cat over a pond. She fishes something out, holding it aloft on her fingers.

‘A pissed fly!’ she proclaims, laughing. The moment’s gone. I can’t swerve back to dad chat now, not without it being awkward.

Kian takes her wrist and pulls it closer to inspect. The light from a brass candelabra casts an amber glow across the table. ‘An incredibly old pissed fly. This is an artifact, preserved in Scotch. Save it,’ says Kian, giggling, ‘and they’ll put it in the Black Isle courthouse museum with a little plaque underneath. “Found by Moira McCauley, contained in The Locker, exact date unknown, but likely whilst Burns still walked the land.”’

My stomach loosens. Too much, perhaps. I don’t know what’s in this whisky, but it’s making me feel slack, like a loose trampoline. ‘OK, enough. You need to tell me what the whole deal is with The Locker,’ I say, dragging the wooden chest over with both hands.

‘It’s is a very important family tradition,’ says Kian.

‘Co-family tradition,’ says Moira.

‘Exactly.’

‘What’s the tradition, drinking?’ I say.

‘Ha. Well, no, not officially. But this is.’ He takes a pen knife from the side and slides it beneath the lid, the wood straining as he wiggles the hilt. A metal clasp, covered with rust and pockmarked with barnacles, opens to reveal twelve deep slots inside. Six contain the same teardrop-shaped bottles, their bulbous heads dipped in wax. The others are empty, the velvet lining salt-bleached beneath.

‘Do the story, Kian!’ says Moria, tucking her hair behind her ears and nestling back in her chair.

‘Really?’

‘Ah, g’won.’

Kian leans over the chest and lowers his voice. ‘Once, on a dark and stormy night—’

‘It was stormy, to be fair,’ interjects Moira. Kian side-eyes her.

‘Yes, thank you for clarifying, young Moira,’ slurs Kian. ‘On a dark and stormy night, two men whiled away the late-night hours on an oil rig out in the firth.’

‘Saucy,’ I say, raising my eyebrows.

‘Not like that. It was my pa and his pa,’ she says.

‘Oh.’ My stomach twangs. That means my pa as well. Kian thumps his fist on the table with faux impatience.

‘Moira! You’re dumping all over my attempt at suspense here!’ says Kian, his eyes unfocused as he pours himself another whisky.

‘Sorry, sorry.’ She physically pinches her lips to keep them closed as Kian clears his throat and belches into his fist.

‘Did your dads know each other?’ I ask.

‘Yeah, worked together,’ says Moira.

‘Propped up the same bar, more like,’ says Kian, swilling another slug of whisky to the back of his throat without a hint of irony. ‘Where was I?’ he says, yawning widely. ‘Moira, you finish it off.’

‘Basically, a diver was working on a pipeline under the rig and found this,’ says Moira, nodding towards the box. ‘Then made the mistake of playing poker with my dad and his,’ she continues, nodding towards Kian. ‘I never saw it myself, but some of the fellas down at the harbour talk about this tag-team approach of theirs – calling bluffs, tactical trips to the toilet to cop a look at someone else’s hand, y’know? It was all planned. They’d no money to bet, but that wasn’t unusual.’

‘Yeah, it’s the reason Mum had to take up night shifts stacking shelves at the big Tesco at Christmas. Sea pay is good, but what’s the point if you’ve lost it all before you’re back on land?’ says Kian.

‘Anyway, one night, this chest was on the table and became the joint property of the McCauley and Brody families. Think they were hoping for a bit more than whisky, but it’s nice, y’know? A joint heirloom,’ finishes Moira with a smile.

‘At the rate they drank, I’m surprised –’ Kian pauses, a closed fist held to his mouth ‘– surprised it lasted,’ he adds, his voice trailing off as his head