the beet on to the island and bring the brandy back. There were jobs a-plenty making liquor on Brandy Island. Or there had been. Something had happened. The brandy was no good or the distillery was inefficient or Mr Vaughan lost interest … But the name had stuck. The buildings were still there, though the machinery lay silent, and the rail tracks still ran to the river’s edge, but the crossing had been dismantled and any crates of ghostly brandy that came rattling along the rails now would end up at the bottom of the river …
What to do? He had thought he might stand on the bank and holler, but now he was here he realized the futility of such a thing. Then – fancy that! – he noticed a small rowing boat moored at the river’s edge – a little one such as a woman might row, left there by chance at just the moment he needed it. He congratulated himself on his luck – the gods were on his side tonight.
He lowered himself into the boat, and though it rocked alarmingly beneath him, he was too drunk to panic and too much a child of the river to topple in. He settled himself and old habit rowed for him, till he felt the nudge of the island’s bank. It was not the landing place, but no matter. Out he clambered, getting wet up to his knees. He climbed up the slope and made his way. The distillery loomed three storeys high in the centre of the island. To the east, the vitriol works. Behind that, the store house. He was as quiet as he could be, but not quiet enough – when his boot tangled with something and he stumbled, a hand came from nowhere and tightened on the back of his neck, keeping him down. A thumb and four fingers pressed painfully into the tendons.
‘It’s me,’ he gasped, winded. ‘It’s only me!’
The fingers loosened. Not a word was uttered, but he followed the man by sound until they came to the store house.
It was a windowless space, and the air was densely fragrant. Yeast and fruit and heady sweetness with a bitter edge, so thick you could hardly inhale it but almost needed to swallow to get it down. The brazier illuminated bottles, copper vessels and barrels, all haphazardly put together. It was nothing like the modern, industrial-scale equipment that had once existed in the factory, though it had been fabricated from pieces stolen from there and with the same aim in mind: the production of liquor.
The man did not so much as glance at his visitor, but settled himself on a stool, where his slim, slight frame was darkly silhouetted against the orange light from the brazier. Without turning, he concentrated on relighting his pipe beneath the low brim of his hat. When it was done, he sucked on it. Only when he had exhaled and added a note of cheap tobacco to the odour did he speak.
‘Who saw you come?’
‘Nobody.’
Silence.
‘No one’s about. Too cold,’ the tramp insisted.
The man nodded. ‘Tell.’
‘A girl,’ the tramp told him. ‘At the Swan at Radcot.’
‘What about her?’
‘Someone have pulled her out the river tonight. Dead, they say.’
There was a pause.
‘What of it?’
‘She is alive.’
At this the man’s face turned, but was no more visible than before. ‘Alive? Or dead? She must be one or the other.’
‘She was dead. Now she is alive.’
There was a slow shaking of the head and the man spoke flatly. ‘You have been dreaming. That or you’ve drunk one too many.’
‘It is what they are saying. I only came to tell you what they are saying. Dead they took her from the river and now she lives again. At the Swan.’
The man stared back into the brazier. The messenger waited to see if there was any further response, but after a minute saw there would be none.
‘A little gesture … For the trouble I’ve took. It’s a cold night.’
The man grunted. He rose, casting a dark and flickering shadow on to the wall, and reached into the darkness. From it his hand extracted a small, corked bottle. He passed it to the tramp, who pocketed it, touched the brim of his hat and retreated.
Back at the Swan, the cat was asleep, curled against the chimney breast that still exhaled a gentle warmth. Its eyelids flickered with the images of cat dreams that would be even more perplexing to us than the stories our human brains