Read Online Bootlegged Angel by Mike Ripley - Free Book Online

black-and-white films shown on Sunday afternoon television.
    ‘I’m with you. Say no more.’
    I was glad one of us knew what we were talking about. I noticed my glass was empty.
    ‘What’s that one?’ I pointed to the pump at the end of the bar.
    ‘Ah, that’s the last of our special Christmas brew, Noel’s First. It’s a really quite powerful barley wine. Try a drop.’
    He took my glass and started to pull.
    ‘You don’t get many barley wines on draught these days but my Uncle Edgar always has a pin at home over the Christmas holiday. He keeps it near the fire in the drawing-room and puts
a heated poker into his tankard before he drinks it.’
    ‘Why?’
    Murdo paused, mid-pull.
    ‘I don’t honestly know.’
    ‘Still, nice name for Christmas,’ I said, ‘First Noel and all that.’
    He looked slightly stunned.
    ‘It’s named after our Head Brewer, Noel. It was his first Christmas brew. The Christmas carol had never occurred to me. Makes sense now you think about it.’
    Behind me I heard a snort, and then a chair scraped back across the floor and footsteps stomped out of the door. The Head Brewer had taken his leave of us. He probably had made the connection,
and heard it a million times.
    Murdo looked positively relieved that he had gone.
    ‘Ah, good, he’s gone. That’s a relief,’ he said and because I had been thinking that, it seemed quite amusing and I think I giggled into my new beer.
    ‘Listen, Mr Angel – or can I call you Roy?’ he asked, walking round to my side of the bar.
    I had just taken a mouthful of Noel’s First and seemed to have lost the use of several motor neurones. As far as I was concerned, he could call me Rafael Sabatini. I think I mumbled
something to the effect that it was cool by me.
    ‘I know it looks as if I’ve been messing around for the last couple of hours, but I really need to brief you in private. Now we’re alone, I suggest we stay here as this is just
about the most private place in the brewery, but I need to get something from my office. Something to show you. It’ll only take me a few minutes to get it but I’ll be right back.
I’m afraid I’ll have to lock you in while I’m gone. It’s company rules. Do you mind awfully?’
    Did I mind being locked
in
a brewery sampling cellar? There was a poser.
    ‘No worries,’ I said.
    He was gone about five minutes, or it could have been two hours, I really didn’t mind, and when he returned he was carrying a thin grey case under his arm.
    ‘My laptop,’ he said proudly, setting it up on the bar. ‘I’d be lost without it. It does absolutely everything for me.’
    ‘Can it pull a pint?’ I asked, thinking that was just about the wittiest and most charming thing anyone could have said in the circumstances.
    ‘Er . . . no.’ He looked around, flustered for a moment. ‘Please, help yourself.’
    ‘Thanks, I will.’
    I already had.
    ‘Grab a bar stool,’ he said, settling on one himself, but even when he was sitting down I still had to look up to him. Maybe that was because my legs had started to turn to
rubber.
    When I had a full pint glass, though I couldn’t remember which beer it was, I pulled up another bar stool next to his and tried to make out the graphics appearing on his computer’s
screen. The image was of a mosaic design and the colours were oddly soothing.
    ‘This is a map of the European Union,’ said Murdo.
    And so it was. I closed my left eye and it became clear.
    ‘Sixteen countries from Portugal to Finland, all living in unity, peace and harmony under the provisions of the Treaty of Rome, and all with their own systems of tax – income tax,
value added tax and, most importantly for brewers, excise duty.’ Murdo hit a button on his keyboard, and on the map all the borders between the countries disappeared. ‘Then came the
Single Market in January 1993 and – in theory – all obstacles to trading between these countries disappeared. It was supposed to be a Europe