‘Erm, whiskey,’ Jay said. ‘Please,’ he added, and then regretting it as the barrel-bodied woman gave him a funny look. He watched her pour it in front of him, a chest like two diving bells resting on the bar-top. He knew the word that had actually come out of his mouth wasn’t “whiskey”. The glass of muddy gold before him was only the nearest translation. He hoped it was nicer than neat whiskey; he’d only asked for the stuff to fit in, and could really have done with more water.
