Usual stuff, this is fiction and I've taken a few liberties with reality. Oh, and we're all over eighteen.
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Preamble
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"Hi Tom, what's up?" I looked up to see Jerry, my best friend coming over to where I was sat. We had arranged to meet, as usual, in the bar of the Newton Arms.
"Nothing much. Have a pew." I pushed back a chair for him to sit on.
I've known Jerry since forever and, before we go any further, let's get the jokes out of the way. Yes, I'm called Tom and he's called Jerry just like... oh, for heaven's sake, don't think that we haven't heard them all a thousand times by now. We grew up together and, even now, we're still the best of friends. Now that we've left school we're both enrolled at the University Of Central Lancashire in Preston. I'm doing a catering course and Jerry's doing design. Here's hoping that either of us will get a job at the end of it but, for the moment, that's all a couple of years away.
When we're not doing our college courses we tend to hang around together. We like the same music, share the same interests and, when it comes down to it, nobody understands me the way Jerry does. Mind you, part of me feels like I live in his shadow. He's smart and sexy and bright and, unlike me, often has a girl friend. Not that I'm surprised. He's the sort the girls go for. Mind you, none of his girlfriends seem to stick around for long. I guess he hasn't found one he really likes.
"So, what are you doing for your hols? Are you going away with the folks?" Jerry asked after a while.
"Nah," I replied. "I'd rather do anything than go on another holiday with Katie! She drove me scatty last year," I replied. Katie is my little sister and, at thirteen, she's five years younger than me and a total and complete pest.
"In that case, do you fancy a bit of fishing?"
"Fishing? I don't mind a bit of fishing but it sounds a bit dull? We've fished most of the Ribble and I don't see that as much of a holiday."
"Not the Ribble, not anywhere around here. Let's go to the Isle Of Arran, that's the spot. Look, I've picked these up." Jerry pulled out some glossy brochures and handed them over. "We can get a week's rental of a cottage complete with a boat and it will cost us next to nothing, not if we split it fifty-fifty. During the day we do a bit of sea fishing, at night we hit the local pub and see what whiskies they sell. There's even a distillery on the island."
I flicked through the brochures. I'm not as keen on fishing as Jerry is but a week away from home, just the two of us, sounded like a lot of fun. We went through the brochures and did all the sums: cottage rental, boat hire, a bit of cash for food, a lot of cash for drink, enough petrol to get us there and back and, by the time we had finished, we'd got a pretty reasonable budget. If I leant on the old man and pointed out how much he'd be saving by not paying my air fare to the Algarve this year, then I should be able to afford it.
And so the trip that would change our lives was set. That was in March; now fast forward five months to July and picture Jerry's battered Fiesta pulling off the ferry and onto the magic that is the Isle Of Arran.
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Sunday
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Thanks to the wonders of sat-nav, and the fact that Arran only has one road worthy of the name, it didn't take too long to find Loch View cottage. We went next door and introduced ourselves to Angus McTavish, the owner, who let us in and showed us around. The brochure didn't exactly lie but it was definitely economic with the truth and the cottage, which looked perfectly adequate in the photos, was tiny. The original building, which probably dated back to the days of Braveheart, consisted of two rooms, a living room and a bedroom, with a more recent extension tacked on the back. The extension consisted of two further rooms, one a bathroom, the other a kitchen. Even so, as Jerry put it, in the bathroom you could do three things beginning with 'S' without having to move and, as for the kitchen, it was a good job I wasn't planning on cooking anything more complex than bacon and eggs. But it was the bedroom that was the killer. It was only about ten feet square and completely dominated by a king sized double bed. Yes, that's right, one single solitary double bed.
"But... but... but I thought the cottage sleeps two," Jerry protested. He scrabbled in his pockets and pulled out the brochure. "Look, look, it says here, sleeps two."
"Aye, and that it does. D'ya no see that it's a double bed? Sleeps two as snug as a bug in a rug."
"But we're both guys," I chipped in.
"Don't fret yourselves. We're pretty broad minded here. We'll no be minding if you want to share. Now, as I was saying, the water heater has a switch here. Don't leave it on all day or you'll..."
As Angus continued to explain the various appliances which, by the looks of things, he must have scrounged from the local scrap heap, Jerry and I looked askance at each other. Only one bed! Still, we were here now. We'd just have to work something out.
By the time we'd unpacked and settled in it was far too late to do any fishing. Even so we walked back down to the little bay and the landing stage to have another look at the eighteen foot motor boat we'd hired. It looked solid and seaworthy. They had been reluctant to let us have it at first but, fortunately, when I was fifteen, dad had pushed me to get my RYA Yachtmaster Costal certificate and that persuaded them that I knew what I was doing. Even then, Mr McTavish had gone over the safety rules time and time again and we had to promise that we wouldn't go night fishing. Having checked out the boat without the owner looking over our shoulders, it was time to walk the couple of miles into Brodick, the local town. We'd talked about driving but neither of us was prepared to be the one who stayed sober enough to drive us back again.
Much, much later, full of fish and chips and several pints of heavy, we made our way, rather unsteadily, back to the cottage. When we got there we slumped down in the armchairs and had one last can of McEwans and, at that point, we knew we finally had to address the question of where we were going to sleep. We were both pretty sossled but neither of us wanted to be the selfish one, neither of us wanted to see our best mate sleep on the floor.
It was Jerry who broke the deadlock.
He had got to his feet and was looking around for something, anything, we could use as a spare bed. He'd got to the door of the bedroom and was leant against the door jamb, staring at the bed.
"Look," he said wearily, "I'm completely bushed and if I don't get my head down soonest, I'm going to pass out. What's more, come tomorrow, I need my Captain Ahab fresh and awake so as to steer the good ship Pequod on a true course to find the great white whale..."
"What the fuck are you talking about," I asked. "Who the fuck is Captain Ahab and what the fuck is the good ship Pequod?"
