Penny Sinclair was twenty-one and a third-year law student at Aberdeen University. Term was ending in a week, then the long summer. She had made a decision. She would stay in Aberdeen. Up until then, during term breaks, she’d stayed some of the time with her dad in Strathaven, some of the time with her mum who lived in Harrogate.
Divorced, her mum and dad hated each other. Penny had given up caring. Though she knew something – she no longer wished to be part of the feud. A pawn in an emotional tug of war. Thus, her decision. She’d rent a flat in Aberdeen with a couple of friends, split the rental three ways. She had a part-time job in a shop. With a student loan it was enough to allow her to survive. Her mum and dad offered to help, but she’d refused. She saw and felt, close up, the shit that divorce could cause. She had a desire to be self-sufficient, relying on no one but herself.
Term was winding down. Exams were over. She was doing an honours course in Oil and Gas Law. Why, she had no real idea, other than a vague notion that because she was in Aberdeen, it might be useful to her some time in the future. But she had no real idea of what she wanted. The law maybe was a road to other things. She was young, with her life before her. Big decisions were for later. Much later.
She had a room in a halls of residence, in the campus of the university. A rather drab building of grey monoblocs, housing a hundred and fifty students. Most had left, back to their homes. The place was eerily quiet. The rooms were silent. The corridors were empty. The end-of-year parties were over. There was little to keep people from leaving. After the angst, the worry, the dread of exams, most wanted to get the hell away.
A week remained until the official end of term. It was Saturday afternoon. Penny worked weekends at a grocery shop a mile from the university. She’d finished the early shift, and was back in her room, lying on her bed, listening to music through headphones. Her friends liked Taylor Swift and Harry Styles. She liked Billy Joel and The Beatles. Her friends scoffed at her “old fashioned” tastes, and called her eccentric. Penny scoffed right back, arguing “fashionable” didn’t make it good, and eccentric was cool. At which they all laughed, including herself.
Her room was small and neat. A desk with a study lamp. A shelf of books. A laptop. On the wall, posters of random things. A bright red pillar box. An enormous daisy. Sunrise on snow-topped mountains. In a corner, a single wardrobe, and next to it, a chest of drawers. A small en suite.
She’d missed a call from her dad that morning. She’d called back, but it had gone straight to voicemail. She hadn’t left a message. Her dad had a serious drink problem. Often – always – when he phoned, he was blind drunk. The truth was, it scared her sometimes. He rambled, didn’t talk sense. He was bitter. Bitter about his life, about the divorce. She loved him. And she knew he loved her. But she needed distance.
Such thoughts were drifting through her mind, when there was a loud knock on her door. She got up, answered it. Angela Farmer stood in the hallway. Fellow law student, fellow drinking companion, best friend and lover. They had agreed to stay up together. Small, unstoppable. Always cheerful. Her dark hair tied into a fetching topknot. Angela said three words which brought sudden joy to Penny’s heart: “Fancy a beer?”
The answer was instant and instinctive.
“Too fucking right.”
They made their way to the nearest pub, St Machar’s Bar. The beer at the Student Union was cheaper, but St Machar’s was special. Close to King’s College, it was ancient and intimate. It had an almost witchy feel. Olde worde. Nothing remarkable from the outside. But inside, old stone walls, an ancient hearth carved from hard oak, with a real fire burning bright in the winter, a low ceiling criss-crossed with blackened rafters. On the walls, old photographs of university luminaries. Simple wooden tables and chairs. Nothing pretentious, which was why Penny liked it. It simply existed, unchanging, resolute against the passage of time.
The place was quiet. They got seats by a window. Angela got the drinks. Two bevelled pint tumblers of real ale with a weird Nordic name, impossible to pronounce properly.
She raised her glass. “Here’s to fucking who gives a toss!”
Penny gave a wry smile. “Fucking who gives a toss?”
Angela grinned. “It was the best I could come up with.”
“It’s almost poetic.”
“I’m a romantic at heart.”
“Suits me fine. I’ll drink to that.”
They clinked glasses, drank. Angela grimaced. “Still tastes like shit.”
“Makes sense.” Penny pursed her lips. “Having read shit for the past three years, and listening to shit, a natural progression that we should be tasting it.”
“I concur, m’lud,” Angela replied in a deep plummy accent, furrowing her eyebrows, assuming a long frown.
Penny copied the expression, pinched her nose, put on a squeaky fluting voice. “Yes, yes, m’lud. I concur too.”
“And me, m’lud.”
“Me too, m’lud!”
They laughed.
“I mean what the fuck?” said Penny. “I can’t imagine us being lawyers. It doesn’t compute. All serious and grown up.”
“Grown up.” Angela nodded like a wise owl.
“I have a theory.”
“Which is…?”
“That studying ‘The Law…’” Penny uttered “The Law” in a dramatically low voice, “is a slow prelude to death. Like a lingering disease. Like scarlet fever. Or leprosy.”
Angela’s forehead wrinkled in bemusement. “Leprosy? Interesting analogy. And when does death actually occur, Dr Penny?”
“At the instant a person actually joins a law office. Death, quick and certain. Then years of rigor mortis.”
“Bleak outlook,” said Angela, “but possibly true.”
“I have another theory, which follows on logically from the first.”
“Pray tell.”
“Think – hidden cameras, a group of lawyers in a room. What have you got?”
“I daren’t guess.”
“The perfect zombie movie.”
Penny raised her glass again. “Here’s to death, and then forty years of rigor mortis. And zombies.”
“To rigor mortis. And zombies.”
Angela took a deep draught, consuming half the contents, then followed with a belch. The bar tender, busy cleaning glasses, glanced up, shook his head, concentrated back on his glasses.
Penny laughed. “Who needs sophistication.”
They fell silent. Penny experienced a sudden, inexplicable tinge of melancholy. Perhaps it was the antiquity of the place. Perhaps it was the university term ending. Perhaps it was the missed call from her dad. “He phoned this morning.”
“He?”
“Dad.”
Angela raised an eyebrow. “Pissed?”
“Probably. Definitely. Obviously. I missed the call. God knows what he wanted. No doubt to impart some rambling nonsensical drunken wisdom no one could ever possibly understand, unless they had a doctorate in inebriation.”
“That’s quite a sentence. A doctorate in inebriation? Sign me up please.”
Penny swallowed some more ale, placed the pint glass down on one of the many cardboard beer mats scattered on the tables.
“He’s taken it bad, I think. Who wouldn’t? Perhaps, if he stopped drinking and actually spoke to me. You know? Like a father talks to his daughter? His partner’s been murdered. His friend. Having to run the law firm on his own. And his drinking. His fucking drinking.” She took Angela’s hand, stroked her skin with the tip of her finger. “I worry about him. Maybe I should do more.”
“It’s always been a problem, Pen.”
“I know. But still…”
“Still… You have a life. He has a life. If you’re feeling guilty, then shove it somewhere deep and dark. That’s no way to exist. He’s your father. Fine. But he’s made a choice. And you’re you. You’re Penny Sinclair, and you’ve got a life to live. So live it. And right now, we’re drinking shitty real ale called some shitty pretentious name in the oldest pub in Aberdeen. What’s not to like?”
Penny grinned, drank another mouthful, puckered her lips, made a sour face. “Christ, you’re right. It really is shit.”
“Of course it is. Otherwise, where’s the fun, darling?”