Am I an alcoholic?

Amanda gently rolled the dribble of whiskey round her tumbler, staring at it intently. "Am I an alcoholic?" she asked.

Bob took a deep breath and pointedly screwed the cap back onto the bottle. "You understand I'm a professional, right? I have years of experience and am considered an expert on these things for the purposes of court cases."

"No, but seriously."

"Seriously? Put out your tongue."

"What?"

"Do it. You want my expert opinion, do what I say. Stick out your tongue." Bob gave a theatrical shudder as Amanda complied. "Ew, disgusting. Put it away. No, not in your mouth! Oh well, too late now. M'lud, I can confidently attest and affirm, you are not an alcoholic."

Amanda scowled. "I was being serious."

"As was I. My evidence? An alcoholic doesn't get approximately drunk on two whiskeys."

"What?"

"Approximately drunk. Not drunk, just not exactly sober. Secondly, you are obviously new to afternoon drinking. Becoming an alcoholic doesn't happen overnight; it takes months of dedicated practice. Also, you've been nursing that drop for the last fifteen minutes while we've been putting the world to rights. An alcoholic would have finished it by now. I mean, none of these on their own is conclusive proof, but taken together, in conjunction with the observations I have made on several occasions heretofore and the copious notes I have made heretowith, it is my professional opinion you are merely a lush, with a tendency to drink when stressed and having a really shit day. The defence rests."

"Notes?"

Bob held up his hands. "It's not stalking until there's an injunction."

Finally Amanda smiled. "Idiot!"

"Guilty as charged. Listen, what you did this afternoon, that meant something, okay? Charging in on your white horse and paying those solicitors to defend the defenceless, brava. That made a difference to the Fae who were here. You've earned a drink. Or two." He slid the bottle further from her. "But not three."

"I didn't pay. They work for us pro bono. They're newly qualified and want to make a name for themselves."

"Doesn't matter. Yours was the only number I called and you didn't disappoint. You think they'll forget what you did for them? Hands across the sea, and all that. The longest march starts with a single step. Hug a tree. Things go better with Coke." Bob downed the last of his whiskey. "Eat your heart out, Churchill."

Somebody banged on the door. Amanda looked towards it and turned back to Bob, a question on her face. He waved his hand dismissively. "We're closed," he told her. "And this is a perfectly legal lock-in, it still being opening time. They can find another pub. Seriously, Amanda, I admire you. I could never hang my hat on a cause like you do. Too cynical, see? Too poor to miss a moment I could be serving a pint."

"You could serve beer anywhere."

"Yeah, but this is the East End. They tried to drive us Jew boys out once before, remember? Battle of Cable Street? My town. My pub. My rules."

Amanda smiled. "And you don't think you've hung your hat."

Bob shook his head. "Only half Jewish, see? No hat. Not even a kippah. Just bloody stroppy."

Someone banged on the door again. Bob sighed.

"We're closed!" he screamed, causing Amanda to start.

They banged again. Bob cursed under his breath and rose from his chair. "If that's the bloody Ministry again, I shall swing for them, you see if I don't."

He made his way to the door and rested his hand on the catch. "Who is it?" he called.

"Peter."

"We're closed."

"No, this is serious. Open up."

"We're out of whiskey."

"Stop arsing about and open the fecking door, you gobshite."

Bob turned to Amanda and mouthed "Gobshite?", his eyebrows raised. He turned the catch and opened the door a few centimetres, his foot planted firmly at the base of the door.

"What is it, Peter? We're closed and I have a hot date."

A tall, pale figure stepped into view. "Hello," he said. "I am Creteus. May I have a moment of your time to discuss this afternoon's incident?"