Steelie 11

‘Don’t worry too much,’ Steelie spoke out of the side of his mouth.‘Yer common-sense has goin missing. It happens quite a lot around here. Usually it’s guys. Asking the big questions. Whit is it aw about? Why am I here? And who can I shag? Maist aw the time, it’s guys that look like a walrus and urnae a danger tae themselves or others—apart fae lone women under seventy-five that can’t move fast enough away withoot stubbing their toes on their Zimmer’s.’

‘It wasn’t like that,’ replied Brodie.

‘Nah, you don’t really look the type. But I’ve wrang before. Did I tell you the story about my best mate?’

‘No.’

Brodie eyed Sharon. Her cheap perfume was like a hooked finger. She collected empties from other back tables. And she looked back at him with a quick flick of her hair but included Steelie in her gaze and smiled conspiratorially biting her bottom lip.

‘Aye, well,’ Steelie shrugged. ‘Basically, he’s no my best mate, noo. Anyway, back to you and whit we were talking about earlier. I take it you’ve used aw the tried-and-tested methods: AA groups, recovery meetings, primal screaming, breathwork wae wee daft Buddhists chanting. And sitting sweating inside a wigwam, while somebody’s munching on a  sausage roll?’

‘I’m not an alcoholic,’ replied Brodie. ‘And as for that other stuff,’ he made a face.

‘Aye it’s totally bonkers, but the sausage roll was nice and it was Gregg’s.’

He held his empty whisky glass up for Sharon to collect. His whisky breath mixed with something that curled his bottom lip, but she ignored him. Head up, she pranced towards the bar drawing admiring glances with the two trays of glasses clinking together.

  Sharon leaned on the bar, her elbows pressed into the damp rings of spilled beer. She wasn’t looking at Steelie, not really when she chatted with Cockeyed Bill and those clamouring for her attention. Her eyes kept drifting to Brodie. Her tanned hands and long pink nails were wrapped around a Coke, fingers twitching as if she wanted to crush the can.

Steelie, solid and immovable, smirked. ‘Yer in noo, son.’ He tapped his temple. ‘Once you see the beauty of that. Nae back-backers.’ His voice had the slow cadence of a man who never needed to rush anything. ‘And while yer up there, might as well get a few doubles in.’

Brodie exhaled. The bitterness of lager playing on his tongue. He closed his eyes briefly, steadying himself. ‘I guess it’s time to get out. While I’m still ahead.’

Steelie rubbed at his eyes with the heel of his hand and smoothed down the rough stubble of his cheek. ‘Who said you were ahead? You’ve got a psychopathic President that’s jist as likely to start the Third World War as no. And you think yer a wee Jew boy that jumped oot a windae cause the Nazis stole yer ma?’

The relentless and rhythmic beeping of the fruit machine was met with a muted cheer as it paid out and money clanked into the chute.

‘Fuck sake,’ said Brodie, flinging himself back against the seat and making the faux- leather creaked with his bulk. ‘Can you not take anything serious?’

‘Aye, every time something serious happens, I take it very seriously.’  

‘Well, try this one on.’ Brodie took a sip of lager. ‘I told you I was a boy and I told you I was a Jew, and my family being arrested but I didn’t mention the window, or me standing on the ledge or who had shouted up at me but you seemed to know that already.’

‘You must huv.’ Steelie leaned back, the dim light casting soft shadows on his face. His grin tempered by a flicker of some version of pity or concern. ‘Awright, Brodie, you’ve got me. Caught me oot. But here’s the thing, pal, how do you no know it’s no whisky talking? But, listen—if you want tae play playboy or prophet, best get another round in. Sharon at the  the bar, keeps gi’eing me or you the eye, aye? And I’m getting fair worn oot wae it.’

‘You’re getting worn out?’ Brodie picked up a pint and drunk it to the dregs, shaking the glass sideways to show it was empty. ‘What about me?’

‘Yer too young and get paid for this kind of work. I dae it for free. For humanity. A lesser guilt comes with knowledge of the full facts. But again we fall back on that old dictum, “Let God separate the guilty from the innocent.” Since only the insane and small children are truly innocent, we try and make do. That’s whit we dae.’

‘Fuck off,’ said Brodie.

Steelie sipped at a lager, as he watched him getting up and strolling towards the bar. Sharon was ready for him. The full wattage of her smile on display. David Attenborough might have focussed on the way she pushed her chin and boobs out as she laughed.

‘Fuck sake,’ muttered Steelie into his pint. ‘I ne’er knew getting a round in could be so much fun.’

Sharon put their drinks on a tray and brought it to their table. ‘Whit you said earlier.’ She pushed the glasses of whisky and lagers towards Steelie and offered him a warm smile. ‘I don’t know how tae put it, but it was jist dead nice. And I agreed wae every word.’

‘Cheers,’ Steelie held up a glass and watery smile in return.

The toilet door banged open. Brodie emerged, pale-faced, jaw tight. His eyes moved too fast, scanning the room, eyeing the regulars like he was a collie dog measuring sheep for the sharp edge of a cliff. His stride was sharper, a little too quick for such a small space.

He dropped into his seat, hands flat on the table, fingers stiff as his body. Steelie didn’t say a word. He didn’t seem to see Sharon, but he knew she was there.

Sharon slid into the seat across from Brodie. Her chin resting in her palm. ‘Yer awfy quiet. Cat got yer tongue?’

Brodie swallowed and stared through her. He couldn’t say it. Not with her here. Not with her eyes on him, watching, waiting and listening.