Steelie 12

The clack of the pool balls behind Sharon’s head, a metronome, marked the growing silence between them. ‘I better get back,’ she croaked, not really looking at Brodie, her cheeks splashed with colour like a dot of calamine lotion.

Steelie offered a shrug and a wee smile. ‘Aye, thanks for bringing us the drinks, pet.’

She got up and sat down again, side-saddle, her knees tight together and her hands tucked into her lap. ‘That thing you were sayin?’

Brodie sat like a mannequin, his strings cut and lips pressed together.  

‘Whit thing?’ Steelie leaned forward, quaffing a drink and seesawing his fingers across his bottom lip and chin with a rasping sound to clean the froth. ‘You mean whose round it was?’

He squinted sideways at Brodie.

‘No, that thing about we should aw help one another.’

‘Aye, we should.’

‘Well!’ She dragged her left foot slowly back and forward under the table. ‘That’s all right then,’ she said, too brightly. ‘Whit dae you think, Brodie?’

His head hanging, he sucked in air through his nose and snorted and muttered into his chest, ‘Yes. Peach of an idea.’

  His words landed like a dropped stone.

‘I know when I’m no wanted,’ she said.

‘Hi,’ Steelie held a hand up. ‘You ur wanted. Jist cause he’s an arsehole, don’t include me in the crowd.’ He nudged Brodie with his elbows. ‘He’s having some mummy issues. But listen, if I was a bit younger, sprightlier, I’d be fighting tae get the knickers aff you, myself. But I’m that age noo, were I cannae even manage tae get my ain knickers aff withoot a wrestling match.’ He smiled sadly. ‘And I usually lose.’   

‘That’s all right then.’ Sharon’s eyes burnt fiercely as she stared at Brodie’s face. ‘I  wasnae thinking of anything like that. I was jist hoping we could be friends.’ She frowned and then giggled, holding her hand over the side of her mouth, when she looked down and checked that the foot below the table rubbing her leg was Steelie’s.

‘I’ve still got it,’ he cackled and grinned, joining in the buzz of conversation around them. ‘It’s fate darling. Fate. We’re meant tae be the gither.’

‘Sharon,’ Brodie spoke slowly and deliberately. ‘There’s somebody up there. Wanting served at the bar.’ He nodded and gazed behind her head. Confirmation what he’d said.

She shifted in her chair to get a better look. A few of the regulars crowded the bar near the hatch. Cockeyed Bill, staring back at her.

‘Maggie’ll get them,’ she said and watched as the old barmaid nipped behind the counter and took charge.

She reached across the table and lifted the pint glass sat in front of Steelie and took a swig and plonked the drink in front of her. ‘What was that you were saying about fate?’ She licked the condensation from her fingertips. ‘Cause I always seem tae end up wae the arsehole of the world.’ She gazed at Brodie.

Steelie clutched his whisky. ‘You want the long version or the short version?’

‘Better make it the short version. I’m knackered and  hope tae know aff before midnight.’

‘Done,’ Steelie held up a finger. ‘Fate controls us. It’s as simple as that old notion of those in the trenches knew that a bullet had yer number on it. That right Brodie?’ He elbowed him.

Brodie, irked, shook his head.

Steelie took a gulp of whisky, banging the glass on the table. The heat showing on his cheeks and the warmth in his voice. ‘Yer Greeks had the Moirai, right? Three sisters. Wan spun. Wan measured. And wan cut the thread of life. Even the Gods couldnae defy them. You could put forward a wee argument that nothing we dae matters. When we meet the arsehole. We marry the arsehole. But Socrates—aye, him wae his daemon, he knew differently. He told us we’re responsible for how we meet oor fate. Virtue is reason—that’s the only boy that matters. You huv a choice within the lack of choices. Then religion piled in.’

‘I kinda know whit you mean,’ Sharon admitted, studying him with crinkled eyes. ‘You saying I ended up wae Spider cause…?’ She shook her hair over her face, shuddered and took a gulp of lager. ‘I don’t really know or want tae think about that too much.’     

 ‘Whit I’m saying is, I don’t really know either. Nane of us dae. We don’t choose where we’re born. What kind of shitey world we land in. But we can choose to make it better or far worse, like the moron’s moron, Trump. Think about Joan of Arc. She believed—rightly or wrongly—she had a divine mission. A divine fate, right? Voices whispering tae her. You listening, Brodie?’

Brodie sighed. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about either, if that’s what you mean?’ He offered Sharon a quick complicit grin. ‘Don’t listen to him. He’s full of spit and piffle.’

  ‘Fate can kill you,’ Steelie held his glass up and looked through it, before taking a swig. 'Joan of Arc could have ignored those voices, Brodie. She could have stayed in her village and picked fruit and baked bread, let some other mug ride intae battle. A little Jewish boy standing on a window ledge. Everything in the world has been taken away fae him. Darkness is singular and plural. But they urnae identical twins in that room inside and outside him.  The word fatidic is an interesting wan. Wae roots that connect it to the concept of fate and prophecy. The Greeks didnae dae predictive texting. We need tae go tae the Romans for that. Latin fatidicus, which combines fate and speech. So, it literally means fate-saying. Speak out, or forever hold your tongue. Do not consent tae yer oppression or yer circumstances. Trump is an evil cunt. Excuse the French.  Joan of Arc goes to war, knowing she’ll lose her life. You choose Spider knowing he was an arsehole. But you acted on that knowledge. You spoke oot.’ He toasted her with his drink. ‘You ditched the bad bastard.’

He licked his lips and made appreciative noises. ‘And the wee Jewish boy stepped doon fae the window and threw himself on the Fates.’