Steelie 5

Brodie’s breath smelled of stale whisky. He glinted at him with darkened eyes. ‘How did you know my mum’s name was Martha?’

The quarter-gill glass toppled without either of them touching it. Rolled in a slow circle on the table and smashed when it hit the floor. The sharp, acrid scent of spilled drink and spirits filled the air even though the glass had been empty

Steelie’s jaw tightened. ‘Jesus,’ he muttered.  

The low murmur of conversation near the bar dimmed. The thwack of pool balls stopped. The older and younger lad stood near the pillar and looked over. Laughing and sharing a joke.

‘Is it that bad?’ Brodie whispered.

‘Aye.’  Steelie bent over picking up the larger pieces and piling them on the corner of the table. He held his gaze and looked up at him grinning. ‘It was a good glass.’

‘Can you not take anything serious?’

Steelie swallowed a drink of whisky in a gulp, his head jerking back as if his jaw had been knuckled. But he chuckled. Eyes crinkling, watering and absorbing light like a man that liked a drink and laughing at his own jokes. ‘There’s something beyond veracity. Beyond self.  Beyond spirits of every kind. And it’s not someone else, but common humanity in its suffering. A man that continually needs to display his possessions is like a man that needs tae show his affection to the Atlantic Ocean by drowning folk and calling them emigrants and a necessary sacrifice. I take that very seriously indeed.’

Brodie nudged him. ‘You talk in riddles.’

‘We aw dae.’  

Cockeyed Bill approached with a brush and shovel. He knocked the larger pieces into the shovel and swept around their feet.

Steelie ran his fingers through his thinning hair. ‘Dae us a favour, Bill?’

Bill eyed them warily. ‘Whit?’

‘Tell us the secret of yer success.’

 Bill didn’t blink. The shadows under his eyes looked deeper in the low light, his expression drawn tight with something that wasn’t just drink and fags and weariness. ‘Fuck off, yer an arsehole.’

He shuffled away from them. Clutching the shovel in front of him and the brush trailing behind like a tail but with a surer step.

‘See,’ said Steelie. ‘Maist billionaires like Elon Musk and multi-millionaires such as the moron’s moron, they cannae help it! Aw that money knocks them cockeyed. But Bill,’ he wagged a finger in his direction. ‘He’s stayed true tae himself, regardless. He doesnae confuse money wae real life.’   

He banged the empty whisky glass down on the table, put the heel of his hand over it and sliding down and over it.  Inviting Brodie to try his hand again.  A pinkie-wrestler, wee finger cocked.

Brodie stared at the upended glass. His hands squeezed into his lap.  He’d felt it then, a prickling unease in the hairs on the back on his neck standing, a sense that something wasn’t right. He found it hard to admit he was scared, but he jumped when his phone rang.

A small, relieved smile appeared with a dimple captured on one cheek. He picked up his pint and took a long gulp. The lukewarm lager allowed him to remain unmoved, when Steelie’s finger twitched like a pinned butterfly and the glass spiralled across the table.

Steelie caught it before it fell to the floor and shattered like the other. He raised his glass in a silent toast.

Brodie rose like a monument, his phone lumped against his ear. His pink cheek in a glacial haze, and face caught in an unfamiliar pose as he lumbered towards the Gents.

Steelie’s hand hovered over the upended glass. Trapping it between his fingers as it bucked. The table moved under his feet and threatened to topple and spill all the drinks he hadn’t paid for. He shifted his feet and his weight and pressed down harder.

He heard the grunt, before he saw the fist following behind it as the pool balls scattered.  His breath heavy among the clinking of glasses. The hum of conversation died and rose again like a familiar symphony as those near the bar closed in to get a better look.

DJ had gone for a television, knock-out punch. His face scowling, he wound his arm up and winded himself by forty-a-day fag habit. Connor easily moved aside and danced like a kitten pushing on a piece of string. His punches were more like slaps. DJ red-faced and grunting tried to gain some purchase by picking up a pool ball. He staggered backward after a barrage of blows to fling it or to take a seat beside Steelie against the back wall and be counted out nobody could tell.

Sharon cried. ‘I’ve called the police.’ She advanced from behind the bar, a determined tilt to her chin, but when a well-healed customer held a finger up, she went back to serve him first.

Even Cockeyed Bill was snide with her. ‘No yeh huvnae,’ he cried.

The guy playing the fruit machines looked up from the flashing lights when the pub doors opened. Damp concrete, exhaust fumes, something sharp and metallic filled the room. A group of figures filed in, shrouded in the dim light from the street, led by Spider. They moved with a strange, balletic grace, but there was something about the set of their shoulders, the way their hands were shoved into their pockets that showed they meant business.

Sharon shouted from behind the bar. ‘Yer barred ya prick.’ She pulled the hatch down. And picked up her phone. ‘I’ve called the police.’

Spider smirked. ‘Yer nothing but a duff ride. And if yeh call the police, I’ll cut yer fingers aff.’

A thickset guy with a ponytail, pulled a machete out from behind his back like a conjuring trick. ‘I’m gonnae ride her.’ He turned his head to ask Spider. ‘Dae yeh mind?’

Spider laughed as Sharon scrambled for her phone. ‘Fill yer boots, but jist make sure it’s consensual.’  

Connor stepped in front of the guy with the machete, with a pool ball in his hand.

Steelie lifted the glass from the table and smashed it on the ground. He leaned forward and blew as if it was somebody else’s birthday candles he was blowing out.