Steelie 7

‘Ur there any spirits wae us?’ Steelie’s voice barely more than a whisper. The planchette shivered, and pieces of cardboard marked with letter and words floated to the ground. The smell of the pub seemed to grow stronger, like the air was growing thicker with invisible forces.

Brodie ducked his head. Twisted his neck and snatched a look over his shoulder. He eyed the regulars chattering and laughing. A collective groan when the Jukebox spat out ‘High Noon,’ again. But they were too took up with their victory to care.

 Steelie snorted, flicking away a numbered bit of paper. ‘Aye, right. You been watching too many Dracula movies?’ He drained the dregs of his pint and banged the glass on the table. ‘Scared were you?’

‘No, just not daft enough to listen to you.’ The planchette twitched. Brodie mastered his face and acted unconcerned. ‘Just wondering how you did it?’

‘Whit?’

A muscle flickered in his jaw. His fingers curled slightly against the table. ‘All of it?’

Steelie sniggered. ‘Good question. It’s the oldest trick in the book. Naebody asked Gideon why he reduced his army before attacking the Midianites or why Jonathan attacked the Philistine army wae no real support. It only made sense afterwards.’

‘So you’re saying?’

‘I’m no saying anything.’

Steelie was interrupted by a wiry bloke in a Celtic top, hugging a broad-shouldered man in a scuffed leather jacket at the bar and a collective cheer and banging on the tables when he kissed him on the cheek.

‘I’m saying, nane aw yer shite. The lion shall lie doon wae the lamb. And a Celtic supporter will make peace wae a bitter orange bastard of a Rangers fan. And naebody cares. Get a fucking drink in,’ said Steelie. ‘I’m fucking chocking.’   

The pub door burst open before he could answer. The acrid bite of cigarette smoke from punter outside. Unexpected because there had been no police car. No Just two plain-clothes cops guarding the door.

An older man, his face a subway map of experience, a semblance of his routine held him in place. A rumpled suit which might have been matched with charcoal and shining black shoes in an identity parade. His posture remained largely unchanged, his gaze fixed on the unfolding scene outside with a seasoned weariness. He seemed almost detached from the immediate aftermath, a silent interloper who had witnessed similar events before.

The younger DI had a jaunty step as he made his way towards the bar. ‘Afternoon all,’ he said. ‘What happened here?’

His accent was more posh Bearsden than Glasgow. His blonde hair carefully tousled. He wore a pair of fitted jeans, slightly distressed, and a tight white shirt that showed off his muscular build. His jacket was a trendy bomber style, dark enough to pass muster.  

Sharon couldn’t help smiling back at him. ‘We’d a bit of trouble.’

Cockeyed Bill growled, ‘Couple of lads in thinking they could take the piss.’ He let his hand drop from the bar and onto his lap to hide the bloody knuckles.

‘You saw what happened?’ the young DI asked.

Cockeyed Bill shook his head. ‘Nah, was in the toilet at the time. Suffer terrible fae the runs. But I heard a lot of banging.’ He allowed himself a little smirk.

The young DI ran his fingers through his hair and faced Sharon. ‘Any cameras?’

‘Nah, penny-pinching,’ Sharon sneered. ‘I’m lucky if I get paid. Ne’re mind anything else.’

He sighed and took a notebook from his pocket. ‘You see what happened.’

Agnes cut in. ‘Fat lot of good you lot were. By the time you get here, everybody has left. Then you come trumping in, questioning the innocent and letting the guilty walk.’

 The heavy, purposeful thud of police boots on the cracked pavement and the authoritative shouts of officers beginning to secure the area, their voices cutting through the lingering tension seemed to confirm what she’d been saying.

‘And you are, Madame?’

‘Agnes,’ she replied. ‘Noo fuck off and get a real job. Stop ponsing about and annoying folk.’

He licked his pink lips and Sharon offered him a sympathetic smile. He clutched at his pen, notebook in hand. ‘Perhaps you can help me Madame?’

Sharon nodded. ‘Perhaps I could. But see that guy o’er there.’ She pointed to his superior officer making his way to the back tables were Steelie and Brodie were sitting chatting. ‘Let’s cut the flannel. He’s Uncle to a lad called Spider. He’s got another Uncle that’s Super-somethin. And somehow nothing really sticks tae him. He’s like Teflon. So I wouldnae bother wasting my time, making a statement and aw that shite. Cause nothing will happen. Ne’er does. No how.’

DJ smirked, not taking his eyes off his whisky. ‘Times change. So do the people in them. But the stink fae the cops always remains the same.’

The young DI challenged him. ‘And what did you see or hear?’

DJ spluttered. ‘Nothin. I was in the toilet huving a shite, or outside huving a fag. You choose?’  

‘I could arrest you for obstructing justice.’

‘Och, goin obstruct yerself,’ said Agnes.

Even with the uniform cops milling about, the silence stretched into a line nobody would pass. The jingle of belts and the scratch of radios louder than any shouts had been earlier.

Steelie looked up and acted surprised to see Detective Inspector Griffiths standing in front of their table.

‘Why, if there’s always trouble, you seem to be at the centre of it, Mr Steel?’ DI Griffins asked.

Steelie leaned forward, setting his glass down with deliberate care. He tapped a nicotine-stained finger against his chest. ‘Guilty. You get to that age were yer always guilty of something. And it’s best jist tae own up tae it and get it aff your chest before you start babbling on about something you cannae remember when it started or where it stopped. You know whit Seamus Heaney says…?’

DI Griffiths held a hand up. ‘Enough. I don’t gi’e two flying fucks whit Seamus Heaney said or you say. I jist want wan wee thing. N’er tae see or listen tae yer pish again?’ He banged his hand on the table making the glasses jump. ‘Got it?’

He seemed to notice Brodie for the first time and something shifted within him.

Steelie brought him back with a jolt, rocking back on his heels and growling. ‘Aye, sometimes the necessary illusion is we know whit we’re daeing. Even though the truth is within reach.’

DI Griffiths leaned over the table eyeballing him. ‘Shut the fuck up. I’m warning you for the last time.’

‘Cynicism is the best protect for cynics,’ replied Steelie. ‘The worst thing is, how contagious it is. Yer certainly in the right profession were intellect is no hindrance to the performance of public duty. In fact it’s a positive advantage.’