Steelie 9

A dog howled outside the front windows. The sound cutting through the pub. Brodie looked at Steelie, his hard gaze softening when he moved empty glasses onto another table, so he could put down their drinks.

‘Must have been a riot,’ he quipped. ‘They’ve brought in the police dogs.’

Steelie necked a whisky. His lips making appreciative smacking noises. ‘Maybe no a police dogs.’ The dog barked again and they sat with drinks in hand as if pondering. ‘Maybe a punter’s dog, looking for its owner. Wanting fed.’  

Brodie opened his mouth to reply, but the crackle of a police radio interrupted them. ‘They’re clearing out.’ He took a sip of his pint.

Steelie grinned. ‘The always dae. Maybe there’s another riot in an Old Folk’s Hame and somebody has stole the cheese sauce.’

DI Griffiths glanced at their table on his way out, but then stopped and stomped towards them. The young detective followed as backup, but he waved him away.  His knuckles white on the table, he leaned over and declared, ‘I’ve got my beady eye on you.’

With froth on his lips from chuckling into his pint, Steelie held his gaze.‘Fuck off, DI Griffiths.’ A dismissive hand up, he waved him away. ‘Yer full of wind and shite.’

DI Griffith’s jaw tightened, his hand curling into a fist at his side. The dog barking stopped as suddenly as it began and seemed to bring him back to the space between silence, mingling with the lingering smell of sweat and smoke.

 ‘Arsehole,’ grunted Steelie as they watched his retreating back.

It was something Brodie couldn’t quite put his finger on. Kinship perhaps, or fear, or both. The last few days had left him exhausted. He was never much of a drinker.

Steelie nudged him. ‘Nothing like a wee mouthful tae buck you up.’

Brodie’s head fell onto his chest and in his dwam state he thought he could hear his mother’s breathing as she slept.

***

Mole wakes for the fifth time that week at half past two in the morning. His throat dry. He holds his hand over his mouth so not to wake the baby with his wheezing. His father lies in the straw with his eyes closed serene and breathing evenly. His brothers and sister hold onto their mum as if she’s keeping them afloat. He shuffles towards the jug they use for their toilet and makes an effort not to miss the target in the dark and to make little noise.

He’s been hungry for so long he can smell food. A hunk of bread. He thinks he hears something. But is scared to move unless he’s caught thinking about it. The bread is in his mum’s pocket. She thinks they don’t know where she’s hidden it.

He sneaks across to look out the window, clutching his hands into his ochters to warm them as snow falls outside and creates its own light. His father mutters something in a language he doesn’t understand but doesn’t waken.

They’re sleeping. He knows he’s going to betray them. He walks very carefully armed with that knowledge. All their wealth is in the wardrobe. And all the world is empty but for the snow outside. Steep roofs and wide streets starred with an inner light. Restless town-hall clock ready to strike the hour.

He makes himself smaller. Massages the crickle and croon in his throat so he doesn’t bark, when he edges open the wardrobe door. Inside tastes and smells of a different kind of childhood. One he barely remembers. Mothballs and damp wool. A stifling fuzz that clings to his nostrils as he presses his face into the scratchy fabric of his father’s good overcoat. His small, trembling hands grip the wooden slats, pulling himself inside his dirty fingernails digging into the grooves as if they could anchor him to the safety and warmth of other times, better times.

His mum’s coat is a monstrosity. Fur of some inky slinky wild animal. Skunk, or perhaps badger. But it has only a musty familiar smell. He burrows his head and shoogles it about. The glow in his face keeps the heat in the backbone pelt. His breathing has almost stopped but his heartbeat jumps as he dips his hand into the pocket and pulls out their bread ration.

He dusts it down and licks his fingers. Listens. His ears strain to catch any sound. His body frozen in anticipation as he chews. Swallowing is difficult but delicious. He cries and rocks himself to sleep.

The wardrobe creaks as he shifts his bum, the noise echoes in the stillness. The muffled thump of an engine and squeeling brake. Mole remains motionless in his cocoon, his body rigid with fear.

The sound of boots on the stairs and battering the door.

Verboten. Forgotten words like arrested or imprisoned.

His mother is raped before he is taken into protective custody. So are his sisters. Too young, not to squeal. He does not see his father, but hears the blows. Everything must be done quickly. Double time. Like a toad jumping in his head.

Uniforms. He remembers uniforms but not faces. Blue cap to secure the door. All in black with a white belt and white gloves, SS. Brown shirts, round caps and big visors. Round red rapist faces that stunk of beer halls. Black boots and Swastika armbands. Hitler Youth graduates. No longer wearing the number of their troop. Grunts that enjoy their work for the Fatherland.  

He emerges slowly with his mum’s coat crowning his head, breathing her in. His legs unsteady beneath him. He has to crawl. The room in disarray, blood and piss on the floor. He throws up. His cough hacking at his throat. Someone upstairs has turned on the People’s Radio and he hears the jaunty jig of a Nazi marching song.

He wants to die but isn’t quite sure how to go about it. Perhaps he should fly a foreign flag and rip the insignia off his coat that proclaims him to be Jewish. Perhaps he should kill Hitler. His friend Kurt once owned a Diana air gun that fired potatoes, but he’d need something bigger and better.

Mole opens the window and looks at the ground below. Measuring the distance. He does not want the blanket of snow to break his fall. Someone below shouts up at him. He ignores their cries as he steps up onto the windowsill. ‘Who will say Kaddish?’ he mutters for his father has taught him well.  

***