Steelie.

A big guy stood at the pub door like he’d just put on a new suit and didn’t want to get his life creased.

He slid into the chair beside Steelie, his back against the well. ‘I need you to find someone for me.’ He’d an American accent. ‘I need some information.’

He slid a piece of paper across the table. Watched Steelie squinting  as he read the few typed details and licked his lips. Then whipped the paper away and slid it into the inside pocket of his dark suit. His eye careened around the pub. Checking if anybody had been watching.

Steelie followed his gaze. His hunched back to the rectangles of unwashed windows, Cockeyed Bill was sitting on a stool square to the bar. The noise of the traffic seeping through. The gantry lights and those of the fruit machines near the toilets adding a little jingle of merriment, but made the almost empty room longer and the bricolage of empty tables and wooden chairs around the pool table bleaker.

Steelie took a swig of lukewarm lager from his pint and licked the froth from his lips and the straggly hair of his beard. He’d more patches of grey hair on his face than his head. He put his hand on the other table, when he stood up and lifted his empty glass.  ‘Nah, no for me.’

As a courtesy he asked. ‘You want a pint?’ His frayed denim jacket fell from his bony wrist as he waved a hand towards the bar. He glanced at the double-spread racing page lying squint on the table next to his. A blue pen, bookie debris, where he’d circled a £2 accumulator spread over five races.

The American jumped up as if on parade and ushered Steelie back towards the seat. ‘I’ll get it.’

When he was sure he was safely seated, he leaned across the table with spread betting and whispered, ‘I’ve been told to get you whatever you need.’  

‘Lager then, mate.’

Steelie would have missed the slight nod he made if he hadn’t been waiting for it. ‘And cheese and onion crisps.’ He chuckled. ‘And get Bill a pint, tae.’

‘Who’s Bill?’

He quickly made the connection before Steelie could answer.

But that didn’t put Steelie off. ‘Cockeyed Bill.’ He repeated his name with relish. ‘The bear than never slept. The man that never wept. That’s Cockeyed Bill. You’ve got tae love him. Cause nae cunt does.’

Steelie’s mouth filled with dental debris set in a grin had the American’s attention. He met his puzzled grey-eyed gaze and answered with a spiel. ‘Some of us give up the future for the past.  Endlessly fixating on what might have been. Other give up the on the present for a future that might not be, usually doomwatchers and scrollers. You’ll probably know a few, the line of work you’re in.’

 ‘Two negatives don’t make a positive. They dae make life a pain in the arse and everybody else miserable, but I don’t mind that too much being a miserable sot myself.’

‘Look at Cockeyed Bill there.  He’s absolutely shattered. He’s been in the abyss so long he thinks it’s normal. Yet, if you really look at him.’

The American obliged with a tired smile.’

‘He’s trying to find the energy to offer the barmaid a smile—right enough she is a cracker—and he’s the same tired old joke she sees every day. First in, standing sentinel when her shift begins.

They watch him, holding up his pint and swallowing a drink of lager with gusto, sniffing and making a face. Reaching for his fags, but they’re no longer there on the bar, beside him. They’re in his jacket pocket hanging crock on the back of his chair.

‘Look at her. She’s too young. Too pretty. She’s not seeing him. Not having it. She’s off. Bolted towards the till. Reaching for her phone. So she can swipe him off and going inside herself to a false kingdom full of promises of shite and mair shite. Lies and mair shite.

‘Cockeyed Bill is staring at her tae. Since she’s no looking. He knows. No tae go for it. Keep stuhm. For her and for most folk tae, he doesnae exist at all. His past is sutured together wae bad things that have happened to him. Being ignored is the least of his worries. He’s seen her sort before. Been in relationships wae a few of them. Came through the violence and strife. But he’s no hiding. He’s daeing his best to remain courteous. To smile, sadly, offer a kind word and dampen down her negative vibes. He’s making the world a better place.

‘No like her, wae her pretty pout and big boobs. No that I’ve got anything against pretty pouts and big boobs. Let’s put it this way. I’d much rather kiss that sulky-faced cunt any day of the week and any week of the year than look at you.  Just a personal opinon. You got it?

 ‘She’s been eying, you. She’d definitely worship at your altar, but sadly not mine. I’ll tell you what. Get Cockeyed Bill a Guinness and a wee hauf. And hell be o’er the moon.’

The American asked as if he’d been chewing something that had been tickling his nose. ‘What’s a “hauf”?’

‘It’s a whisky.’

‘Right,’ he put his hand on his heart, or his wallet or his gun. ‘I’ll do that.’

‘And get a wee one for yourself.’

‘I don’t drink when I’m on duty.’

‘You do now or it just won’t work. Think of it this way. I used to be an alky.  Put your faith in me. I built my life on a lie. Choosing another sober life. Sober lie. Instead of drunken truth. You choose your poison, or you fuck off?’

‘I’ll get a half of lager and lemonade.’

‘What will your bosses say about that? They ‘ll think you’ve gone native. Bonkers even. You better watch out for that.’