The Skelf
by Andrew McCallum Crawford
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: One strong one only.
Description: Skelfs. They get under your skin, don't they?
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I was sitting having a pint with the brother. The pair of us were knackered, another ten-hour shift, then the hour’s drive back here. The Guinness was sliding down. No need to talk. That wee junkie walked in. The Skelf, they called him. I never gave him the time of day. Why would I? He headed straight for the toilet, in and out in a flash. He must have missed his appointment. The place was getting used as a shooting gallery. Nobody was doing anything about it. Christine was paid to pull pints, she wasn’t a bouncer. As for the regulars, all they were interested in was beer and television. They were oblivious to anything else.
I noticed the brother staring at me. He looked over my shoulder.
The Skelf was standing behind me. I hadn’t heard him coming. His feet. New trainers, fluffy. Maybe they were slippers. ‘Awright there, chief?’ he said.
I looked at the brother.
‘Awright there, chief?’ the Skelf repeated. Louder. It was me he was talking to.
The brother sighed, a really loud one, and started moving empty glasses to the other end of the table.
The Skelf parked himself. He leaned into me, right in my face. I couldn’t be doing with it. ‘Put it there,’ he said. His hand. It was manky. So was mine; cleanliness wasn’t the issue. ‘Come on, auld yin,’ he said. ‘Shake.’
The brother drained what was left of his pint.
The Skelf grinned at me. ‘Come on, Belfast,’ he said. ‘Put it there.’
It was like shaking hands with a girl. I felt sorry for him. There was no contest. There was no going back, either. I’d been hoisting scaffolding tubes all day, I’d been doing it for years. I gave him a chance, though. His eyes. He thought he was doing something. It should have been finished in seconds, but I was playing with him. I could feel the bones clicking under the skin the harder I squeezed. Then I started twisting. That’s when the fun stopped. I dragged him slowly over the side of the chair, then he was on his knees, then he was all the way down, his face on the floor. I held him there, my other hand resting on the edge of the table.
‘Listen,’ I said. He whimpered. It sounded pathetic, like a wee dog. ‘I’m glad you’re listening,’ I said. ‘I want you to make me a promise.’
He was all ears.
‘You’re going to walk out of here,’ I said, ‘and you’re not coming back. You’ll have to promise, mind, because see if you don’t, I’ll break your fucking wrist.’
He seemed to be waiting for something.
‘Promise?’ I said.
No response.
I applied torque.
He yelped.
‘Good,’ I said.
I leaned back, ready to put the boot in if he tried anything. He didn’t. He ran out the door, crying, trying to choke it back, to keep it quiet. Someone shouted at Christine to switch over to Eurosport 2. Belgian darts. It was that time of the evening. The brother went to get another round in. He took the empties with him.
Swearwords: One strong one only.
Description: Skelfs. They get under your skin, don't they?
_____________________________________________________________________
I was sitting having a pint with the brother. The pair of us were knackered, another ten-hour shift, then the hour’s drive back here. The Guinness was sliding down. No need to talk. That wee junkie walked in. The Skelf, they called him. I never gave him the time of day. Why would I? He headed straight for the toilet, in and out in a flash. He must have missed his appointment. The place was getting used as a shooting gallery. Nobody was doing anything about it. Christine was paid to pull pints, she wasn’t a bouncer. As for the regulars, all they were interested in was beer and television. They were oblivious to anything else.
I noticed the brother staring at me. He looked over my shoulder.
The Skelf was standing behind me. I hadn’t heard him coming. His feet. New trainers, fluffy. Maybe they were slippers. ‘Awright there, chief?’ he said.
I looked at the brother.
‘Awright there, chief?’ the Skelf repeated. Louder. It was me he was talking to.
The brother sighed, a really loud one, and started moving empty glasses to the other end of the table.
The Skelf parked himself. He leaned into me, right in my face. I couldn’t be doing with it. ‘Put it there,’ he said. His hand. It was manky. So was mine; cleanliness wasn’t the issue. ‘Come on, auld yin,’ he said. ‘Shake.’
The brother drained what was left of his pint.
The Skelf grinned at me. ‘Come on, Belfast,’ he said. ‘Put it there.’
It was like shaking hands with a girl. I felt sorry for him. There was no contest. There was no going back, either. I’d been hoisting scaffolding tubes all day, I’d been doing it for years. I gave him a chance, though. His eyes. He thought he was doing something. It should have been finished in seconds, but I was playing with him. I could feel the bones clicking under the skin the harder I squeezed. Then I started twisting. That’s when the fun stopped. I dragged him slowly over the side of the chair, then he was on his knees, then he was all the way down, his face on the floor. I held him there, my other hand resting on the edge of the table.
‘Listen,’ I said. He whimpered. It sounded pathetic, like a wee dog. ‘I’m glad you’re listening,’ I said. ‘I want you to make me a promise.’
He was all ears.
‘You’re going to walk out of here,’ I said, ‘and you’re not coming back. You’ll have to promise, mind, because see if you don’t, I’ll break your fucking wrist.’
He seemed to be waiting for something.
‘Promise?’ I said.
No response.
I applied torque.
He yelped.
‘Good,’ I said.
I leaned back, ready to put the boot in if he tried anything. He didn’t. He ran out the door, crying, trying to choke it back, to keep it quiet. Someone shouted at Christine to switch over to Eurosport 2. Belgian darts. It was that time of the evening. The brother went to get another round in. He took the empties with him.
About the Author
Andrew McCallum Crawford is from Grangemouth. His work has appeared in over twenty publications, including Interlitq, B O D Y (Czech Republic), Gutter, The Ofi Press (Mexico) and The Athens News (Greece). Andrew's first novel, Drive!, was published in 2010. He has also written two collections of short stories, The Next Stop Is Croy and A Man's Hands. He lives in Greece.