The Night the Rich Men Burned by Malcolm Mackay

her face over the slouching man’s shoulder. She looks unhappy. A little frightened perhaps. She looks like she doesn’t want to be a part of anything the new arrival has brought to the table. She’s saying something to him, nodding her head back towards Peterkinney.
    Doesn’t matter that she’s sat there and ignored him since Glass and his girl went dancing. Doesn’t matter that she has no more enthusiasm for him than she has for being set on fire. She’s obviously scared of this guy. That makes Peterkinney take notice. Maybe not enough notice to help her, mind you. He might only be nineteen, but he’s a smart nineteen. The kind that knows how to avoid trouble, by and large. But when the big guy turns round and looks at him with that ugly, beaten face of snorting contempt, it seals the deal. The damsel has herself a potential saviour.
    ‘You’re with her?’ the big guy’s saying.
    A slight pause. The big guy is too dumb, drunk, high and dumb a second time round to notice it. It’s indecision. The girl recognizes it. There’s a pleading look on her face. Yeah, she gets that look now. Where was that ten minutes ago? Anyway, he’s helping. Helping because, smart as he is, he can be vicious too. That little streak that needs to be let out once in a while. Like now.
    ‘Yeah, I’m with her.’
    Big guy’s turn to pause. A nose that’s been broken more than once. Lips that have been burst. The puffed and ugly look of a man who can’t say no to a good fight. A slow smile spreading across his face. The smile he gets when he’s thought of something clever. A smile he doesn’t get often.
    ‘So why are there two chairs between you then, huh? Two fucking chairs. What for?’
    ‘Our friends were sitting there,’ Peterkinney’s saying. His voice is loud, has to be over the music. But it’s steady, and his expression is calm. He feels calm, as a matter of fact. Dancing with danger, and he’s not nervous. He has the moves to keep up. ‘Now they’re dancing.’
    But the big guy is still grinning. Sitting between the aspiring couple, turning in the chair to leer at Peterkinney. ‘I been watching since your mates went down there,’ he’s saying. Slurring his words and nodding his head down the three steps to the dance floor. ‘You ain’t said a fucking word since then. Neither of you has.’
    ‘You ever been in the sort of relationship where you don’t need to talk all the time? Where you can just be happy to be together?’ Peterkinney is asking. There’s smugness in the tone, even when shouting. ‘Course you haven’t, a guy like you. I feel sorry for you.’
    The big guy’s not going to sit there and take that. You’re a big guy, and you work as muscle. The only thing you have is reputation. You let people make fun of you and get away with it, what have you got left then? You’re soft muscle, and nobody’s going to pay good money for that. So he’s standing up and he’s glaring at Peterkinney. Ready to make this a fight. His first instinct, every time.
    ‘Come on, get up,’ the big guy’s shouting. ‘Come on.’ Shouting so loud people are looking. Loud enough to be more than a regular shout.
    Peterkinney’s looking up at him. Smiling. Not planning on getting up. He wants to sit where he is, try and force the big guy to back down. But it’s not up to Peterkinney.
    The big guy is lurching forwards. A big boot crashing into the side of Peterkinney’s chair, a hand shoving him on the shoulder. Tipping him and the chair sideways. The big guy stumbling with the effort, but getting what he wanted. Peterkinney sprawled on the floor. It’s embarrassing, but it’s no more than that. Getting caught out by the big guy. Being face down on the floor, everyone looking. It’s a humiliation, not a hurt. Humiliation doesn’t keep you down.
    Peterkinney’s getting to his feet. The big guy is turning to look at the girl, grinning at her. She’s stony faced. No change there then. She thinks her rescuer