Maurice Scott was tall, thin, sallow and slightly stooped. Unfortunately for him, he had a demeanour that matched his appearance. He also endured the misfortune to be born with distinctively rat-like features. An elongated nose gave the impression that it was a weapon of mass destruction to be avoided at all costs. The chin was equally tapered adding to his woes. A humourless man, who was a source of derision in his place of work, Scott had no friends amongst his colleagues and to their knowledge, none outside. To put it bluntly, he was a social leper with little to no chance of ascending the ladder of success in his chosen profession. The RUC is a very tight knit organisation and if a man does not have contacts or membership of the right lodge, he would have more chance of winning the national lottery than gaining promotion. Such was the case with Maurice Scott. He had long since accepted his fate, having been frequently passed over for promotion. An embarrassment to his superiors, Maurice had been shunted into a niche known as, ‘The Labyrinth,’ or criminal records branch at Castlereagh Holding Centre. The man was, in essence, the perfect choice for the job. His one passion was the computer and he never tired of using one. His modest three-bedroom semi was a monument to information technology. It was his greatest love forsaking all others, including women. One bedroom was a library containing every relevant textbook on the subject of computers. Another was filled with the latest IBM equipment, which he constantly upgraded. He subscribed to virtually every magazine dealing with the subject and most of his leisure time was spent experimenting with his system. A man of regimen, Maurice followed the same procedure every evening. At the end of his shift he meticulously cleaned and covered his terminal, returned each disc to its appropriate receptacle and never left a door or drawer in his domain unlocked. At six thirty precisely, he arrived at The Stormont Inn where he would consume one pint of Guinness and a large Jameson’s Whiskey. Maurice Scott was troubled. Lately he had become disillusioned with his lot. To relieve tension he browsed through the Belfast Telegraph, which he bought at Anne’s Newsagents, as he had done six days a week, for the past sixteen years. ‘More fucking riots,’ he read, silently. ‘Both sides are fucking idiots. If they’re not burning buses up the Falls, they’re throwing stones on the Shankill.’ His eye caught sight of an angry youth in the top right hand corner of a picture featuring rioting taking place somewhere in West Belfast. Maurice smiled ruefully having recognised the boy, ‘Christ there’s
that wee bollocks O’Feagh right in the thick of it,’ he smirked aloud.
‘I beg your pardon,’ said Nathan Black.’
‘What?’ asked Maurice, looking up to see a strange face smiling back at him.
‘Oh sorry, I was just thinking out loud,’ replied Scott.
‘Happens to the best of us,’ sympathised Nathan amiably.
‘Aye,’ agreed Maurice, returning to his paper.
‘It’s awfully quiet in here. I suppose it livens up later,’ said Nathan, trying to draw the other into conversation.
‘I wouldn’t know. I only come in for a pint after work,’ came the surly reply. The man was obviously uninterested in making a new acquaintance. Black shrugged and went back to his novel. Scott left the bar shortly after with no further acknowledgement of Nathan who chuckled inwardly thinking, what a prick. A similar reaction as most people had upon encountering the unfortunate Scott.
‘Never mind him sir,’ chirped the barman, whose name was emblazoned on a pristine tunic. Giles, it heralded, making sure that every patron was on first name terms with their cheery attendant.
‘Strange chap isn’t he, er Giles,’ replied Black, pointedly reading the stewards decal. ‘Is he one of your regulars then?’
‘That he is sir but don’t judge the rest of us by that auld sod. And in answer to your question, yes it does liven up. Around nine o’clock or so the pun… I mean patrons start coming in.’
‘I see, thank you Giles. Look, why don’t you have one on me,’ added Nathan generously, warming to the lads pleasing manner.
‘Thanks sir, I’ll have an orange if you don’t mind. I’m like auld Maurice, can’t drink on duty.’
‘Maurice?’ inquired Nathan.
‘Yes, the old blurt who just left,’ smiled Giles.
‘Oh sorry, I was miles away. On duty you say. What is he a traffic warden or something?’
‘Shit no, sorry, no he’s in the RUC.’
‘Your joking. He doesn’t look like a policeman.’
‘I know what you mean. I think he works in records or something.’
‘Oh I see, put the drinks on my bill please Giles. I’m in room three zero two and here’s a fiver. Have a drink when you’re off duty. Perhaps I’ll see you later?’ added Nathan, waving over his shoulder, as he exited the bar.
‘Thank you sir, see ya.’ Interesting thought the young barman as he watched Black depart.
Nathan Black could not believe his luck, here he was scarcely two days in the city and already he had made contact with an RUC man, from criminal records no less, things were on the up and up. Their contact had been peripheral and fleeting but it was an icebreaker and the lad did say that he was a regular. Not very security conscious for a policeman but fortunate all the same.