Steiner and the Hypnotic Cue

CHAPTER 7 The Boy-Noble Strikes Back

Denise extended her shift to cover for Scott. Without further ado,  we headed into the village, to the Aberdour Hotel.

Aberdour is a great little village, with a fantastic beach. Every year it attracts thousands of visitors from home and abroad. The problem ist once  in Aberdour, there’s not exactly a lot of amenities on offer. The Hotel was pretty much the only place we could meet. True, there are some  coffee shops, but they are all so small that everyone can hear your business. Most of them have bizarre and irregular opening times.

The History teacher joked a couple of times and said that Aberdour reminded her of the village in The Wickerman  (the ‘original film’, she always added, not the ‘terrible remake’). To this day, I have  never seen the original nor the terrible remake; so, I don’t know what she was getting at.

Dave Noble was sat in a corner table, tapping something on his phone, as if his life depended on it. Ten seconds passed before he acknowledged our presence.

We sat down and David Noble started some small talk to put us at ease. The Clint Eastwood  act had been dropped, along with  the spangley waistcoat. In its place was a grey, v-necked sweater, and an unassuming, rational man. David Noble was clearly a man of many faces. He seemed a bit podgy in his sweater— the waistcoat obviously doubled as body shaper. His attention strayed from time-to-time, as he looked at his phone,  expecting a life changing text at any second.

It never came.

Now, bear with me, Reader. There’s a bit of speech coming up. I could have shortened it, but it is so important to the story that I will repeat the most of it.

“Look!” he said. “I’ve never been beaten like that before, and I’ve played some top boys in my time. I Think you’ve got what it takes to be a champ.”

“What do you mean champ?” I  asked bewildered.

“I mean World Champ.”

“What Steiner? World Champ?” Scott barked out, almost choking on his coffee as he did. “Obviously he’s got a bit of form at the moment, like, but … are you havin’ a laugh? He’s no played in any proper competitions.”

“You need to believe in the boy,” David went on. “Scotland’s always produced great champions and he’s going to be one of them. Yes, sure, were rubbish at team sports. No one’s felt good about football since 1978, and the rugby team’s got more wooden spoons than Ma Broon’s Kitchen. We can’t even win at curling anymore. But as individuals we’re great. David Wilkie …”

“Aye, I suppose,” Scott said to himself,  his mind’s eye reeling of the Scottish list of honour.

“… Jackie Stewart, Archie Gemmill,  Alan Wells, Jockie Wilson and let’s not forget about the most important of all—Stephen Hendry!”

“Andrew Murray?” I  added feeling clever about my contribution.  

Silence.

“So, listen … I’m wanting to coach and train the boy—become his manager, so to speak. With my help the boy could become the youngest World Champ ever.”

“Younger than Hendry?” Scott asked, doubtfully.

“Far younger than Hendry.”

“The summer holidays are almost here. We can train him up over the summer and get him into competition. Get some attention and then go for one of the big ones.”

“So, what, you’re saying is that me and you can train Steiner in just a few weeks to be champ?” Scott wasn’t buying it and made ready to  leave.