“It’s not that, Cath. I do have faith in you. I think you’re a smart girl, with a great future. I just don’t want you to risk it on some flashin-the-pan job that you think is glamorous, and important.”
“It is important. Very important. In fact, I believe it’s just as important, if not more so, than a teacher, a paramedic—even a frontline soldier. And yeah, maybe you’re right—I haven’t exactly followed through with my career paths. But that’s only because this is my true calling. And now that it’s in the palm of my hand, I’m not going to let it slip away. And that’s that, Dad.”
The kitchen falls uncomfortably silent for a full minute.
He finishes what’s left of his tea and leans back on his chair, his eyes locked onto mine. “Okay, Cath,” he says with a beaten-down sigh. “If it’s what you really want, then I suppose there’s nothing we can do to talk you out of it.”
“No, there isn’t,” I say firmly, shaking my head.
Dad moans loudly, clearly unable to add anything productive. “Just be careful, for Christ’s sake.”
Beth walks over from her pillow and rests her furry white head on my thigh. She knows when I’m pissed off or stressed out, even if I’m not screaming the place down. Must be a dog sixth-sense thing. Seeing those pitiful eyes always manages to calm me. “Don’t worry, Dad,” I say with a thin smile, stroking the top of Beth’s soft head. “I’ll be all right.”
Mum walks over to me and kisses my cheek. “And make sure you don’t get bitten. Those things are bloody vicious.”
“Okay, Mum,” I take her hand, beaming. “I’ll try not to.”
3
I pull up outside HQ, which, fingers-crossed, I’ll be calling work in the next few days.
I sit and wait in the car for a minute or two. For some reason, I’m more nervous today than I was at the interview. Can’t think why. Fitness is easily my best subject. I’ve already done all the hard work. So why the hell do I feel so anxious?
It’s the other Cleaners, Cath. You’re worried that they’re going to laugh in your face when they meet you. You’re worried that they’re going to tell you that women shouldn’t do this kind of job.
But this is exactly what I expected. As long as I do a good job and prove them wrong, they’ll have to respect me. Maybe I’ll get a bit of banter, a few practical jokes, I mean, they’re boys for Christ’s sake—that’s what boys do.
I take a few deep breaths, check my hair in the rear-view mirror. I need a haircut. Not too short, though, just a little further up from my shoulders. I part my hairline with my fingers and notice that some of my roots are showing. I’ll get that sorted next week. Don’t want them seeing that I’m not a natural blonde. The last thing I need is them calling me Ginge for the next five years. No thank you.
I check my teeth and then climb out of the car, heading for the gates. I push them open and make my way towards the entrance. I see someone standing against the wall by the doors, smoking a cigarette. Haven’t seen him before. He’s a big guy, maybe six foot in his late forties, early fifties, quite chunky, like a rugby player, and close-shaved head. Looks like an ex-army type, and most definitely a Cleaner.
“Hi there,” I say as I reach the doors, trying to seem polite, but casual. “How’s things?”
“Fine,” the man replies, as he flicks his cigarette onto the ground, then grinds it into the concrete with his leather boot. “You must be Catherine.”
“Yeah, that’s me. Nice to meet you.” He shakes my hand—yet another tight, macho grip. What the hell is wrong with these people?
“Training day then?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
“You fit?”
“Yeah, pretty fit. Well, hopefully,” I stammer, nerves getting the better of me. “I’ve been training.”
The man grabs his slightly swollen gut. “Well, the good news is, once you pass your fitness test, they’ll never test you again. You can be as unfit and as fat as you want. Genius, isn’t it?”
I chuckle. “Really? I thought we’d be tested every six months.”
“Hell no. The last test I had was nearly fourteen years ago. It’s ridiculous. But, I’m not complaining. Can’t stand running. Strength training’s fine, but my right knee’s a little iffy.”
“Yeah, mine too. Left one. Injured it a few years ago. Had to have surgery. It’s fine now, though.”
“Sounds nasty.” He takes out another cigarette from his pack and puts it in his mouth. “Well, good luck in there, Cath. You’re gonna need it.”
“Thanks,” I say with a thin smile. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”
“It’s Andrew. Andrew Whitt.”
“Nice to meet you, Andrew.” I push the doors open.
“Yeah, you too.”
He seems nice. Maybe I’ve underestimated these Cleaners. Maybe they’re fine.
Walking down the corridor, I head towards Roger Davies’ office. When I get there, I give the door a gentle tap and wait. After a few seconds, Roger comes to the door, his large frame almost filling the doorway.
“You made it then,” he says. “No last minute change of heart?”
“No chance,” I say with enthusiasm. “I’m raring to go, Roger.”
“That’s great, Catherine. How’s that knee of yours? Do you think it’ll give you any trouble on the run?”
I shake my head confidently. “Absolutely not. It’s stronger than ever.”
“Excellent.” He steps out of his office, pats me hard on my shoulder and starts to walk down the corridor. “Shall we get started then?” he asks, motioning with his head for me to follow.
“Sounds good,” I reply, walking behind—trying to squash every last butterfly that’s fluttering in my stomach.
It’s started to rain and it’s bitterly cold.
I’m hoping Roger will just pass me for the day with the weather so bad. But with all five Cleaners standing around Roger, thick jackets on, hoods up, big smiles spread across their faces (all except Andrew), I’m pretty sure that they prayed for rain to come, to make this ordeal even more arduous.
Standing in front of a chalked start-line, I can feel those stupid, annoying little butterflies again. Back from the dead.
“You ready, Catherine?” Roger asks, standing next to me, holding a stopwatch, his thumb grazing the start button.
“Yep,” I say as the rain hammers against my head, running down my face like ice-cold sweat. “I’m ready.”
He points at the five tarpaulin sacks to the left of me, each with a thick rope tied at the top. “Five sacks, weighing seventy kilos apiece. Five minutes to get them over to the other line,” he points ahead. “It’s twenty metres, so it’s gonna be tough. It’s not too late to back out now. No one would blame you.”
Prick.
I glare down at the five sacks with determined eyes. You can do this!
I throw Roger a nod. “I’m ready. Let’s get this over with.”
“Good girl.” He stands aside. “Grab the tied end of the first sack.” I do as he says and hold the rope as tightly as possible, hands soaking, my grip slippery. “Ready? On your mark. Get set… GO!”
And I’m away.
The sack weighs a ton, but it’s moving. Thank God for that. I’m halfway to the end and already my fingers are slipping. I swap hands and pull as hard as I can. Within seconds, I’m at the twenty-metre mark.
“Come on, Cath!” I hear Andrew shout from the start-line. “You’re nearly there.”
I sprint back and grab sack number two. By the third I can barely breathe; I’m exhausted. My knee is aching, my thighs and arms feel like lead, and even with the rain, the sweat is running into my eyes, burning.
Come on, Cath! You can do this! Just two to go.
“How much time left?” I shout to Roger, struggling to get my words out between wheezes.
“Two and a half minutes!” he replies. “You’re doing well! Just keep pushing!”
The fourth one feels heavy. Really heavy. I have to w
ork twice as hard just to get it moving, and I’ve swapped arms six times before I’m even halfway.
“Come on, Cath!” Andrew shouts. “It’s nothing! Just a sack of feathers!”
It’s definitely not a sack of feathers, but I appreciate the encouragement. I pull and pull, changing hands again and again, until my hands are numb from the pain and cold. But I’m nearly there. Nearly home. I try my best to ignore the searing pain in my knee. Please let it hold out. Please let it get me to the end.
I’m eating too much time. I can feel it. I’ll never have enough to do the last one. Not in a million years.
I’ve fucked it up!
I get the fourth sack to the end and dart back for the last sack. “How long left?”
“Forty-five seconds,” Roger says. “It’s gonna be tight.”
I exhale loudly in disbelief and exhaustion. I grip the remaining sack with both hands and pull as hard as humanly possible. Even through the pain, through the tiredness, the sack gets moving straight away.
At the halfway point, I hear Roger screaming that there’s just fifteen seconds left. The panic spurs me on and I slide the sack even faster across the drenched concrete. With both hands on the sack, I’m pulling backwards, blind, no way of knowing how far the line is.
“Come on, Cath!” Andrew shouts again. “Almost there!”
I can feel my hand slipping, I fight desperately to keep my grip but it’s no use—I fly back onto the wet ground.
Without the sack.
Shit!
I scramble to my feet and clutch the top of it again. I’m just inches from the end.
I pull and pull but it just won’t budge.
How much time do I have?
Come on, Cath—pull! You can do it!
It’s moving again, but my hand is slipping.
Come on! So close!
I don’t hear any voices of encouragement, all I hear is Dad telling me not to worry, that it just wasn’t meant to be.
Well screw that! He’s not gonna get the chance!
A last-second burst of adrenaline kicks in, blocking the pain in my knee, tightening my grip on the sack, and erasing Dad’s voice from my head.
I’m close. I can feel it.
Pull!
You’re almost there!
I drop to the floor in a puddle of rain as I pass the finish-line; lungs battling to function, knee throbbing, arms ready to fall off. But I don’t care—I’m through. It’s over.
Did I pass?
Roger kneels down beside me, stopwatch still in his hand. I look up at him, hoping to see a smile on his face. There isn’t one. But what use would a smile be anyway? That could mean I’ve failed. I’m too drained even to ask, and his blank expression is making it impossible to guess.
“Come on, Roger,” Andrew shouts, “stop torturing the girl, and tell her.”
Roger shows me the time on the stopwatch. I can barely see the display through the rain, but it looks to me like four minutes and fifty-two seconds.
I gasp in elation.
Four minutes and fifty-two seconds!
“I passed?”
“By the skin of your teeth,” Roger points out, and then takes my hand and pulls me up.
“Seriously?” I ask, unable to grasp the news, half-expecting him to tell me that it’s all a joke.
Roger starts to walk back to the building. “Get an early night,” he yells back without turning to look at me. “The real training begins nine o’ clock sharp.” He reaches the small side door to the building and then turns to me. “And don’t be late. I hate tardiness.”
“Well done, Cath,” Andrew says. “That was impressive.”
“Thanks. I still can’t believe I actually did it. I thought I’d buggered it up on that last stretch.”
“I think we all did,” he says with a smile. “But you passed and that’s all that matters. Woman or not, you’ve got some balls, Cath. I’ll give you that.”
“Thanks…I think?”
“Roger’s right, though. Tomorrow the real training begins. You think you’re ready?”
“I was born ready.” Normally I’d cringe if I said something that cheesy out loud. But not today.
Today I’m another step closer to becoming a fully-fledged Cleaner.
And I couldn’t be happier.
4
I’ve been sitting in the staff room, watching TV for the last hour. Roger told me to sit tight while he waits for Andrew to return from a callout. I don’t mind chilling for a bit. After yesterday’s training, my knee is aching. I had to put ice on it last night—I found it hard to get to sleep. Plus, I was tossing and turning, thinking about today. So far they’ve been pretty vague about most of the training. I mean, the health and safety video was pretty standard, but the sack pulling—bloody hell, that was one for the books. Never realised how hard pulling sacks could be. Still don’t really know the relevance, though—certainly not with weights as heavy as seventy kilos. What am I, a bloody power-lifter?
I still can’t quite believe I passed.
I got a few evil looks walking in this morning from one of the Cleaners. No “Well done, Cath”, or “Good luck today”—just a couple of nods, mixed in with a few expressionless faces.
What the hell did I expect from a bunch of Neanderthals?
Scanning the small room, I notice some of the posters on the walls. Typical boys club: Pulp Fiction on one wall, Megan Fox on the other, and a nude calendar hanging on the back of the door. Can’t complain, though. I’m sure that if this place had just women, there’d be a few Twilight posters, and some nude fire-fighter calendar hung up somewhere.
The door opens and I turn to see two Cleaners, dressed in ordinary clothes; jeans, t-shirt, trainers. One with short blond hair, muscular frame, the other with dark hair, slightly overweight. Both in their late-thirties.
“You still here?” the blond one says, smirking. “Thought you’d quit.”
“No, not yet,” I say with a grin, trying to appear naïve to his obvious dig. “Can’t get rid of me that easily.”
The dark-haired Cleaner opens the fridge. He takes out a packet of ham, sniffs it, and then puts it back in. “You’ll be gone after today,” he says, smugly, taking out a carton of milk and swigging a mouthful. “And no offence, Blondie, but it’s probably for the best.”
“Oh, yeah?” I reply, still trying not to take the bait. “Why’s that, then?”
“Because this is no place for a woman. And before you get on your high horse about sexism in the workplace, blah, blah, blah, I’m only stating a fact.”
“Oh that’s a fact, is it?” I say, unable to curb my sarcastic tone. “How do you work that one out?”
“Because it’s not bloody fair that one of us will have to be lumbered with you. It’s too dangerous. And I can tell you now, it won’t be me, that’s for sure.”
“Or me,” the blond one says, shaking his head. “No fucking chance.”
“Well, I’m sorry you feel that way,” I reply, swallowing the lump in my throat, “but no one’s going to be lumbered with me. I’ll be just as valuable to the team as anyone.”
The blond one snorts. “You keep telling yourself that, love.”
“You think I give a shit what you two think? What anyone thinks? I’ve got just as much right to be here as you.”
“No, you bloody don’t!” the dark-hair one snaps, causing my entire body to tense up. “Look, I’m all for equal rights, but we’re talking about risking the lives of men I’ve worked with for years—men with families, kids. And all because some little girl woke up one morning and decided to be a Cleaner? Well not on my watch. I’ve been here too long to let—”
Relief washes over me when the door opens, cutting his onslaught short.
“Everything all right in here?” Andrew asks as he enters the room, wearing most of his Cleaner gear—thick white overall up to his chin, leather boots, and gloves.
“Fine, Andy,” the dark-haired prick replies. “We were just chatti
ng with the newbie here.”
“Yeah? Whatever they told you about me,” Andrew says, turning in my direction, “it’s a bloody lie.”
I force a smile.
“Well, I’ll see you both later,” the blond tosser says. “Good luck today, sweetheart.”
I don’t retort as I watch the grinning bastards leave. Glancing down at my hand, I see it tremble slightly. I take a few deep breaths, and smile at Andrew. “How was the job?” I ask him, as if the last few minutes hadn’t happened.
“False alarm,” Andrew replies, unzipping his suit from the top of his chest. “Right, I won’t be long, Cath. Just give me five minutes to change and freshen up.”
“Okay, Andrew,” I say. “Do you need me to wait outside?”
“No, it’s fine. I’ll change in the toilet cubicle.”
“Sorry about that. I bet you’re used to changing in here.”
Andrew smiles. “Well, yeah, but a change is always refreshing.” He pulls the zip all the way down to his waist, revealing a white, sweaty vest. He cups his slightly flabby belly. “No one wants to see this—not even the guys.”
I chuckle, and then watch as he disappears through a door to the side of me, praying that those two pricks have fucked off home.
After almost two days, I’ve finally managed to get my bearings on the place. Apart from Roger’s office and the tiny staff room, the main attraction is the centre of the building: the training room. It’s just a little bigger than a tennis court, with a large garage door at the far end. To the right of it are three metal containers, shaped like telephone boxes; there is a steel door with a large padlock at the front of each one. To the left of the garage door are six rubber dummies. And in the middle of the room is a thick white line, which stretches across the entire width of the floor.
In spite of a few nerves this morning, I’ve been looking forward to training today. I love this sort of thing. Learning how to assemble weapons, shooting targets. That was the best part of the Territorial Army. It wasn’t quite frontline, but it was bloody good fun.
Andrew is standing next to me, wearing jeans and a white T-shirt. “Right then, Cath,” he says, “follow me. Let’s get you suited up.”
“Great,” I say, trying to hide my enthusiasm. He leads me over to the uniform section. I can see about a dozen helmets hanging on the wall, and below each hook is a bench with an assortment of white Cleaner suits piled up.
Burn The Dead Box Set [Books 1-3] Page 19