by E. M. Reapy
★
On the Thursday morning, as you walk down to your section with Amy and Si-won, you can feel the electricity around the factory. The buyers are in. The everyday feels broken because something different is happening but after a while, when you get into the monotony of the shift, you forget about them and are busy sorting.
Tommo is steaming drunk. You know it when you first sit in front of him. His eyes are bloodshot, he’s a three-day shadow on his cheeks. He pretends not to see the big chunks of diseased garlic rolling by him.
‘Do you honestly not mind touching that shit?’ he asks.
‘It’s not the worst thing that could happen, Tommo. Having a smelly hand isn’t a big deal when you consider what badness is out there,’ you say.
He shrugs. ‘The first night I came to this town, I got with a lovely Italian girl. Beaut. Black hair, brown eyes, big lips. Very sensual. I had heard the women were gagging for it in the outback. Thought I was fucking elected. Bang bang bang. I got this job on me third day and nothing with the ladies since. Nothing. Nada. It has to be the garlic. The no-fucking fucking garlic,’ he says and flicks at the garlic but lets it roll down the line.
You smile. ‘So you think the garlic is the reason?’
He straightens up. ‘Yeah, Fiona, I’d say it has a lot to do with it. I could be in better shape but I was always on the meaty side. Working in this place though is bringing me confidence down. I’m literally down under. Mitchell. Fucking Mitchell. I reckon he eats garlic for breakfast dinner and supper. Garlic and spuds and flasks of tae probably.’ Tommo clenches his jaw. ‘Here he comes, der Führer himself.’
Mitchell has a clipboard and looks more formal than usual. He’s nervy. He flashes a smile at you and checks some things off on his board.
‘Everything alright?’ he asks. He scans around.
‘Yeah, it’s grand,’ you say. ‘Are the buyers about?’
‘They’re going to come by our section soon, heard from some of the forkies. I did some study last night. On Google. Did you know this, how garlic is good for people, an anti-biotic, anti-septic, reducing your risk of cancer and toxins and blood pressure?’
‘It’s a member of the lily family too,’ you say.
Mitchell is beaming. ‘It’s an anti-inflammatory and natural pesticide. The mozzies won’t be at you when your blood has garlic in it. It can help control weight even though it makes things taste so good. All that. I learnt it just in case they ask when they’re here.’
He’s like a schoolboy itching for a gold star. You give him a smile and Tommo starts a little clap.
‘That’ll knock the cocks off them,’ Tommo says.
Mitchell’s grin plummets. ‘Are you still drunk?’
‘No,’ Tommo says. ‘I was praising you.’
Mitchell walks over to Tommo, puts his head in close to him and sniffs.
‘You smell like an alleyway on Paddy’s Day. You’re on your last legs here. If you do anything out of order again, you’re gone.’ In an exaggerated Dublin accent he adds, ‘Do ya bleeding understand that?’
Tommo gets off his seat and fumes past Mitchell, their shoulders clashing.
‘Get back here,’ Mitchell shouts but Tommo is stomping his way towards the jacks.
★
When Tommo eventually comes back, his eyelids are pink and puffed.
‘Tommo, you okay?’ you ask.
‘I’m fucking sound, Fiona. Sound, now. Couldn’t be better. I’ve a BA, a Postgrad and an MA, so I do. I’ll show him, so I will. Mitchell. I’ll show him. Power corrupts, absolute power corrupts absolutely. I got 510 points in the Leaving. I’ll fucking show him not to talk down to me like I’m as thick as him.’
‘Tommo, it’s just the booze from last night that’s upsetting you. Don’t worry about him. His girlfriend’s pregnant and he’s stressed trying to get this sponsored visa. Ignore him.’
‘You’re a lovely girl, Fiona.’
He throws a receipt with his name and number scrawled in blue ink over it.
‘Keep in touch, yeah? I’ll miss working with you. I’m going to show him though, show him fucking good.’
★
After big break, you notice the suited Europeans walking around the factory with the owner and top level managers and supervisors beside them, pointing at things, putting on a show. Mitchell is trying to get their attention to come and see your section. They acknowledge him and stride across a metal walkway towards you.
Tommo is leaning back on his seat. He’s thumbing his phone above his head with one hand. The other holds his clippers even though he isn’t trimming. You try to call him but he ignores you.
Mitchell glances at him from where he stands.
‘A dog warming his bollocks in the sun wouldn’t be as bad as you. Will you put away your phone and get back to work,’ Mitchell hisses.
‘No,’ Tommo says. All Dublin. Calm.
‘Tommo, just put the phone away, will ya?’ you say.
‘Stay out of it, Fiona.’
The suits walk down the stairs, they’ll be on the line in less than a minute.
Mitchell thunders towards Tommo.
‘What’s the matter, Mitchell? The Dolmios and Greckos are going to see you’ve no authority?’
They watch the men come. Tommo leans back further on his stool. He’s real elaborate now. You look down the line, even the Koreans are watching.
Mitchell goes over and snatches the phone from him. Tommo protests and he pulls his hand from behind his head, clippers perched.
Oh shite.
The supervisors and managers are talking amongst themselves but they’re at your line.
‘Fuck you, Mitchell,’ Tommo says. ‘Fuck you.’ He opens the trimmers.
He’s going to stab Mitchell.
Mitchell flinches and shuts his eyes.
You shut yours too. Feel hot. Sick. Why does it have to go so extreme?
You hear gasps.
A man’s roar.
Commotion.
You open your eyes and look at Mitchell to see where the blade went. He wipes himself rapidly and looks up, confused.
It’s like everyone cops on at the same time. Maybe because the blood starts colouring the garlic red.
Tommo has done it to himself.
He’s cut the top of his middle finger off. Blood spills over the garlic. You scream but don’t notice until you shut your mouth. One of the Europeans passes out.
Stuff gets too bloody, the belt, all of Tommo’s hand, his uniform. His blood is everywhere. Amy screams this time.
The alarm sounds. People run around.
The boss man frowns at Mitchell and makes embarrassed apologies to the investors. He glares at you. Everything goes slow though it happens in an instant. Tommo holds his red left hand over his head and a smirk crosses his face. You guess the tip of his finger probably went down the conveyor belt. Went into the garlic paste.
His skin goes pale and he drops off his chair and to the ground unconscious.
★
‘You see, Fiona, sometimes people need to go above and beyond in order to make a point. To inform and to educate. To become a cautionary tale to those that must check their stations,’ Tommo says.
You’re sharing cans of beer and sunbathing. You texted him to see if he was okay and he invited you over to his hostel. His finger is wrapped in a white bandage. His face is still a little paler than usual and his beard is getting thicker. The sun is baking so you go into the shade every couple of minutes.
Your full line got the day off work. The factory probably thought you were all too unstable to have around the investors.
Tommo continues, ‘Power can become a corrupting element in their life and they try to exert it over everyone. So I took my power back. This is the kind of thing that can make it into mythology, urban legend. It wasn’t as painful as I thought it would be. The factory says they’re going to compensate me, sweet eh? Insurance and all. They don’t have to but I wasn’t going to say n
o. Like, I know people will debate if I was right or wrong but whether they understand it or not, I wanted to know if this was real life and carrying consequences is part of that. That is something I had to learn and something Mitchell had to learn.’
‘Bit of a hard way to teach yourself a lesson,’ you say.
‘Well, you know, I’d been necking white goon and raspberry cordial until half an hour before work. Might have had some effect on me thinking.’
He rubs sun block over his nose and cheeks like a cricket player. Flecks of it land on his beard. ‘And I tell you wha’, Fiona, probably the best thing about it – the women are already mad sympathetic when they hear about me garlic finger.’
★
Tommo leaves town and work in the garlic factory becomes like work. Long, tedious shifts with no craic. You hadn’t realised how spoilt you were to have someone entertain you like Tommo did. But you get on with the job and start saving properly. You promise yourself to never be reckless with money again. You’re paid quite well for regional work and do sixty-hour weeks. You don’t have anywhere to spend the cash. You’re aware of what you need so you’d never be in the red again.
Two Danish girls move into the dorm when Mel leaves for Perth. They have jobs doing night shifts packing asparagus in a small farm. You barely see them and barely know them. You’re not even sure of their names. They are either asleep or gone.
You and Louise hang out more often. So much more you pick up her accent and say ‘ach’ or ‘aye’ in your sentences. This embarrasses you.
She goes on dates with Thierry every second evening and is falling in love. You’re happy for her but sometimes you’re bitter. You wonder if he’ll ever go ballistic at her and deny it, say she was crazy making stories up then get her to apologise for doing that to him. If he’ll ever bruise her but make her promise to tell no one because no one would believe her anyway.
When you see them together though, you stop projecting. They’re a good match. He always smiles as she speaks, sometimes saying silently the words she says as soon as they come from her mouth. She loves how ‘exotic’ he is and melts when he does something French. They click, you suppose. They make it look easy.
They suggest you meet one of his roomies or co-workers. You could double date and though his friends are attractive, you keep turning down the offers until they stop coming.
The thought of being involved with a man again seems impossible.
★
Mitchell gets demoted at work. He’s put in Tommo’s position. The powers warn him that if he ever causes any more trouble, he’ll be immediately dismissed.
He doesn’t say much to anyone. He slams the garlic into the shoots or trims it with such violence, you think the factory will claim another Irish fingertip. You always say hello and try to make small talk but he scowls at you as if you’d been involved in Tommo’s plot.
There’s excitement though when it spreads through the rumour mill that the garlic producers from the region will be around inspecting the factory. Again, everyone has to put on a bit of a show. You even have a group meeting about it where you’re warned to be on your best behaviour, that they never, and they meant never, wanted a repeat of Tommo.
‘Mitchell, maybe today will be your day to impress them?’ you say as you chop.
He sniggers. ‘That fucking ship has sank.’
‘Maybe not. Don’t be so negative.’
He stares at you. ‘It’s easy for you, girl. You’re just doing this work to extend your holiday here. Someone who’s pretty like you and who’s got an education, you’re going to be fine in this world without doing a tap. You’d have the men do the tap for you, if you’d let them. Me? Well I’ve to fight those same men for a sniff of an opportunity. And they group up and are bigger and stronger than me. D’you know what that feels like?’
You don’t say anything but your skin reddens.
‘You haven’t a clue what it’s like, girl.’
You sigh. ‘The sponsorship still might happen.’
‘Don’t be so fucking innocent.’ He returns his concentration to the belt, to the cloves.
You don’t argue back.
On second smoko, you chat with Louise and drink coffee by the sinks. There’s a nice spread in the corner for the producers – canapés, cheeses, salamis, hams, breads and some different cakes and chocolates.
‘Fecking broke my heart laying them out,’ Louise says. ‘The supervisor said we weren’t to touch a thing. I do go weak for cheesecake. Supervisor said once this crew has eaten, the scraps get offered to the office girls. When they are full, the leftovers come down here for you guys on last smoko. And if anything’s left, us shitty tea ladies and the other cleaners are allowed to eat them.’
‘Bit harsh,’ you say.
Louise laughs. ‘Aye, the cunts. I’ve a plate full of treats in the press under the kettle. They’re a bit squished from being snuck in but I don’t care.’
She moves closer and shows you the mash of white cream and crumbs in her apron pocket. You laugh quietly.
The double doors open and the producers walk in. Some are dressed in suit-pants and shirts, others in mucky farm clothes with knee high socks and big straw hats. They go straight for the food and the bustle of them catches everyone’s attention as they joke and chatter. You take another sup of your coffee and your arms go weak.
Jett and Rusty Fletcher.
They munch on cheese and are all smiles for the other garlic people.
You drop the cup. It shatters on the floor, the brown liquid in a steaming pool. Splashes taint tiles much further away. Everyone stops and turns. Jett Fletcher spots you. He looks in your eye. Your blood ices. He taps Rusty with the back of his hand. Rusty looks at you. A grin twinges his face.
‘You okay?’ Louise asks, already dipping to pick up the fragments of the cup.
‘I’ve to head. I’m gone. I’ll say bye in the hostel. I’m gone.’
★
You try to walk not rush. You can’t bear to be breathing the same air as them. Your stomach lurches. You need to get away from them as quickly as possible. The siren sounds for the end of break and the factory staff come back onto the floor. You’re halfway across a metal walkway. You check the lunchroom and see the Fletchers swap cards with two men and wave. They take the forkie door outside, disappearing into the sunshine.
Are they going?
You stop. You turn and turn again. Which way, which way? Maybe you should go back onto the line but then you’ll be trapped there. You don’t want to be caught if they come back and walk around with the team. What would they say to everyone? What would they do to you? You rub the back of your neck. You need to decide what to do. You can’t decide.
A supervisor is coming behind you. You’re sweating hard.
‘Hey, you, where you supposed to be?’ she probes.
You scratch your head. ‘Em, I was sent to collect a letter for someone over here, in the front office.’
‘For who? No one is allowed off their line after smoko.’ She takes a look at the clocking-in card around your neck and scribbles your name on her clipboard. ‘Fiona, who sent you?’
She’s like the headmistress you had in the convent.
‘Mitchell did. Mitchell Dunne. He’s on Section Twenty-Two with me. He’s the supervisor of our section. He was the supervisor.’ You’ve no one else to say. He might get fired over this. Or even if he doesn’t, his chances of sponsorship are at risk – another person on his section causing a scene.
‘Hmm,’ she says and scratches the tip of her nose with her baby finger. ‘Mitchell Dunne, the name is familiar. Okay, carry on to the office. Go. Move.’
You turn around and walk quickly.
‘Wait, Fiona,’ she calls.
Bollocks.
‘Yes,’ you say. You smile up at her sweetly.
‘Is Section Twenty-Two where that accident happened? With the Irish?’
You nod.
‘Misfortunate breed, the Irish,’ she say
s and takes a left down a stairwell.
★
You sneak outside and scan the car park. You can’t see much with the sun’s glare. The hostel is a twenty-five minute walk away. Where are the Fletchers? They’re going to follow. They’re fucking psychos and you remember Jett’s last words, echoing over the riverbank, that he’d take you apart. They’ll spot you on your way back to the hostel. Your legs are shaking.
How stupid you were.
How stupid you were too to think you were far enough away from them here. This being the only big town in the area. You’ve to make a run for it now. If you get to the industrial estate you could try hitch a lift off someone.
You leg it.
The sun is intense and white. You get to the main road outside the car park when you hear an engine start behind you. Your bad foot pangs against the ground. You run across the road, a car beeps at you for crossing too suddenly, you don’t care. You run into the industrial estate and go towards the glassy front of a kitchen showroom. You try the door. It’s locked. Lunch break. Fuck. You check around. The Fletchers are indicating into the estate. You scamper to the next building. A paint shop. It’s open.
A chime announces your entrance. A man reads a newspaper at the counter. He peers over the top of it. You bend and try to catch your breath.
‘Sorry to burst in like this. I need to get a lift to my backpackers. Can you help me? Is there someone who can help me, please?’
He folds the paper down. He has dark skin, he might be Indian.
‘Madam, what are you talking about?’
‘I’m being chased. I need help. Please.’
He checks his watch before looking at you.
‘Will I call the police?’
You see the Fletchers’ car drive slowly around the estate. You go over to the counter. The man stares at you. You duck and peek out. The Fletchers are craning their necks to look through the window. They’ll only see their reflection with that sunlight.