Nice.
“Well, Mr Davies—”
“Call me Roger, sweetie,” he corrects me, his patronising tone causing my clammy fists to clench as they rest on my thighs.
I force a good-mannered smile. “Okay. Well…Roger, all my life I’ve wanted to be a Cleaner. Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve wanted to protect people. And what better way than to work in this field. I mean, there’s nothing like it. It’s the frontline. The most important part of the fight.”
He nods along. I can tell he thinks I’m full of shit, that I’m just talking the talk. He picks up a sheet of paper from the desk, glances at it and then squints his eyes. “Says here that you’re twenty-three years old. Is that correct?”
I nod. “Yes, that’s right Mr—I mean, Roger. Twenty-three last month.”
“Aren’t you a little bit young to be out on the frontline? Risking your life?”
“Well, if I may, Roger, a lot of soldiers risking their lives on the frontline are younger than me. Some as young as eighteen.”
“Yes, but you’re not a soldier, Catherine.” He squints again at the sheet of paper, which is clearly a copy of my CV. “Says here that you dropped out of the Territorial Army after just two years of service.” He locks his eyes on mine again. “Why was that Catherine?”
“I injured my knee playing hockey,” I say, rubbing my left knee. “Twisted it pretty badly. Had to have surgery. So I spent the next few years getting my strength back. But it’s fine now. Good as new.”
“So why didn’t you just re-join? I’m sure they would have been more than happy to take you back.”
“I wanted to, but I got a full-time job in the restaurant, which meant working most weekends, so there was just no way to commit to re-joining.”
“Okay, that’s understandable, Catherine, we all need to work. However, you may have to carry heavy equipment. Is that going to be a problem with a dodgy knee?”
“Absolutely not. As I said, it’s as good as new. But I’ll be fine with any heavy inventory. I’ve been training hard for the past few years; strength training, lots of uphill running, cycling.”
“Some of the inventory might be extremely heavy. Are my guys going to be stuck carrying your workload?”
“No, Roger. I can carry my own inventory. I promise.”
He groans, and then takes another look at my CV. “Says here that you’re born and raised in Ammanford. Will it be a problem for you travelling all around South and West Wales? Some days we’re not back until the early hours of the morning.”
“Not at all. This is something that I’ve always wanted to do. I know it’s a tough job, but that’s one of the reasons why it’s so important to me. I love a challenge. And I’m not scared of anything.”
“Well you should be. This job is not what the papers say. They make out that it’s all glamorous, that it’s going in all guns blazing. But I can assure you, Catherine, that it’s most definitely not. I’ve lost three good men over the past five years, and every one of those men had families, friends. But one tiny mistake, one unpredictable situation they couldn’t control, and that’s it. Gone,” he clicks his fingers, “just like that.”
“I promise you, applying for this job was not something I took lightly.”
“Well, you did a little more than just apply for the job, Catherine. Thanks to your many letters of complaint to the government, which were handed directly to me, we’ve had to change our policy on employing women. Now I know it may seem sexist to you, and probably to all women out there. But Catherine, let me tell you that nothing is ever black and white. If our department feels that it’s necessary that only men are employed, then that is for the safety of the public and my team. I don’t give a shit if that comes across negative, or sexist, or whatever. My only concern is the lives around me. Do you understand?”
“Yes I do, Roger. And I completely trust that every decision you make is for the good of the team. But I’m a very proactive woman. I saw an opportunity to make a change, to follow a dream, to make a difference, and I took it.”
“Either way you look at it, thanks to equality, I have no choice now but to open the doors to female applicants. And seeing as you were the only woman who’s applied to this branch,” he puts the CV down and gets up from his chair, reaching across the desk, “welcome aboard.”
I smile and shake his hand. “Thank you, Roger. You won’t regret it. I promise.”
He sits back down, groans again, and then runs his hands over his smooth head. “I hope not, Catherine. For your sake, as well as mine.”
2
“So when does the training start?” Dad asks me, slurping his tea from across the breakfast table.
“I already said, Dad,” I reply, unable to disguise the impatience in my voice. “This weekend. Thursday is a run through—meet the guys, kind of an intro. Plus, a fitness test. If that goes well, the real training will start on Friday.”
“For how long?”
“Until Sunday.”
“Until Sunday?” he blurts out, almost spitting out his tea. “That’s it?”
“Well, yeah. But it’s very intense. And most of the important training is done out on the field. I’ll be shadowing someone first. Then, maybe after a few weeks, maybe even a few months, I’ll be having to deal with things alone.”
“One bloody weekend. That’s scandalous. You’d swear you were training to work in a supermarket—not working as a bloody Cleaner.” He takes a giant—almost aggressive swig of his tea—and puts his cup down a little too hard on the table, spilling a little. “All I hear on the News is how little money they get from the government, putting up with shitty equipment, understaffing, and dangerous working conditions. It’s just not worth the risk.”
“Tell that to the armed forces then. They’ve always had to put up with budget cuts. And so has the NHS. But we still need nurses and soldiers.”
“Well, I think you’re mad, Catherine. I really do. And I don’t see what the big fascination is with all this. Why can’t you just get an ordinary job like everyone else?”
“I know it’s risky, but this is something that I’ve wanted to do since I was a little girl. You know that. So nothing’s changed. I still want to be out there, making a difference in the world. Not stuck dealing with stupid customers at a restaurant.”
“Yes, I understand all that, but why does it have to be you? There are plenty of men already doing this kind of thing. Let them take the risks.”
“That’s exactly the point: Men. It’s one of the only jobs left in this country that has a No Women Policy. It’s dated and sexist and now I’ve changed that. Me. Your daughter. All by myself. And you were the one who said that I should write to the government. You’re the one who taught me to fight for what I believe in. You.”
Dad shakes his head, clearly struggling to justify his actions. He reaches over to the centre of the table and takes the last slice of toast from the plate. “Look, Cath, I know what I said, but—”
“But nothing. It’s obvious to me that you only encouraged me to write those letters because you thought that I wouldn’t stand a chance. Well, now I’ve got through, and I’ve got the job and I plan on keeping it for as long as possible. And I plan on setting an example to all the other women out there who have to live in a world with sexist pigs like you.”
“Catherine!” Mum shouts from the sink. “Don’t speak to your father like that. He’s only saying what needs to be said.”
“Okay, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that—but that’s how it’s coming across.”
“Just because your dad thinks that something is dangerous,” Mum continues, “doesn’t make him sexist.”
“Look, Cath,” Dad says, his tone a little softer, “I just want you to be safe. Your mother and I both do. I just happen to think that some jobs are better suited for men and some better suited for women. That’s all. That’s not sexist, it’s just life. We’re not all the same. We have lots of differences. And if you can’t see that, w
ell, then…more fool you.”
Mum walks over to the table and stands behind Dad, her both hands on his shoulders, tea towel draped over her arm. “Look, I tell you what, Catherine, why don’t you apply for something a little less controversial?”
“Like?” I ask patronisingly, knowing full well that she’s just going to reel off a list of girlie jobs—like nursing.
Mum shrugs. “I don’t know, maybe hairdresser, you know, something like that. Or beautician. I mean there’s good money in that if you get in with the right salon.”
“I’ve got a job, thank you.”
Dad takes a mouthful of toast and then speaks; his words muffled: “Being a Cleaner doesn’t even pay that well.”
“It’s not about the money,” I retort, “it’s about the job.”
Dad swallows and then sighs. “Well, I think you’re crazy. I really do. And you’ll only end up changing your mind again.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Cath, you’ve gone through more career paths than I have—and I’m fifty-bloody-eight.”
“I haven’t had that many.”
“No? You sure about that? What about wanting to be an English teacher?”
“So what? I was fifteen. I was just a stupid kid.”
“Then it was a doctor.”
“Paramedic, actually, Dad.”
“Okay, paramedic then. Same thing.”
“It’s not the same thing, and I only abandoned that because they were only recruiting in London. Remember? And you were the one who talked me out of it. You said that I’d hate living in such a big, dangerous city.”
“Can’t remember saying that.”
I clench my fists under the table, seething with frustration. “Typical—selective memory as usual.”
“Oh yeah, and then of course it was the Navy.”
“What, so you want me to go off and fight in some shit-hole country then?”
Dad shakes his head. “No, of course not. My point is: this Cleaner thing is just another one of your little ventures. In a month, you’ll get bored, move on to some other career path, and then you’ll be handing in your notice.”
I snort, struggling to contain the outburst that’s brewing inside. “You don’t have much faith in me, do you?”
“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 flash-in-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 flutteri
ng 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.
The Zombie Saga (Book 2): Burn The Dead (Purge) Page 2