by Leigh Barker
Badger was first out of the workshop and set off in a hurry. Mr. Bradbury was waiting. The others followed at a leisurely pace, Nick and Smiffy strolling ahead, and Gonk and Buckshot following with the toolbags.
Nick stopped at the packing plant entrance and tapped the thick plastic strips covering the wide doorway and watched them swing back and forth over each other. After a moment he looked to his left at the two engineers getting kitted out to inspect one of the furnaces used to fire ceramic aromatic oil vases. They were quietly and efficiently helping each other into the heat-resistant protective wear. He waited patiently until they’d put on their hoods and breathing equipment. The tall one he knew to be the miserable bugger Ted Ash, and the little one the asthmatic John err… Thing, and both to be lunchtime drinkers. So they were true professionals, until about one thirty, then a roaring liability.
“Now there’s a shite job,” Smiffy said.
“Wouldn’t bother me,” Buckshot said, puffing out his chest. “Tight spaces don’t bother me. I could handle crawling through a furnace, no trouble.”
“What the hell are you on about, Buckshot?” Gonk said with a long sigh.
“I’ve been taking lessons at college,” Buckshot explained in response to the blank looks.
“What?” Nick said. “Radio tuning for beginners?”
“No,” Buckshot said, his hurt feeling showing. “Escapology, if you must know.”
They suppressed a laugh, for about two seconds.
“I heard they’d cancelled that course,” Nick said, grinning still.
Buckshot was clearly trying to find a brain cell to understand what Nick meant. He failed and fell back on the age-old response of leaving his mouth open.
“The lecturer escaped,” Nick explained.
They groaned in perfect unison.
Miserable Ted waved as if he actually gave a damn about them, turned, and pushed through the plastic curtain en route to the furnace. Thing stopped to make a few last minute adjustments to his air-tight suit.
Nick stepped up behind him and turned off his oxygen feed.
Thing’s facemask sucked onto his face like a kid in a plastic bag, and he clutched at it desperately. The boys stood quietly and watched.
Somebody should do something.
Two labourers, known, among other names, as Wombat and Archduke, walked up to the doorway, stopped for a moment, and watched Thing sink to his knees, still clutching at his facemask.
“Somebody should do something,” Wombat said.
“Is he dying?” Archduke asked.
“Nah,” Wombat said. “He’s still moving. Look.”
Thing waved at them. They waved back.
“If he dies,” Wombat said, “can I have his job?”
“Why?” Nick asked. “What are you going to do with it?” He leaned over the stricken man and turned his oxygen valve back on. “Close call there, Johnny-boy. You should be more careful.”
Smiffy helped the poor, gasping engineer to his feet and brushed off his shoulders. A gallant act that would surely be rewarded in heaven.
“You asshole!” Thing screamed at him.
Smiffy stepped back, clutching his heart. No good deed remained unpunished. But before anyone could explain to the gasping man how the fickle finger of Fate would have touched him had it not been for Nick’s timely intervention, Badger fought his way through the plastic strips after only a few moments of arm waving and swearing. Finally he cleared the plastic trap and was about to say what he was about to say, but saw Nick’s white hard hat and stopped mid wave. He was going to say only foreman and managers were entitled to wear white hats, but what was the point?
“Mr. Bradbury is waiting,” he announced, his gaze still fixed on the offensive hard hat as he fought his way back through the curtain.
Wombat took a long look around to make sure nobody was listening. The coast was clear. Except for Smiffy, Gonk, Buckshot, and the departing Thing.
So all clear, then.
“Hey, Nick,” he said in a stage whisper. “The missus needs a microwave. Any chance?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“I need it for the weekend ’cus I’m doing the bloody cookin’ while she goes off to see her bloody mother.”
“Yeah, okay. Thirty quid.”
“What’s it like?”
“Nip up to the canteen and take a look,” Nick said.
“Right. It’s like theirs, then, is it?”
“Not the brains of the family, eh, Wombat?” Smiffy asked.
Wombat looked puzzled for a moment, then nodded vigorously. “Oh, yeah. Right. Okay then. That’ll do great.”