Offshore Page 3

  “Smells like wet dog,” said McDougal with a sniff.

  “Bit dusty,” said Cameron, rubbing his fingertip over the coating of white fuzz on the fake plant.

  “That’s nae dust, mate. It’s mould.”

  “Bleuch.” Cameron wrinkled his nose and wiped his hands on his pants.

  “Still bloody cold,” said McAllister, rubbing his hands together.

  “It will air out soon enough,” said Eddie.

  “Have we been assigned cabins?” asked Shaw.

  “Apart from the ones in A section, they have all been stripped bare,” said Eddie. “Not so bad though. I’d prefer we all stick to the one corridor.”

  “Why?”

  “In case we have to get off in a hurry, especially at night. We can keep track of one another better if we are all together. If the bells go down and you don’t get to the lifeboat in the fifteen minute window because you decide to camp out in another section, you’re putting us all at risk.”

  “Fifteen minutes! You’re joking right? Standard’s twenty.”

  “Fifteen minutes, Mister Reynolds. Not one more.”

  Reynolds mumbled something to his shoes.

  “You have a problem with your timekeeping, Mr Reynolds?”

  A defiant tilt of a pointed chin. “No … sir.”

  From Reynolds, ‘sir’ came with a side order of barely disguised contempt, yet somehow Eddie still liked the sound of it and the power it conveyed.

  He led them down a short side corridor, away from the hub.

  “Your pit for the duration,” he said, opening the door of the nearest cabin and flicking on the light to allow a better view of the single bunk with useful storage space underneath, a desk with overhead lamp and simple chair. On the wall, individual controls for heating and air conditioning. Nothing else. Spartan didn’t even come close. Monks on retreat enjoyed more luxury.

  “What you see is what you get I’m afraid,” he said. “You have an en suite grey water head … that’s jargon for toilet, Miss Ellis…and a fresh water shower, dependent on the desalinators, so watch your consumption. No more than ten minutes. Cabins on the right have a non-opening port light, those on the left, don’t. There are sleeping bags in the stores, you can draw one later, same goes for towels. To save fuel, the heating, light and leccy will be restricted to these cabins, the recreation area and to sickbay. The galley and mess will have minimal services to keep the fridges ticking over and for cooking. Everywhere else will be cold and uncomfortable, so bear that in mind when you go through your extensive wardrobe trying to decide what to wear for the day. Any questions?”

  Silence.

  “Onward then.”

  They passed through another swing door at the end of the corridor.

  A bank of overhead lights went on, showing them a bright airy room with wood panelled walls, tartan carpet, and a large picture window overlooking a grey swelling sea. The blackout blinds were rolled up, allowing them the promise of a view which might be quite impressive if the cloud ever lifted.

  Piled against one wall, under sheets of protective clear plastic were a sofa, armchairs and two occasional tables, and encased in its own cocoon of bubble wrap, a large screen television. There were also boxes of books and magazines, videos and DVDs.

  The same dank smell prevailed, but the protective plastic meant these items had been spared the coating of mould.

  The crew dumped their bags; Brewer leaned his precious fishing rod carefully against a wall, and Eddie picked up his prepared guided tour where he had left off.

  “This gentlemen … and lady … is the lounge, where, when you’ve sorted it out, you will probably spend most of your downtime; relax, chat, read or watch TV. Whatever. Under the wrappers there are books and films to keep you entertained, and there should be a full complement of channels on the satellite system … if it works.”

  “What about email and internet?” asked Shaw.

  “I intend to set up a couple of laptops in what was the concessionary …”

  Eddie pointed over his shoulder to a sliding hatch in the wall, the serving area of the former mini convenience store.

  “Again, connections will be by satellite and might be patchy, so be patient and don’t hog the machines, and remember, your browsing history is being monitored, so stay off the porn sites.”

  Somebody blew a raspberry. Eddie continued.

  “No signal out here, so no mobiles. If you want to use the phone to keep in contact with your loved ones, or your bookie, there’s a satellite phone in the control room. I’ll rig up some kind of temporary booth for privacy.”

  “Gym still here?”

  “No, gone I’m afraid, so you might want to find another way of relieving your…tension.”

  Reynolds took his turn to speak up. “As this is a special assignment, guv, will we at least be allowed a bevvie at the end of the day?”

  Eddie shook his head. “Same rules apply as for normal duties. No booze.”

  “Fecking hell!”

  “Hey, I’m not making the rules here. The law is the law. It applies to us all equally, especially me.”

  “Why you especially?”

  “Because I’m the Team Leader and as such have to lead by example.”

  God, could that sound any more pretentious if I tried?

  “But we’re here for three fecking months guv, not the normal three weeks. It’s not fair.”

  “I know it’s not and I’m sorry Daz, but like I said I don’t make the rules, I just enforce them. Look on the bright side, your liver will probably thank you for the rest and you’ll enjoy your first pint all the more when you get back onshore. If you are lucky some generous soul might have put a couple of crates of non alcoholic beer in the stores.”

  “Cat’s piss.”

  “Take it or leave it.”

  More mumbles of disapproval and Eddie felt his already minimal popularity rating slipping inexorably earthwards.

  Again, not his fault. Ironically the powers that be gave the green light for lighting up a cigarette and potentially sending the whole structure sky high by providing a ‘safe’ area in which to do it, yet strictly prohibited the enjoyment of a cold beer at the end of a hard day’s graft. Onshore, perversely, the opposite was true.

  “Any more questions, gripes, grumbles, piss-offs or suggestions, now’s the time …”

  He spread his arms inviting input, receiving only averted eyes, bowed heads and heavy sighs in response. No one had anything else useful to contribute.

  “Okay, shall we move on?”

  Another fire resistant swing door, this one bearing a handmade notice onto which someone had sketched a rudimentary knob and balls.

  BIG BOYS PLAYROOM

  – NO GIRLIES ALLOWED!

  The apostrophe was missing, Eddie noted. He’d change that later when nobody was looking.

  Everyone eased themselves through the doorway to look.

  No furniture to speak of, it did at least have a window affording some daylight. One wall had a dart board, complete with darts and scoreboard, all surrounded by a rash of pock marks. Below it leaned a folded ping-pong table. The other walls were bare.

  A selection of board games - chess, draughts, backgammon, Monopoly and Scrabble, topped off with several dog eared sets of playing cards were piled on top of an unlit pinball machine, along with a cardboard box containing the table tennis paddles and ball.

  The centre of the room carried the prize. A full-sized snooker table.

  “Now this has got to be someone’s idea of a joke,” said Brewer, rooting one of the red balls from a pocket. He stood it on the centre spot. Instead of sitting still, the ball rolled slowly toward the side cushion, rested, then sidled along it to fall into the corner pocket with a clack.

  “Ach, even on a ten degree slope I can wallop any one of youse,” said McAllister, raising a laugh and a chorus of In yer dreams, Mac! and Put yer money where yer gob is.

  They seemed satisfied. Onward.

&nbs
p; Eddie pushed his way through the crowd. “Next stop the galley; if you’ll follow me.”

  Chapter 5

  Proustian phenomenon proposes that distinctive smells have more power than any other sense to aid recall of distant memories, and even aromas unconsciously picked up can awaken the most deeply buried memories, stimulating associated visions, sounds and emotions.

  Driven by the generators the reactivated ventilation system sucked in air, filtered it free of dangerous gas and hydrocarbon residues, sanitised and deodorised and warmed it, before recycling it throughout the entire habitat via a series of pipes and conduits and outlets.

  But it still carried within it some elements the most sophisticated mechanical or chemical filtration could not eliminate, a bare trace of which, when taken in, analysed, evaluated, categorised and labelled by a living brain, would be enough to trigger a phenomenon more primitive than even Proust could imagine.

  In its sleep, the workshop dweller breathed gently, sampling the air through two small holes in a nub of flesh in what could loosely be described as a face.

  At the top of these dry and crusted nasal passages a patch of cilia captured the free flowing molecules, triggering the olfactory neurons and registering familiarity.

  The nub twitched and a deep rumble sounded in its throat. Stirred by the aromas it moved its tongue around its foul mouth and used it in a series of slow wet slaps to coat lips as dry as leather with a thin film of saliva.

  With great effort it lifted its head and yawned, exposing a gaping maw with grinding molars, lips drawn back over ivory, flat planed incisors and canines, sharp like a dog’s.

  On the side of its head the pinnae of its ears swivelled to pinpoint and pick up sounds not heard for a long while - the drum of machinery, the clattering of footfall and the chatter of human speech.

  The reluctant tenant unfurled its long limbs, testing muscles wasted from lack of use during enforced hibernation, stretched, arched its spine until it cracked, and rolled its neck to alleviate an almost debilitating stiffness.

  A quick shake to wake itself fully, and it was ready to explore. There were needs to be satisfied, a curiosity piqued, a bladder to be emptied, and a stomach cramped with starvation to be filled.

  Chapter 6

  Another passageway and yet another set of swing doors. Eddie pushed them open dramatically.

  “Voila!”

  He flicked a switch on the wall and row upon row of fluorescent lights blinked into life revealing the dining room, the mess, cavernous and uncommonly bare.

  Normally it would seat up to ninety hungry souls over four shifts a day, but at their withdrawal all but three of the tables had been removed and those had been pushed together in a close huddle, leaving the rest of the room as hollow as a ballroom after the prom.

  Around the tables were twelve chairs, enough to seat the original number who were to make up the team before three dropped out.

  One silly sod had broken his leg falling off his motorcycle, another’s mother had died, couldn’t be helped but her timing could have been better, and Eddie’s preferred choice as second in command, Niall Shanks, was in quarantine, having been unfortunate enough to break out in a rather unpleasant and painful case of shingles.

  The three empty chairs would stand as a reminder of how dangerously understaffed this mission had become.

  Along one wall of the mess-room ran the serving area, sections of glass, gleaming stainless steel and halogen heat lamps from which hot satisfying meals would normally be dispensed day and night, and behind this stood the kitchen, the galley.

  Eddie led them through to the immaculately clean area. Their very presence in everyday clothes and boots made the room feel dirty.

  “I trust you all saw the collection of red and blue shipping boxes in the container compound on your way in?”

  Nods all round.

  “Good, because your main job for today, in fact your only job, will be to get the comestibles and other supplies from there to—”

  Reynolds said, “What’s comestiwhatsits?”

  “It’s a fancy word for food and drink?” chipped in McAllister.

  “The power is on, the lift is working,” said Eddie. “If you get yourselves organised and form kind of chain it shouldn’t take too long. Once you get them up here and into the larders, fridges and freezers, I want you to make up a kitchen rota giving everyone a fair turn, and stick to it. That way we don’t all end up cooking separate meals at separate times of the day and wasting fuel and food. Remember, we don’t have an endless supply and we won’t get any more unless our stay is extended. When it’s gone it’s gone, so make the most of what we have and don’t get greedy.”

  All eyes turned to Lydia.

  “I’m not doing it,” she said, folding her arms defiantly. “Just because I’m a woman doesn’t mean I have to do all the cooking. I’ll have enough work of my own to do taking care of your boo boos and I’ll take my turn, but only my turn. And before any one of you lazy sexists bastards makes the suggestion, I’m not doing your laundry or cleaning your rooms either.”

  “Everyone will take a turn, even me,” said Eddie, raising his hand to halt her before another tirade ensued. “I’m sure every one of us is capable of keeping our rooms tidy, washing our own socks and cooking something basic, even if it’s just boiling a couple of eggs, or beans on toast.”

  “And I suppose while we’re breaking oor backs playing pack mules, ye’ll be testing out that nice comfy boss’s chair in the control room watching over us all on the telly?”

  Something McDougal probably didn’t intend to say out loud.

  Under Eddie’s furious glare, his brow creased and he sniffed. He had crossed the line and he knew it. He dropped his eyes and at that particular moment found his boots to be perhaps the most interesting thing in the room.

  “So we have a plan for the rest of the day,” said Eddie once more comfortably in command. “First, find a cabin that suits, except A10, that’s mine –”

  “Who says?”

  “I do.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s the one best suited to keeping an eye on you lot, that’s why. So, unpack your gear and get changed; have a nosey about and get your bearings; sort out the stuff in the lounge, and we will regroup at 15:00 hours to go down to the container compound to make a start on shifting stuff. When we’ve got what we need we’ll have a bite to eat and a cup of tea, and see what’s on the cards for tomorrow. Okay?”

  Muttering among themselves the small group dispersed to select their cabins, unpack their belongings, and explore their surroundings.

  Eddie let himself into the cabin already selected for himself, number 10 at the end of corridor A where he could keep an eye on their comings and goings.

  Safely behind his closed door he tossed his bag onto the floor and threw himself onto his naked mattress to lie on his back, staring up at the ceiling.

  “What the fuck have I let myself in for?”

  He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, forcing himself to relax.

  Initially he had been looking forward to the posting to Bravo, in fact even if the money hadn’t been so mouth-wateringly tempting he would probably have volunteered for it.

  A change is as good as a rest, don’t they say? Ha!

  A twenty year veteran of more offshore assignments than he could shake a stick at, in all corners of the globe, he usually relished the prospect of platform work, often out of sight of land, isolated from the vagaries of the real world, safe in its own little microcosm. The constant thrum of industry played as a background to his day; and at night, like a mother’s heartbeat it lulled him to sleep.

  Between shifts, when others took time to socialise with their crew mates or sleep the hours away, he preferred to lose himself in reading and in his writing.

  He had a new novel brewing at the back of his mind and at first he hoped this tour would see him break its back, but now he wasn’t so sure. He wasn’t used to the silence the in
activity offered, and he worried that the heavy feeling of desolation might work as a negative force against his creativity - if the place didn’t fall down around his ears in the meantime.

  The room seemed to be growing duller. The port light showed him why - nothing but shifting shades of grey as a wall of sea mist, a haar, rolled in.

  The product of a warm pocket of air hitting the cold of the North Sea, a haar could completely envelop anything in its path within minutes, reducing visibility to practically zero as it shoogled in to press against his rectangular window, blotting out the world beyond. It could hang around for minutes or hours, and then as quickly as it appeared, would lift and be gone.

  On a clear day the North Sea’s surface could be a millpond, still and calm and as innocent as a boating lake as it stretched like a sheet of polished steel as far as the eye could see, merging with blue sky at the horizon, the sameness occasionally interrupted by a sailboat, cargo ship or passenger ferry.

  Small waves, light winds, visibility excellent; perfect conditions. If he should ever manage to swallow down his fear of heights and shin up to the crow’s nest atop the derrick, he might be able to see the mainland of Scotland in one direction, Norway in the other. Unfortunately, days like those were an exception rather than a rule.

  They might dawn bright and clear with the promise of sunshine, and the water may lie flat and peaceful, filling seafarers with hope for a good crossing, but as any experienced sailor knew, looks can be deceiving. Without warning the wind could pick up, driving a fearsome tidal swell, or the air could suddenly fill with a dense swirling fog, as it had today, restricting visibility from miles to mere feet in a matter of minutes.

  At times like these all bets are off, because now the placid playground has turned savage, merciless killer.

  Eddie closed the blind against the encroaching shroud and its silent shifting menace, somehow alive. At the back of his mind, as usual, lay the horrifying imagining that when he opened the blinds again, whatever lay beyond the suffocating mantle might not be there - erased from existence like a child’s drawing from an Etch a Sketch.