Offshore Page 4

  He was about to reach for the light switch when an ear-splitting roar sounded, like the bellow of a wounded stegosaur - the omnidirectional fog horn perched on top of the structure.

  Its solar powered battery trickled just enough juice to receive the radio signal sent by a computer onshore keeping an eye on the weather, instructing it by remote control to blare out its warning once every two minutes for as long as the batteries lasted.

  Only today it was drawing full power from the generators and reverberating a steady 120 decibels, not only for miles out through the fog, but also through Bravo’s walls and floors, and the pit of Eddie’s stomach.

  He unpacked his gear, storing it in the drawers under the bed, displayed his toiletries in the bathroom and availed himself of the toilet to pee.

  A quick brush of his teeth to freshen up before shrugging into overalls, and putting on a fresh pair of white flannel socks.

  An affectation since childhood, he always felt better, more confident, in clean socks, and at times of trouble or uncertainty would change them several times a day, much to his mother’s chagrin.

  What would Professor Psychologist Brewer make of that particular foible?

  He slipped his Longdrift ID lanyard over his head, tucking the laminated card into his breast pocket behind a neat row of coloured pens.

  A last glance in the mirror, and he caught sight of the words etched along the bottom edge of the glass;

  this is the only person responsible

  for your safety today.

  “And I wish you the best of luck with it, Capstan. You’re going to need it.”

  He checked his watch - 14:59.

  Chapter 7

  They were all in the lounge, dressed now in their regulation general purpose overalls, Longdrift’s name and logo emblazoned across their shoulders, a miniature version over their left breast pocket, none too subtle reminders of who paid their wages.

  The men wore navy blue with white T shirts underneath; Lydia, dark green. Eddie’s red signified his authority as team leader. All wore identical rubber soled leather trainers and blue lanyards with photo identity badges dangled around their necks, as if they were going to forget who they were.

  Only Reynolds wore his issued baseball cap, its peak pulled low over his face, and didn’t he look ridiculous in it, like a gawky beaky bird.

  They lolled in the sofas and chairs, waiting for Cameron to find something for them to watch on TV. He stabbed at the keys on the remote control.

  “Maybe the channels are different. They’ll be foreign out here, won’t they?”

  “Who cares? There’s gotta be some fitba somewhere in the world.” Suddenly the screen turned green as it tuned in to a football match, and a cheer went up among the men to add to the roar of fans coming through the speakers.

  The match was indeed foreign, Ethiopia versus the Democratic Republic of Congo, a grainy picture and dodgy sound, but football was football and they didn’t care who was playing.

  “How long is left?” asked Eddie, feigning interest. He preferred the high octane action and adventure of motor sport.

  “Twenty minutes, if they don’t play extra time,” said McAllister.

  “Okay, you can watch, but the second it’s over we get to work. Those supplies aren’t going to move themselves and I take it you all want to eat sometime soon. Okay?” He received nothing but a mumbled reply, every man’s eyes fixed on the television screen … except one. Brewer was already busy with his fancy Moleskine notebook and Eddie watched for a moment as his pen scratched feverishly at the lined paper.

  He couldn’t know about the socks already, surely.

  When he first learned the group were to be observed by a company sponsored nosey parker with a brief to monitor the crew’s psychological welfare with a view to presenting a paper on ‘Stress in Isolation’, with particular reference to platform workers, Eddie imagined the ‘prof’ would be a stiff old buffer with fluffy mint imperials in his pocket and owlish spectacles held together with sticking plaster.

  Not a bit of it.

  Eddie was astonished to learn that this well spoken, well groomed busybody was not only one of Longdrift’s finest number crunchers, with an uncanny ability to twist all manner of frankly indecipherable data into a logical form that even an idiot like him could understand, but also had almost double the practical shop floor experience he did.

  A true Jack of All Trades, able to turn his hand to anything, albeit one who had managed to get himself blown up in Siberia, shot at in Libya, kidnapped for ransom in Nigeria, and survive a platform sinking in the Gulf of Mexico.

  A useful asset … or a sodding jinx?

  So why end up here? Surely Longdrift could make better use of his time and talents.

  Ours is not to reason why, ours is but to do and die…and get paid for it.

  Eddie couldn’t stop him making his furtive observations and taking notes, but he could make sure it didn’t get in the way of the work in hand.

  They were short handed and the Prof had valuable experience to be exploited. He was going to pull his weight and get his manicured nails dirty like the rest of them, and clandestine nebbing in and note taking would play a poor second fiddle to grafting.

  Someone else had no interest in the football either. He went over to where Lydia was squatting, rummaging through the boxes of books and DVDs.

  “I’m sorry you were inconvenienced,” he said, aiming for casual, friendly conversation as well as … what? Her approval?

  She looked up from her search. “It’s okay. I expected nothing less. Don’t worry about it.”

  “I’ll put it in my report … about the facilities. I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

  “It’s rather bolting the stable door after the event, don’t you think?”

  “Probably. Again, my apologies.”

  “And again, don’t worry about it.”

  She returned to her search.

  “See anything you like?” he asked.

  “Nah,” she said, turning the books over. “I can see why this lot was left behind. It’s all rubbish. I’ve read most everything on here at least twice … oh, except this …” She pulled out a book with a well cracked spine.

  “Flesh House. Stuart MacBride.” She turned the book over and skimmed the blurb. “Blood, butchery … human meat … sounds a bit yucky, but I’ll give it a go.”

  “You read a lot?”

  “Love to, whenever I can as much as I can. You?”

  “Oh aye, I like to read … but I prefer to write.”

  She looked at him keenly, her interest clearly piqued. “You write? Really? Fiction?”

  He gave a shrug of mildly self conscious confirmation.

  “What sort? Anything I would know?”

  “Thrillers mostly, crime dramas … a bit like MacBride, but I don’t have his grasp on the gritty realism, or his gallows humour. Mine are more … theatrical.”

  “What name do you write under? Not your own?”

  “Oh God no. If the blokes ever found out … Ever heard of Sean Simpson?”

  She frowned. “I don’t think so, but I shall certainly look out for it from now on.” She lowered her voice and leaned close. “And I won’t tell anyone it’s you.” She put her finger to her lips, sealing in the secret. “Are you writing something now?”

  “I’m hoping to use my time here to get some flesh onto the bare bones of a new story, yes.”

  “How exciting. Can I have a sneak read?”

  He shook his head. “Nope.”

  “Aw, go on.”

  “No. Nobody but me and my editor sees anything before the last I is dotted and the final T crossed. I tell you what, when it’s published you can have the first signed copy.”

  “I look forward to it.”

  “Then, when I’m as rich and famous as Mr MacBride you can sell it on eBay and make a fortune.”

  She laughed lightly, a merry sound he found he liked.

  They spent the rest
of the time until the football match finished talking about his writing career. She gave the appearance of hanging on his every word, interested in what he had to say. He savoured the attention, and the opportunity to detail his trials and tribulations with the literary craft, and to blow his own trumpet with someone outside his normal sphere of acquaintances.

  She set her chosen book aside as she browsed for another and he groaned inwardly. How could he put this without coming across as a total arse?

  “I … erm … I hate to be jobsworth, but –” She broke off her search and looked up at him quizzically. He pointed to her hand. “Rings,” he said, smiling awkwardly.

  “What?” She looked down at her right hand. “Oh my goodness!” She snatched the gold bands from her slender fingers and tucked them into her breast pocket, buttoning the flap for safekeeping. “No exposed jewellery of any kind allowed, I should know,” she said apologetically. “Epic fail for me there wouldn’t you say, considering I’m supposed to be Health and Safety rep. I’ve worn them for so long I don’t even notice them any more.” She showed him both hands, the digits now naked, including the ever telling third finger on her left hand. “I remembered to swap my usual watch for a plastic one, though. Will it do?” She held up her wrist and its acid pink Hello Kitty timepiece, more suited to a girl of ten than a grown woman.

  “Perfect.”

  As she turned back to her rummaging she bowed her head, and the overhead light picked up a telltale glint at the back of her neck.

  Bugger.

  Eddie squatted beside her and leaned close, almost touching her ear with his lips, and lowered his voice to a bare whisper. “I’ll pretend I didn’t see the chain.”

  Her hand flew guiltily to the neckband of her T shirt, pulling it up, hiding the jewellery.

  “Thank you. I’d feel a bit lost without it.”

  “Something special?”

  The corners of her mouth twitched into the saddest smile he had ever seen, and she looked as if she might cry. “It’s my St Christopher, for good luck. A gift from my dad for my 18th birthday. The last thing he ever gave me. He … um … he died two days after.”

  “I’m sorry,” Eddie said. “You should most definitely keep it on. Just keep it out of sight, eh?”

  “Thank you. I appreciate it.”

  He sighed. Christ, he wasn’t cut out for this supervisory malarkey.

  “I need to check the others though,” he said, standing. “Talk about putting my head in the lion’s mouth again. Something else for them to hate me for.”

  She touched him lightly on the arm. “Don’t be silly, you are just doing your job.”

  He turned to the party spread out on the sofas and chairs. “Safety check before we start work, guys. Watches and jewellery … ?”

  Without diverting their eyes from either the television or their note writing, ringless fingers were waggled, overall cuffs unbuttoned to expose non-metal watches which would be removed before commencing work, and necks displayed to show the lack of metallic adornments, although plenty of tattoos were on show - swallows, hearts, a tribal swirl among them, Shaw’s broken line around his throat with ‘CUT HERE’ being the most tasteless. No-one sported visible piercings or earrings, although McDougal had a small hole in his left ear where a flashy diamond stud normally resided.

  “Thank you for your cooperation,” said Eddie, and exchanged glances with Lydia, who gave him a small smile and nod of support.

  “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” she said, and nudged him playfully.

  The football match over, Eddie led his little party to the service elevator which would carry them down to the container compound.

  It was only late afternoon but the deck lights were already on, their harsh orange and white beams diffused into a ghostly glow by the wraithlike swirling mist.

  The group gathered around Eddie as he unlocked the large padlock and dragged open the gate to the compound and the variety of shipping containers within, battered and rusted and also securely padlocked.

  They were uplifted from a supply ship a few days previous, and deposited in the secure area by the skeletal crane which loomed over them, its chains swathed in vapourous grey and set into a gentle swinging motion by the barely discernible movement of the platform underfoot, links rattling like Marley’s ghost.

  The foghorn blared again. Louder outside, it smothered conversation and made everyone wince. Lydia covered her ears with her hands. The lock to the largest container proved a little temperamental and it took Eddie a few goes to free it. He wrestled the door open and entered the gaping black maw, only the beam of his torch visible as it flashed around the interior.

  Why everything had been locked up so securely he had no idea; it wasn’t as if there was anyone here to steal anything.

  The beam stopped moving.

  Silence.

  A roar, followed by the stench of petrol fumes, and the portable generator rattled into life. A series of deep clunks and a group of arc lights set on man-sized yellow tripods flared into life, lighting up the interior of the container and the Aladdin’s cave of goodies the company had supplied; insulated crates and boxes of all shapes and sizes, stacked to the roof.

  A slight adjustment of the lights positions cleared a passageway for ready ingress and egress. Everyone gathered at the doorway to get a better look.

  Reynolds spotted his guitar case and made a move for it. “Hey, my favourite girl. Come to Daddy!”

  Eddie’s hand on his arm stopped him. “Not so fast, Bucko. Supplies come first. When you’re done with them, then you can collect your personal stuff, so let’s get this show on the road shall we?”

  The crew divided itself into three sets of two plus a spare, Lonny Dick acting as a floating hand, to shift the boxes, crates, packets and bottles of foodstuffs onto hand trolleys, transport them to the lift and ride with them up to the kitchen and pantries for storage.

  “Don’t forget the sleeping bags, pillows and towels,” said Eddie. “There’s enough to go around. Non-essential tools and equipment can stay where they are. We’ll grab them as and when they’re needed.”

  “Don’t anyone forget the bog rolls,” McDougal called. “And put some in the fridge for curry night, ‘cos I like it HOT!”

  Lydia selected the boxes of medical supplies she felt would be of most immediate use, and taking one each she and Eddie made their way to the bright white space she would consider her particular bailiwick for the length of their stay.

  He left her to unpack and store her goods while he returned to check on the progress the men were making in his absence.

  Nearly three quarters of an hour passed before he returned to the sickbay, trundling a hand trolley loaded with various cardboard cartons topped off with a bright pink vanity case, to see Lydia busily sorting bandages and packets of plaster of Paris. Preparation for some kind of apocalypse perhaps?

  “How’s it going?” he said, quietly so as not to startle her.

  The brief smile she flashed at him gave the impression of being pleased to see him.

  “So far so good.”

  “Sorry it took so long,” he said, “but I had to check in with HQ and let them know we’ve all arrived safe and sound and things are okay.”

  “You didn’t have to bring my personal stuff,” she said, taking the vanity case off the boxes. “I would have got it myself.”

  “It’s nae problem. I delivered your suitcase to the lounge too,” he said.

  “That’s really kind of you. Thank you.”

  He gave her his most endearing smile. “My pleasure ma’am.”

  “How are they doing?” she said, shifting the top box onto the examination table. “Did you have to crack the whip?”

  “No. They are nearly done, surprisingly. It’s been hard work. Sacks of rice and spuds are heavy.”

  “What sort of fresh goods are there? Any fruit and veg?”

  “Practically none. It’s all either dried or tinned, long life cartons and microwave ready mea
ls. There’s some chilled and frozen stuff – meat, fish, even ice cream. The battery powered freezer and refrigeration units in the containers were well insulated; everything is fine.”

  “But not especially healthy.”

  “Those guys will have asbestos gullets and stomachs like waste disposal units already, so it won’t do any harm for the short time we’re here.”

  “Perhaps.” She dug about in the box, a frown of concentration on her face, a slow smile replacing it as she found what she wanted buried in the depths. Lydia pulled them out - two obscenely large bars of chocolate. She caressed and kissed their royal purple wrappers, murmuring words of welcome. “What’s with the pug face?” she said, returned from stashing the candy in the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet.

  He coughed and tilted his head towards her secret hiding place. “You were saying … about healthy food.”

  She placed her hands firmly on her hips, fingertips almost touching, emphasising her narrowness.

  “If you think for one minute I’m going through three cycles of pre-menstrual tension being deprived of wine and chocolate, you must have a death wish, buddy. It’s medicinal, and believe me, it’s for your benefit.”

  His hands went up in surrender. “Okay. I believe you.”

  Silence.

  “I’m sorry about what happened … before,” he said. “The guys can get a bit ribald. I should have stopped them.”

  “Don’t worry about it. It’s the nature of the beast. I’ve put up with worse. Ever been in Aberdeen A & E on a Saturday night?”

  “Aye I have as a matter of fact, more than once, and I wouldn’t recommend it. It’s no place for a lady.”

  Shut up dickhead. She’s going to think you’re flirting with her.

  “Thanks for bringing my stuff,” she said, a slight pink tinge to her cheeks. “It’s been a great help when you have enough to do. Fancy a drink?”

  “Bravo is dry, you know that?”

  “Don’t get your knickers in a knot. I didn’t mean booze.” She opened the mini fridge used for storing temperature sensitive medicines and took out two brown bottles. “It’s not quite as cold as I like it, but it will have to do. Do you like ginger ale?”