A dank heat washed over Davie Bryce as he pushed open the lightweight interior door, pilfered the year before from a skip when the yard’s admin block was extensively refurbished. It was fixed to a rudimentary frame and secreted behind the battered shipping container’s door. Dripping wet, he stood momentarily within the aperture before reaching back and wrenching the heavy outer door closed behind him. The blood orange glow of the electric fire cast across the faces of the others huddled round the table and the bilious, acrid odour of drying latex coated work gloves suffused with tobacco smoke pervaded his airways, catching his throat. He clicked the kettle on whilst he rinsed the least stained mug from the selection on the worktop.
‘Any ay yous wantin wan?’ he said, straining the teabag against the body of the mug.
‘Aye, stick another wan in there Davie, son. How’s the heid this mornin?’ Frank Callaghan said, offering his mug over his shoulder, eyes fixed downwards onto another potential selection in the horse racing supplement of the Daily Record, scratching a circle around it with his pen.
‘Remind me, whose idea wis it again, tae go tae the pub?’ Davie asked.
‘Who dae ye think?’ Wullie McIvor peered up from his crossword, ‘The two ay yies wur moroculous when ye goat back tae the digs. Bouncin aff the waws—’
‘Aye, awright. It’s no like ye’ve never done it yersel, is it?’ Davie said with derision, placing the two mugs of tea on the table and nudging Frank Callaghan for affirmation.
‘Will you take that bastarn jayket aff? Yer drippin aw oer ma paper.’ Callaghan snapped, scooping the pages up in his grimy hands.
‘Awright, keep yer wig oan, fuck sake! Ah’m just sayin, it’s no like any ay yous huv never ripped the arse oot it, is it?’ Davie said, unzipping the erstwhile high visibility jacket, its fluorescent qualities having long since departed, and hanging it over the improvised washing line arrangement that hung between the walls. ‘Where is he anywaiy?’
‘Who?’ McIvor said.
‘Mulheron, where is he? Ah want a word wae him.’ Davie said, spooning his sixth, and final, sugar into his mug.
‘Dipped it.’ Andy Lough posited from the bench to the rear of the room, on which he was sprawled. ‘Fuckin wee fanny, eh?’ he added, opening a glass bottle of Irn-Bru, taking several gulps.
‘Yer jokin? He’s no turnt oot? Ah shouted him up this mornin—chapped his door again as ah wis leavin. Wait till ah get a haud ay the wee cunt. How dae ye know that?’
‘Kowalczyk telt us.’ Callaghan cut in.
‘Whit time wis this? Ah bet that fuckin rat didnae gie him ten minutes tae get here afore he marked him doon as a non-runner.’
‘Just afore the brek there, as ah wis comin doon aff the boat tae the dockside. Ah sais tae him, “Whit ye dain takin ma men aff me again ya prick, ye?” He looked at me like he didnae know whit ah wis talkin aboot so ah sais, “Wee Grant Mulheron, whit skwad huv ye stuck him wae noo?” That’s when he sais he’s no turnt oot.’
‘Aye? Fuck sake. That’s no like him. Ah cannae mind the last time he dipped a shift—too fuckin tight, the wee tadger. He usually just finds himsel a coarner somewhere an sleeps it aff.’
‘Probably fur the best he didnae dae that then. Ah heard Kowalczyk’s wide tae it. Just a matter ay time till he gets caught. Cunts ur gettin fed up coverin fur him when he’s full ay it.’ Callaghan said, his fag adhered to his bottom lip.
‘Aye, well it’ll no matter the day though, will it? He’ll no be getting paiyed if he’s no turnt oot.’ Wullie McIvor said.
Davie slurped his tea, reflecting on this, as Callaghan crumpled his newspaper between his hands, rising to his feet. ‘Still though, Wullie. Ah’d advise ye tae huv a word. He’s your nephew efter aw an he’s gettin too gallus wae that swally. Hud a hauf boattle ay voddy the other day, poured intae a litre boattle ay Lucozade. Tae take the edge aff it, he sais. Ah noticed his haun, shakin like a shitein dug, it wis. Ye only get away wae it fur so long, an cunts huv been drappin like flies since that Kowalczyk wis made up tae supervisor.’
‘Fuckin oot ay order, that. Grassin bastart, him.’ Davie said, pulling some cigarette papers from his tobacco tin.
Callaghan glowered over the top of the ruffled newspaper at him, ‘He’s a bastartin supervisor. It’s his joab tae snitch! Anywaiy, ah’d watch it if ah wur you. Ah’ve heard your coat’s oan a shoogly peg an aw.’ he looked to McIvor, furtively, giving him a mischievous wink, McIvor smiling wryly back. ‘Ah’m gonnae head back a bit early, need tae get a permit sorted oot. The last wan oot loack the door, eh?’ he continued, grabbing his hardhat and jacket.
The howf fell to an observed silence as each of the men settled into what remained of their break. Wullie McIvor studiously pored over the clues to his crossword, chewing the end of a small, red bookie’s pen. Andy Lough pulled the peak of his cap down over his eyes to catch a few minutes sleep, and Davie, first examined, then ate two chopped pork pieces he retrieved from a Tupperware tub in his rucksack. Only the electric buzz from the fire, the clanging of industrial activities at the dockside, and accompanying, indecipherable, shouted directions from other trades still working pierced the quietude.
It was Callaghan’s howf. A kind of open secret for those in the know, and one which operated on an invitation only basis. The shipping container had been a storage unit for a small fabrication outfit that had decamped from the yard for some other industrial land of milk and honey, neglecting to take it with them. Callaghan had made it his business to monitor the vacant lot for a time, taking ownership of it by way of an oxy-acetylene torch to gain access when he felt a sufficient amount of time had passed.
Davie had been invited to the howf by the man himself after working with him some months earlier, ostensibly passing Callaghan’s vetting procedure. His shared enthusiastic loathing for the recently appointed supervisor, Kowalczyk — who they regularly, mercilessly taunted over his former standing as a lowly cleaner before his promotion, in contrast to their position as skilled tradesmen — served only to expedite the invitation. Of the hundreds of other men working there, most either stayed at their workplace and had their piece, trudged to one of the cafeterias located around the vast area of the site, or sat in their cars, if they had one, and could be bothered walking that far.
It was there, months earlier, in the sanctum of the howf that he was introduced to Grant Mulheron and his uncle, Wullie McIvor, their paths never having crossed before. They were travelling men too, working on an aircraft carrier in the neighbouring dock. A friendship soon blossomed between Davie and Grant — and to a lesser extent, Andy, the three being of similar age — when Grant was transferred over to work alongside Davie and Frank Callaghan, resources and man-hours being upped on their vessel to meet production targets. Around the same time, the travelling men had sought lodge in the local area, eliminating an extra two hours, minimum, each day, in the commute from Glasgow.
Standing up, Wullie McIvor took his reading glasses off and placed them in their case, snapping it shut. ‘Ah suppose, ah suppose.’ he said, placing his hardhat on his head and gathering his paper and flask up. Andy Lough rolled off the bench where he’d lain and banged his boots noisily on the floor, shaking hardened mud off, before pulling on his still damp overalls. Following their lead, Davie too, began to pack away his piece box into his bag, feeling the immense weight of existential dread that was his hangover, manifest through tired bones and the unrelenting aridity of his mouth.
Pulling his jacket off the line, he felt the warm dankness against his skin at the collar and cuffs as he zipped himself back into it, summoning the mental resilience to head back out, back to the graft. He thought of his wife and weans back home. Only another five and a half hours, he told himself, then he’d hit the pub for a couple of curers on the way back to the digs.
Lough opened the door to a blast of wind, howling down the narrow lane between the tightly arranged shipping containers, closing it over again thinking it little wonder wee Mulheron had elected to stay in his bed. ‘Hey, ye want tae huv seen your nephew last night, Wullie. Fuck sake. Oan a mission he wis, like.’
‘Ah didnae need tae—ah heard yies! The hale street did ah hink.’
‘Here, Andy, dae ye mind him buyin aw they Jägerbombs, linin thum up oan the bar an dishin thum oot tae every cunt in the boozer, wisnae fur takin naw fur an answer either—an the Sambucas? Fuck me man, ah wis wonderin whit that taste wis.’ Davie said, sudden flashes of memory presenting themselves through a vengeful acid reflux.
‘Nae wonder he’s ayewaiys pleadin poverty, kerrien oan like that. Stupit prick.’ McIvor spat, nodding towards the door, ‘Right, mone yous two. It’s only a bit ay rain. Yer no made ay sugar, fuck sake.’ he continued, resolutely, opening it and heading out. Andy Lough gave a shrug, and lighting a cigarette in his cupped hands, joined him stepping over the threshold to the inclement day.
Reluctantly, Davie followed into the bluster of the afternoon, locking the door, placing the key above onto the rusty structure’s roof. He turned his collar up against the raw, biting wind and cast his gaze up and down the steel box flanked lane. A blue, ragged tarpaulin that had been lashed down, shielding galvanised trunking from the elements, whipped, and fluttered violently with the might of a particularly powerful gust. In the distance, at the end of the compound area where it opened out to an expanse of barren land before the security gates for the docks were reached, was the unmistakeable frame of Frank Callaghan talking to Kowalczyk, the supervisor. Davie watched as the smaller man placed what looked like a consolatory hand on Callaghan’s shoulder, and the two figures began walking towards him, back towards the compound.
‘Ye seen this?’ McIvor said over the whistling wind, shielding his eyes from the horizontal rain, ‘Whit the fuck’s he wantin?’
Callaghan and Kowalczyk drew nearer, stopping at the wire mesh gate to the compound. Callaghan raised his arm, beckoning. ‘WULLIE, JUST YOU! KIN YE COME OER HERE A MINUTE?’ he shouted over the raging wind.
Andy Lough and Davie Bryce watched as Kowalczyk again, reached out, this time placing his hand on Wullie McIvor’s shoulder. They saw Callaghan put his arm around him, and Kowalczyk looking back at them, forlornly, before turning away, heading back across the tarmac towards the security gates for the docks. ‘Fuckin paiyaffs. Wait an ye’ll see. Ye heard Callaghan earlier oan. Aw that shite aboot coats an shoogly pegs.’ Davie said to Andy. The hammering rain bounced off the ground as Frank Callaghan approached alone, leaving McIvor at the gate, staring out beyond the confines of the dockyard, out of the mouth of the Forth estuary towards the wild North Sea.
‘Sent you tae dae his dirty work hus he? No goat the baws tae gies oor jotters himsel?’ Davie enquired, indignantly.
‘Is that whit ye think? Ye’ve goat it aw wrang Davie, son.’ he looked at him and Andy both in turn, ‘It’s wee Mulheron. The wee wummin fae the guesthouse. . . she went in tae chainge the bedsheets an that, like she always dis, an fun him lyin there. That’s him away. Choked oan his vomit in his sleep thur sayin. A fuckin shame, so it is.’ he said, shielding his face from the driving rain.
BIO:
Peter Bennett is a working-class writer from Glasgow. His debut novel, Liberties was published in September 2022 by Rymour Books and is available direct from their website: rymour.co.uk/liberties.html as well as through all good booksellers. Prior to publication he had extracts published in New Writing Scotland 40 (Association of Scottish Literature), The Selkie (theselkie.co.uk), Ghosts of the Early Morning Shift – An anthology of radical prose from contemporary Scotland (Culture Matters) and Lumpen (Issue 7).
He lives in East Kilbride with his wife and children and is currently working on his next writing project.
Twitter: @peter_bennett / Bluesky: @pbennett.bsky.social
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