The Devil's Whelp. Vin Hammond Jackson
entire show was a political statement for the benefit of the crew: here's your new toolpusher being greeted by his boss. Understand that - his BOSS! Del took the hand and tried to hold his feelings at bay. "G'day, Les. Been a long time."
"Too long, Del. Good to see you. Here." He began to reach down for Del's travel bag. "I'll take one of those for you."
It was like - hey, guys, look: Les Meyer's not too proud to carry a man's case for him, even one who's just gone fifteen rounds with his wife and lost. Del beat him to it. "I can manage thanks." He glanced around, searching for the man he was replacing. When he thought he recognised Bromley, he went towards him. "Doug?"
Bromley smiled and came to meet Presswood half-way. "Glad you could make it at such short notice, Del." He shook Presswood's hand. "Really glad." He frowned at the mess that decorated his replacement's face. "Are you going to be okay?"
Del touched the swelling beside his eye demonstratively. "I've had worse, but thanks anyway for the concern. Listen, Doug, I know you want to get off, but could we have a quick word? I won't keep you." He was aware of Meyer's obnoxious presence bustling up right behind him, so when Bromley agreed to the request, Del started to lead him to a quiet spot on one side of the helipad. Meyer stuck like glue. Presswood turned and smiled. "Why don't you carry on, Les? I'm sure you've got plenty to do. I'll catch up with you." Then, before Meyer could find an excuse to hang around, he added: "Oh, stick these in my room on the way through, would you?" He held his out his travel bag and gave the suitcase a kick.
Meyer took them reluctantly. "I'll see you in my office - when you can find the time," he rasped sourly, then turned and struggled off the pad with the baggage.
Bromley watched Meyer's back. "I won't be sorry to get that creep out of my hair. I gather you've met before."
"You could say that." Del looked the other toolpusher square in the face. "Anything I should know?"
Bromley glanced across at the helicopter which was already loading for the return trip. "I don't think I've got that long and you'll find out for yourself soon enough." He dropped his voice to a whisper. "What I will tell you, though, is that there's something not right here. Maybe it's the rig, maybe this hole, maybe it's just me; but the accidents, the vibrations, and that diver going missing - it's really weird."
A shiver ran down Del's spine. "What diver? No-one mentioned anything. What was his name?"
"Eddie MacFarlane."
The sudden roaring of blood in Del's ears blanked out whatever else Bromley was saying. He wasn't sure if he might not be on the verge of passing out, the psychological overload was so critical. MacFarlane this, MacFarlane that - Eddie was beginning to rule his life! Did John Stanley know about his connection with Eddie when he fixed the transfer? Had Agnes got to him, too? What the hell was going on?
Bromley was staring at him. "Del, are you okay?"
Presswood shook himself out of it. He nodded. "Tired, I guess. Probably delayed jet-lag, or something. What can you tell me about MacFarlane?"
At that point, a voice called from the doorway of the waiting Sikorsky. "Come on, Doug! We're wasting good drinking time!"
Bromley's eyes panned the surrounding deck and found Pierce walking off with his replacement divers - one for Eddie and another for Kenny Pratt. "Look, I hate to dump it on you like this, Del, but I've got to go. Talk to Jack Pierce, the diving super." It had been Doug's intention to point out Pierce to Presswood, but the man had apparently been in a hurry and had already gone below. He glanced quickly at the waiting helicopter, then seized Del's hand and shook it once more. "A bit of free advice, Del - watch your back: something funny's going on here."
"Funny?"
Doug was already moving towards the chopper. He glanced over his shoulder. "Just watch it, okay?"
Presswood's gaze followed Bromley across the pad. He envied the man for a moment. Then he felt betrayed. When these emotions had passed, he was left with the crawling, cancerous fear often experienced with loneliness and isolation. The feeling intensified as the helicopter took off and began to pick up speed and Del was unsure why this should be so.
Then he was gazing past the chopper to the far horizon and this in particular seemed to magnify the ache. It couldn't be just the mainland that he was missing, surely? Not Karratha either, nor Australia as a whole: men like Presswood stayed places; they didn't belong to them.
It was Liz, he decided after he had cleared away the deadwood. Suddenly, the fleeting relationship which had once seemed an answer to almost everything was now starting to rear up as his biggest mistake yet. Two nights they had spent together, only a few short hours, but the memory of them was pulling at him like a great emptiness inside. Why in God's name hadn't he just spent his leave in a bus shelter? What are you, Presswood, he jeered - bloody stupid? Didn't you realise what it would be like to leave something that precious behind?
He was still gazing out at the vast emptiness and didn't hear the man come up beside him, just his voice: "On a clear day you can see fuck all."
Del frowned. The sentiment was inconsistent with his thoughts, but, by the same token, it said it all. He glanced across his shoulder at a stocky, weather-beaten man. "That's enough for some people."
"And are you one of them?"
Del shrugged. "I'm not really into philosophy, just oil."
"Me, too." The man offered his hand. "Sam Gault - driller. And you're the new toolpusher."
"Del Presswood." Del took the hand. It was infinitely more sincere, more human than Meyer's.
Sam said: "I've heard of you. You worked with a mate of mine on the Southern Explorer."
Oh, Christ, thought Del - more friends of friends. Where did all the strangers go? "Really? Who was that?"
Sam made a clucking sound. "Pete Webb. He died in a car smash last Christmas."
Thank God for the automobile! One less friend to worry about. "Sorry. I remember Pete. He was a nice bloke."
"Yeah," said Sam. He was silent for a moment, then said: "Well, I guess this isn't getting the job done. I'll see you around, eh?"
"Yes, nice to meet you, Sam. Oh, Sam," he called to the driller's back. Sam turned. "Which way to the Company office?"
"I'm going that way. I'll show you."
3
Meyer was waiting in the office for him. The fact that he was still standing yet doing nothing in particular seemed to suggest that he had some unfinished business on his mind. Del headed straight for a chair set in front of one of the desks and flumped into it. Meyer glared at him briefly, then went over to close the door that Presswood had deliberately left open. "Do I gather you have something of importance to tell me?" Del asked.
Meyer returned and lounged against the desk. His eyes were on Presswood's, but when the toolpusher locked onto his gaze, Les had to turn away. He pushed off the desk and began strolling around the room. "I think we'd better be honest about this, Del. You always used to be hard to get along with and by the looks of your all-too-obvious battle scars, you haven't changed much - you're still upsetting people."
"Takes two to tango, Les."
Meyer ignored the thrust. "Well, it's not going to happen this time. I'm in charge here. You work for me. Is that understood?"
"Absolutely, Les."
"And if you think you can...." Les couldn't believe his ears. "What did you say?"
Del got up. He was smiling benevolently as he sauntered over to the Company man and placed a hand gently on his shoulder. "You're the boss, Les. This is your baby. I'm just here to help keep the wheels turning. I'll leave all the decision-making to you."
Les had a strange look of uncertainty on his face. "What's your game, Del?"
"Nothing, Les. I'm here to do a job,