The Devil's Whelp. Vin Hammond Jackson
you coming, or shall I take it."
Presswood darted a look of warning at Les. "I'm coming,” he grated, then turned to Pierce. "Will you be okay, Jack?" Pierce nodded. "Sorry I had to hit you, mate, but you were behaving like a bloody galah."
"It's alright." Jack waved him away. "You go and take your call."
"Look, lie down on my bunk for a while. Nobody will disturb you here. I'll see you when I get back."
Pierce looked hurt. "Are you afraid I'll try to nick off before they get here?"
"What are you talking about?"
"The police. I assume that was about Eddie?"
"No Jack, not Eddie."
Meyer called from the passage: "Hurry up, Presswood!"
"Bloody wait, will you!" Del snarled irritably. He returned his attention to Jack. "You heard about Sutcliffe?" Pierce acknowledged that he had. "This one wasn't an accident, Jack." Pierce's eyes widened. "Keep it to yourself, will you? If it gets round that there's a psycho on board we could be in for some real trouble."
6
Charlie waited inside the partially open door for the two men to pass. He was bubbling with excitement: it wasn't every day the bosses got stuck into each other. He only wished he could have seen it instead of just hearing sounds of the free-for-all from the passageway outside the toolpusher's quarters. Still, it was something to tell Mac about, a juicy tit-bit his know-all Scotch mate would definitely be interested in. Charlie was pretty sure such a disagreement could be useful to him and his mates. He didn't quite know how, but Mac was smart - he'd find a quid in it.
Once Meyer and the new toolpusher had gone, Charlie stuck his head out to check the corridor before leaving. It was his aim to head for the recreation room as quickly as possible without appearing in a hurry. Neither did he want to get way-laid by anyone, because he had a tendency to mouth off. Mac was always telling him to keep his trap shut, but it was hard when you were a friendly guy like Charlie.
He made it to the rec room and congratulated himself on doing it secretively, oblivious to the fact that those few men he had encountered who might normally have stopped for a chat, had made a definite point of avoiding him because, when Charlie Legget was skulking around with that nervous-jackal look on his face, there was usually trouble in the wind and anyone with an ounce of sense gave him a wide berth. As far as Charlie was concerned, however, he'd simply done it right for a change.
Charlie entered the room and looked around. There weren't many there - it was too early - so he had no difficulty in locating Andy 'Mac' MacIntosh. The burly Scot was hunched over the table around which his group sat, no doubt delivering some choice words of wisdom. Mac was full of them. He knew the law of the workplace, what a man could and couldn't get away with and how to get the most out of the job for the least effort. He was just a roughneck like Charlie, but Mac maintained it was all he wanted to be: "When you become a boss, you sell oot yer mates. You cannay run wi' the hare and the hoonds." Charlie wasn't sure what 'hoonds' were, or what they had to do with hair, but Mac was smart, so it must mean something pretty significant.
Charlie dragged a chair from an adjacent table and tried to shuffle his way in beside Mac. Johnno Carter glared at him. Charlie averted his eyes and sat just behind Mac, waiting patiently, listening.
"Makes me wonder what's doon in that fuckin' moon pool," grated Mac in a sinister tone, his dark, beady eyes, moving back and forth across the faces before him. "Must be somethin' big fer them tay kill two men tay cover it up."
Len Avery, the floor man, had been taking Mac's subversive rambling with a pinch of salt up until then. Now he sat back and let out a snort. "You don't know what you're talking about, Mac. Eddie died from the bends."
"Is that right?" Mac never took kindly to being doubted. "How d'yer know what they did tay him? He could 'ave bin poisoned or drugged! An' you're forgettin' Sutcliffe. That was nay accidental. You cannay mean to tell me he carved that on himsel' - he needed a dictionary tay read Noddy. He was fuckin' illiterate!"
"Okay," conceded Avery. "Sutcliffe might have been killed, but there's no way you can connect his death to Eddie MacFarlane's."
"The moon pool, you dill!" blasted Mac in frustration. "You cannay see it, can you?"
"No, Mac," Len admitted, "And neither can you. Sutcliffe's was probably a grudge killing. Maybe he'd done the dirty on someone."
"The police are comin'," put in Charlie.
Mac frowned. "What're you sayin', Charlie? What would you know?"
"I heard Jonesy tell Meyer over the intercom. He said some police Inspector wanted to talk to Presswood on the radio."
"Who the fuck's Presswood?" Mac was often confused by Charlie's jumbling of the facts. He tolerated the little shit because he was a good ferret and if you could take time to sift out the garbage, a lot of what he said was useful.
"Presswood's the new toolpusher," said Avery.
"They had a blue," added Charlie beaming.
"What?"
"A blue - a fight."
"I know what a fuckin' blue is, yer wee turd! Who had a blue? What aboot?"
"All of 'em - Meyer, Presswood and Pierce. Goin' at it like shearers on a weekend piss-up. Meyer said Pierce killed MacFarlane on purpose, then all hell broke loose."
"There!" Mac hissed with satisfaction. "Was I right, or was I right?"
"You've only got Charlie's word for it, Mac," said Wayne Cox, "And we all know how 'reliable' Charlie is."
Mac was across the table in a flash, his clenched fist waving in the speaker's face. "Watch yer mouth, Cox, or I'll fill it in fer ye! Ye're talkin' aboot mah mate." He eased back and put an arm round Charlie. "What else happened, Charlie?"
Charlie rambled. Mac listened, his face changing as each new piece of information was absorbed, rearranged and slotted into the place that best suited Mac's cause. Like Charlie, the Scot was also predictable. Three of the men at the table, including Wayne, decided that a timely return to work was the best way to avoid becoming involved in whatever aggro Mac was planning. He sneered at their backs as they left, but said nothing because he already knew what he was going to do and he wouldn't need an army to do it.
Charlie finished. He sat next to Mac smiling, a dog who had performed his tricks and now waited for his reward. Mac stood up, pushing the chair back noisily. "Where we goin', Mac?" asked Charlie eagerly.
"Tay find oot who killed Sutcliffe."
Charlie scratched his head. "How we gonna do that, Mac?"
Mac tutted. "If someone had it in fer him, who would know?"
"Eh?"
"Who was Fuckwit's mate, yer daft prick?"
"Mike," Charlie answered, but still couldn't fathom Mac's reasoning. "Why?"
"Jesus!" Mac rolled his eyes. "Mike would know if Sutcliffe had enemies." Another idea struck Mac. "Maybe he did it! Maybe it was Mike." His face clouded. "An' he said he was Fuckwit's mate, too! The Bastard! Come on!"
Avery was now truly concerned. "Hang on, Mac. I think you ought to leave this to the police."
"Tay Hell wi' the pigs! Are ye comin', or not?"
"I reckon I'll pass on this one, Mac."
Mac gave the floor man the finger. "Then up you too, Avery!"
Len had half a mind to follow, while the other half was on letting Presswood know what MacIntosh was aiming to do. But he was no snitch, so he compromised and did neither. As it turned out, Mac's posse of two - himself and his grovelling mate, Charlie - came up empty handed. They couldn't find Mike, an eventuality which soured Mac's mood even further.
Once word