* * * * *
It was impossible not to get wet. Every building had a tiled canopy jutting out from the wall one storey up, running uninterrupted around the whole block above where people walked. But the roads were uncovered. From around five-thirty in the evening until eight o’clock the next morning—about an hour before the sun rose—the rain was a tumultuous force that never eased up. Without an umbrella or waterproof jacket, crossing the road a couple of times was enough to get soaked through.
It was a perk of Dirk’s job as a GOD; the free jacket. Reaching Main Street, he climbed the steps to board the rattling cross-rail and twenty minutes later he was at GOD’s office. A brown-brick building near the middle of town, its eight storeys made it one of the tallest. It wasn’t all GOD’s. They only rented the third floor and half of the parking garage beneath the building. During the day their designated spaces would be full with a fleet of dark blue vans, each with the “We are GOD” insignia sprawled across the side in contrasting yellow lettering.
Inside in the dry and reaching the third floor, the flimsy wooden door rattled as Dirk walked into the dingy office, dripping wet. George was already in and at his desk, Dirk swore he never left it. By the looks of him the effort would probably kill him anyway. He slurped from a mug of coffee and then looked up and waved. It was more of a salute, really. George had never been in the forces, but it was his way of saying hello, or goodbye, or on occasion “yes” in a “yes, sir” kind of way. Dirk nodded his head and George put his large arm back down on the desk, his hand inches away from the phone so that when it started to ring at seven o’clock—and it would—it would be answered before its second verse.
The first hour of the day was always the busiest for obvious reasons, though the calls would still be coming in up to five hours after opening. Those later requests were the ones who were either comfortable with what they’d done and could wait for the rush to pass, or it was their first time and they’d spent those hours working up the courage to pick up the phone.
Dirk headed for the break area. It wasn’t so much a room as a partitioned section of floor space with thin glass and wooden frames reaching only halfway to the ceiling. It provided little in the way of privacy. He switched on the stained kettle and prepared a mug when the unmistakable sound of the rattling door alerted him to the arrival of colleagues. There were four phone operators and five other GODs like him on every shift. With his steaming mug of thick coffee, he sat on a wooden chair and looked out of the window into the falling black sky.
“Sup?”
Bellamy walked up and poured his own mug of coffee and sat opposite. He never said “Hello” or “How’s it going”, it was always his lazy abbreviation of “What’s up?”
“Nuthin’. Sup you?” replied Dirk. This was how every conversation between them started.
The wrong side of thirty, this was Bellamy’s full-time job and it would likely remain so for the rest of his life. Dirk sensed that not only did Bellamy know this as well as he, but he’d accepted it, too. This made him a pleasant enough person to talk to. They occasionally had a beer after work, but Dirk was careful not to get too comfortable with friends like him. Lest he should give up and accept his dreams would remain just that, as Bellamy had. Often he’d talked about his poetry and after a few pints he’d reveal why he no longer cared for it: “What’s the point of it in a world as dark as this?” Dirk still wondered exactly what he was getting at; was his poetry dark and superfluous, or bright and futile?
By the time the large shift bell on the far wall rang, all four phones were manned and the rings of their small internal bells all merged into a dreadful chorus. Dirk and Bellamy stood up and lazily walked to the gap in the partition, both resting their elbows on the top either side and leaving the other GODs chatting behind them. George was the closest operator to them and his voice bellowed when he picked up the receiver and held it to his fat, red head.
“Good night, G-O-D. How can we help?
“Yeah, that’s us.
“Okay, what’s the address?
“Um, we have a rotating team of eighteen diggers.”
Dirk looked at Bellamy and frowned. An unusual answer implied an unusual question.
“I don’t know sir, I don’t make the roster.
“We’re the only licensed company, sir. Hell, we’re the only company. Period.
“Certainly, sir. Now, if I could just take your address?”
Dirk had already put his mug down and was walking toward George, partly to enquire what kind of idiot was on the other end of the line, but also to be certain of getting the job; anything less ordinary was a welcome relief from the usual tedium. The phone’s bell chimed once as the receiver was replaced and George looked up with a curious expression.
“What’s all that about then?” asked Dirk.
“Bit of a weird fellow, that one. Wanted to know how many diggers we have and the working pattern. Then wanted to know if there was anyone else who did what we do.”
Dirk furrowed his brow and clicked his teeth. “Weirdo.”
“Yip. So I’m guessing you want it, then?”
Dirk smiled. “Fuck, yeah. Hand it over, cheesey-puff.”
George finished writing out the address, tore off the small slip of paper and handed it to Dirk. “I told you not to call me that.”
Dirk shrugged and snatched the address. “Don’t eat so many donuts then,” he said as he walked away. Glancing back he saw George looking down with puppy-dog eyes at his half-empty box of glazed delights beside his stained mug.
“But they’re so nice,” he mumbled.
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Acknowledgements
Thanks go to Shelly Squire. You always offer good advice and my stories are all the better for it.
About Mark
MARK D. EVANS was born near London, England. He graduated university with a degree in something not even remotely connected with writing and went on to become a successful consultant. Then he threw it all away to chase his dream of being an author, via a considerable amount of travelling. Today, his life largely resembles that of a nomad, and he can currently be found typing away in a tiny flat in north London, sustained by coffee.
He is the author of two short stories, one of which made it into a Kindle Top Ten.
His latest work is his debut novel, NO SHELTER FROM DARKNESS (Book One of The Cruentus Saga), and is available to buy now in all formats.
DEAD END TRAIN is his first published story.
Connect with Mark
For more information about Mark and his books…
Official website: https://markdevans.com
Blog: https://markaeology.com
Twitter: https://twitter.com/#!/theMarkofEvans
DEAD END TRAIN was produced with no professional help. As such, while the greatest care has been taken to eliminate all mistakes (spelling, grammatical or otherwise) some may still remain. Mark D. Evans welcomes correctional feedback, which will be acknowledged in future editions.
Feedback can be sent to “me at markdevans dot com”.
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