Cog in the Machine

by Nigel Shinner

  “You must be Dominic Carver?” the man asked in a gruff yet casual voice.

  “Everyone calls me, Dom,” he replied, shaking the hand offered to him.

  “Ok, Dom, come on in,”

  The room was painted in cappuccino-coloured paint which matched the shade of the wooden floor. Halogen spotlights were staggered in a deliberately random pattern across the ceiling, illuminating the room just enough. In the centre of the office was a large curved dark wood desk.

  Sitting in the large leather swivel chair was a man with a vaguely familiar face.

  Tommy McQuillan leaned forward but didn’t stand, offering his hand to his potential new employee.

  “Dom, good to see you.” The greeting was friendlier than any job interview Dom had previously attended. The image he had of the Tommy McQuillan of old was different from the man sitting before him now. He’d aged well.

  “Tom… Mr McQuillan.” Dom nearly forgot where he was and why he was there. He accepted the handshake and dropped into the chair opposite.

  Richards took a seat next to his employer, the right-hand seat for the right-hand man.

  “Don’t worry about it, Dom, the staff call me ‘Tommy’ behind my back so I don’t mind if they say it to my face, but in front of important clients and outsiders, it’s always Mr McQuillan.”

  “Understood.” Dom nodded.

  “And Dick – we call him Dick and not Dave – is to be called Mr Richards in the same circumstances.”

  Dom smiled and nodded again.

  “Now.” McQuillan glanced across to his colleague as though looking for some inspiration and finding nothing. “I was talking to Bob Deakin last week and he explained your situation to me. He said you were looking for work, that you’re hard working and you’ll do anything.”

  “Pretty much,” Dom said. “I’m keen to get back into work and I don’t care what it is.”

  “That’s good to hear,” Tommy said, glancing at his right-hand man. “We need people that are prepared to graft hard, keep their heads down and not ask too many questions.”

  “Are there many questions to ask?”

  “We will provide you with all the information you need to do a good day’s work for a good day’s pay. There shouldn’t be too many questions you need to ask.” Gesturing toward his right, he added “Dick will give you the guided tour and explain what we do and how we work. Now, I know I said there wouldn’t be any need for questions, but do you have any for me before I hand you over?”

  Dom pondered the question for a moment. It all seemed pretty legit so far. What did he have to lose?

  “Just one - you know that I’ve just been realised from prison, don’t you?”

  “We do.” McQuillan nodded.

  “Is that going to be a problem?”

  “Dom, we all make mistakes in life. Some are bigger than others. I can just about remember you back in the day and I don’t think you were a bad kid; you just got in with ‘the wrong crowd,’ so to speak. You got involved with amateurs. We, on the other hand, are professionals. This is a legitimate business with a multi-million pound annual turnover, and we need good people – I believe you’re a good person. Everything inside this building works like a well-oiled machine – much like the equipment we sell – and the people we hire are cogs in that machine. We often need to change the old cogs for new to ensure smooth running – you can be our newest cog.” Motivational speech over, McQuillan waited for an appropriate response.

  “Thank you, Mr McQuillan; I hope I can live up to your expectations.” Dom’s answer was as honest as it was grateful. Second day out of prison and he had already gained employment.

  Chapter 7

  In any business, legitimate or otherwise, organisation and planning were the keys to success. The most notorious and lucrative criminals were highly organised, focused individuals who would be classed as entrepreneurs if their work was done within the law. Even established household names in business cut corners to make profits, often regardless of the consequences.

  That was the real trick. Finding the lines that could be crossed and toeing the ones that couldn’t. Every day the newspapers were filled with stories of a businessman fined for this or going to prison for that. And this and that often became ideas someone less scrupulous would take and use in their own business venture. Often, there would be risk, but the rewards would usually be worth it.

  In an undisclosed location, hidden in plain sight, such a risk was being taking. In a large locked room, completely soundproofed, a business empire was thriving. Two dozen workers toiled away at work stations, each with their own task to complete, each with the same purpose – to survive until the next day.

  They were workers; they couldn’t be called employees. Employees had contracts, had rights, and received pay packets. These poor, wretched, exploited souls had no such luxuries.

  Mostly immigrants, with a few homeless home-grown rejects thrown in for good measure, this workforce sweated for a place to sleep and a few meagre rations, supplied sporadically. The place to sleep was just a few stained, ragged mattresses bundled into a small room at the far end of the building. Twenty-four men, sleeping together, working together, abused together.

  Beatings were more regular than feeding. Occasionally, a bag of supplies would arrive and the infighting would begin. An ex-British army private, suffering from PTSD, would battle with a Romanian migrant, or a Syrian migrant, or a migrant of some other indiscernible origin, for the scraps often left without notice. It was a free for all.

  But those in charge – especially the man who held the strings on these pitiful, dejected puppets - cared little for the welfare of the workforce. If the ‘workers’ weren’t productive, it was a problem. If they were fighting over rotten food, as long as it didn’t cut into production, that wasn’t a problem. If one accidentally killed another, which did happen, it would affect the workload and justice would be swift, ruthless and would result in two shallow graves being dug by a starving slave in the dead of night, and two new puppets arriving the next morning, no questions asked.

  That was the only trouble with having all male workers; the fighting, the power struggles that life and death situations invariably created.

  At one time there had been both male and female captives, working and sleeping under the same oppressive roof. That caused a whole other issue. In a place where morality was absent, humans returned to base instinct. Food was the priority, and once that need had been satisfied, then other, more carnal desires needed to be satiated. The question would often be asked first, but a negative would be met with violence and desire satisfied by force. One of the women had gotten pregnant, but her body hadn’t been able to support the child inside her. She miscarried, became ill. She got a plastic bag over her head until she stopped breathing, then her body dumped in a hole in the ground. Another nameless migrant buried in a hole in a foreign land.

  Today would be a good day for the workers.

  A big shipment was due in, the largest in a long while. Fifty kilos of pure cocaine would arrive in the next few days and then the work would begin. Half of the shipment would be divided into pure, premium one kilo bags to sell to exclusive customers; the rich and famous, and dealers who operated on a small scale to an affluent customer base. The other half would be cut with other products, mostly talc and corn starch, to produce a lower grade product, but in greater volume. This would be sold to the street dealers, in one-gram deal bags. The process was tedious but accuracy was vital and the man responsible for this part of the operation knew that his workforce would operate more efficiently if they were well fed.

  For his part in the process, as the top man, he would receive all of the profits, and like any magnanimous employer creating an incentive for the workers, he turned up with a sweetener – twelve bags of chips from the chip shop to share, plus a case of Coke-Cola and some packets of biscuits, with the promise of more of the same if the quality of their work was satisfactory. Three hundred-man hours a day for less
than fifty quid.

  “Eat up while it’s hot!” he said. The food, wrapped in plain paper and crushed into two plastic bags, was at best warm and soggy with grease and condensation.

  He stood over his workforce, gazing in disgust at the filthy creatures pawing at the tepid mess of fried potatoes.

  “We’ve got a lot of stuff coming in very soon and I need you to be at your very best.” The tone was that of a teacher encouraging pupils to do well in a test. He believed that if he maintained a dialogue with them, they might grow to like him. Even to trust him. It was a long shot, but these people were stupid, so it was worth a try.

  He made them call him ‘The Boss.’ That was who he was destined to be. Oh, there were many pretenders to the throne right now: the Yardies, the Pikies, the Nigerians, the list went on. The big scalp was the Tall Man. That was who he needed to knock off the top. And that was why he had a slave workforce.

  And he wanted the slaves to like him, because if he could manage that, it would improve productivity. Still, if he had to shoot them all dead, he wouldn’t think twice about it, and if he did, he’d make them dig their own graves first. Efficiency was the art of maximising labour and minimising cost.

  Success often came from standing on the shoulders of giants. Just occasionally though, it came from standing on the broken bones of vagrants and society’s cast-offs.

  Minimum expenditure, maximum profit. And the jealous eyes that watched him, he’d already anticipated.

  That was why he was going to be The Boss.

  Chapter 8

  The grand tour of his new place of work was enthralling. Dom had gone a long time in prison without being enthralled by anything, but he was fascinated by the complexity of the organisation and the range of products it supplied, as explained by his tour guide. Richards, or Big Dick, as he was playfully known, gave a pre-prepared speech about how the business had begun with just commercial generators but rapidly moved into leisure generators, power tools, gardening machinery, quad-bikes, vehicle workshop machinery, plus all the spares, servicing and repairs that were involved with all of them.

  Dom was told he’d be working in the warehouse as a general support operative. He took that to mean he would be doing all the jobs nobody else wanted to do and would have to fill in when people were on holidays and the like, which suited him. A variety of different tasks would save him from getting bored too easily and make the job a little sweeter.

  He could see why they called the man he would be answering to Big Dick. Dom was six feet tall, and while Dick was an inch or so shorter, the man was almost twice as wide. Dom had spent a lot of time in the prison gym and it was obvious that the ‘Big’ man spent a good portion of his free time with a knurled steel bar in his hands. The sleeves of his t-shirt were stretched over massive biceps and triceps, and the forearms that hung at his sides would be enough to make Popeye jealous.

  The warehouse itself was almost as impressive, zoned painted flooring for goods in and goods out, electric powered forklift trucks whizzing around the thirty feet high triple-stacked blue and orange steel racking, organised by a barcode system to eliminate errors. An army of staff, all dressed identically in black and grey cargo trousers, navy blue polo shirts and the obligatory hi-vis vests were frantically going about their tasks, undistracted by the new recruit on his first tour. In one corner, on a bright yellow patch of floor, was the workshop. A half dozen staff were busying themselves with various pieces of equipment. Some were repairing, some were servicing, and some were carrying out quality control, but all were dressed identically to the warehouse staff. It was a hive of oil and petrol-scented activity.

  Dom was also shown around the other departments. In the upstairs office area, which overlooked the warehouse with a series of large picture windows, there was a ten strong sales team, all dressed in company shirts or blouses. Also a large admin department, a finance office, an e-commerce department, which was something alien to Dom, plus an aftersales and technical department. Every area of the business had been covered. If ever there was an example of what success looked like, this was it.

  After the guided tour of the main mechanisms of the building, the final stop was the tool shop, an attached DIY and spares store on the opposite side of the building, almost like a separate entity. Another slick addition to the main import business. The visit here was not to force the company’s success down his throat. Dom was already well aware of the kind of ‘A’ game he would need to bring for his new employers. This visit was for his work uniform.

  Less than forty-eight hours after leaving his prison cell, Dom was walking away from his new place of work with a Mach Tech-branded holdall carrying cargo pants, polo shirts, hi-vis and a pair of steel toe-capped boots. Maybe sliding back into society wouldn’t be as painful as he had first thought.

  *

  Richards walked back into McQuillan’s office after seeing off their newest employee.

  “What do you think?” McQuillan asked.

  “He seems alright. Looked in good shape. Quiet, but seemed quite confident for a guy just out of prison,” Richards mused.

  “Good. We’ll draw him in slowly. Work him hard to see what he’s made of first, and then we’ll see if he’s the right fit for the job.”

  “Do you think he’s right?”

  McQuillan pondered on the question for a moment. He remembered Dom Carver from back in the day, knew how good he was supposed to be. He prayed that all those years spent in prison hadn’t stolen the man’s skills.

  “He could make a car dance. I saw him at some track days - absolutely fearless with a steering wheel in his hands.”

  “That was then. This is now.” Richards was speaking aloud what his employer already thought, “He hasn’t been in a car in years. He could have lost it.”

  “We’ll see.” McQuillan hunched over his desk, his hands clasped before him. He might be a machinery mogul but it didn’t take an expert to see his cogs were turning, and plans were being hatched.

  Chapter 9

  As he approached the front door, Dom wondered whether he should knock first or just walk in. Yes, it had been his home for years, but then so had cell E47, and he wasn’t going to be walking straight through the front door of Cardiff prison any time soon.

  He tapped on the frosted glass panel. It rattled slightly, from shrinkage of the putty no doubt. It was the same door, same glass, that had been in situ for the last twenty years. It was another thing to remind Dom that some things didn’t change. It was a comforting feeling.

  The large waddling hulk of Bob approached the door, his image getting clearer with each step.

  “You never need to knock - just walk in,” Bob scolded, playfully.

  “I didn’t like to… you know… presume.”

  “You daft sod.” Bob’s eyes fell to the holdall. “Have you stolen a bag of goodies or do you have something to tell me?”

  “I start Monday.” He beamed.

  Bob returned with a warm smile, grabbing Dom about the shoulders in a sort of hug.

  “Well done, son, well done.”

  Son - it was an appropriate title. Not correct, but appropriate. Bob didn’t have any kids of his own and Dom hadn’t seen his father in thirty years. They were as much of a father and son as any two people with their bond, their history.

  “Thanks for setting it up for me.”

  “It’s no trouble.” Then, as though struck by some form of divine inspiration, Bob’s eyes widened. “We should celebrate. I’ll treat you to lunch out. There’s a new Wetherspoons in town. I’ll take you there.”

  “You don’t have to.” Dom really didn’t want any fuss.

  “Look, I’ve been looking for an excuse to go and this is as good a one as any – plus, it’s my treat.”

  “You’ve done enough already – the job, the digs – you really don’t have to.”

  Sporting an amused, yet serious expression, Bob gripped Dom by the shoulders again.

  “Dominic Carver, since your mot
her passed, I’ve had very little to look forward to. In fact, most days I’ve wanted to not get out of bed at all and just shut the world out. But I’ve looked forward to your release. I’ve felt more alive in the last few weeks than I have in years. And do you know why? Because you were her eldest and her favourite. You are more like her than you could possibly know. You have her green eyes, and her smart wit. Seeing you is as close as I’ll ever get to seeing her again. So do an old man a favour and let me treat you to lunch, because it is what she would have wanted.”

  Dom understood. He could feel the approaching tears and just nodded, tightening his lips in case they quivered. It was one of the nicest things anyone had ever said to him. Through those words he understood what it was to have a family again. A family required no blood ties, just the will to want to be together and do the best for one another.

  “Do you know what, Dominic, I’m going to leave the car at home and have a pint. What do you say - a pint or two to celebrate your new job?” Bob’s demeanour was buoyant.

  “If you insist.” Dom knew that arguing would be pointless. Why crush the old man’s spirit.

  “I do insist. I’ve not had a pint since Christmas.”

  It was mid-August. The old man deserved a drink. Dom didn’t want to think about the last time he had a drink. The length of his sentence plus one week since he had held a pint glass of cold export lager chilling the air until condensation formed between his fingers. He had missed going to the pub. There were so many things he’d taken for granted, but it was part of the punishment – loss of freedom. Not a loss of freedom because he was incarcerated, but a loss of freedom to choose. In prison, everything was decided as a part of the daily routine. Choices were limited to who you spoke to or whether you went to the library, the gym, the TV room or played table football; Dom chose the gym and the library. It made sense to him to stay in shape and improve his mind. He had done both as often as possible.