Three Times The Trouble (Corin Hayes Book 3)

by G R Matthews

  Digging my feet into the piles of rubbish, in-between some food packaging and a broken child’s toy, I braced myself and twisted the wheel. It moved with a creak and a groan. A few seconds later I realised the groan was coming from me and did my best to force the wheel around without making any more silly noises.

  Another bonus of the thorough checking and application of health and safety officers was the fact that the door opened outwards and not into the rubbish tank. Not a great thing, but it meant it could never get jammed by a build-up of rubbish. The hinges could do with some oil and I made a mental note to talk to the supervisor if I got the chance.

  Outside of the rubbish bin the air smelled better but the sweet, sickly cloying scent of decaying vegetation, rotting meat and my own choice aroma still clung to the air. The lights were on, a dull orange glow that indicated that the barge owners were not inclined to spend a fortune on their power bills. There was money in muck, to be sure, but not a great deal and most paid with their lives, health and future.

  There was a lack of signage, a clear violation of the rules, but on a barge one way was as good as another. The bin was a large metal container, pressure hull on the outside with a walkway circumnavigating most of its bulk. It would only become a barge when the drive sub arrived and attached itself. For now it was, I hoped, an immovable object.

  I chose left and started walking. Waste barges were the bottom of the heap, pardon the pun, when it came to ocean going submersibles, but in their own way were as rugged as the most expensive military sub ever built. It hadn’t taken long for many cities to work out that their waste couldn’t be left to pile up. Even under the ocean, cholera was a real threat and no sensible business wanted their employees too ill, or too dead, to work.

  The barges took the waste to recycling centres, cities in their own right, where it was sorted and refined. That which couldn’t be reclaimed for use was put back on the barge and taken to the nearest subduction zone. There it would be carefully lowered at the point where one tectonic plate was dragged beneath another. Destroying the waste forever, or at least the next thirty million years or so. Of course, there were some companies and barge owners who just dumped it where they were sure they couldn’t be detected and returned for more. Whole swathes of the ocean floor ecosystem had been wiped out that way.

  The barge was empty. No workers, cleaners, sanitation technicians or waste management technical engineers or advisors. Quiet as the grave. It didn’t stink as bad and if there weren't worrying pools of stagnant water everywhere it would make a reasonable place to get some solitude.

  Half way around I found a flight of stairs going up and started to climb. At the top was a platform that looked out over the heaps of crap. I could make out the hole in the ceiling that had deposited me here. It had been a lucky landing. The disposable baby products had cushioned my fall. A little to the left and I’d have broken my skull or back on some great lumps of metal and shaped plastic.

  Shaking my head, I turned away and looked for the bulkhead. I found a workstation which had been left on, probably those health and safety folks at it again, and it showed the complex scientific analysis of the atmosphere within the room. At least the workers would know what was killing them. The readouts gave a complete list of the noxious gases, bacteria, viruses and airborne pathogens that wafted to and fro. What the Panel lacked, and what it really needed, were some controls. I suppose it was comforting to know what was killing you, even if you couldn’t do anything about it.

  Beyond the Panel, the bulkhead. A dim red bulb hung above it like a sword of Damocles, or a sign over the gate of hell that Dante, or me in this case, was about to pass through. The worker passing through the door would indeed be entering a hell where one wrong move would end his life. To my good, though questionable, fortune I was heading out, not in.

  I spun the locking wheel, leaving the large bin just as I’d found it, it was the polite thing to do. I followed the wall signs through another two bulkheads and up a flight of stairs.

  “Hey, you,” came the shout as I reached the top.

  I stopped, figuring the person doing the shouting meant me. There was no one else around.

  “Stop,” the man shouted again. I already had, but some people are just programmed to shout the thing they’ve always shouted.

  “Hello,” I said as the harassed looking man approached. He was dressed in an orange jumpsuit that had seen better days and was streaked with dirt and oil.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Leaving,” I answered with a smile. He was shorter than me, which I’ve always viewed as a bonus when it came to violence.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” he said, the thought processes plain on his face.

  “I know. Couldn’t be helped,” I said. “What’s the quickest way out?”

  “You’re not allowed to be here,” he said, trying a variation on the same theme.

  “I know. I’m trying to leave. If you’d just guide me out we’ll say no more about it. Thanks.”

  Chapter 4

  It was a lonely walk back to my apartment in the Boxes. I’m no stranger to being alone. Solitude isn’t my fortress but it is my comfortable abode.

  People were everywhere but one whiff of my new cologne and they took a sharp turn to somewhere I wasn’t. I’ve lived with embarrassment, shame and guilt for most of adult life, this was no different. Once off the main thoroughfares and down the stairs the smell intensified. I spent the last few flights hoping my sense of smell would commit seppuku. It stubbornly clung to existence in an effort, I am sure, to punish me.

  My door slid open and the small apartment I shared with a few sets of clothes, some basic furniture and memories of a life I’d lost, welcomed me home with a cheerful beep. My first stop was the shower, using up some of my precious fresh-water ration in a vain attempt to eradicate the stink. Like all Box dwellers I’d learned a long time ago to get myself wet, turn off the shower and scrub myself with soap before turning the water back on again for just long enough to rinse the suds away. It meant having two cold showers rather than just the one, but a frustrating teenage life had prepared me for that long ago.

  The threadbare towel was sufficient to dab away the last of the freezing water and I pulled on some clean clothes. On the floor, the pile of soiled clothes glared at me. I could wash them. Take them to a laundrette and give them a proper go through a machine, but I had two fears. First, the smell would never come out. It was poisoning the air in my small apartment already. Secondly, the stench might actually break the machine itself and I couldn’t afford to pay for repairs. I shoved them into a degradable sac and stomped down the corridor to the waste chute, sending the odour back whence it came.

  It lingered in the apartment, a reminder of my descent. A quick fiddle with the air circulation controls and the noise of the extractor fans picked up pace. I really didn’t want to stay in here while technology dealt with the stench. Grabbing a pre-packaged flavoured algae wrap from the tiny fridge, emergency rations, I stepped out into the stale air of the corridor once more and breathed a sigh of relief. Reprocessed, rebreathed, recycled air was nectar compared to the air in my apartment.

  The population of the city wasn’t large, not by the standards of the true giants out there in the dark, but I wasn’t worried about bumping into the apprentice thugs. I can usually get lost amongst of a group of three just by the dubious advantage of my average looks. How I’d ever convinced a woman to have sex with me, let alone marry me, had been a constant puzzle. Sadly, the reasons for her leaving were all too painful to recall. Time for a drink, or several.

  As I walked, I munched on the algae of indeterminate flavour. I’d once, some months ago, eaten in one of the most up-market restaurants in the city. The tastes and wonders had carried me through a few days, but I’d long since given up actually caring to read the flavour descriptions on packets. Some of them, Steak and Onion for instance, might have tasted as they were supposed to but with no actual beef to compare
it to it was impossible to say. Fish tasted like fish and that I could say with some certainty. If you didn’t like seafood, life under the waves was going to be tough.

  Tom’s bar was quiet. It always was and that suited me. My table was empty, as it should have been and I ignored the other patrons just as they ignored me. It felt good to be amongst like-minded people. The sad, depressed, silent, and private. Some folks were made for solitude, some achieve solitude and some have solitude thrust upon them. I’m not sure where I fit on the spectrum. A little of all three, but more of the last two, I think.

  “Beer,” I said to Tom. He didn’t smile, but raised an eyebrow, as I added, “and a whiskey chaser.”

  “You hear about the battles up north?” he asked as he poured liquid salvation into a glass.

  “No, not been watching the clips much. Bad?”

  “Border disputes mainly,” he answered, placing the full glass on the counter. Little beads of beer and froth competing to see which would reach the bar top first. “We’ve lost a few subs and they’re claiming it’s pirates not their military.”

  “As long as it stays up there and small scale it’ll be fine. CEOs and Generals like to rattle their metaphorical sabres every so often. Gives them a chance to show off.” I scooped up the beer glass and took a long drink, it prevented spillage on the way to my table.

  “Maybe,” Tom answered, placing the glass of whiskey down and wiping up the ring of condensation left by the beer glass. “War’s bad for business that’s all I know.”

  “War’s bad for life,” I answered. I’d fought in the last one. Not a lot. Enough to know I didn’t like it.

  “Sometimes it can’t be stopped.” Tom shook his head and moved off to serve another of the regulars.

  My seat had molded itself to my contours over the years. I settled back in the shadows of depression and dark pools of loneliness. In turn they wrapped themselves around me like lovers. Over-dependent and smothering, clingy and jealous. And like any relationship, it was only made bearable by liberal amounts of alcohol. I took another pull on my beer and fought back the memories. I’d need another two or three drinks before I was ready to face those. Maybe nine or ten to drown them.

  Who am I kidding? I can never drown them. They resurface with every tide and the undertow drags me out into the depths of my sorrow. Drink numbed the pain. Least, that’s what seemed to work for me.

  “You have a knack of getting into trouble,” her soft voice said. The only person to ignore the unwritten iron rules of Tom’s bar. In her presence they rusted away.

  Tom appeared at the table as soon as she sat herself down, folding her long legs beneath her in a move that drew an unvoiced groan from more than a few of the patrons. He placed her drink down, paused for a moment, received the smile he’d clearly come over for and returned to his station at the bar.

  Only Derva had her drink served at the table. The rest of us had to slog, stagger and stumble our way to the bar. Speech was optional and usually impossible by the end of a long evening. I stayed silent as she lifted the delicate drink to her painted lips and took a sip. Her tongue swept her lips clean as she replaced the glass. I took a steadying breath.

  “What have I done this time?”

  “Interfered with an ongoing security operation, annoyed one of the fastest growing criminal gangs in the Boxes, and put the Mayor in a difficult position.” She softened the message with a smile.

  “What, again?”

  “Again.”

  “You might have to explain it to me in shorter sentences.” I hefted my beer glass, took a gulp and held on to it. I figured I might need another deep draught in a moment or two.

  “I’ve seen the footage,” she started. “I can understand what you thought you were doing, saving that woman and child, and maybe you did.”

  “But?”

  “But the shop was a sting operation. The shop keeper was a security officer who’d spent months settling into the street, getting known by everyone and had been paying the enforcers off long enough that they had grown comfortable and lax. They’d stopped checking for cameras and being suspicious. The security team had identified one of the enforcers as someone they could break and turn. Cameras were running, a team was on standby to grab them, and you screwed it up.” She didn’t scold. She didn’t even look disappointed.

  “How was I to know?”

  “You weren’t, Corin. Security are furious, but they’ll get over it eventually. There’s a little more worry over the criminals. They’ve seen the footage too and know who you are.”

  “How?” My heart kicked the inside of my ribs and I almost spilled a little beer.

  “How what?”

  “Both. How did they see the footage and how do they know who I am?”

  “We’re investigating,” she answered.

  “Someone leaked it?”

  “Security are quite angry with you,” she replied and accompanied the words with a small shrug of her shoulders. “We have a plan though.”

  “Good,” I said. “A few months in an exclusive hotel, guarded day and night? Witness relocation?”

  “No,” she looked me in the eye, “a job. Nothing can go wrong.”

  Fuck.

  I’d heard that before.

  Chapter 5

  “Look,” I said, pointing at the pan of food boiling away over the hot stove. “I want some of that.”

  The vendor, a short man with the blackest hair I’d ever seen and a smile that was half-idiot, half-serial killer, spouted a long chain of sing-song words back at me. I didn’t understand a word. Nothing new. I’d had whole evenings where I’d drunk so much I couldn’t even understand what I was saying. Luckily, the Corporation, the one that owned this city, had given me a translator pad. It wasn’t perfect, but it was better than starving. A ping from the Pad and the words appeared in a language I could read.

  “Yes, I can pay, and yes, I want some rice with it.” The Pad was silent for a moment then, in a heavily synthesised voice, sung my words in the vendor’s language. I think. For all I know, it just told him I thought his bottom was pretty and did he have a spare ten minutes. I didn’t have ten minutes, but I was hungry. The Pad wasn’t reliable. Sometimes it recognised my words and translated, other times it sat mute in my hand like a leftover screw for flat pack furniture. It had a purpose, a use, you knew it did, but you’d yet to discover exactly where it went in the whole construction process.

  The vendor shook his head and spat out a few more lines of melody. Music is a universal language. You don’t have to comprehend the lyrics; the notes can tell you everything you need to know. The Pad refused to translate his words, but the tune had an edge to it. I gave him a smile. He scowled back, but dolloped some rice into a carton and slopped some of the bubbling mixture over it. I took the carton, paid the bill and picked up a fork, ignoring the chopsticks in the tub, earning another scowl.

  When Derva had briefed me, a hurried affair as I shoved my small collection of clothes into a bag, I’d been looking forward to seeing a different city, a different culture. Three days after arriving and I’d decided that everyone is rude, ignorant, stupid, out for themselves and impatient, or a combination of. And those were their most likeable traits. Three more days and I was due to be on a sub back to my city, to Tyler’s city. On the plus side, the alcohol was interesting. It made a change, not always a welcome one, but a change nonetheless. So far no one, bar the occasional food vendor, wanted to kill me.

  There was a free seat at a plastic table not far from the food stall, one of many on this thoroughfare. Paper lanterns illuminated the street and the air was filled with the sound of people singing gibberish. Unlike my home, the owners of this city turned the street lights off at night. It made for an eerie scene. The only light came from neon signs and the ubiquitous lanterns. Everyone came out at night though, and the streets were crowded. No peace. No quiet. No little nook or corner where a man could drink himself into oblivion.

  Using the fork, I shov
elled the hot food into my mouth. At least the rice had a flavour. Not of rice. To be honest, I couldn’t say what the flavour really was. The vat grown meat and sauce was hot and bland. The worst I’d had so far. Mind you, the rice on the first night had been so spicy my ears had cried. I’d chosen that street vendor because of the queue at his stall. The one tonight, I’d picked because there was no queue. Clearly, the sweet spot was somewhere in between.

  I don’t mind being alone. Since Tyler was killed and my wife left, I’ve been on my own. Generally, I prefer it that way. What I hadn’t really realised until now was how much I relied on listening to others go about their life. Here, in this city, I couldn’t understand a word, unless the Pad translated it for me. Surrounded by people, a bigger, denser crowd than I’d ever known, and I was more alone than sat in my usual seat at Tom’s bar.

  “Ah, Mr Hayes, your day well went it did?”

  I turned in the seat, the thin plastic bending under me, and looked up into the face of Bojing, my guide and protector. He’d met me from the sub, introduced himself as a humble servant of the corporation and told me he would make sure my stay in the city was pleasant and untroubled. The translator was politer than any other man or woman I’d met. He smiled all the time. I wanted to punch him. Hard and repeatedly.

  “Bojing.” I swallowed the mouthful of rice and acknowledged his presence. “What a surprise to see you here.”

  He smiled. The plastic fork in my hand snapped.

  “Not use the chopsticks, Mr Hayes?”

  “Takes too long to eat with them,” I answered, chucking the shards of the fork into the mostly empty carton of food. I felt that calling it ‘food’ was something of an undeserved compliment.

  “Practice must you, Mr Hayes. Once you know how, very easy.”

  I caught the glances that the other patrons directed towards Bojing. It appeared that I had one thing in common with these people, our dislike of corporation cronies.