by Heide Goody
She was tempted to build on this nascent success by sending the drone back to buzz her dad, so he’d pick up on the good news, but she didn’t want to disturb it now it was doing exactly what she needed. She closed the app and went back to the car park to collect the more mundane parts of the day’s equipment.
A Tesla had pulled up near her van. A middle-aged man, sunglasses pushed back over his receding curls, walked over. Sam looked at his jeans and polo shirt and was certain they hadn’t come from anywhere local.
“Morning,” he said, pointing at her collection of litter picking gear. “Here for the beach clean-up. Do my bit for a good cause.”
“Community payback,” she corrected him. She had no intention of rubbing his nose in it, but thought it better to be clear: this was compulsory. A punishment handed out by the courts, not a voluntary piece of charity work.
“That’s the one,” he said smoothly. “Greg Mandyke.” He leaned forward and tapped a name on her clipboard.
“Great,” said Sam. “Grab yourself a hi-vis and a pair of gloves out of the bag.” She waved at the large white bag that she had dumped everything into.
He hesitated. “Is that a builder’s delivery bag?” he asked.
The name of a local builder was written on the side, so there was really no denying the bag’s provenance. “Yes, it is,” she said.
“Only, I’ve got dermatitis,” he said, in what she understood to be the tones of a man who really didn’t have dermatitis but openly defied her to say otherwise. “My hands are really sensitive. If there’s been cement in that bag, I guarantee my hands will be red raw by the end of the day.”
Sam peered into the bag. “Let me find some for you.” She pulled out a pair that were still in the cellophane wrapper. “Here. These are new and wrapped. They should be fine.”
“Ah, well. New and wrapped brings a different kind of problem. Did you know that there are all sorts of chemical finishes on new items of clothing? It’s a complete nightmare for people like me. Especially if they’ve been wrapped. They need to off-gas.”
“They need to what?”
“Off-gas. It’s where any solvents evaporate and disperse. It’s one of the reasons that many of us have toxic homes and workplaces. I’m surprised you’re not more familiar with the issue, given your role as a public servant.”
Sam looked at him. “Why don’t I consult the employee handbook to see how I should handle this for you?” He looked pleased at this. Sam wondered if he thought he was going to be able to avoid his day’s community service. “Ah, here, we are,” she said, leafing through. “When providing PPE to a client, make sure they are suitable for the purpose and the person. The health of the wearer must be taken into account. If there is any doubt as to the wearer’s health, the DefCon4 occupational health officer must be consulted.”
“Marvellous!” said Greg. “Do I need to make an appointment?”
“Oh no, not at all. The occupational health officer is right here,” said Sam. “In fact, it’s me.”
“What? But you clearly don’t understand my condition. Are you a doctor?”
“I think I understand it well enough to make a recommendation,” said Sam firmly. “My recommendation is that you should go ahead without gloves. You’ll be fine.”
“Of course I won’t be fine,” he huffed. “There could be needles or anything out there. There’s a risk to my health if I don’t wear gloves.”
“As the leader of this offender management team, I have done a risk assessment.”
“Have you? Where’s the paperwork?”
“A dynamic risk assessment.”
“Which means what?”
“It means I thought about it in my head. And what I thought was if you use one of these grabbers, you will never touch any rubbish.”
Sam held out a grabber and he took it, frowning.
“I could refuse,” he said.
“And I could tell the court you refused,” she said. “Entirely your choice, Mr Mandyke.”
Other offenders were turning up now. There were three Odinsons walking towards her across the top of the dunes, two men and a woman. She consulted her clipboard to check which ones were expected. Oddly, only two were listed.
“Names please,” she said. It wouldn’t do to get them wrong.
“Odinson.”
“Odinson.”
“Odinson.”
All three wore deadpan expressions, not even a smirk. Sam wasn’t sure if they were messing with her or not. “Torsten?” she asked.
The tall blonde youth with tattooed arms gave a nod.
“And Hilde?” The red-headed young woman gave her a pinched look and the tiniest of nods.
Sam ticked her list. then looked up at the last one, who she finally recognised as Ogendus. “So why are you here?”
He grinned at her. “’Reckon I might help me lad.” He nodded at Torsten. “And me niece if she needs it.”
“Help with what?” asked Sam. “Obviously, I’ll be here to support everyone.”
“Aye, but ’e gets agitated with authority figures. I’ll just keep an eye out.”
Sam nodded reluctantly and moved across to meet with the other woman on her list. “Name?”
“Stacey Wheelan,” said the woman, her hair flopping from a piled-up bun on the top of her head. “Is this gonna take all day?”
“You’re committed to three hours minimum,” said Sam.
“That’s like forever.”
“It’s three hours.”
She called for everyone to gather round and addressed them. “I’m Sam Applewhite. I’m part of the offender management team.”
“Sounds like she’s the entire offender management team,” muttered Greg Mandyke.
Sam conceded this with a nod. “Budget cuts. Nonetheless, the courts have a job for us to do. We have an area of beach to clear between Wolla Bank and Anderby Creek. That’s up by that tall house over there. You won’t be signed off from this activity until it’s done to my satisfaction. So, if it’s all done in three hours’ time, you can go. Otherwise we stay until the job’s done.”
Greg raised a hand. “How will we know if it’s good enough?”
“Excellent question,” said Sam. “I will be looking for a beach that is free of rubbish, and for all of that rubbish to be bagged up and returned to this area here.”
“So we’ve got to go there and back?” said Ogendus Odinson.
“Indeed. Well spotted. I will inspect the beach using various methods.” She glanced up to the sky but couldn’t see the drone. “Also, I will be on hand to supervise and address any issues.”
“What about health and safety?” said Greg.
“Very important,” said Sam. “I hope it goes without saying that you need to stay out of the water.”
“I can’t swim,” said Torsten Odinson.
“It’s like three feet deep for half a mile,” said Greg. “If you’re drowning, just stand up.”
“Let’s just stay out of the water, eh?” said Sam. “There are not very many hazards otherwise.”
“Seals,” said Hilde Odinson.
“Aye,” nodded Ogendus.
“Are seals a hazard?” said Stacey.
“Heard one attacked a copper t’other day,” said Ogendus. “Ate a man’s foot an’ all.”
Stacey whirled as though a killer seal might be sneaking up behind her right now.
“Ate it up and shat it out,” agreed Torsten.
“There are no killer seals on this beach,” Sam assured them. “You need to be more mindful of sharps. If you see something that looks sharp or noxious, use the grabber to pick it up. You must all wear a hi-vis so I can easily identify you. Grab the equipment you need and make your way onto the beach.”
They all walked onto the sand and Sam divided the area into sections so they could each get started.
“The tide is right out now, so if you start down by the sea you can tackle that part while it’s exposed,” she said to Torsten and Ogen
dus, who had adjacent sections, at southern most end.
“Why do that?” asked Torsten. “Tha’s daft, I reckon. Tha’s making the job bigger’n it needs to be. If we start up here, the beach’ll get shorter as we go.”
He ambled off, cackling lightly. Sam didn’t argue. She walked over to where Hilde Odinson had already filled her bag. She dragged it heavily towards the car park.
“Wow, so full already?” Sam asked.
Hilde nodded. “Loads of dolls everywhere. Might need stronger bags. These’re poking holes with their arms and legs.”
Sam shaded her eyes and looked down the beach. There was a line marking where the sea had turned at high tide. She walked towards it. As she got closer, she could see that instead of the usual line of seaweed and shells, there were hundreds, possibly even thousands, of Capitalist Whore dolls. They were tangled with each other, with seaweed, and colourful bits of nylon rope. She pulled out her phone and called Delia.
“You know that treasure you were after?” she said.
“Uh-huh.”
“Turns out you might be in luck. I’m looking at something like a cross between an art installation and a doll orgy right now.”
“Ooh, where are you?”
“Wolla Bank. Making our way north.”
“I will pop down. Are we talking a carrier bag full, or a bin bag full?”
Sam stared at a line stretching as far as she could see. “We’re talking more like a cargo container full.”
47
There were now six containers on the Shore View construction site, and a seventh being off-loaded by Yngve Odinson and his flatbed truck. Jimmy crossed to Yngve.
“No weird dolls in this one?” said Jimmy.
“All sorted,” said Yngve without looking round at him.
A black dot in the sky caught Jimmy’s eye. He looked up at the rolling white clouds, but didn’t see it again.
“There you are,” said Jacinda, striding across the chalky hardcore ground from the site office.
“Yes.” Jimmy didn’t have the energy to deny the obvious or pay any attention to Jacinda’s implied rebuke. He pointed over to the new containers where a group of builders were fitting windows and door frames. “You’ve called the lads in. I could have done that.”
“You weren’t available,” she said.
“I was busy,” he said, loading the last word with a wealth of meaning that encompassed property crime, murder and body disposal. “And if you’d come to me first, I’d be able to point out where they’re going wrong.”
“Wrong?” said Jacinda defiantly.
“Just a couple of things. Firstly, some of these containers are already rusting through.”
“We’ll apply some filler and give them all a paint job.”
“Secondly, and I know this is a minor thing, aren’t there meant to be holes in the walls before the windows are fitted?”
He pointed at two blokes – Steve and Justin – who were fixing a frosted bathroom window over a wall of corrugated steel.
“You think we’re idiots?” snapped Jacinda.
Jimmy said nothing. He let her own damning question hang in the air.
“The backers are coming down to the site on Saturday after the awards ceremony on Friday. They are going to want to see more than one completed housing unit. Windows will be installed, walls will be painted. That first unit, which you left in a terrible state inside – it’s like two hobos slept in it – that unit will have internal walls put up, flooring laid, plumbing and electrics installed. All the fittings, decorated, and furnished with show room furniture.”
“Within three days?” said Jimmy. “How do you expect to achieve that?”
Jacinda smiled and spread her arms to indicate Jimmy himself. Her smile was a cruel thing, a lopsided slit in her darkly beautiful face.
“I’m not the hands-on type,” she said and backed away to the site office. “But I expect results.” As she reached the office door, she turned. “And I need a decent coffee machine in here,” she shouted.
Jimmy swore softly, feeling an anxious tension in his chest. Having Jacinda Frost as a boss was more stressful than covering up a murder. He walked to the edge of the dune and looked out over the beach, hoping to recapture some calm. The golden sandy beach sparkled in the morning sun. In truth, it was no more golden, no more special than the builder’s sand they used on site, but distance made it beautiful.
He took deep breaths, stretched and thought about the massive task Jacinda had laid before him.
Oh, it was all feasible. They could get a few of the young lads on the filling and painting work. Stud walls would go up quick enough. There’d be no time for plastering, but a lick of thick emulsion would be good enough for a quick inspection. They’d find flooring, but it would have to be a simple batten and plywood surface for now.
Shore View: a week ago only a plateau of loose foundations on top of the Anderby dunes, now taking shape as the container village it was destined to be. In the clear light of late summer, it could be mistaken for idyllic. Dozens of economical, cottage-like homes in a quiet corner of the country, with views of the sea and the rising sun. It would look and feel different in the autumn and winter, though. Winds would sweep in from the east bringing storm surges and Siberian temperatures. The east coast avoided much of the country’s rain – spent long before it crossed the Peaks and the Pennines – but a hard dry winter would soon make the residents of these steel boxes regret moving here. And that’s when they’d realise the true disadvantage of being eight miles from the nearest town or supermarket in a county with next to no public transport.
He’d pity the people who were going to live here, if he could summon the heart to care.
A black dot in the sky again. He kept track of it this time.
It wasn’t a seagull. It was too dark and moved wrong. For a moment or two, he wondered if it was a bird of prey, the way it hovered. But that wasn’t right either.
His eye was drawn down along the beach. Half a dozen people in bright hi-vis were approaching from the south along the sand.
48
Sam walked around to make sure everyone was getting on with the clean-up. She walked over to Greg who looked very unhappy and was waving at her.
“I can’t do that part of the beach,” he said, pointing towards the sea.
“Why not?” asked Sam.
“It’s wet sand. I understood that we were operating only on dry sand, otherwise I wouldn’t have worn my espadrilles. They’ll be ruined if I go down there in them.”
Sam gave him a long hard look, to see if he was joking. Apparently he wasn’t. “Well, you’re going to have to think of something,” she said. “You can take them off, you can leave them on; or maybe you can get one of your staff to bring you some more suitable footwear.”
“Staff?” he frowned. He pointed up to where the Odinsons were gathering Capitalist Whores up near the dunes. “You could swap me with those crusties over there. They’ve got boots on.”
“They’re doing the section they’ve been given,” said Sam, “and you need to clean the whole of your section. Wearing the wrong shoes will not get you out of it, I’m afraid.”
He scowled and turned back to his bag, which was half full of dolls. “This is playing havoc with my lower back, you know.”
“Bend at the knees,” said Sam, demonstrating for him. “You’ll thank me later. It will help your back.”
He did not look grateful, but slipped off his expensive shoes and reluctantly went down onto the damp sand. “I’ll have to spend an hour in the jacuzzi to soak away these aches,” he complained as he went.
Sam checked her phone, pleased to see the app was still showing good clear footage of the beach as the drone swept up and down. On the screen, she saw a pair of figures approaching from the south. She glanced back along the route they’d taken from Wolla Bank and saw Delia approaching and next to her—
“Ugh!” Sam muttered.
Rich Raynor was with her, we
aring long orange swimming trunks and a bright red bomber jacket.
“Are you a lifeguard or going to a fancy dress party as David Hasselhoff?” said Sam.
Rich grinned. “Oh, the Baywatch look? Ha. Good one.”
“I’ve already pointed it out to him,” said Delia.
“Seriously, is that the uniform they gave you?” said Sam.
“I’m a freelance lifeguard,” said Rich. “Bought it myself.”
“A what?”
He tossed his dark curls and looked out to sea. “Wherever there are waves, I’ll be there. Danger calls to me.”
“You’re mad. That’s not a thing…”
He laughed. “Of course it isn’t. But I did buy the uniform. Bought them for the whole RNLI lifeguard team. I’m not going to be saving lives in speedos and cheap polyester.”
“And you’ve apparently come as a beach-combing Ghostbuster?”
Delia gave a proud twirl. “Like it?” She was wearing something that looked like a bell-shaped rucksack made out of loosely-woven rope. “I’ve had this lobster pot out the back for ages. I knew it would come in handy. A couple of belts looped through as shoulder straps and it’s transport for any number of sea-soaked dolls.”
“Any number?”
“Well, as many as I can carry,” said Delia with a shrug.
“The young woman here told me there were dozens of shapely dolls on the beach that needed rescuing,” said Rich. “I came ready to rescue damsels in distress.” He grinned to show he was joking. “But I’m happy to help your new friend, Delia, here.”
He gestured to a plastic sledge he had been pulling behind him, and the equipment laid across it. Delia bent to grab a ball of string and a bag of elastic bands from the sledge, shoving them into the deep pockets of her cargo trousers.
The community payback team had covered most of the distance between Wolla Bank and Anderby Creek. Off to the left, atop the nearest dunes was a levelled area on which half a dozen steel cargo containers had been placed. Sam would have assumed they’d just been dumped there, but there were workmen moving around the site and, it would appear, they were fitting uPVC windows and doors to the containers.
