by Leigh Barker
Nick stepped into the canteen and stamped the rain off his boots. Smiffy and Gonk bumped him forward as they came in.
“Stop posing, for Christ’s sake,” Smiffy said, “I need food.”
Nick took a moment to check out the stick insect with inflated legs and nodded. “That you do, Smiffy me ol’ son. Go put on the nosebag.” He pointed at the food counter.
He looked around to see if there was anybody he knew, or anybody worth baiting, but it was quiet in the canteen, with just a few tables occupied by men and women in blue overalls, and three tables in use by men in suits. With the wide corridor of space between the two sets of tables speaking volumes about the century in which Buller’s Manufacturing operated.
Nick and Gonk stepped up behind Smiffy, who was already receiving a pile of bacon, sausage, eggs and other greasy stuff from the young girl behind the counter. Zoe Tanner.
Gonk stared at her cleavage. But only a monk wouldn’t. Zoe was twenty-two and in the best shape of her life. That being… well… huge, with a tiny waist and curves that the straining white overall did nothing to hide.
She pushed out her breasts and looked down to see what Gonk was looking at.
Nick and Smiffy exchanged a sad look, and Nick put a hand on Gonk’s shoulder to steady him as Zoe flicked off a fleck of food and rubbed the greasy mark. Everything moved. Including the earth for Gonk, and Nick had to tighten his grip as the man’s legs buckled.
Zoe frowned and stared at Gonk. “What’s up wiv him?”
Nick looked him over slowly. “I think he’s dead,” he said with a shake of his head. “He’s gone all stiff.”
Zoe was going to say something, but she’d used up pretty much her whole vocabulary, so she handed Gonk a warm plate and began shovelling breakfast onto it.
Nick reached up and clicked Gonk’s jaw closed, waking him up in the process. Job done.
“Missus still checking on you,” Nick asked.
“Everywhere I bloody go,” Smiffy said through clenched teeth. “She even rings me in the pub! How embarrassing is that?”
“Made one mistake there, boy,” Nick said. “Well, two. You screwed around, and you got caught.”
Zoe froze with a fried egg balanced on a spatula midway to Nick’s plate and stared in horror at Smiffy. “You had sex!” Her eyes were wide and had the look of horror normally reserved for toilet paper in the swimming pool. “With another person!” The egg slid off the spatula and splattered onto the counter symbolically. “Oh, gross! Gross!”
She scooped up another egg, dropped it onto Nick’s plate next to the bacon, the sausages, the beans, tomatoes, mushrooms, and fried bread. No lettuce.
“Are you still liking it, Zoe?” Nick asked, awaiting the arrival of the second egg. It was a big day, being a Wednesday, so he needed extra energy.
Gonk looked up sharply.
“It’s a bit greasy, but I like serving the lads,” Zoe said, without a hint that she knew what she was saying.
Gonk knew and returned to staring at her cleavage. Waste not; want not.
“I’m starting on the internal post next week,” she said with a smile. “So I’ll be out and about, and I can keep an eye on you lot.” She looked around quickly and leaned forward across the counter.
Gonk leaned forward. Nick hooked a finger in his collar and pulled him back.
“It’s got to be better than working with these old cows,” she said in a whisper and looked around again. “They’re always complaining about my clothes.”
She pushed out her chest again to show off her… clothes.
“What’s the matter with my clothes? that’s what I want to know.”
“No complaints here,” Nick said, leaving the serving counter and joining Smiffy at a nearby table.
He put down his breakfast, turned, and went back to fetch Gonk.
Smiffy looked up as Gonk eased himself into the spare seat and adjusted it so he could see the girl of his… dreams.
“If you don’t ask her out soon, there’s going to be an accident.”
“Have you seen her eyes?” Gonk said dreamily.
“Couldn’t be missing them,” Nick said, sitting at the table and pulling his energy food closer. “If she turned quick, they’d have your eye out.”
Gonk stared at him blankly and tried to process what he’d said, but his thread was broken by the arrival of Buckshot, the second fitter’s mate who belonged to Smiffy, body and soul.
Buckshot put his plate down on the table. It had a single, uncut fried egg sandwich. The other three stopped what they were doing instantly and began to back off from the table as he sat.
They watched the sandwich as a mouse would watch a cobra.
“You washed your hands, Buckshot?” Smiffy said suspiciously.
“What for?” Buckshot said, lifting the sandwich and opening his mouth wide for… the bite.
Smiffy flinched at the lack of washing and the anticipation of what was bound to come next. Buckshot bit into the egg sandwich, and a stream of bright yellow egg squirted onto his blue shirt. They sat transfixed as he opened his overalls, pulled up his shirt, and sucked off the yolk.
“You score again last night, Buckshot?” Nick asked, easing himself back to the table and his breakfast, now the danger was past.
“Yeah, course,” Buckshot said, sucking the egg out of the sandwich.
“Another nurse, was it?” Smiffy asked, also returning to the table.
Gonk was transfixed still, a sausage-laden fork stalled halfway to his mouth as he watched Buckshot feed.
“Nurses,” Buckshot corrected, opening the sandwich to gain access to the eggy goodness. He sucked up the last of the yolk and licked the bread. He looked up and took a moment to clean the yolk off his chin with his tongue. “They was a bit young, but great buns.”
Nick leaned over and pushed Gonk’s elbow to help the sausage on its way. “Do you even know what buns are, Buckshot?” he asked with a sigh.
“Yeah, course I do,” Buckshot protested and wiped the egg splatter off his plate with a slice of grubby bread.
“Heads up,” Smiffy said, nodding to his right. “Here comes Bertie Badger.”
Badger—AKA Mr. Pringle, Foreman and Man-of-Great-Importance—strode up to the table, a clipboard under the arm of his spotless white overalls. “I thought I’d find you lot here,” he said, pointing at the table in case there was any doubt where here was.
“Always said you should have been a defective,” Nick said, munching a rasher of crispy bacon.
“It’s a detective, moron.”
“Good morning, Detective M—”
Smiffy rapped him on the shin with the steel toe of his Totector boot.
Badger squinted threateningly. “The day started forty minutes ago,” he said, pointing at his watch. “Get to work.”
Reluctantly, they got up, except Nick, who continued to work his way through his two-man breakfast.
“And that includes you!” Badger pointed at Nick.
Some people do like to point, even though it’s a bit rude.
“Anything broke?” Nick said through a mouthful of mushrooms.
“No, there isn’t anything bloody broke,” Badger said, his face turning a bit pink. “But that’s not the bloody point, is it?”
“Wouldn’t want me to fall from a high place because I’m all weak and faint from the lack of food, would you?”
Badger was clearly imagining the prospect, but let the happy thought go and resorted to the universal hands-on-hips threatening stance.
Nick continued to eat his breakfast with maximum concentration that left no room for engaging with Badger.
Badger glared at the others. “I told you to go to work!”
They left, with Gonk throwing a last long look at Zoe, who returned the look with a passing glance. From which he took hope—which is just so sad, it could bring a tear. Or not.
Badger leaned on the table in his best intimidatory pose. Practiced. “I’ve a good mind to report you to Mr. Bradbury
.”
“Then,” Nick said, mopping up his egg with a clean piece of bread, “I will have to put a book down my trousers.”
With his breakfast finished, he slid back the chair, stood up, and stretched. “Well, Bertie,” he said with a quick smile, “you might have time to hang around chatting, but I’ve got work to do.” He wiped his hands on his overalls and headed for the door, while Badger tried to think of a quick riposte.
That’s the trouble with quick ripostes; if you have to think about them, they’re not quick and not a riposte.
“You were in here first!” he shouted at Nick’s back.
