Man in the Field

By Paul R Green

The imposing bulk of Commander Topps dominated the room, drawing all eyes from the thirty six candidates seated before him.
“Morning, candidates.”
The assembled recruits chorused a response and he nodded.
“The fact that you are in this room tells me that you are better than ninety per cent of all those who applied. The fact that you are in this room tells me that you have been tested and judged to be in the top five percent of candidates with psychic potential. The fact that you are in this room means you want to work for me, and to work for me you need to listen to him.”
He pointed to a lean, weather-beaten man slouched in one of the second row seats. The man waved nonchalantly.
“Candidates, this is Palmer. Palmer has made over a dozen D jumps, has been point man on three discovery expeditions, and will be passing on his considerable experience to you over the coming months. I suggest you pay close attention if you wish to progress on your journey towards joining my department. Palmer, you have the room.”
“Thank you, sir.” Palmer unfolded himself from his seat and casually made his way to the front, as his commander exited the room.
He took a long moment to study the faces, seeing how they reacted to the revelation that the man in front of them that they’d assumed to be a fellow candidate was, in fact, to be their instructor.
As he did so he silently recited the mantra that put his mind on the correct path to skim those of his would-be students. In his head he watched as smoky green tendrils – his own personal manifestation of the probes – snaked out to touch foreheads. He was pleased to see that at least half of the class had guards in place and that the majority of the remainder pushed out his probes as soon as they realised they were there. He was less happy with the four candidates who either hadn’t noticed his intrusion, or had chosen to ignore it. He planted the suggestion that they should quit the course and withdrew his probes.
“I take it you’ve all read the field reports from my last assignment?”
The group murmured they had, except for the four students who stood, apologised for wasting his time as they didn’t think the job was for them, and left.
Palmer waited until they’d gone.
“Now that I have everyone’s attention I’ll give you a little background into those reports from my personal notes. Lesson one. Don’t take anything for granted.”

***

+++ Palmer’s Journal – cL14 – Day 1 +++

It was raining when I arrived. That’s one of the problems with D-Hopping; you’re never quite sure what the weather’s going to be like at the other end. They never mentioned that in the briefings or training; a fact I will be rectifying next year when I get to pass on my wisdom to the next round of prospective Jump-Monkeys D-Hoppers.
A quick sweep of the area told me I was alone, so I was able to get to work.
First job was to get the sensors up and running. This involves me walking about half a klick from where I popped out and attaching a nifty little gizmo – an Automated Remote Sentry Beacon if you want the official title – as high up a tree as I can climb, then walking a roughly circular perimeter and climbing more trees to add more Arse-Beacons every two hundred meters or so until I’m back at tree number one. I like to amuse myself by calling it an arse-beacon in all my reports as I know it annoys the tech boys. Childish I know, but it’s the little things…
Actually – the first job I’ve got to do is pile a few stones up to mark where the D-Gate is, because we don’t want to be spending time trying to find it again later on. No we do not!
Anyway, once the sentries are positioned I do a quick diagnostics check and we are good to go. Now, should any of the local knuckle-draggers happen to wander by, the sensors will pick them up and prevent the D-Gate from opening and scaring the living shit out of them when someone steps out of thin air. It can lead to some awkward situations, that’s for sure – Gideon has his own religion on cL3 thanks to his first trip there. Still that was back in the day. Back when D-Hopping was in its infancy and the department was still finding its feet. Things are different now. There’s nothing like fucking things up to make you get it right next time.
My next job is to dig a big hole, giving me a chance to appreciate all the physical conditioning training I’ve been doing the last few months. Yay!
Once that was done I sent a message pod back home and they began sending my supplies through. The supplies went in the pit, along with the shelter I will be calling home for at least the next few weeks, and I then finish the job by throwing a Techatrek camo-cloth awning over everything just in case. That done, I sent the all clear pod, along with the air, soil and water samples I’d gathered, back through the gate, and seeing as how my next scheduled report isn’t for another week, I put my feet up and got a brew on.

+++ Palmer’s Journal – cL14 – Day 8 +++

I’m sick of this fucking rain, that’s for sure. It’s still too early to tell how the seasons work here – we won’t know that until I’ve sent back at least two months worth of weather reports and star maps – but by the trees I’m guessing we’re well into autumn. The forest is mainly deciduous, and fairly untouched, at least in the immediate vicinity. There’s a crude road about ten klicks west of base camp which leads to a walled city on a lake at the head of mountain pass about twenty klicks to the north. I’ll know a bit more when I get closer. First I need to find a native and learn me the lingo.

***

Palmer finished speaking and looked again at his students. Most of them studied him straight back. A few frantically tapped notes into their tablets. A couple looked bored. He checked their names on his seating plan.
“Candidates Lyons and Hart your presence is no longer required. Report to Kane for your papers. Both candidates looked startled, but knew better than to question an instructor. They left the room in good order, albeit a touch sullenly.
“Lesson two. Pay attention at all times; you never know what might come in useful later on.”

***

+++ Palmer’s Journal – cL14 – Day 12 +++

It took me a couple of days but I managed. In the end I tailed a party of travellers until they stopped for the night. Once they’d settled down I was able to slip into a couple of their minds. I’m only a mid-range psychic so it took all of my skills to get what I need despite their lack of defences.
I’m hardly fluent, but have enough of the basics to get me into the city without attracting too much attention and it won’t take me long to catch up once I’m there.
I also managed to grab a few pics of what the natives were wearing, so I was able to add that to my report and should have some convincing copies made up in time for my next supply drop. Those copies will, of course, be suitably modified and made with more robust (and waterproof) materials. They’ll also be thermo-reactive and provide a degree of protection against this world’s crude weaponry; so at least I won’t have to worry about freezing my balls off when winter sets in. Next step, currency.
The suits back home were kind enough to provide me with a variety of gemstones and samples of precious metals; the idea being that whatever the dimension, at least one of these elements will be rare enough to trade for some local coinage. Once I have a sample I can then send it back home and my next care package makes me rich enough to find a permanent base of operations within the society I’m infiltrating. Naturally, I am required to fully account for every purchase and expense; I am a government employee after all.
Of course, like most theories dreamt up by men behind desks, it’s not always the most practical on the ground. It’s very hard, for instance, to determine which of the many gems, jewels, metals and minerals are of value without revealing your stash to a local, or coming across like a complete idiot. Luckily, I am an experienced field operative with a diverse skill set and as such have little trouble, and fewer qualms about, simply stealing a selection of coins from some hapless native – or in this case party of travelling natives.

***

“Don’t write that down, Jenkins. I’ve basically just told you to commit larceny. That’s not a technique Commander Topps need ever know about. I’m trying to keep you alive here, and part of the lesson is about knowing how to apply what you’ve learned once in the field.”
Hearing how that came out, he worried he sounded idiotic, but the cadet blanched at hearing his name and bleated out an apology, whilst his classmates remained poker faced.
“Any questions?”
He didn’t even look to see if any hands were raised.
“Good. Then I shall continue.”

***

+++ Palmer’s Journal – cL14 – Day 19 +++

I’ve watched the city – Stonelake – for a week now. By its size, building type and density I estimate a population of around thirty thousand, though that may be a little low if the area at the southern end of the town is, as I suspect, some form of ghetto area or similar. The gates and walls are watched by what appears to be an armed militia identified by their long white cloaks. I imagine the same troops also perform some form of police or area watch role within the walls. Those guarding the gate carry long, blade tipped pole-arms and those on the walls have crossbows. They all also have swords on their belts, though from what I can see these vary in size and style, so must be personal weapons rather than standard issue.
Not counting those coming off the docks to the west, there are three main gates into the city: the northern gate, also known as the Crevasse Gate, at the head of the pass, the southern gate, also called the Market Gate, which seems to be where most of the overland trade passes through, and the Citizen’s Gate to the east. Entry through the latter requires a special brass token issued within the city. The tokens are numbered and the watch are, by all accounts, rather efficient in detecting forgeries.
From the comings and goings through the gates, this appears to be a patriarchal society, with rudimentary trade based around food and mineral resources. So, they won’t be swapping me out for a female operative anytime soon. As far as I can tell, the population is made up of all manner of ethnicities, which from a distance don’t appear to be class restrictive. Hopefully this means that I don’t need worry about not being able to have access to certain people or places purely because I’m the wrong skin tone, or my eyes are the wrong colour. There’s only one way to find out though, I’m going to have to go in.

***

He smiled at their reactions.
“It is important to remember that the tolerant and enlightened environment in which you have been born, raised and nurtured is not the norm out there. In fact, it is in my experience, quite the rarity. That is why, you will always have a number of back-up operatives on stand-by, ready to take over your assignment should you find yourself in a D that has something against your particular gender, skin colour, or whatever random genetic marker they’ve decided is unacceptable. .”
He waited until the murmurs died down. In the front row Orla was looking particularly shocked; he might need to watch her.
“Palmer’s rule of thumb; assume everyone is an asshole until they prove themselves otherwise.”

***

+++ Palmer’s Journal – cL14 – Day 20 +++

Well that was fun, and what I like to call typical of my luck. Apparently today is market day. And that means two and a half hours stood around waiting to get through the gates. The smells alone were enough to down a less hardy operative; the earthy ingrained sweat of the labourers and sickeningly sweet perfume of the traders, combined with the heady animal musk of the horses’ sheep, goats, and chickens, all mingling delightfully with the cloying shit-vapours emanating from the crudely dug pits positioned at regular intervals alongside the road, or from the steaming piles of manure courtesy of the aforementioned fauna. It was also, of course, the hottest day since I got here, allowing the sun to add its own extra little kick to the whole olfactory ambience.
When I finally got to the gate, a ‘what’s your name and business’ along with a cursory weapons check from the guards was all it took to go through, so at least there was that.
Once inside, I headed for a big building towards the centre of town that I’d noted from my vantage point and suspected to be where whomever is in charge was based. I wasn’t going to pay them a visit, but I wanted to find accommodation close by, as its more likely to be of a higher standard. I’ve had enough of country living.

The Abacus is what the tourist blurb back home would call ‘quaint’. The three storey building borders a quiet courtyard surrounded by other finely crafted stone buildings housing the town’s money men and their businesses. It’s funny, but even in a D as different as this one is to our own, you can always spot the money men; even the short-arses have a way of looking down on everyone.
Inside, the building is basic but fairly clean by the D’s standards. I find the Innkeeper, a worryingly scrawny man by the name of Quip who, once I’ve signed in – giving my name and nature of business – shows me to a room on the first floor. For the record, I did skim a few minds on my way here to help with the language and get a few names. I did this because names have meaning and don’t always translate.

***

“For just how important a name can be go ask Fi Nash about her hop to vM7 if you doubt me. Just make sure she’s in a good mood.”

The group in front of Palmer was about half the size it had been when he started. Over the past few weeks the various challenges of the recruitment process had taken their toll. Doyle had been responsible for over half of the drop outs, with his almost sadistic approach to physical fitness putting two candidates in hospital; though office gossip had it that he’d rejected one of the recruits when they refused to sleep with him.
Those that were left were starting to shape up; even Jenkins was a lot leaner, having lost the spare tyre he’d no doubt picked up in his last job working IT support for Department P. They were also much more focussed on his lessons now; eager to learn and starting to think like agents. He pushed out a quick probe out of habit, but every mind in the class was locked down tight. He smiled.
“Never underestimate the little things. You are going to be on your own for a long time. Yes, you can get resupplied, but depending upon where you are and how the land lies, that can sometimes take weeks. Do not be tempted to dismiss the seemingly innocuous items in your field kit; they can and do make a difference in the field.”

***

+++ Palmer’s Journal – cL14 – Day 20 (cont.) +++

The room is tiny by home standards, with barely enough room for the single pallet, clothing trunk and small table with the wash bowl and jug it contains. In case you’re curious about the toilet arrangements, there’s a ceramic pot under the bed that will be emptied every day if I pay extra. I pay extra! I also congratulate myself on bringing along a Trekatech deodorising strip.
The bed is surprisingly comfortable.

***

+++ Palmer’s Journal – cL14 – Day 21 +++

As a D-scout my job is to establish a foothold in new D’s and prep for a specialist team to come in and run an outpost. This new team does a six month tour of duty, during which they will set up the outpost as the main D-gate, leaving the original as an emergency exit. When their tour finishes they in turn will be replaced by another team who will run the outpost as a sort of inter-dimensional embassy, once the new D is deemed ready for more regular visits from our own. The embassy staff will be responsible for overseeing all comings and goings between the D and vX1, and helping D-hoppers with any local problems they encounter. That said, getting to that stage can take a while, and depends a lot upon the sophistication of the D and its inhabitants. At the moment, there are only three D’s officially open to vX1 residents, hD6, vM7, and vX13; the rest are in various stages of exploration or quarantine.
But all that’s a long way off, I’ve a hell of a lot of work to do before then.
I start by greasing the wheels of local bureaucracy so that I can register as a trading company with the necessary authorities. This gives me the right to rent property within city limits. It also gives me the right to pay taxes and guild fees. The grease only lubricates so much, apparently. Isn’t civilisation grand? I know what you’re thinking, and yes, I could have avoided paying with a bit of mind mapping and psychic embracing, but I’d been pushing my limits expanding the lingo the past few days and didn’t want to risk the burnout. Besides, messing with people’s brains is a slippery slope; once you make one clerk turn a blind eye, you inevitably have to make another, then their boss, then the official looking into the books, then the cop, and his partner…you get my drift.
It’s easier to just pay. It’s not like I have a shortage of cash!

+++ Palmer’s Journal – cL14 – Day 22 +++

I have to go back to the D-gate. Someone’s stolen all my cash!

***

“That thing I said about most D’s not being as tolerant as ours. They generally aren’t as law abiding either.” He caught the look from one of his students. “And yes, Jenkins, I appreciate the hypocrisy given my earlier statement.”

***

+++ Palmer’s Journal – cL14 – Day 26 +++

I’ve secured a warehouse close to the docks, and hired a crew of carpenters to partition a section of the floor space off whilst I procure a wagon and driver and spend the next few days ferrying kit from my campsite. A quick brain rummage and said driver – a miserable bastard named Upman -will conveniently forget exactly where he’s been and what he saw, so no worries there. The kit I’ve brought is covered by tarps, and, thanks again to some slight tinkering with their psyche, the workmen don’t have the inclination to investigate; so again no problems.

+++ Palmer’s Journal – cL14 – Day 49 +++

The warehouse is now locked down. It took me longer than expected to set up as I came down with some virus that had me confined to bed for a couple of weeks. I was so weakened that I was unable to resist the local quack from feeding me some form of herbal concoction before I was able to run tests to make sure he wasn’t poisoning me. Still, I’m here and feeling better, so once I was back on my feet I made sure I got a sample and sent some back to Albert in the bio-division for analysis.
Anyway, as I said the warehouse is now safe from prying eyes. The locals will find the locks unpickable and the bars on the windows unbreakable. The sectioned off floor space now houses my office, where I have been spending most of my time collating more information on the dimension and its occupants – the fact that we’re heading into winter and the office is heated is purely coincidental.
My other priority has been in establishing myself as an up and coming businessman in the city. I’m pretty good at this. I know I’m pretty good at this because as well as being taxed by the authorities, I’m also now paying a local chap calling himself King B to ensure that no unfortunate accidents happen to myself or my goods whilst on his patch; or as his representatives put it, ‘donating funds for the upkeep of the community and the welfare of its inhabitants.’
I’ve also been spending my time setting up cover identities for the first wave of operatives to follow me here. They’re currently familiarising themselves with my reports in preparation for their arrival. As point man, I get to give the green light on anyone coming through; and if I’m honest, I want to hold off as long as possible because once the go is given I lose a great deal of my autonomy.

+++ Palmer’s Journal – cL14 – Day 58 +++

The toilet is now installed. You have no idea how happy this makes me.

***

There were only six students left. Jenkins had proven to be quite a find, and Orla had potential now that he’d opened her eyes to a few hard truths. The others were satisfactory, but nothing exceptional. He didn’t have a quota, but felt it was his responsibility to only pass those he felt could do what he’d done and deal with the life.
“Lesson last; resolution is a narrative illusion; you are just one part of a long, on-going process. You need to understand and accept that if you’re going to work in the field.”

***

+++ Palmer’s Journal – cL14 – Day 111 +++

Everything’s ready for the next stage now. I’m going back to the D-gate tomorrow to meet them as they come through and get them into the city. There’s to be eight of them in total; six pathfinders, who’ll be tasked with exploring and mapping the D and a two-man team to take over from me at the warehouse.
I’ve purchased a modest house off Stone-cutter street for my replacements, but I’ve just booked the pathfinders a few rooms in The Wayward Wayfarer, an inn favoured by out of town teamsters and mercenaries, where hopefully they’ll be able to blend in a bit more and pick up some useful info on travel routes and the likes.

+++ Palmer’s Journal – cL14 – Day 112 +++

Well, they’re here, all bitching about the smell – it’s funny how you don’t notice it after a few weeks. The pathfinders are led by a giant of a man named Mout. Seriously, they could not have picked anyone more conspicuous; I’ve seen smaller barns. Did I mention his bright red hair? And the one eye? Okay, maybe not the eye, but still, he’s pretty hard to miss, and has a voice like a klaxon, to boot. I’ve set up identities for them as fish traders – the lake is renowned for its trout – and arranged for them to take a consignment through the pass, so at least they’ll only be here for a week or so. Normally the fish only gets as far as Valleyhead, the town at the other end of the pass, before spoiling, so I’ve had some special shipping crates sent from back home that’ll give them another few days; enough to give us an edge over the competition but not enough to cause suspicion. On their journey they’ll take samples and map as they go. They will stay on in Valleyhead to ostensibly set up a warehouse, but obviously that’s just an excuse for them not to come back with the rest of the caravan. I’ve got their paperwork in order and am just waiting for the man I’ve hired as their guide to get back from visiting his sister before they’re out of my hair. The guide, a man named Golan, says the pass won’t be open for another week anyway, due to a heavy snowfall last week. Once they’re gone, I’ll hand over the business to my replacements and leave town on the pretence of visiting relatives of my own.

***

“I realise it sounds corny, but sometimes the simplest explanations work best. Don’t get too caught up in trying to find clever excuses for what you are doing; honestly, people don’t really care, and will accept what you tell them. It is important, however, that you do have an out ready.”
He looked up again at the studious faces and smiled. He’d told them what he could. Whether they listened was up to them. Whether any of them made it through the final selection process and became D-Scouts was up to Commander Topps.
“Speaking of which, I have an elsewhere to be, so good luck and better judgement. Dismissed.”

***
+++ Palmer’s Journal – cL14 – Day 112 – personal addendum +++

My replacement is Cassius, a seasoned operative who I’ve worked with before, and his protege, an enthusiastic young rookie named Velane. I don’t mind Cassius, he keeps himself to himself when not working, but the rookie bothers me. It’s not that she’s done anything wrong per se, or that she isn’t following orders or protocols, it’s just that something in the way she always seems to watch everything and everybody gives me the feeling she’s hiding something behind that gap toothed smile.
Anyway, for the next few weeks I’ll be bringing them up to speed on the operation here and introducing them to some key locals. Once I’m happy they’ve settled in I’ll be able to go back home and put my feet up for a few weeks; maybe even take a break before I have to start the teaching job Topps has lined up. I might even try that casino on hD6 that Logan is always banging on about. Of course, I’ll need to spend two weeks in quarantine first, but such is the life of a Jump Monkey.

Concrete Plans

The wheels of the sturdy, black Range Rover crunched over the cracked concrete. At some point in the past this would have been a factory floor or a car park, but now it was an isolated patch of weed-strewn, broken stone overlooking the unfashionable end of the river Tyne. Two disturbed seagulls pounded their wings up into the cool, early- morning sky as the Range Rover turned. A parked car swept into view through the windscreen. An elegant, equally black BMW. Stood, leaning against this vehicle were two men. Both of them were wearing black suits.

One, Richie, was tall and slim to the point of skinny. He was cupping the final third of a tightly-rolled cigarette in his right hand and was busily sucking as much smoke into his lungs from it as he could in one go. His already thin cheeks were pulled in, adding a haggard look to his already scarred and aggressive features.

The other man, Little Lennie, could not have been more different. Shorter and incredibly fat. Had he turned around then the strip of additional material, salvaged from a second suit jacket and used to increase his jacket size beyond the proportions of ordinary men, would have been visible. His face was red with the exertion of having to stand and hold his own body weight up. It would have been unfair to say that he was as wide as he was tall, only because this was a state that he hoped one day to slim down to.
As the two men watched the Range Rover complete its tight arc, the hard-faced Richie stopped sucking at his cigarette long enough to look down at the shorter, younger, wider Lennie and nod acknowledgement at the automobile saying, “About fucking time.”

Little Lennie replied. “Aye, isn’t it.”

Little Lennie’s almost comedic name was an accident of traditional baby naming. Every firstborn male of a generation of the Rogerson family was called Lennie. The dad would then be known as Big Lennie, and the son as Little Lennie. The occasional male Rogerson who lived to become a granddad inheriting the title ‘Fatha’. So, as there were three generations of firstborn male Rogersons still alive, this led to the happy accident of a young man who weighed in at somewhere just under thirty stone being referred to as Little Lennie.

The Range Rover crunched to a halt. Ritchie flicked the dog-end of his cigarette away, took out a pouch and immediately started rolling another. As he did this the driver’s door of the Range Rover opened and out stepped a third, similarly dressed man. Similar in that his suit was the same make and colour, but the way he wore it certainly was not. Despite the fineness and expense of the suit, on this man it looked dishevelled. In fact, every bit of him looked dishevelled, from his scraggy blonde hair, through his drooping, dark eyes and all the way to his laceless, scuffed, black trainers. Some people wear overalls, whereas some people make whatever they are wearing look like overalls. This man was the latter.

Little Lennie approached him. “All right, Carl?”

The scruffy man scratched at his belly underneath the untucked right side of his shirt. “Aye, Lennie, nee bother.” Carl quickly shuffled around to the boot of the car, opened it and started unloading equipment. “I got everything, like. Got the lot.”

Lennie nodded. “Good, good.” He joined Carl at the back of the car. A click and a flare indicated that Ritchie had lit his next cigarette. Lennie surveyed the items that Carl was taking from the boot of the Range Rover. A large water carrier, a spade, a plastic storage box, a bag of sand, a pair of wellingtons, a bag of cement. “Was B&Q busy?”

Carl shrugged. “A bit, like. The tills are a nightmare now with that serve yerself shite. I didn’t kna where the bar codes were on the big bags, like, an’ I had to turn them ower aboot four times.”

“Did anyone clock you?” It was Ritchie. He had walked round to the side of the Range Rover, which he was now leaning on nonchalantly smoking.

Carl looked up at him. “Wey, some bird what works there helped me on the till bit, but that’s all. I telt her I was laying a patio, like, so no worries.”

Ritchie spat. He did not seem impressed, but he did not enquire further.

Little Lennie pointed to the pile of Carl’s purchases. “What’s with the wellies?”

“Eh?”

“The wellies.”

Carl was in the process of taking a cigarette out of the battered box he kept untidily in his shirt breast pocket. “Aye, Lennie, man. I thought aboot that, like. You’d missed them off the list.” Lennie just looked at him, as Richie approached and gave Carl his lighter to stop his frantic patting and checking of every pocket in his already crumpled suit. “The wellies, man. We need the wellies.”

Lennie asked, “Why?”

Carl rolled his eyes and looked to Richie for support. Richie’s face remained hard, as he merely held out his hand for the return of his lighter. Carl lit his cigarette and did so. He then turned back to Lennie. “Concrete wellies, man. We canna chuck a bloke in the river with concrete wellies on if we haven’t got nee wellies.”

Lennie laughed as he turned to Richie, who remained impassive. He said to Carl, “We don’t need wellies.” Carl’s left eye twitched slightly as he tried to work this out. Lennie explained. “Concrete wellies is a metaphor, man. A figure of speech.” Carl’s facial expression had not passed beyond confused. “If you tried to use real wellies, you wouldn’t be able to get enough concrete in. They’d be full of the guy’s feet. He’d pop straight back up again and be floating around like a shit in a Jacuzzi before we got as far as Gatesheed.” He looked again to Richie to join him in his mirth at Carl’s expense.

Richie, who simply flicked the dogend of this finished cigarette at the offending wellies, muttered, “Prick,” and headed towards the boot of his and Lennie’s BMW. Lennie continued explaining to Carl how they were to use the box to create a concrete block, which Carl couldn’t accept should be called wellies unless there was one on each foot. Richie reached the boot of the BMW and opened it. This boot was not filled with DIY equipment, but was filled with weakly struggling person. Richie reached in and hauled the person out, dropping him heavily on the broken stone ground.

The man groaned through his gaffa-taped mouth. He started to struggle slightly more energetically against his makeshift bonds – a set of roof rack straps pulled tight around his arms, body and legs through the use of a ratchet. Richie kicked him hard in the stomach, which increased his groans but lessened the struggling.

Lennie and Carl came to join him. The three men looked down at their trussed up captive for a few seconds before Little Lennie spoke. “The Don’s coming later. We’ll have to get sorted.”

Richie glared down at him. “Who did you say?”

Little Lennie wilted a little under Richie’s glare. He knew that less than an inch beneath the surface of that glare lay potentially uncontrollable, anger-infused violence. “Erm… Don. You know, Keith? The boss?”

“Boss?” Richie’s voice rose a little. “He’s not a proper fuckin’ boss. And you called him The Don. What’s that shit about?”

Lennie kept his voice deliberately low and calm. “It’s a joke. ’Cos his middle name’s Gordon, I say Don for short.”

Richie leant in, his nicotine breath assaulting Little Lennie’s face. “You said The Don.”

“Did I?” Lennie hurried on. “Aye, it was a mistake like. Just with him always going on about Mafia shit and that.”

Richie’s anger seemed to be deciding whether or not it was pacified by this response, when the two men were disturbed by Carl. “Hey fellas.” He had arranged all of the equipment, filled the water carrier from the river and was in the process of pouring some of the contents of the cement bag into the plastic storage box. “How much sand and cement do we need?”

Richie held his face close to Lennie for two more heartbeats, before straightening up and saying, “Aye, well. Divven’t forget, he’s not some fuckin’ Mafia gangster, he just thinks he is. He’s not even a proper boss.”

The two men relaxed slightly, and looked over to a now sweaty and even more untidy Carl. It was Lennie who responded. “You have brought enough stuff haven’t you?”

“Oh aye, I’ve got loads. But, like, how much of each.”

Little Lennie shrugged. “I dunno. Loads of cement and a bit of sand?”

Richie shook his head. “Nah. There’s proper amounts what you have to use for concrete.”

“Aw, reet.” Lennie turned to Richie. “So how much then?”
“I dunno.”

Carl was still stood, cement bag in hand, waiting for an answer before he poured more in. Lennie turned to him. “Why divven’t you know, Carl?”

Carl put the cement bag down. “It’s not me job, is it? I just get the shit and do the legwork, like.”

Richie was shaking his head slowly, blowing noisily out of his nostrils. “This is your job, Lennie, you should know.”

“Well how, I’ve never done any…”

“You should have fucking found out!”

“Right, right, settle.” Lennie was determined to keep Richie calm. “I’ll just Google it, man. Give us a second.” He took out his smartphone and keyed in a code. He looked at the screen. He held the phone as high above his head as he could. He waved it back and forth a little. “Aw, fuck. There’s nee signal.”

“For fucks sake.” Richie was clenching his hands in frustration.

Carl saw the danger of Richie’s anger, and held his hands out pacifyingly. “Divven’t fret man, Ritchie. Me uncle’s a builder. I’ll get his number, Lennie, you can ring him.”

Richie’s anger was diverted to Carl, who he approached, slowly, hands held forwards in tight, pugilistic fists. “Ring him? You prick. Have you got a fuckin’ clue what nee signal means?”

Lennie interjected. “Halfy-half.” He was determined to waylay Richie’s seething anger.

Richie stopped. “What?”

“Halfy-half. I’ll make the decision, it’s my job.” Raising his voice more assuredly to Carl. “Halfy-half, Carl.”

“Aye, righty-o.”

***
Three minutes short of two hours later and a third black car glided over the cracked concrete. It was long, slick and smooth. A Limousine. It dwarfed the other two cars. Little Lennie, Carl and Richie were sat on a masonry block at the edge of the concrete floor; Carl and Richie smoking cigarettes, Little Lennie eating a Caramac. The captive was lying a few metres away, his feet embedded uncomfortably in an almost solidified grey-brown lump setting in the plastic storage box. He was desperately trying not to cry having received a jarring punch to the jaw for his earlier sobbing.

All four watched the Limousine glide to a stop, and a uniformed chauffeur step out of the driver’s door. He moved to the back door and opened it. From the angle at which the three non-captives sat, all they could see was the foot of the occupant beneath the door as it stepped out of the car. A brown wing tip, covered by an immaculate white spat, at odds with the dusty, broken concrete beneath.

“What the fuck? Look at them poncey shoes.” Richie muttered through an exhalation of acrid smoke.

Little Lennie was chewing noisily. “Aye, they’re lush aren’t they?”

“Eh? Fuckin’ rubbish.”

The shoe had been joined by its opposite number, as the occupant slowly exited the car to assess the situation.

Lennie swallowed. “No, man, no. They’re classics. Apparently they’re real gangster shoes. He bought them at an auction in one of them Speakeasy bars in Vegas.”

“What?”

“Speakeasies. They’re like illegal whisky dens from the thirties or something. Ran by real Mafia.” Little Lennie pressed on, despite Richie’s obviously unimpressed look. “They’re real Mafia shoes from a real Mafia boss in Vegas. He paid a fortune for them.”

The man from the back of the Limousine had walked round to the captive by now. He was in his late forties, balding and slightly overweight. His tailored, pin-stripe suit was immaculate, complete with button-hole flower and pocket square that matched both his tie and socks. He leant over the captive, inspecting his face, before turning his attention to the contents of the plastic box. He sucked his teeth noisily before turning to walk towards the three men.

Richie whispered to Lennie. “He might have paid a fuckin’ fortune, but it doesn’t mean they’re real and it still doesn’t mean he’s a real boss.”

Keith, The Don in his own mind, stood before them. He reached into his inside pocket and drew out a small, silver cigarette case. He opened it and removed a thin cigar. He replaced the case and was about to reach for a lighter when Richie jumped up, holding his own cigarette lighter out before him. It flared up. “Here you are, boss.”

Keith lit his cigar on the proffered light, puffed out a mouthful of smoke and then spoke. His accent was Northeast, but not broad, and he kept his voice at a low, gruff whisper. “Well, you got the right guy.”

Lennie stood up. “Aye, boss, we got him.”

“No complications?”

“No, none.”

Keith turned to look over his shoulder at the terrified captive, shaking in his metaphorical wellies. As he looked at him, Keith asked over his shoulder, “What mix did you use?”

Lennie responded. “What?”

Keith’s head turned slowly back to the three men. “The concrete. What mix did you use?”

It was Carl’s turn to jump up. “Halfy-half, sir. Just like what Lennie said, like.”

Keith’s hand, holding the cigar, stopped halfway to his mouth. “Halfy-half?”

“Aye, sir.”

Keith’s eyes moved to Lennie. His voice rose slightly in volume. “Halfy-half?” Little Lennie nodded. Keith continued. “Why, for the love of God, would you tell him to use halfy-half?”

Lennie shrugged. “I dunno. I just… you know… well I didn’t…”

Keith’s jaw set. “You should have found out. Halfy-half? You imbecile. I mean, there’s not even any shingle in that mix. It’s barely a mortar. Everyone knows, concrete is one part cement, three parts sand and three parts shingle. What sort of idiot wouldn’t know that?”

Richie, Lennie and Carl looked sideways at one another. Then Carl spoke. “Well, like, does it matter but? It’s setting hard, like.”

“Matter? Does it matter? Of course it bloody matters!” Keith exploded. “Concrete wellies. The clue is in the bloody title – concrete. Why concrete? Because it’s heavy, durable and waterproof. You’ve mixed a frigging mortar. It wouldn’t last five minutes at the bottom of the Tyne. I mean, the guy will be popping up at Dunston and be bobbing round like a turd in a hot-tub before the month’s out.” He flung his cigar at Lennie, where it bounced off harmlessly. “One job! I ask you to do one job. What’s going on with you youngsters that you don’t even know how to mix cement? You’ll be telling me you can’t paper a wall or replace a carburettor next.” Carl opened his mouth to speak, but Lennie prodded him into silence. Keith continued to fume at the world in general, pacing back and forth in front of the three men. “Concrete wellies. Bloody concrete. They haven’t even put in shingle!”

He stopped and turned to look again at the captive. He then shouted to the chauffeur. “Trevor. Get that guy in the back. And give him a bourbon, settle him down, I can’t be doing with that crying.” He turned back to the other three. “Help him, then. He won’t be able to lift that block of crap that you’ve produced on his own.”

The three men rushed forwards to help.

***
Little Lennie, Ritchie and Carl watched the Limousine glide out of the broken concrete square and up the dirt track away from the river. Carl turned to the other two. “D’yous reckon B&Q will give us the money back on them wellies?”

Richie punched him.