‘Boss wants to see you, Gaz.’
Big John’s words are the last thing he needs to hear. He’s only just got in, still bleary eyed and sore from another sleepless night on Bazza’s couch. Gary knows he can’t stay there much longer, but finding anywhere in this city’s a nightmare these days. When did it all get so expensive? And the council couldn’t give two fucks he’s been kicked out of his own home. Still got to pay the rent, mind. Fucking child support for a kid he’s not even allowed to see any more.
‘He say what it was about?’ Gary thumps the corner of his locker with the heel of his hand to get the door opened. Who needs a padlock when the fucking thing’s almost welded itself shut? Cheap piece of foreign shit.
‘No’ Stevie. He’s away up at the new site. It’s Sheila in charge now.’
As if Gary’s day couldn’t get any worse. He pulls the door open, shoves his bag inside on top of the pile of hi-vis gear and his steel-capped boots, then slams the door hard shut again.
‘Fuckin’ marvellous. What genius puts a woman in charge of a site like this, aye?’ He’s not expecting an answer, and doesn’t get one. As Big John trudges off towards the building site, Gary rolls the stiffness out of his shoulders, runs a hand through his hair and heads for the admin block.
They’ve been on this site a couple of years now, and everyone knows the project’s winding up. The heavy concrete work for the foundations and main structure is done. Now it’s the turn of the sparkies and plumbers, the glass boys and those mad bastards who do the tiling. Detail work to make the new St James’s Centre all shiny for the public. Gary doesn’t do detail. Rebar, concrete pumps and hard graft, that’s his thing.
‘Come in.’ The voice from the other side of the frosted glass door is all wrong when Gary knocks. He’s known Stevie Tanner the best part of a decade now, since he started work out of school. They’ve been on the same jobs that whole time, so how come Stevie’s away and Gary’s still here? He knows he’s not the sharpest pencil in the box, but he’s not stupid either. With a sigh, he pushes open the door.
Sheila’s sitting at Stevie’s desk. She’s old. At least forty, with a face like she’s sucking a lemon while someone pulls her hair. Not that she’s got much of that, mind. Cut short on top, shaved around the sides. She reminds Gary of those uppity lesbian bitches camped outside the hotel where he met Mr Fielding.
‘Ah, Mr Tomlinson. You’re here. Have a seat.’ Sheila’s voice is never friendly, but now it’s colder than the wind coming in off the Forth. Gary sees the chair, set up in front of the desk, and knows exactly what’s coming. He’s still too craven to refuse her command though, even if he hates himself for it.
‘As you know, Mr Tomlinson, the main structural work on this site is all completed now. Barring a few corrections, and the addition to the basement levels that team four are working on, there’s no more concrete pouring work to do.’
Get on with it, you bitch, Gary wants to say. He can’t though. He’s struck dumb by the dawning realisation of what’s happening.
‘We’ve moved a few workers to other sites, but there’s not as much building work going on at the moment, so we’re having to restructure our workforce. To that end, I’ve been tasked with carrying out performance appraisals of all staff.’ She’s had her hands folded on the desk in front of her, and now he sees they’ve been partially covering a thin folder. His name is printed across the top. Fuck.
‘I’m afraid your score is at the bottom of the list, considerably below the average. We can’t afford to carry any baggage in these straitened times, Mr Tomlinson, so I am afraid we can no longer offer you employment here.’
Her words are all strange. Gobbledegook. He can’t see properly. ‘The fuck?’
‘There’s no need for that kind of language, Mr Tomlinson. You will receive a generous severance package and a reference that’s frankly better than you deserve, judging by your appraisal score.’ Now Sheila opens the folder, takes out a sheet of paper from the top, swivels it around and pushes it across the desk towards him.
‘You . . . You’re firing me?’ Gary’s mind, never the fastest, is struggling as if it were wading through recently poured concrete.
‘We’re ceasing your employment, yes. Effective immediately. Don’t worry though, you’ll get a month’s pay regardless.’
‘I . . . whut?’ Gary’s still wading through concrete, but now his anger’s beginning to burn. Before he’s even managed to stand though, the office door has opened and two of the site security guards are directly behind him. He knows them, Ted Sillars and Mac Henderson. He’s drunk with them on a Friday evening, swapped dirty jokes. Fuck, he’s even seen Mac a few times in the stands at Tynecastle. But now they’re all business. Don’t even look embarrassed about it, the fuckers.
‘Thank you for being so understanding, Mr Tomlinson.’ Sheila stands up, the thin folder clasped in her hands like a shield. ‘You can collect your personal belongings from your locker, and then these two gentlemen will escort you to the gates.’ She sticks out her hand, and for a mad moment he thinks she wants him to shake it. Then she nods at his chest and the lanyard hanging around his neck. ‘Your security pass, please.’
And just like that, he’s fired.