Cook slops food from the ladle on to my tray. It covers my thumb in pinkish goo. Got no idea what this is supposed to be. Some sort of chickeny porridge? It oozes over the edge of the tray and down my hand. Cook doesn’t hate me. He’s this much of a jerk to everyone on the island.
Being on the run for four months has taught me that you eat when there’s food because you never know when you’ll get the chance again. So even though I’m rolled by nausea every time I think of that body and the way it floated, I’m going to sit, and I’m gonna eat.
I wipe my hand down the side of my trousers while I look for a seat. The mess hall’s heaving with roughnecks. No one wants to miss the good slops. Plus, they might get a look at me, the guy who pulled a body out this morning. This whole thing is making me nervy – thinking I should move on from this job sooner rather than later.
I spot an empty seat at one of the long galley tables near the door. The mess hall is a single-storey building, roof of corrugated metal, army-green lampshades swinging from the ceiling. The floor’s covered in a kind of plastic matting that’s worn through in the busiest spots to reveal the hard-packed, dusty ground beneath. More than once, I’ve spotted a lizard halfway up one of the walls.
The other roughnecks keep their eyes pressed on to me, and it’s all I can do not to drop my tray and run. I take a seat on the long bench that’s basically a wooden plank over barrels – it’s as uncomfy as it sounds – and stare into the slop.
What a day. Showered and changed my clothes and I still can’t wash off the memory of the body wearing my jacket, sloshing over and over in the water. And there’s the nurdles stuck in my hair like rainbow dandruff. Know from experience they’ll take weeks to come free.
I dunk a piece of bread and bury the urge to hurl. Tastes worse than I imagined. An unseasoned jelly mush.
Ken appears in the big opening that leads out of the mess hall. I see him cast around until he finds me and points a chunky finger in my direction. That’s when I realize he’s not alone. He’s got the Super with him.
Eat fast. Cold slops can’t be any better than hot slops.
The Super marches over. ‘Ken says the dead guy was wearing your coat. Why is that, Baaz?’ he says, planting his fists on the table in front of me.
He’s not messing about. No more pleasantries. Baaz is the name I put on the paperwork when I arrived, and for all the Super knows it’s the name I was born with. Nobody here knows my real name’s Lall. Least I hope they don’t.
‘This is why I love you, Ken – you’ve always got my back,’ I say. Ken makes a waving gesture that means get lost and goes off to get his dinner. ‘Afternoon, Supervisor Reynolds. How you doing today?’
‘Don’t give me any lip, kid.’
He swipes my tray out from in front of me. The slops fly everywhere, splattering pink over the floor. I see it splash on to some poor guy’s boot at the next table. The Super points his finger right in my face, round and stumpy like a cocktail sausage.
I stand. My fists ball up like they’ve got a mind of their own. I’m tired. I’m hungry. And after destroying my radio yesterday this guy is testing my patience. ‘That was my meal,’ I say.
We stare eye to eye. He glares. Veiny neck. Bulging eyes. Flared nostrils. I know this guy. He’s the type that came out here because he can’t play nice with people. All his posturing. All his swagger. All his anger leaking out all over the place. It doesn’t go down well in the normal world.
‘Why was the dead guy wearing your coat?’
‘Lent it to him. Yesterday. His got soaked because his partner –’ I pause and look round the mess hall. Everyone’s silent. ‘His partner couldn’t control their barge, and he went for a swim. His uniform had to be decontaminated.’
‘His tether was snipped. You know anything about that?’
The slops I’ve just eaten curdle inside me. I was right about his safety rope being tampered with.
‘Nope.’
The Super slaps me. Hard enough to whip my face round. Hard enough for it to sting in a hand shape. I rub it. Keep your cool, Lall. This is still a good place to hide, and getting booted from the rig will mean finding somewhere new to go, with some other shitty job that might be ten times worse than this. I roll my jaw and rub my face.
‘Told you before: I ask a question, you answer it. Without any cheek. Don’t like it, and I can tear up your contract right now, give you a boat, and point you in the direction of Tampa.’
‘OK,’ I say.
‘OK, what?’
‘OK, Super, sir,’ I say through gritted teeth.
‘Good. Now, did you kill him?’
‘What? Of course I didn’t kill him.’
‘Your name’s on his jacket.’
‘Because he was wearing my coat,’ I say. This is starting to piss me off.
‘That places you at the scene of the crime.’
‘No, it doesn’t. It places my jacket at the scene of the crime. Why would I give him my coat – that literally has my name stitched on the front – and then kill him?’
The Super glares. I can see him forcing his mind round the corners of the problem. ‘You’re the only clue I’ve got, so find out who killed him before the end of this rotation or you’ll be in handcuffs.’
‘Hang on, isn’t that your job?’
‘I decide what my job is.’
‘Then decide to get someone else. I’m no detective, and I don’t plan on spending my sleeping hours on a wild goose chase.’
I need to defuse this situation. I need to back down before the Super gets so riled up he gets on the blower to the Federated States. I bite my tongue and turn on my heel, a fizzing ball of suppressed rage. All I want is to be left alone. Is that too much to ask?
‘You find out who did this, Baaz,’ he shouts after me. ‘You find out or you’re finished here!’