Читать книгу The Devil's Whelp - Vin Hammond Jackson - Страница 7

Like everyone else, Sam Gault was a little worried. But he was also the driller and there was a job to think about. Oil was in his blood. It showed in his tough, leathery hands and face, in the spiky hair of his bullet-shaped head and in the wispy curls sprouting from the scooped neck of his vest. It was even apparent in his movements, those slow, considered actions of a man not accustomed to making mistakes.

Sam should have been satisfied. The bit had been examined and it had checked out okay. Now it was back down and was circulating to keep the hole clear. Even if there was a tremor, it shouldn't damage any of his equipment. To Sam, however, being satisfied meant there was probably one more thing to do.

According to his watch, it was getting very close to that time again. He had been waiting patiently for the derrick man to finish the job of greasing the pipe racking gear. Paddy was still way up the derrick on the monkey board and was taking an age. In fact, he was only just starting up the ladder to the crown at the top. The casual way the Irishman was playing around, you'd think he was decorating a Christmas tree. It would have tried the patience of a saint, which, by any stretch of the imagination, Sam was not. He hailed the derrick man and called him down.

Paddy hesitated. He leaned outward and peered at the rig floor far below. Eighty feet was a long way to climb down, especially when he'd have to climb back up again to finish greasing. All this messing around for something nobody could explain and might never even happen. "Oi'll just be a few minutes, Sam," he called out, then turned back to the ladder and stepped up another rung.

Everyone on board must have heard Sam's bellowing as he ripped into the man far above him. "Get your stupid, Irish arse down here, Paddy, or I'll kick it all the way back to bloody Dublin!"

Con O'Reilly slammed a hand against the rail, shaking the entire ladder. "Alright, alright, Oi'm comin'," he shouted and began re-tracing his steps. He mumbled and muttered his way down to the rig floor, then bustled across to stand before the driller, wiping his hands systematically on a rag already black with grease. "Oi don't take koindly to bein' called stupid, Sam."

"Then you shouldn't use a brick to keep your ears apart," snarled Sam.

"Dere's noth'n' wrong wid moi ears, and fer your information Oi'm from County Cork, not Dublin!"

Gault's hand tightened on the safety railing beside him. "I don't care if you're from Afghani-bloody-stan, you shit-for-brains bog-trotter, when I give you an order, you either jump, or you're off this rig!"

"Dere you go again, t'rowin' yer weight around. Just because you're de driller...."

"Listen, you stupid Irish bastard," growled Sam, "I'm just trying to save your useless hide, although God knows why. I don't reckon you'd even notice. Now, put a sock in it and wait, will you?"

O'Reilly shrugged. "Well alright, seein' as you put it loik dat, but if Oi've come all de way down fer noth'n', Oi'll be havin' a few more words to say about it!"

Under normal circumstances, Paddy's and Sam's little one-act play would have had the men on the rig floor in fits. On this occasion, as a very minor comic relief, it raised a few smirks and the odd chuckle, but no more. The atmosphere was electric. Eyes watched seconds ticking by. Filthy or not, nails were being chewed, breaths held, and fingers crossed.

Pierce's hip had begun to ache. It did that when stormy conditions were on the way. He massaged it absently and tried to take his mind off the waiting by watching the sea. It hadn't changed, at least nothing visible had, but he could sense something approaching.

Eddie was thinking about his mother and home. If he closed his eyes, he could picture the grimy, terraced houses and the narrow streets. He could see the rain, feel the cold, hear the kids shouting as they kicked the soccer ball around and replayed last week's Celtic versus Rangers match. It was a strange term - home. You were supposed to feel alright there. It should have been somewhere you could go back to and know it was where you were meant to be. He hadn't left it that way. In fact, he'd been glad to leave the damp and the squalor and was beginning to feel more at home on the rig than he did in Glasgow. But now, at that moment, he wanted it all back. He wanted to be there because he hadn't taken sufficient notice of it. There were places he hadn't really seen, words had been left unsaid which his mother might never hear. He wished he could start over again, so that he could set that part of his life straight.

Lee Fong was on his way back to the kitchen with an empty bucket swinging from his hand. His English wasn't the best and sometimes it was difficult to understand what was going on because of the different nationalities on board. Slang made it worse. Nevertheless, he knew something bad was happening, or about to. It was his intention to keep a very low profile to avoid aggravating the situation and bringing down the wrath of these very large westerners on his very small oriental personage. He was succeeding in this endeavour, up until the time that he tripped and dropped the bucket.

In the relative silence, the metallic clash was like a thunderclap. Heartbeats were missed, men jumped, and heads jerked in Lee Fong's direction. He didn't dare return the looks because he didn't have that much resentment in him. He merely smiled a sheepish apology, retrieved his bucket and scuttled away.

Ten eighteen came and went. By ten twenty five the men were relaxing a little and a murmur of conversation had started up. By half past it seemed that what they had all been waiting for had decided not to call. Sam Gault turned to the derrick man. He indicated the tower with an upward glance. "On your bike, Paddy."

The Irishman stood for a long moment, his lips pursed and his face reddening. Finally, he could contain his anger no longer. "Dat's it! Dat's fuckin' it!" He threw the greasy rag onto the deck and set about stamping on it. "Up de fuckin' ladder. Down de fuckin' ladder. Up 'n down, up 'n down." He ceased his stamping to glare at the driller. "Dat's all Oi am to you, Sam Gault - a proize prick of a fuckin' yo-yo!"

Now it was funny. Now it was hilarious. Men cackled and guffawed. "You tell 'im, Paddy," someone yelled.

"Too bloody right Oi will!" O'Reilly snatched up the rag. Sam was leaning on the guard rail looking up at the tower. He glanced at Paddy, then back up to the monkey board. There was no need to repeat the order. "It's me job, an' Oi'll do it," said Paddy reluctantly. He turned and stomped his way across the deck to the ladder at the foot of the derrick. There he stopped and pointed at Gault with the dirty rag. "But Oi'll be seein' you later, Sam!"

A cheer broke out as he began to climb. Pierce was just about to enter the radio shack when he heard the applause. He looked back to see the derrick man climbing up and his heart kicked. Why was that? Nothing had happened. It was all over, wasn't it? Afraid to answer his own question, he ducked into the shack and pressed the switch on the intercom that connected him with the moon pool where his divers would now be waiting. Bill Rose, Eddie's co-diver, picked up the call. "Hold the dive," said Jack, trying to sound calm.

"Something wrong, chief?" Bill's voice came back hollow as if he was speaking into a can.

"Just..." Pierce began testily, then brought his agitation under control. "Hold the dive. I'll get back to you." He returned to the door and stood just inside, looking out at the derrick, massaging the nagging ache in his hip.

O'Reilly was part way up the guard tube which led to the first platform. He reminded Pierce of a termite, threading his way up his tunnel to the choice tucker at the top. Except he wasn't going to eat it, merely slap grease over the moving parts. The real eating went on far below. Oil men or white ants, there wasn't much difference. The end product of both was destruction in one form or another.

Unlike Pierce, the Irishman was starting to relax as the climb worked the stiffness out of his muscles. He had been pretty aggro a few moments ago, but taking his frustration out on his physical limitations had done the trick and he was even managing to smile about his altercation with Sam. He was twenty-five feet up the unguarded second ladder on his way to the crown and grinning widely when the shock hit. He lurched forward and his teeth crunched against the steel rung in front of him.

Olympian staggered. Jack Pierce clutched at the door frame. He heard his elbow click as the force wrenched at his straining arm. That was the least of his worries. He was more concerned for what had been lurking in the back of his mind, the warning that even he had been too afraid to believe. Now, it could no longer be ignored.

He knew it! He knew it would come! It had watched and waited, had noticed them checking their watches and it had held off, just long enough for them to believe in their stupid, tiny little minds that it had gone away for good. Then it had returned, bang, when they least expected it, when their guard was down.

Pierce was shocked at himself. Was he so terrified that he was starting to believe in the bogeyman? A trembling hand moved up to his face and felt the perspiration. Yes, he decided, he was.

Con O'Reilly preferred leprechauns, and he too might have been terrified, if there'd been time. Ten seconds, however, was barely long enough to realise that he had lost most of his front teeth and that the force which had smashed them into his bleeding mouth was now in reverse and thrusting him backwards.

Con's hands were big and strong, but they were also greasy. He clenched them as hard as he could around the ladder and actually felt the steel tubing pressing between his fingers and palms. Then his hands just plopped off to become empty fists and he was falling.

He tried to cry out and managed a faint gurgle through the clog of blood and shattered enamel at the back of his mouth. Even that small effort was terminated abruptly as his head glanced off a steel cross-member.

Sam was clinging to the safety rail surrounding his equipment. It was like a massive earthquake. Everything shook. Unsecured steel tubing rolled and clanged. Men shouted and tumbled. He thought for a moment that the derrick was going to fly to bits and come crashing down on them. He clung tighter, his arms aching with the jolting, his hands numb from the vibrations passing through the steel tubing. He watched open-mouthed as his derrick man bounced off one more strut before hitting the monkey board with a sickening thud.

A second or two later, the shaking ceased.

Sam didn't notice at first. He pushed off the rail and hurried in the general direction of the ladder, all the time looking up. He couldn't see O'Reilly's body, just part of his arm dangling over the edge of the walkway above. Then Sam's feet went from under him and he was airborne. It wasn't until he had slammed down onto the rig floor and was laying flat on his back, refilling his lungs that he became aware of how calm and peaceful it was.

The realisation was a passing thought. Then he was on his feet and running once more. Someone was already at the foot of the ladder. In too much of a rush, Sam failed to put a name to the face. He simply growled at it and flung the man aside, then started up.

By the time he was climbing out of the guard hoops onto the walkway, he was puffing and wheezing. Paddy was laying half-way along the platform face up, his eyes closed, one arm beneath him and both legs bent at impossible angles. A few short paces and Sam was kneeling beside the derrick man, fumbling for a pulse with a trembling hand. "Don't you die on me," he gasped hoarsely. He couldn't find a pulse. His head went down on Con's chest. "Don't do this, you great, stupid Irish bastard. You don't die until I tell you."

Sam pushed himself up and turned the big Irishman on his side. Plunging fingers into the lacerated, bloody mouth, he tried to clear the air passage. When he had scooped out what he thought to be all of the broken teeth, he rolled the unconscious man onto his back. He hit O'Reilly's sternum with a clenched fist and proceeded to pump the chest rhythmically with both hands and all of his weight. "One, two, three.... Come on, shit-fer-brains, come back." He dived for Paddy's mouth. Holding the nose, he tilted the head back and blew hard into the mouth. Through the blood he could taste liquor. "You sneaky bludger," he panted and went back to the external heart massage. "Drinking on the rig. You could lose your job for this. Come on, come on!" He blew into Con's mouth again, then, went back on the chest. "I'll make a deal - come back so's I can kick your fat arse and I won't say anything. Tell you what - I'll even buy you a drink when we get back to Karratha. Hell, I'll buy you a bloody case. Now come on, for Christ's sake! I'm doing all the work. You could at least help."

Sam was lowering his lips towards the Irishman's mouth for the third time when he felt a waft of warm air rising. He tried again for the pulse. It was there, only faint, but it was there. He sat back on his heels, breathing heavily. "You bastard, O'Reilly." Sam felt both exhausted and elated. He shook his head and chuckled. "You big, stupid, beautiful...." Emotion choked off the rest of his words. He smiled as he watched the steady rise and fall of Paddy's chest. Tears began to roll down Sam's cheeks. He hadn't cried for a long time. Considering the relief he now experienced, he decided it had been too long.