Дэвид Муди - Strangers

‘Listen…’

‘No, laddie, you listen. Barry and I go back a long way. I taught him and most of the men who work in his yard. I’ve never had any problems before, and I don’t understand why I’m having one now. Fence panels, concrete, sand and fence posts . Did you not stop to think? Christ’s sake… how am I to repair a fence if I’ve not got any bloody posts? Should I just balance the bloody fence panels on their side and hope the wind doesn’t blow them over? I mean, come on… it’s not rocket science.’

Scott bit his lip. He’d been warned about this little fucker. He wondered if the blokes at the yard had done this on purpose, screwing up Ken Potter’s order as some kind of fucked-up initiation? Or had they done it to get back at Potter himself? He’d noticed them all muttering to themselves when the order had come through. Ah well, I’ve handled worse. Remember that job in Alvechurch when they set your boots in the concrete…

‘Well?’ Potter demanded. Scott knew he had little option but to take this one on the chin and head back to the yard to get the missing posts.

‘I’ll go and get the rest of the order,’ he said, making little effort to disguise his frustration. ‘I might as well unload what I have for you, then come back. It’ll take about an hour.’

‘I’ll not sign for any of it.’

‘Whatever.’

‘Anything you leave here remains your responsibility until I’ve received everything I’ve ordered, understand?’

‘Loud and clear.’

Scott started to unload the truck, working around Potter who watched him, arms folded, eyes following his every move. No one was going to pinch any of this stuff. As Potter himself had said, what good was a fence without posts? And anyway, there was no one else here. No other houses for miles.

The morning had been going reasonably well until then. He’d had a number of small loads to deliver, all going to folks in locations which seemed to be both miles from the yard and miles from each other. He’d been starting to think that this job, although hopefully only temporary, might not be as bad as he’d originally expected. Out here alone in the truck he had time to think, to try and work everything out. At home there was always something – someone – who wanted something from him, but his time out here was almost his own. His mobile signal dropped regularly and Barry Walpole didn’t believe in satnavs, apparently, so it looked like most of the time it was just going to be him, his maps and the open road. It was surprisingly relaxing. It could have been a lot worse.

The job was way beneath him, though. He’d managed complex projects before now where he’d had to coordinate large numbers of staff and trades to hit specific deadlines, so this was easy by comparison. Getting five bags of sand to one location, then a number of timber joists to the next… it was all straightforward. But one thing had taken him by surprise, and that was the sheer scale of everything. Before they’d come here, he’d imagined Thussock and the surrounding area to be twee and small. The reality was very different. The landscape was immense, unending. This was a vast, sprawling place, often with many miles between communities, sometimes between neighbours. In the half hour or so it had taken him to get to Kenneth Potter’s house from his last drop off, he’d seen only two other cars and a solitary hiker walking along the side of the road. He’d driven along an otherwise empty road which ran along the foothills of a mountain he couldn’t even see the top of. Even the largest landmarks back home would be dwarfed by this enormous mound of rock. It was awe-inspiring, strangely humbling.

The practical differences between this place and Redditch had been hammered home last night when he’d tried to get petrol. It was past ten, and the only filling station in the town had been shut. He’d managed to get online using his phone, and had located another station some thirty-five miles away. He’d probably had enough in the tank to get there, but he’d decided not to risk it. It was strange just how isolated it had made him feel. What if that one was closed too, or what if he got lost and took a wrong turn which led him down another endless road where he might have run out of fuel and ended up stranded? He’d given Michelle the money instead, leaving her with instructions to fill the car up in Thussock later.

When he got back to the yard, Barry Walpole was waiting for him. ‘What the hell’s goin’ on? I’ve had Ken Potter on the phone, tearing a strip off me.’

‘It’s not my fault,’ Scott protested. ‘No good shouting at me. I never loaded the bloody van.’

‘You should ’a checked it ’fore you went out.’

‘It’s my first day. I didn’t know the routine. You should have told me if I was supposed to check the bloody load first. I assumed it would have already been done. What’s the matter with you people?’

‘It’ll be your last day if you don’t bite your lip. You know who you’re talking to?’

‘Yeah, someone who’s accusing me of fucking up when I haven’t. I’ll load the fucking van myself next time.’

‘Next time? You think there’s gonna be a next time after this?’

Scott marched away, ready to leave this power-crazed arsehole and his bumbling staff behind and not look back. Warren blocked his way through. ‘What?’ he yelled. Warren looked past him and at Barry.

‘My fault, Baz.’

‘What?’

‘I said it’s my fault. I got the manifest wrong, not him.’

‘Ya bloody idiot. Get ’em on the truck.’

Scott watched Warren scuttle away then glared at Barry, waiting for an apology that didn’t come.

‘You’ve a quick temper and a foul mouth, Scott. You should fit in nicely here, long as you don’t piss me off. I’ll come with you and make the drop at Ken’s. I’ll phone him now and say we’re on our way. We’ll give him a hand with his fence, make up for the delay.’

Barry returned to his caravan office, leaving Scott alone in the middle of the yard, stunned by the ineptitude of pretty much everyone he’d so far met in Thussock.

The drive back to Potter’s house seemed to take twice as long second time around. Maybe it was the fact Scott knew this trip was unnecessary, or maybe it was just because Barry was with him. Whatever the reason, Scott would have rather done this on his own.

‘Ken’s a good friend, but he’s always been a bit of a bugger,’ Barry said. ‘It’s ’cause he was a teacher. Taught most folks round here, actually. He likes things done jus’ right, know what I’m saying?’

‘I get it,’ Scott said. He could see why he was such good friends with Barry. They were both angry old bastards, both cut from the same cloth.

The goods Scott had delivered earlier were where he’d left them on the verge, but there was no sign of Potter himself. He’d expected him to come charging out of his house again at the sound of the truck’s engine, ready to berate Barry for employing this useless southerner. In fact, he’d half expected him to be out in the road, clock-watching. Scott parked up then waited as Barry marched up to the front of the house and hammered on the porch door. ‘You in, Ken?’

No response. Barry looked back at Scott, then knocked again. When the door remained unanswered, he took a few steps back then peered in through a downstairs window. Scott got out of the truck and stood beside him. ‘No sign?’

‘Daft sod’s probably asleep.’

Scott felt as if he’d found a hole in time, a wormhole letting him stare back into the seventies. Everything about this house was so… antiquated . Yes, that was definitely the right word. He’d had the same feeling when he’d first walked into his own house – the grey house, as Barry had called it yesterday. Paint was peeling from the metal frames of Potter’s windows, no uPVC or double-glazing here. Was it that this place was struggling to keep up with the modern world or, as Scott was beginning to think, was it just not interested in catching up? No one in Thussock was concerned about keeping up with the Joneses. Christ, from here you couldn’t even see the Joneses.