Ross Raisin - Waterline

I didn’t tell your brother I was coming down here. It all came about so quick to be honest but I will do when it’s the right time, so you’re no to put the mix in, okay? He’s dealing with things in his own way and he’s the better left alone until he’s ready, so I’m waiting my time just before I tell him what’s what. Same as I was with you, being honest, Robbie, I just needed to wait while I had things fixed out until contacting you. It’s just it needs a bit longer with your brother.

I will write again soon, I promise. With where the hotel is, it’s probably easier than calling, but when I’ve got my day off next I will go find a telephone and I’ll call you.

Take care, son, love to the family,

Your da

He seals up the envelope and fishes the address out of his wallet. It’s a fair pathetic effort but what else can he say? Whatever he puts it doesn’t change anything, and as well if he’d been in contact with him sooner and given him the full run-down, Robbie would’ve been straight onto the plane, knowing what like he is. Nay point telling him it all the now. He is fine, that’s all he needs to know. He’d thought about putting in about the stolen steaks or the housekeepers’ dispute, but it didn’t feel right; plus he wouldn’t want him getting the wrong idea why he’s got involved helping them.

He goes to the post office at the terminal on his next day off and gets the letter sent off there. Better that than seeing if the hotel’s got its own service. You can fine well imagine the crafty bint up the stair, there with her envelope steamer, weeding out the radicals. So, the food’s no good, then — that what you think, is it? We’ll see about that, Scottie, we’ll just have to see about that, won’t we?

There is a meeting called for four o’clock one afternoon. By the time he and Eric get there after the lunch shift it is already under way, and they go and join Dia, beckoning them over at the back of the room by the oven. The ringleader is talking in English about a new development. The management, she says, have started putting out more spies on the floors, so what the housekeepers are doing is they’ve fixed out a system of lookouts, making sure there’s always one of them keeping watch at the end of the corridors to signal when a bandit is on the approach. She tells this story that happened: a few days ago two of them are trying one of the doors with no reply, when they get the signal from the lookout and they hurry into the room, presuming it’s empty. Inside but, there is a guy in the bare scuddy doing exercises in front of the TV. She does an impression of him, his face black-affronted, hands shooting down to cover himself.

They are all laughing at this story when the operations manager comes in the door.

She stands, looking at them.

‘Every person in this room faces instant dismissal.’

She’s no beating about the bush, then.

Silence. Confused faces. She’s got the heavy team with her, two big fellas stood either side of the door, and another man in a suit beside her.

‘Unauthorized meetings and organization of staff without consent is in breach of the terms of your employment, and is an immediately sackable offence.’

She stands there just, the arms folded, triumphant, the Iron fucking Lady there with her mince for brains bodyguards — Haggis 1 and Haggis 2. The terms of your employment? What are they, well? He certain hasn’t seen them. Nobody moves. Not even the ringleader. She’s still stood on her chair, looking exposed and daft like a schoolwean who’s been caught goofing about by the teacher walking in. Everybody’s waiting for who’s going to do something, and it’s clear enough the operations manager isn’t in a hurry, the look on her face — she’s enjoying it, you can tell. The guy in the suit next to her scanning about the room and marking onto a notepad — their names, obviously, however he knows what they are. Mick stays watching like the rest of them. It hasn’t hit him that something real is happening.

There is a loud scurl from up on the chair and the ringleader steps down — she is marching toward the door and the haggismen sidestep together, but then the operations manager moves forward and the two women come at eyeballs.

‘It is not a meeting. How do you know it is meeting?’

The arms still folded. Smiling.

‘You sack us, then you have no staff.’

She’s pishing in the wind but, and the Milk Snatcher there knows it. ‘You can let me worry about that.’ She motions to the haggismen to unblock the door. ‘Those of you who are supposed to be working tonight’ — and she looks right at where Mick is stood with the KPs — ‘you will not be required to complete your shifts. All of you can remain in the hotel for the night but you will be required to leave the premises in the morning by 9 o’clock.’

And that’s that. Show over. They start filing out the room, slow, quiet, automatic, like at the lunatic. The haggismen itching for it to kick off, and the suit guy getting the final names down. There is the sound of the ringleader arguing behind them as they get into the corridor, and then, one by one, they each disappear into their rooms. With the staff room out, there isn’t anywhere else to go.

He is laid on the bed and the brain is dreiched over. A chapping on the door. Dia. He comes in, calm as ever; cheery even. He perches on the table as Mick sits up on the edge of the bed.

‘Don’t suppose there’s anything we can do, eh?’

Dia shakes his head slowly, tutting.

‘Who’s working now?’ A stupit question. What does it matter? It doesn’t.

‘Vincent. Obi is in the café bar, so it is only him.’ Dia grins. ‘He will have a busy shift. They say they will leave as well but I tell them, no, stay. Why go? They were not at the meeting. Why go? So now they will stay.’

‘What about you, Dia? What will you do?’

‘I sign again with the agency. They find work easily because they take all the money.’ He laughs. ‘And the hotel, they go to the agency as well. Maybe they take me again, who knows?’

Mick smiles, and he realizes then this is probably the last he’ll see of Dia. Unless he signs with the agency himself, of course, but even the brief thought of that starts curdling the stomach.

‘And you? What will you do?’

There’s no reason to lie to Dia but he feels instantly on the defensive. He hasn’t let himself think about that.

‘I’m fine. It’s no a problem.’ And then: ‘There’s someone I know telt me he’s got a job going if I want it.’

Dia nods. ‘That is good.’ He stands up and steps forward with his hand held out.

‘Good luck.’

‘And yourself, Dia, good luck to you too.’

He must’ve slept a little, because it is morning, almost six, when he wakes up, still dressed. He goes to the wardrobe and gathers up the rest of his clothes into his bag, and that’s him, offski. Nobody in the corridor, or up on the next level, as he leaves into the cold dim dawn outside the fire exit. Without much of a thought where he’s headed, he goes toward the terminal.

‘Well, ladies and gents, I’m still waiting for the signal at Hatton Cross. Should be any moment, I’m told, but that’s what they said last time so your guess is probably as good as mine. Still time to sit back then, relax, read the paper, do your thing. I’ll keep you posted.’

A funnyman, the driver. They’re no laughing but. There is a business type sat opposite, shaking his head at the chummy patter that keeps crackling over the tannoy. So what, ye miserable cunts, we’re no going anywhere, what difference does it make? See but if he had somewhere himself he was headed, maybe he’d be the same. Genuine a strange feeling. He does not know where he is headed. Unlike all these lot, late for their meetings and that — or maybe they aren’t, who knows, maybe your man over there is just acting it, and actually all he’s got in that briefcase he’s finger-tapping on the now is a packet of sandwiches and a litre bottle of Buckfast.