the ladder. He whipped a few turns of line around the hand-rail and tied it securely. "Mike'd go spacko if he saw me. 'Don't tie it off, you fuckin' moron,'" He mimicked with a chuckle. "'What you gonna do if it runs?'" He beamed. "Ain't gonna run Mike, not 'less it takes the fuckin' ladder with it."
He pulled the line up and down a few times to excite the bait then held it still with the nylon draped over his crooked index finger. "Come on, you big sod. Let's show Mike how a fuckwit can catch fish."
2
Liz had been on Del's mind for the entire trip. Apart from regrets concerning his young son, he had thought of little else. Then as the Sikorsky was easing down onto the pad, he happened to look out at the waiting faces and one in particular caused his euphoria to split wide open.
The face was older now and may even have appeared wiser to the un-initiated, but a pile of shit was still a pile of shit, even after five years. That was how long it must have been since he'd locked horns with Meyer and from what he'd heard on the grapevine, Les was an even bigger bastard now than he had been then. Jumping feet first onto Olympian might not be as advantageous as he'd imagined after all.
Del was the third man out. As he stepped onto the pad, most eyes were glued to him, not because he was the new toolpusher, but because no-one had been expecting a man with so many lumps and bruises on his face. Meyer seemed eager to take a closer look and bustled his authoritative way through the crowd to Presswood. He made sure he halted two metres away, providing himself with a margin of safety, and grinned slyly. "I heard you were having problems." When Presswood merely responded with a sigh, he figured it was safe to move closer and shake hands, which was, after all, the civilised thing to do.
Del watched the hand extending towards him. It wasn't a display of friendship. More likely the entire show was a political statement for the benefit of the crew: here's your new toolpusher being greeted by his boss. Understand that - his BOSS! Del took the hand and tried to hold his feelings at bay. "G'day, Les. Been a long time."
"Too long, Del. Good to see you. Here." He began to reach down for Del's travel bag. "I'll take one of those for you."
It was like - hey, guys, look: Les Meyer's not too proud to carry a man's case for him, even one who's just gone fifteen rounds with his wife and lost. Del beat him to it. "I can manage thanks." He glanced around, searching for the man he was replacing. When he thought he recognised Bromley, he went towards him. "Doug?"
Bromley smiled and came to meet Presswood half-way. "Glad you could make it at such short notice, Del." He shook Presswood's hand. "Really glad." He frowned at the mess that decorated his replacement's face. "Are you going to be okay?"
Del touched the swelling beside his eye demonstratively. "I've had worse, but thanks anyway for the concern. Listen, Doug, I know you want to get off, but could we have a quick word? I won't keep you." He was aware of Meyer's obnoxious presence bustling up right behind him, so when Bromley agreed to the request, Del started to lead him to a quiet spot on one side of the helipad. Meyer stuck like glue. Presswood turned and smiled. "Why don't you carry on, Les? I'm sure you've got plenty to do. I'll catch up with you." Then, before Meyer could find an excuse to hang around, he added: "Oh, stick these in my room on the way through, would you?" He held his out his travel bag and gave the suitcase a kick.
Meyer took them reluctantly. "I'll see you in my office - when you can find the time," he rasped sourly, then turned and struggled off the pad with the baggage.
Bromley watched Meyer's back. "I won't be sorry to get that creep out of my hair. I gather you've met before."
"You could say that." Del looked the other toolpusher square in the face. "Anything I should know?"
Bromley glanced across at the helicopter which was already loading for the return trip. "I don't think I've got that long and you'll find out for yourself soon enough." He dropped his voice to a whisper. "What I will tell you, though, is that there's something not right here. Maybe it's the rig, maybe this hole, maybe it's just me; but the accidents, the vibrations, and that diver going missing - it's really weird."
A shiver ran down Del's spine. "What diver? No-one mentioned anything. What was his name?"
"Eddie MacFarlane."
The sudden roaring of blood in Del's ears blanked out whatever else Bromley was saying. He wasn't sure if he might not be on the verge of passing out, the psychological overload was so critical. MacFarlane this, MacFarlane that - Eddie was beginning to rule his life! Did John Stanley know about his connection with Eddie when he fixed the transfer? Had Agnes got to him, too? What the hell was going on?
Bromley was staring at him. "Del, are you okay?"
Presswood shook himself out of it. He nodded. "Tired, I guess. Probably delayed jet-lag, or something. What can you tell me about MacFarlane?"
At that point, a voice called from the doorway of the waiting Sikorsky. "Come on, Doug! We're wasting good drinking time!"
Bromley's eyes panned the surrounding deck and found Pierce walking off with his replacement divers - one for Eddie and another for Kenny Pratt. "Look, I hate to dump it on you like this, Del, but I've got to go. Talk to Jack Pierce, the diving super." It had been Doug's intention to point out Pierce to Presswood, but the man had apparently been in a hurry and had already gone below. He glanced quickly at the waiting helicopter, then seized Del's hand and shook it once more. "A bit of free advice, Del - watch your back: something funny's going on here."
"Funny?"
Doug was already moving towards the chopper. He glanced over his shoulder. "Just watch it, okay?"
Presswood's gaze followed Bromley across the pad. He envied the man for a moment. Then he felt betrayed. When these emotions had passed, he was left with the crawling, cancerous fear often experienced with loneliness and isolation. The feeling intensified as the helicopter took off and began to pick up speed and Del was unsure why this should be so.
Then he was gazing past the chopper to the far horizon and this in particular seemed to magnify the ache. It couldn't be just the mainland that he was missing, surely? Not Karratha either, nor Australia as a whole: men like Presswood stayed places; they didn't belong to them.
It was Liz, he decided after he had cleared away the deadwood. Suddenly, the fleeting relationship which had once seemed an answer to almost everything was now starting to rear up as his biggest mistake yet. Two nights they had spent together, only a few short hours, but the memory of them was pulling at him like a great emptiness inside. Why in God's name hadn't he just spent his leave in a bus shelter? What are you, Presswood, he jeered - bloody stupid? Didn't you realise what it would be like to leave something that precious behind?
He was still gazing out at the vast emptiness and didn't hear the man come up beside him, just his voice: "On a clear day you can see fuck all."
Del frowned. The sentiment was inconsistent with his thoughts, but, by the same token, it said it all. He glanced across his shoulder at a stocky, weather-beaten man. "That's enough for some people."
"And are you one of them?"
Del shrugged. "I'm not really into philosophy, just oil."
"Me, too." The man offered his hand. "Sam Gault - driller. And you're the new toolpusher."
"Del Presswood." Del took the hand. It was infinitely more sincere, more human than Meyer's.
Sam
