"Has something happened to Fuckwit?" He started to push past.
"Mike, no!"
"Sutcliffe!" He shook Avery's hand from his arm and began to rush towards the crowd. "Eric!" he called. Faces on the perimeter of the group turned. When they saw who it was they parted. Mike barged his way through. "Eric!" he said again as he made it to the centre of the circle.
Someone had the sense to hold Mike back, although at first it was an unnecessary restraint - the man had frozen on the spot, temporarily overcome by shock. He was staring down at a body lying on the floor.
It was Sutcliffe alright, no doubt about it. His clothes were saturated. Water draining from jeans and shirt dripped through the grating on which he lay. Jerry Dennis, the medic, was kneeling beside him and was probably responsible for Sutcliffe's eyes being closed. It was pretty certain they would have been open when he died - wide open. And he would most likely have been screaming too, except no-one would have heard, owing to the lump of raw meat which was stuffed in his mouth.
Dennis was in the process of working it out with his fingers. Once it was free, he slid it clear along the length of nylon fishing line which passed through it and into the dead roustabout’s mouth. Jerry felt around inside. "Oh, Jesus!" he declared. His fingers had just contacted the large hook embedded in Sutcliffe's palate.
Mike had been watching this. It was there for all to see - his mate's dripping body, the line running from his mouth, through the piece of meat and then winding its way beneath the feet of the spectators. He freed himself and pushed men aside so that he could follow the trail of nylon. It didn't go far. Most of it lay in a tangled heap on the catwalk. His eyes skipped over the loops and coils, picking up on the single strand which led straight to the ladder. When he saw how it was tied to the rail and also saw the orange spool sitting close by on the steel decking, he didn't need to be a genius to piece together Sutcliffe's last moments.
Jerry Dennis looked up as movement stirred the crowd once more and a man who was a stranger to him broke through the circle.
Del Presswood stared for a while before introducing himself then he asked: "What's happened here?"
"It appears to be a fishing accident."
"In the moon pool!"
Jerry's eyebrows arched. "Sounds ridiculous, I know, but he was in the water with a hook in his mouth and the line he was apparently using was still tied to the ladder. What do you think?"
"In his mouth!"
"That's what I said, bait and all. Don't ask me how it got there - I'm not a fisherman. He probably got hooked up somehow, then fell in and drowned. It'll need an autopsy to confirm it, of course."
"So, nobody saw it," said Presswood glancing around at the men. "No-one was with him?"
Mike pushed his way back through the gathering of onlookers. "I'm his mate." He knelt down beside the medic, looked at Sutcliffe and sighed. "I wasn't with him, but it's my fault. I kidded the silly fat bastard there was fish in here." He seemed to be taking it well, but then his face contorted with lines of anguish and guilt. "Jesus, Eric, I was only jokin'! You great, stupid fuckwit, it was just a joke!" Mike sat back on his heels and went rigid. He continued to stare down at his mate, breathing like an enraged tethered bull through gritted teeth and distended nostrils.
Jerry tried to raise Mike, but the man refused to budge. "Someone give me a hand," said Jerry. "Take them both to sick bay."
"What about the hook, Doc?" someone asked. "You might need a disgorger." The comment was followed by a few chuckles.
Presswood noticed Mike's body flinch. It was a primer activated by the ill-timed quip, a warning that the situation needed defusing before the grieving oil man gave vent to his pent-up emotions. "Cut that out!" snapped Del. His eyes panned the ring of faces. "I need four men to lend a hand. The rest of you get back to work! The show's over."
Del accompanied Jerry Dennis and his two patients to the sick bay before finally returning to the Company office. Meyer had no doubt been pacing like a caged tiger, but he stopped the instant Presswood entered. "Well?"
Presswood hooked his thumbs in his belt. "What kind of a circus, are you running here, Les?" Meyer opened his mouth to protest, but Presswood didn't give him the opportunity. "Don't bother to answer that - I'll figure it out in due course. Now, where can I find my quarters?"
"You can't go yet!"
"I'm tired."
"But you haven't told me what's going on, what you're doing about it!"
"There's nothing to tell, Les. I don't know what's going on. All I know is that a roustabout called Eric Sutcliffe is dead - possible cause: drowning. Jerry's doing a preliminary examination now. When I have his report, I'll radio town...."
"I'll talk to town," insisted Meyer. "I'm in charge here. Don't overstep your authority, Del."
Presswood shrugged. "Okay, Les, have it your way. If one of us is going to get egg on his face, it might as well be you."
"What do you mean....?"
The intercom buzzed. Meyer tutted then went over and spoke into it. "Les Meyer. What is it?"
"Jerry Dennis in sick bay, Les," said the speaker. "I think you'd better come and take a look at this."
"Just tell me Jerry."
"It would be better if you saw it for yourself. Bring along the new toolpusher. I think he should see it too."
"Okay, Jerry," sighed Les, "But I hope you aren't wasting my time." He headed for the door and glanced sideways at Presswood as he passed, but said nothing.
They were in sick bay in a matter of minutes. Jerry led them over to a cot where Sutcliffe's body lay, still on the stretcher, covered by a sheet. Meyer advanced only so far then hovered in the background. Del said: "What's that awful smell?"
"It's on the body," said Jerry. "Some kind of slime. I don't know what it is, yet. It was on the ladder in the moon pool as well."
"Is that all you brought us here for?" grated Meyer.
"No," replied the medic. "Something else, and I warn you, you won't like it." He stretched out a hand and began to peel back sufficient sheet to reveal his patient's chest. Eric's striped shirt had been unbuttoned, then loosely replaced with the panels overlapping. "Check this out," said Jerry, pulling the shirt-front open.
"Jesus!" said Del.
Meyer gagged.
"I told you, you wouldn't like it."
Del leaned over for a closer look. "Could he have done that himself?"
Jerry shrugged. "I suppose he could have, but how many people do you know could even cut themselves deliberately, never mind self-mutilation on this scale?"
Presswood straightened up. He was unable to take his eyes off the word which had been raked into the flesh of Sutcliffe's chest. "Does it mean anything - 'fuckwit'?"
"Apart from the obvious, I don't know." Jerry covered the chest with the shirt and drew up the sheet. "But
