Meyer straightened. He was like a man who'd just solved a perplexing riddle. "Oh, I see. You think I can't handle it, don't you? Leave him alone, you're thinking, let him blunder around, making mistakes, making a fool of himself."
"Now, does that sound like me, Les?"
Meyer moved in close. "It sounds exactly like you, Del! And you can forget it. I've got my finger on this button. Nothing happens on board Olympian without my say-so. You've got a problem - you come to me!"
Del made a circle with his finger and thumb. "Wilco, chief. Any sign of trouble and you'll be the first to know." Meyer was nodding but was still finding it hard to believe. "Oh, by the way, where can I find Jack Pierce," Del asked casually.
A cloud descended over the Company man's complexion. "Pierce - what do you want with him?"
"Hey, don't look so worried. It's personal, Les. Just want to talk about a mutual friend."
"Oh." Meyer relaxed slightly. "That's alright, then. He'll either be at the divers' shack or down by the moon pool. If he's not in either of those places, you'll have to ask around."
"Thanks, I will." Del sauntered towards the door. "I guess I'll see you later, Les."
"Just a minute! Don't you want a run-down on the operation?"
Presswood stopped and shrugged. "What for? You seem to have everything under control. I'm obviously here on a need-to-know basis and as far as you're concerned I don't need to know anything. So, I thought I'd settle in, then go and have a chat with Jack. Where's my room, by the way__?"
The door flew open and a man rushed in. His face was flushed and he was puffing and panting. “__moon pool," he gasped, his arm flapping vaguely at the doorway behind him. "It's Sutcliffe! He's dead!" His brief message delivered, he stood there, breathing heavily, staring at Meyer, waiting for instructions or at the very least, a positive reaction.
Les responded by turning white. The only parts of him that moved were his hands which had begun to clench and unclench in a manner which had become so typical of him as to be almost a trademark. His eyes were wide and glassy Presswood stared at him. "Well? Any suggestions?"
"I - yes, I...." He directed a confused look at the man in the doorway. "Dead, did you say?"
"Jesus!" spluttered the man in exasperation. "Isn't someone going to do something?"
"Les?" urged Presswood quietly.
Meyer shook himself. He had begun blinking furiously. "Who is this Sutcliffe? What does he do?"
"He can't do fuck all now!" growled the messenger. "He used to be a roustabout."
Meyer's head snapped around and his eyes fixed on Presswood. "He's one of yours, Del. This is your problem. You're the toolpusher."
Presswood was aware of two pairs of eyes burning into him. He concentrated on Meyer's. "You said if I had a problem I should come to you. Well, I have and I'm here. How would you like me to handle it?"
Meyer was now shuffling around on the spot, hands and eyelids working overtime. "What are you asking for, carte blanche? This is your responsibility. Just fix it, for Christ's sake!"
"Okay, Les, I will." Presswood turned to the man and nodded. "Take me there. Has someone called the medic?"
"Jerry's there already."
"Good. At least someone's showing some initiative. Come on." He began to follow the man out, then paused in the doorway and turned. Les was now sweating profusely. Del pointed directly at him. "I'll remember this, Les. You can count on it!"
4
Mike felt better with some food inside him. When he got back onto the rig floor, the first thing he did was look for Sutcliffe. There was no sign of him and that annoyed Mike. It was one thing to befriend a brainless dill because no-one else would give him the time of day, yet quite another to be his nursemaid. He left the floor before Sam Gault noticed him and made his way to the moon pool which was the last place he'd seen Fuckwit.
He was surprised at the crowd that had gathered on the catwalk beside the pool and was approaching with a frown when Len Avery stepped right in front, barring his way. "You don't want to see this, Mike," he warned.
"How the fuck do you know what I want, Len?" He leaned aside and peered past Avery. "What's going on?"
"Let them handle it, Mike. There's nothing you can do."
It was personal, that was obvious from Avery's tone, but Mike couldn't relate the situation to himself, not unless it had something to do with.... "Sutcliffe?" he asked incredulously. "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