* The sound of a 24 station supermarket checkout of mechanical tills running at capacity, as they always did on Saturdays, had to be experienced to be believed. You could feel the incessant clanking clamour through your guts!
Peddle nodded and they left him giggling to himself and at the same time vainly trying to remove the grease from his palm with an already grimy rag.
"You know that bloke who works at the paper take-off on the other side of the conveyor?"
"Which one?" Peddle held open the door which led from the Plant Building to the car park.
"The big black man they call Mohammed the Miserable. Well, why do they call him that?"
"You are in a mood for Plant gossip today aren't you. You don't know the story of Mohammed?"
"No I don't. Why do they call him that?" he repeated.
"It's quite a saga, equally as powerful as the history of the Franchise. If it had happened in biblical times they would have made it into a parable."
Dave was intrigued. The scowling giant who performed his anonymous function on the far side of the conveyor, midway between the paper take-off and a large blue fire extinguisher generated such an aura of hostility and bleak gloom to the world around him that the workforce kept their distance, adding a sense of isolation to his forbidding presence. He reminded Dave of his own schoolboy image of the Ancient Mariner. Tall, gaunt and stooping beneath the terrible, crushing weight of that unseen albatross around his neck, his blackness was accentuated by the gleaming whiteness of the boiler suit which was the uniform of the servants of the Plant. He never spoke. Indeed, he had never been seen to smile or even twitch those inscrutable features into any kind of expression which another might have interpreted as a sign of humanity concealed behind the mask of his countenance. Only his smouldering eyes gave any hint of the terrible fires which burned inside him.
"He wasn't always like he is now" continued Peddle as they strolled across the car park in the direction of the canteen, "in fact, he was quite the life and soul of the Plant, would you believe? His downfall came about because he used to do the pools in a little threesome with Dan's previous oppo. and young Bernie over in the inspection bay. Used to do an any - eight -from - thirteen perm., same numbers each week, the usual sort of thing people do - cost 20 1/2 pence each and I suppose that's quite cheap for a dream of heaven. Would have gone on like that, I expect, except that the other two got ambitious and went in for one of the big perms - they called 'em 'Lit Plans' or some such nonsense. It worked out to œ1.50 a share. Mohammed wasn't prepared to pay, big family to feed, reckoned he couldn't afford it. Don't suppose he could, come to that. Life can be pretty cruel at times..."
"Don't tell me..."
"The other two put up the extra 75p each and the very first week it hit the jackpot. œ224 000!"
"Poor bastard!"
"Too right. You try living with that on your mind. Well, of course, there was a mighty binge and the lads left to go on a world cruise. It wasn't until everybody surfaced from the biggest hangover the Works has ever known that they became aware of Mohammed, still in their midst. He was inconsolable. There was nothing they could do. They tried everything, even offered him the Franchise but he just withdrew behind those eyes and there he remains to this day."
Dave shuddered involuntarily. Peddle opened the canteen door and a gust of cigarette-perfumed air greeted them. George, as expected, was at the top table, holding forth to his crew about the criminal waste of time and money that experimental runs were. The men occasionally nodded agreement over their newspapers which was all that he required of them. It was a monologue they all knew by heart.
"I thought I'd find you here" remarked Dave as he sat down with his tea.
"You should be round the other side now that Mr Folklore's given you the nod." (Dave had been invited to join the Executive Dining Room, first sitting at the height of the euphoria generated by the Project).
"I don't care for the company. Have you ever seen Folklore at the trough? Folklore with a sirloin steak is actually worse than Dan with a bacon butty!"
Dan, at the other end of the table hastily ingested the last mouthful and defensively raised his open copy of the 'Sun' between them. Chomping sounds continued to drift over the top for a short while, followed by a final sounding swallow. He had reached page three and was therefore on schedule according to Dik's frequently expounded theory that the editor must be an ex Work Study Man and the layout of the paper was set up accordingly.
Breakfast: Eyes barely open, hangover from last night's beer still pressing on his skull. The large black headlines keep the optical brightness within reasonable bounds while his political education is provided.
Morning teabreak: Spirits flagging with the prospect of a long run to lunchtime. He has only to turn the page to find the naked nymph and need look no further (this policy could not have anticipated the Franchise affair. The men stopped buying papers then).
Dinnertime: After a plate of greasy something and chips there is time to linger over a fag or two while cantering gently through the mixture of advertisements, cartoon strips and other irrelevancies in time to reach the sports pages and get their bets on for the afternoon's racecard.
He was leaning over the conveyor sidewall. Behind him was Pat, then Grey and at the console end, Folklore. Beyond them, on the control platform, George occupied his seat and Pete was standing by. Peddle was at the top of the stairs and Dan and his oppo. down below. It was 11.30 and there seemed to be no further excuse to avoid starting up. The Fans smashed into life, respirators were clamped to faces, the conveyor jerked forward and a thick flood of compound poured on to the belt and flowed up against the starter block.
"Run 224, here we go!" he mused. "£155 a minute. Works out to about £2.60 a second. I only hope they know what they're doing! Seems smoother than usual, George got used to it at last? - he's only had 223 goes at it so far. £2.60 a second! I wish I'd never worked that one out, sort of statistic that sticks in the mind."
"135 seconds. I told Peddle to give it five minutes. Looks smooth enough. Hello! Could be a colour change. George farting about? Imagination? No! It's definitely a bit darker. £2.60 a second!"
"It is wrong. Shut it down? No - wait! Check first, they'll say you did it out of spite otherwise." He peeled away his respirator and leaned over towards Pat. "Something looks wrong. Got to check - can you move up?"
Pat nodded and squeezed himself against the sidewall so that Dave could squirm past him. Grey, observing the exchange, leaned over towards Pat. "What did he say?" he bellowed.
"Why don't you ask him?"
"What did you say to Pat?"
(For God's bloody sake! £2.60 a second!) "LET ME BY! SOMETHING'S WRONG" he elbowed Grey into the sidewall, only to have his progress blocked by the looming bulk of Folklore's body. He lifted aside his respirator and shouted into Grey's ear. "What's happening?"
"Something wrong. Let Dave by."
"What?"
"Take off your earmuffs you fucking twit!" screeched Dave, hopping from foot to foot in frustration.
"Lucky for you he didn't hear" yelled Grey as Folklore leaned in between them in a vain attempt to lipread. He reached out a long arm and twitched the headphones from Folklore's skull.
"Let him by!"
"Move aside!", Grey and Dave screamed simultaneously, drowning each other in a babble of discord which the Fans whipped away into the background of their own pre-eminent sonority.
"Why did you do that? What's the matter? Does Dave want something?"
(I'll shit myself in a minute!)
"LET HIM BY!"
"MOVE OVER!"
"One at a time, please!"
"Oh, for God's SAKE!" He was actually crying. He dropped his respirator on the floor and jumped on it. "FIRE!" he screamed. "FIRE! FOR FUCK'S SAKE, FIRE!"
"Where?"
"Oh, never mind, let it bloody well burn!" and with that, he lowered his he
ad and charged past to the freedom of the console. The clock read 179 seconds.
He picked up the fault in an instant. The flame retardent dial had fallen to zero and Pete was busy with a creased paper feed. He banged George none too gently on the back and flapped his arms from side to side. George took one glance at his expression and dived for the console. Three seconds later, only the Fans were left running.
"What will happen? Peddle was at his side.
"Not sure. Almost certain to catch fire, though. Best to run it off into the yard, if we have time."
"If!" As he spoke, the foam collapsed into a writhing mass of compound on the belt and began to smoke ominously. They joined the row of bodies leaning over the side and George elbowed in between with a fire extinguisher, banged it down on top of the sidewall and proceeded to spray water over the hot material as little spurts of flame began to erupt from numerous places on the surface, faster than he could contain them, growing rapidly as the Fans drew their intense draught over them.
A black shadow loomed on the far side. Behind his respirator, Mohammed took in the scene. Beside him was the big, blue fire extinguisher. He lifted it on to the sidewall and, as they watched him mutely, unable to communicate above the roar of the Fans, he aimed the nozzle straight across with one large, gloved hand, while the other banged down on the firing knob. In an instant of time, the whole world turned white. In a state of total white-out Dave felt as though his whole being was suspended within the all embracing, mind crushing cacophany of the Fans for what seemed an eternity, but was actually only a few seconds until a swirl of visibility presaged the sudden and total restoration of sight as the incredible suction removed every trace of powder.
Beside him Peddle, Pat, Grey and Folklore stood, like himself, completely white from the waist upwards, Folklore's suit divided from impeccability into nothingness by a ruler- straight line just below his third waistcoat button. As the Fans swept away a final wisp of white smoke, Mohammed took off his respirator and stared across at them while they stared back and the remnants of the experiment burned unheeded between them.
For maybe half a minute they stood thus, shocked motionless until a flicker of something flitted across Mohammed's face. The fleeting expression overcame his countenance twice more to be followed slowly and magically into a spreading grin which broadened by degrees until it split his features from side to side, exploding finally into a huge guffaw of delight. He became helpless, consumed with great, racking sobs of mirth, one finger pointing forward at the comical figures opposite him, until he sank slowly from sight down the far side of the conveyor, his legs buckling with euphoria induced weakness. His shrieks of merriment could be heard even above the Fans.
Dave looked at Peddle and began to giggle. Peddle clapped a hand to Dave's shoulder and burst forth with a peal of laughter. Pat caught Peddle's eye and began to titter gently. Grey caught the steely, humourless Folklore glare, coughed hastily and suggested a retreat to the office to clean up.
When George came back with Pete and two more extinguishers, he found Pat, Dave and Peddle sitting in a circle on the floor cackling like a flock of hens. Mohammed's cries of extremis still sounded from the far side and the Fan-accelerated fire had become a raging inferno. While he was trying to find words adequate to the situation, the sprinkler system operated, deluging everything with a chilly spray, extinguishing the flames almost instantly, but unfortunately also automatically turning out the fire brigade so that when the first of five appliances arrived on the site it was to find four very wet men, three of them streaked with white, all apparently suffering from some kind of convulsions, sitting beside a heap of soggy, steaming and half burned plastic in the yard. The others had discreetly disappeared from sight.
The debriefing in Folklore's office did not take very long. Dave, sobered up and dried out made a few pointed remarks about too many chemicals and the high probability of supply failure as had happened that morning. His comments were not well received. Folklore frowned his deepest and most thundery frown, Grey studied the ceiling and Pat scrutinised his fingernails.
"We have a duty to translate Pat's improvements on to the Plant. The process must be made to function. We will have to run it again, as soon as Pike can give us run time. Are we all agreed?"
Grey and Pat nodded. Dave shrugged his shoulders.
"Good men, good men!" and the meeting was concluded.
As he drove across the yard on his way home to lunch and the deferred matter of Sainsbury's tills, he passed Mohammed who was trying to ride home on his bicycle but seemed to be having difficulties. He wound down the window to ask if he was alright, their eyes met and a giggling Mohammed was so overcome with mirth that he lost control of the handlebars and crashed into a pile of scrap, falling off to lie chuckling on the ground. Shaking his head, Dave wound up the window and went on his way.
It isn't so much that you lied to him that upset him, it's that he thinks that you owe him your loyalty."
R.B. 1970