Offshore by Lucy Pepperdine Page B

tucked it under a meaty arm, and stepped over
the sill.
    He
screwed up his face in a sour grimace when the overpowering stench
hit him.
    “ Fucking hell! What died in here?”
    In the
airless fug, the underlying pongs of methylated spirits and engine
oil were as roses compared to the acidic throat burning stink which
reminded him of cat piss, rotting meat, and dog shit.
    He
pressed one of a series of switches on the wall at the door and a
single fluorescent tube in the centre of the ceiling flickered into
life, producing a harsh blue-white light sufficient for him to move
about in, but leaving corners and alcoves in deep, intimidating
shadow.
    The rank
smell burned his nose and nipped his eyes. Having previously worked
in hot and putrid swamp, replete with mouldering vegetation and the
decaying corpses of dead animals, this was more than even he could
bear and he took to breathing through his mouth, the foetid air
tasting marginally better than it smelled.
    “ Bloody rats! Filthy buggers!”
    Another
switch operated a powerful extractor fan which whirred into life,
sucking the miasma out and drawing in a draught of fresh air
through the still open door.
    It did a
good job and in a few minutes Lonny could breathe through his nose
without feeling sick. He closed the door but left the fan running
to carry errant wisps of the fragrant smoke he would soon be
producing out of reach of the detectors.
    Dragging
a wooden packing crate from an alcove by the washroom, he sat on
it, balancing the carton on his knees. From it came a smuggled can
of beer, a small metal box, a packet of cigarette papers and a
cheap disposable - and illegal - lighter.
    He
popped the ring on the can and swallowed half its contents in a
series of convulsive swallows, belched, and wiped his mouth with
the back of his hand.
    Another
quaff and he set the can on the floor beside him. He then took the
metal box and carefully prised it open, taking a deep appreciative
inhalation of its densely packed contents.
    As the
sweet sweaty scent of his tobacco marijuana mix reached the back of
his nose his ears picked up a sound behind him - a soft, muffled
scratching, like nails on wood. He froze and listened closely, his
entire attention concentrated on identifying the sound.
    There it
was again. A barely there skittering. The hated rats, or someone in
the room with him?
    Had one
of his workmates followed him down to spy on him; to deprive him of
his little pleasures?
    He
snapped the box closed.
    Let them
try.
    Without
moving his head he tracked his gaze over the adjacent workbench and
the tools lying on the shelf beneath it. He immediately picked out
the unmistakable shape of a Stillson adjustable pipe wrench. A big
one too.
    On the
pretence of accidentally dropping the box, he lowered himself to
his knees and shuffled the three feet to the bench, wrapped his
hand around the handle of eighteen inches and five kilograms of
forged steel, and eased it out.
    With it
snug against the palm of his hand, his long legs unfolded, he drew
himself to his full height, tool in hand. Another soft scratching;
a little louder this time. Back rigid, he turned to face the
direction of the sound, ears keen, eyes trained on the patch of
gloom in front of him. He took a step forward, peering into the
shadow, the wrench now raised like a club ready to
strike.
    “ Who’s there? Show yourself.”
    He
screwed up his eyes as if it would sharpen his focus on an area of
shadow somewhat darker than the rest.
    “ Is that you Reynolds, you prick? Come out where I can see
you proper.”
    Silence.
    “ Come out Reynolds, else I’ll come in after you and then
you’ll be sorry.”
    A murky
patch within the shadow shifted, quivered, and then shrank back
into the dark with what sounded like a sigh.
    Lonny
stood stock still, his damp hand rigid around the wrench, ready to
defend himself against imminent attack. His tense jaw twitched as a
bead of cold sweat rolled down his temple.
    “ Last chance,