‘Give us a chance, Mam. I’ve only just started.’
‘How hard can it be? I could do better myself.’
Yeah, Ronan thought. Maybe you could if you weren’t pissed all the time.
‘Any other earth-shattering news to report?’ she asked, her question dripping with sarcasm.
‘There’s this,’ he said, reaching into his pocket and handing over a piece of paper.
Myra squinted at the squiggles. ‘What is it?’
‘Joey had a second phone. A burner. That’s the number.’
‘And have you tried ringing it?’
‘Course I have. No answer.’
‘So this is also useless.’
Ronan wanted to scream his frustration. ‘Give it back here, then. I’ll keep trying.’
She pulled the paper out of his reach. ‘No, I’ll try it. You’ve obviously got more important things to do, like prancing around town pretending you care about your missing brother.’
‘I’ll see you later, Mam,’ he said, and stormed out before he throttled her.
Reggie Billings felt under-appreciated.
He had gone on a blind date last night. The first since his wife had died. He thought it had gone well until she asked him what he did for a living.
‘So, you dig holes,’ she’d said. ‘And then you put rubbish in them. And then you cover them over?’
And that, in a nutshell, was the problem he always faced. This massively over-simplistic view of what went on at a landfill site.
They just don’t realise the expertise involved, he thought. The science of it. The care for the environment.
They don’t know that you can’t just dig any old hole in the middle of nowhere. The geography has to be right. The right sort of clay to make a base, for one thing. You have to build in a drainage network to remove the leachate. You have to install pipes to siphon off the methane. But you can’t just release gases like that into the atmosphere, oh no. You burn it in a generator to produce electricity. Megawatts of precious power being pumped into the National Grid.
And then there are the schemes to minimise the impact on the surroundings. A system of nets to catch stray litter. Gas guns and even birds of prey to frighten the seagulls and other scavengers away. Baiting and traps for rats and other vermin.
And then there’s the monitoring. The constant testing of the groundwater. The cleaning of it to remove iron and other pollutants before it’s allowed to go off-site.
No, they don’t understand. They don’t appreciate what we do here.
Reggie sighed and ate the last mouthful of his sandwich, then fired up the van assigned to him as foreman. He navigated slowly around the site, inspecting, checking, approving, noting.
Ahead, he saw one of the compactor drivers next to his colossus of a machine, enjoying a cigarette break before crushing the next layer of detritus into oblivion.
Reggie pulled his van in next to the man and got out. ‘Denzil.’
‘Reggie.’
Reggie found a cigarette of his own. Denzil snapped his lighter on and held it out for Reggie. A small but significant gesture of comradeship. They stared out across the sea of rotting garbage as though it concealed sunken treasures. Which perhaps it did.
‘Go out last night?’ Reggie asked.
‘Natch,’ Denzil said. ‘Saturday night, weren’t it? Can’t let the lads down on a Saturday night.’
Reggie felt a stab of irritation. Most of his own Saturday nights now consisted of sitting in front of the television with a microwave meal.
Go on, he thought. Ask me. Ask me what I did last night.
‘What about you?’ Denzil said.
Reggie puffed himself up. ‘Had a date, didn’t I?’
Denzil turned his head slightly. Reggie was convinced he detected a tiny smile of admiration.
‘Oh yeah? You’ve been keeping that quiet. Who is she?’
‘Her name’s Julie. It was a blind date.’
‘Lucky for you, that.’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘That she’s blind.’
Reggie studied the man for signs that he was teasing. Saw nothing. But then Denzil cracked a broad smile.
