 
Chapter 1

A green light glowed in the darkness and small bubbles fluttered through the glass dial. All was calm in this tiny corner of Global Molasses. The clock on the wall ticked on inexorably towards 3am. The panel lights flickered lazily in the gloom. Jim Goodale snored gently in his makeshift armchair. This was his tenth shift on the trot but he could have done the same again. Had he been at home the delectable Mrs Goodale would have him up a ladder or lying on his back stripping and scraping in her interminable quest for domestic perfection. But here in his own environment he was happy. It was 1977 and Jim earned more money than the prime minister but was barely literate. He was largely unaware that he was a lucky product of the strange phenomenon at this time in history that the working class could earn the same if not more than many middle class professionals. Had Jim had the nous to realise, which he did not, this fortuitous situation was about to become history - the wind of change about to scatter weeds on his immaculate lawn, but at this precise moment he was blissfully unaware.

The peace was suddenly shattered by the piercing ring of an alarm bell. Jim shot up in his chair and staggered drunkenly towards the door. He was a short man, stocky in his youth but now positively turned to fat and the effort of his rude awakening and subsequent physical exertion was making him wheeze. As he reached for the door it miraculously opened and there stood the impressively bulky form of charge hand Dave Priestly.

"You fucking useless piece of shit...you've done it again!....That's the third time this week you've had that tank over!"

"...I'm...er...sorry...I must have nodded off for a minute!" stammered Jim

"A minute...a fucking minute..more like 5 fucking hours!"

The encounter, as usual, was taking more out of the long-suffering charge hand than his recalcitrant underling. Jim's job and, as it turned out, his only job that evening had been to oversee the gradual filling of a ten thousand gallon tank over the space of 6 hours then switch over to the next one with the casual flick of a switch within easy reach of his chair. Only, of course, he hadn't... six cans of special brew and a curry had contributed heavily to his present state of lethargy. This was his job...this was what he did for a living. A five year old child or a trained monkey could have done this, possibly with their eyes shut! But it was too much for Jim and it would probably now go down on his long disciplinary record containing just 3 entries repeated countless times over the years: "drinking alcohol", "asleep" or "tank spillage" but this was the way he lived his life – permanently at work in his safe, comfortable, stress-free environment whilst his wife frittered away the money on conservatories, bidets and summer houses in her constant bid to let the world know she had now risen above her lowly roots - a plan scuppered by the notion that stone cladding was classy on a terraced house! Jim lived in the fear, as did a fair proportion of his colleagues, of reaching retirement and finding he could not cope with the physical and mental punishment this entailed; DIY projects, shopping trips, weekends away, holidays, grandchildren running wild! After a cosseted existence at Global Molasses many did not survive more than five years of this torture!

As Jim was receiving his bollocking the two men became aware of a noise behind them. The contents of the tank had discovered the overflow pipe on the next level. Coming down the stairs towards them, seemingly in slow motion was a molten lava flow of semi-crystallised white sugar. At last Jim flicked the switch over to the empty tank but the damage had been done. The molten sugar was unstoppable and filled every nook and cranny of the factory. Its seemingly living tendrils seeking out the gaps under the stairs, the spaces under tanks and every crevice of the hapless crew gathered together to clean up the mess. It was possible three weeks after such an event to idly scratch behind the ear and find a rock hard lump of sugar that numerous showers in between had failed to address. The flow reminded Dave of an episode of Dr Who he had once seen involving an alien being that took the form of such a mass - a giant amoeba consuming everything in its path. But rather than use superior intellect to thwart the powers of evil it would be three days of relentless hosing down to return the plant to its former state.

And so to a certain extent this was the way Global Molasses ran. Jim and Dave's exchange in a small corner of the factory repeated in various forms and variations in different locations across the plant as a whole. Each department was separate, grossly over-manned and no one had any idea what happened to their product when it was passed onto the next stage or what anybody else actually did. Indeed, this was the situation across the country in many similar industries like car manufacture, oil refining and power generation. But the bubble was about to burst. The post war boom was about to end. Modernisation was the new buzzword and the lives of Jim, Dave and thousands like them around the country was going to change...maybe not immediately but within ten years this way of working would be consigned to history.

Chapter 2

An institution such as Global Molasses throws together a mixture of people and characters that would otherwise probably not associate with each other. This would be fine had the work been interesting, fulfilling, physically demanding or mentally taxing...but in this era it was none of those things and people had time on their hands. One of the wise old sages Sam Tayler, a union representative who conducted himself in disciplinary tribunals with all the panache of a high court barrister, had a selection of witty aphorisms pertaining to life in general.

"When money is involved there will always be corruption...when men and women are together there will always be shagging!"

And thus it came to pass at Global Molasses. Financial disputes over overtime and gambling debts were resolved at midnight in the car park. Love interest was to be found in the girls from the canteen or from the foreign young ladies residing on the feedstock boats that lined the jetty. To pass the time when not engaged in activities of a fiscal or sexual nature the men would indulge themselves in alcohol abuse. Weekend nights were the most popular shifts. After clocking on on a Saturday a skeleton staff would be left to keep the plant running and everyone would repair to a local hostelry, drink themselves to a standstill then stagger back to work via the curry house to eat, sleep or imbibe more beer. The only semblance of normality occurred during the weekday dayshift when management were present and such behaviour was frowned upon. These managers made the mistake of thinking their workers ignorant rather than uneducated. Jim Goodale may have had trouble spelling or writing his own name but could tell you the status of his part of the plant before entering the building. Just by listening he could tell what was running, what was shut down and which piece of equipment was not going to last the shift. This last point was all important as to get through your own working day doing as little as possible and leaving as much as possible to the next shift was the be all and end all of life at Global Molasses. For example Jim had not taken a lab sample for many months. Why take a random sample that could be found to be wanting by the men in white coats and require corrective action when you just wait to find one that met with all their requirements then fill up a couple of drums and you had your quality checks for the next 6 months! Managers were by and large unaware of the lengths the men would go to in order to avoid any form of physical activity. They were more inclined to be concerned with clamping down on sickness which wasn't really a problem for the simple reason that to take a day off for most of the men would entail more effort than actually coming to work. But if a particular DIY job had to be done or someone offered you a "nice little earner" for a few days then it was considered better to take the time off sick rather than use holiday. Then at least you were being paid for this unaccustomed exertion and holidays could be saved for going away. This scenario was the starting point for one of Sam Tayler's greatest triumphs.

Presiding over the whole disparate crew at GM was the works manager - a fiery Aussie who had achieved much of note in his life and could have been recognised for any number of contributions for the good of mankind. However, due to an unfortunate event in his early adult life when he had been caught in flagrante with one of his father's flock of Romney Marshes, he was destined, predominantly but not always behind his back, to be known as sheep shagger Sean. Sean Davies had fled to Europe on the back of such taunts only for a roaming backpacker to spill the beans one night at the bar of The Admiral Nelson in the ear of Sam Tayler when he should have been cleaning filters with Jim. This had led to a running battle of wits with Sean over the years. Now Sean was convinced Sam was actually painting his house whilst off sick, a suspicion aroused by the mysterious disappearance of three gallons of emulsion destined for the warehouse and measures had been taken to catch him red handed.

Arthur Chambers, the Personnel Officer, a man of advanced years eking out his final few years before his retirement in a cushy job in admin was press-ganged, after a mysterious, muffled phone call tipped him off, into spying on Sam at home, a short walk away from the factory. Far from trying to keep a low profile Sam was to be found half way up a ladder belting out Harry Secombe at the top of his voice. Alarm bells should have rung in Arthur's ear...but they did not!

"If I ruled the world....."

"Hello Sam – you're really taking the piss this time!"

"....every day would be the first day of spring!..Oh hello Arty..what do you mean?"

"..er..well everyone knows you're off sick"

"Ok..so what are you going to do?"

Arthur was wary of Sam and had expected a denial or at least an argument

"Well...er...I'm going to have to report back to Mr Davies...I'm sorry!"

"Ok then Arty..you do as you see fit – no hard feelings"

Arthur took his leave but couldn't help feeling he had missed something.

And so the scene was set. The disciplinary hearing was arranged for the next day. Head office had sent down a selection of bigwigs sensing blood and they sat there in their suits on one side of the large desk in the boardroom, supercilious smirks on their faces. Sam was allowed to be represented even though he was a rep himself and chose to have Jim sit in with him. It was a serious occasion as Sam already had three written warnings. He was, by and large, careful not to be caught in the act of drinking, falsifying lab sample documents or being AWOL from his post but by the law of averages it was an occupational hazard he had learned to live with. An extra warning this time however was grounds for dismissal. Sam seemed incredibly relaxed – even to the extent of visibly enjoying the whole affair and Arthur sitting on the other side of the table felt the same feeling of unease as before.

Sean began the proceedings and a shy young secretary took notes. The Personnel Manager Chris Nugent was also present.

"Well Tayler. To get straight to the point Arthur here says that he witnessed you up a ladder yesterday afternoon painting the outside of your house. Tell me Tayler...do you think this is a suitable activity for a man who has been certified off sick for two weeks with a fractured metatarsal!"

Sean usually took the sarcastic approach and today was no different. An indulgent smile spread across Sean's face.

"To answer your question. No I don't think being up a ladder is a suitable activity for a man with a fractured metatarsal" answered Sam precisely, itching to get to his feet, hold his lapels and stride up and down the room.

"So you don't deny it then?"

"Deny what exactly Mr Davies?"

"Tayler...your wasting our time. Do you agree that you've using company time and money to do work at home!"

"I agree that I was working up a ladder and that I've recently been off sick with a bad ankle"

"So there we have it Tayler..I'm afraid there are no grounds for leniency this time!"

"There we have what? All I said is that I'd been off sick recently"

"Look Tayler. I don't know what game you're playing but you're not going to wriggle out of it this time. Stop talking in riddles and tell us what you're getting at...not that it will do you any good!"

"I mean that I agree I've been off sick recently...and I agree that I've done some painting but these two events are separated in time!"

Sean was confused, although vague alarm bells began to ring.

"Please explain yourself Tayler..we're losing patience!"

"Well if you check your records Mr Davies you'll see that at 8pm on Tuesday evening I rang in to say my foot was much improved and that I'd be in for the early shift on Wednesday. Arty saw me up the ladder on Wednesday afternoon when my shift had finished!"

"....But..but...why didn't you say anything?" Sean spluttered.

"Nobody asked" said Sam "You just sent me a letter inviting me to a disciplinary hearing...no mention of what it was about! Will that be all only I've got to do the back of the house...you'll put me down for two hours overtime for this morning's fiasco won't you?" And Sam got up and left the room.

And this was the way many such disciplinary hearings ended. It was a game of cat and mouse and Sam had always managed to be one step ahead of the game. Sean received a mild rebuke from the personnel department for his troubles and, of course, Sam's already legendary status reached new heights after Jim had told his story to all and sundry. Besides, this was the seventies and Sam knew even if things had gone badly for him, union power was at an all-time high and all he had to do was to mention industrial action for the blood to drain from the managerial faces across the table. And this was the way things were. The Unions had the upper hand and Sam was used to winning. However, Margaret Thatcher already had a firm grasp of the bottom rung of the ladder and milk was only the start of her ambitions!

Chapter 3

There are not many professions where the nature of the job itself is the most important factor, at least from a personal point of view rather than a managerial perspective. No, it is generally the people that you work with - the different characters and personalities that are forced together and challenged with the task of trying to get along without killing each other - that drives the workplace dynamic. Global Molasses was no exception. Lifelong friendships were formed and bitter rivalries that often ended in violence were played out among the disparate group of misfits, malingerers, megalomaniacs and, sometimes, genuinely hard-working, non-dysfunctional individuals that made up the workforce in this corner of the east end of London.

There was Steve Peel, a budding transvestite, who eschewed the standard GM overalls for the latest Paris ensemble, all bespoke due to the somewhat irritating situation that the various designers had not had a six-foot two inch, fifteen stone biker in mind when formulating their plans for the coming season! "Gloria" was a common sight around the factory and, providing his/her outfit was not considered a safety risk – there had already been a rather unsavoury incident up a ladder regarding Jim, a pair of stilettos and a trip to casualty! – this behaviour was tolerated by a management which proved somewhat ahead of its time.

Dirty Des was an older man with few friends. It was not until one got up close and personal with him that the reason became apparent. Some people just have B.O. - an unpleasant affliction at the best of times. Des's problem was of a more acute nature. Anyone who has owned a long haired dog may have had the unfortunate experience of taking said dog on a ramble on a muddy and freezing February afternoon where every dubious pile of matter is an excuse for a prolonged roll of joy. Nobel scientists have for many centuries failed to come up with a biological reason for this overrated pastime. Returning to the bosom of one's family the unfortunate mutt then takes over prime position in front of a raging log fire. After a certain time – no more than three or four minutes one becomes aware of the most unbelievable stench arising from the comatose form steaming in front of the grate. Well Des smelled like that all the time! No amount of hinting or cajoling would ever entice Des to have a shower. They even had "Don't stand so close to me" by The Police played on the tannoy whenever Des came into the room all to no avail. Indeed he was, it seemed, oblivious to his affliction. Without a hint of irony he once told the tale a bloke he had known in the navy who had a "personal" problem.

"Well everyone just grabbed hold of him, held him down and scrubbed him down with a stiff-headed broom!"

Sam Tayler listening to the story left just the right pause for comedic effect.

"Did it hurt you Des?"

Then there was The Weasel, his real name long since forgotten, a lowly member of security whose mission in life was to catch anyone breaking company rules. He spent his working day hiding behind pillars, spying with binoculars or creeping up on people to expose the slightest indiscretion to an eager management. As such he was usually to be found with deep black panda eyes, a legacy of leaving his binoculars unattended or a sticker on his back stating simply either:

"I'm a wanker!" or:

"I'm all ears!" thanks to a rather unfortunate physical anomaly!

On more than one occasion The Weasel's working day had ended with the sound of a splash emanating from the end of the jetty!

One of the most interesting characters was Gary Lister. Known simply as "The Animal Man", no working day would be complete without the presence of his menagerie; his ever faithful hound Buster and a selection of wildlife that had included rats, ferrets, parrots, snakes, lizards and a mongoose. One dark night Dave Priestly had even been spooked on his 2am rounds by a pair of eyes belonging to a scops owl that had unnervingly followed his every move through 360 degrees as he passed on the stairs beside Gary's hut. This room was also the scene for an incident that would go down in Global Molasses' folklore. Annoyingly Gary was also loved by women, the only ones available at work being the canteen "girls", although the term was used somewhat loosely as most of them, even back then, were past their sell-by date. Indeed it was unfortunate that someone had the bright idea of separating the counters into hot or cold areas and a new sign was put in place to advertise this fact. And so it was that Sam Tayler was presented with the picture of Doris, a stalwart of thirty years of service, and close to retirement, standing in front of him ready to serve under a large sign that stated "Hot Dishes"

"Could have you under the trade descriptions there, luv!" was Sam's only comment.

Those that found favour with the girls would often get a free breakfast and in many instances this was the first indication that such a dalliance had occurred, the lucky recipient invoking a volley of applause and raucous cheering as they made their way over to consume the complimentary fare. As usual, all good things came to an end, and as the moral rectitude of the girls and men deteriorated so did the canteen profits and the practice was swiftly terminated.

It just so happened that Gary had been on the receiving end of The Weasel's over zealousness twice in one week: he had been reported for clocking someone else out at the end of his shift and then not two days later for having a crafty fag behind the alcohol storage tank. Gary planned his revenge meticulously. He met The Weasel in the canteen.

"Listen...no hard feelings about the warning. It was a stupid thing to do and you were only doing your job. If you're on Saturday night I'm doing a special dish if you'd care to join me?"

"That's very kind of you..I'm glad you see it that way"

And so the scene was set. The Weasel arrived fashionably late and Gary ushered him into the murky room with its array of panel lights only just cutting through the gloom.

"Were expecting one more for supper...she'll be here in a minute. I've just got to do a couple of samples...sorry about the light..think the bulb's gone!" said Gary enigmatically and took his leave.

The weasel was left alone in the gloom and his eyes gradually became accustomed to the dark. He heard the door latch open but no one came in. He sat in the silence for a moment until some sixth sense alerted him to the fact he was no longer alone. Someone or something was sitting in the only other seat in the room. The Weasel took out his torch and shone it forwards.

Crocodylus porosous is an estuarine inhabitant of the Indo-Pacific region and has the distinction of being the largest of all living reptiles. The fact that this was just a baby and only about three feet long was lost on The Weasel! Rising from his seat he reached the door in a single stride. Then, exhibiting the speed of man half his age, burst out of the room and sped towards the exit.

"There's a fucking crocodile in there!" he yelled at Gary who happened to be passing and feigned ignorance.

"A what?....Oh you mean Daisy...Daisy won't hurt you. She's only a baby. I've got a bit of pork for us tonight and Daisy's a bit partial....thinks she's back in the jungle catching wild boar on the river bank!"

"Get it out of there...now...or...or I swear I'll report you again!"

"Calm down....calm down. Look..I'll put her back in her tank again if she's putting you off"

Eventually, with Daisy safely back in her rightful place, The Weasel's heart rate and blood pressure returned to as near as normal as it could for a grossly overweight middle-aged asthmatic.

"There...I told you you'd like my cooking!" said Gary, as The Weasel tucked into his supper.

"...Well...yes not too bad – the least you could do in the circumstances...I've had a big shock tonight. It's not good for my ticker!"

As the Weasel ate he became aware of Buster watching him intently.

"By the way...why does your dog keep staring at me?"

"Simple!" Replied Gary "...that's his plate you've got there!"

Chapter 4

In many walks of working life one comes across individuals grossly unsuitable for the job they are paid to do but who carry on regardless of their defi ciencies with a management seemingly oblivious to their shortcomings. Global Molasses was no exception. Some employees like the formidable Jim Goodale were just incredibly lazy and set in their ways. Others, however, have a level of incompetence that is of an inspired nature. Neville Cook was one such individual. Everything he touched seemed destined to culminate in disaster. Sent to supervise the offloading of an acid tanker one day Neville had succeeded in shutting down the Blackwall Tunnel for six hours as fire officers struggled to neutralise thousands of gallons of the stuff as it threatened to eat away the tarmac and leach into the Thames. They once had a senior officer of the Ministry of Agriculture visit the site to obtain an explanation for the hundreds of dead fish floating on the water after Neville had been let loose on effluent duty. Neville's career had been saved by Sam Tayler who always argued that the original offence of leaving a valve open was minor irrespective of the consequences. Neville's presence in the factory amused Sam. The honest workers at Global Molasses waited earnestly for the latest disaster to befall this hapless figure. However, not every mistake led to disaster. On a number of occasions Neville had simply made thousands of gallons of syrup disappear. Usually a wrong valve setting should lead to contamination of other tanks but Neville possessed the uncanny knack of making things vanish off the face of the earth!

"But..but...you've just pumped thirty tons of sugar out of the mixer and now its fucking disappeared....how the fuck do you do that!" Dave Priestly was standing incredulously looking at the panel for any sign of the missing load but all the product tanks were showing empty.

"Neville..have you ever thought of a career on stage. I saw David Copperfield make the statue of Liberty disappear the other day but I bet he couldn't make thirty tons of sugar vanish into thin air like you just did!"

"And where did that twenty-five tons go last month. What am I gonna say in my report without looking like a complete dick-head!"

Neville just shrugged his shoulders...just as much at a loss to explain the disappearance as anyone.

This trick vastly impressed his fellow workers and imbued a certain amount of kudos despite Neville's obvious shortcomings. He possessed a complete lack of confidence in his own ability which made every step of his existence a struggle of indecision. Added to which was an almost complete lack of practical ability, a combination which became the bane of Dave Priestly's life at Global Molasses. One day, at his wits end at Neville's inability to master even the basics of the most rudimentary of tasks, he had sent Neville out into the yard to sweep up where he could do least harm. Five minutes later a bewildered Neville returned for further instruction.

"..er... Dave - did you want me to use the hard broom or soft broom?"

This was around about the time Dave took two months off with an undisclosed stress-related illness.

It was said that had there been a large red button on the plant somewhere that had a notice saying:

"Never press this button!" then Neville would proceed, through some convoluted set of bizarre circumstances, to do just that. Some of his colleagues swore blind they had seen him walk past the local HI Fi shop and witnessed all the TV's suddenly revert to "snow storm" screens!

Physically Neville had not been dealt a decent set of cards. Prematurely bald and grossly overweight, although bizarrely nobody had ever witnessed him eat, Neville could not by any stretch of the imagination be considered a lady's man. Strangely though, he would delight in regaling his fellow workers with tales of his sexual exploits, leaving no detail to the imagination. A trained psychiatrist would have no trouble diagnosing Munchhausen's syndrome, a condition characterised by the sufferer drawing attention to themselves with various imagined medical conditions and wild fantasies about their mundane lives. Lulled by the enthusiasm of his fellow workers, for whom this was the highlight of their day, his claims became more and more exaggerated.

"And we did it three times before her sister came and joined us!"

After a while his colleagues became bored and livened up the episodes by conducting a sweep on the colour of his imaginary conquest's underwear.

"Yessss...I've got lilac!" screamed Jim halfway through one of Neville's tales, and started to collect his winnings mid-story.

To say that he was accident prone was an understatement. His fellow workers had embraced Neville's fantasy world and contributed to it with undisguised enthusiasm. It was suggested unkindly that disaster ran in the family and that Neville's family members had been present at various crucial moments in history: It was said that there was a Cook present on the Titanic as iceberg spotter, as lookout at Pearl Harbour and as safety officer at Three Mile Island. To the best of people's knowledge Neville had left the premises in an ambulance on at least four occasions as Sam Tayler observed one dark January night when he had the misfortune to be working with Neville.

Curiously when work needed to be done Neville was conspicuous by his absence. On this particular night Dave asked him to get the 2am lab samples.

"..er I'm not feeling that good Dave"

"Why what's the problem?"

"I think I've got one of my allergies."

"And what exactly are you allergic to?"

"Work, obviously!" Interjected Sam from behind his copy of The Sun

"..er..caffeine, nuts, wheat, dogs, cats, horses and Christmas pudding!"

"Well I'm pretty sure no-one's smuggled any of those into the plant so can you just do as I ask"

Reluctantly he left the room.

It was some two hours later that it dawned on them that Neville still hadn't returned. A search of the area revealed nothing until a low pitched moaning coming from the filter room reached their ears. Opening the fire doors revealed the comatose bulk of their colleague on his back with his feet theatrically placed on the fifth rung of a fixed ladder leading up to the sample point. For dramatic effect it appeared he had already filled his pot when the incident had occurred as there was a sticky mess down his front and a broken jar by his head.

"I told you I was ill!" wailed the recumbent figure.

The problem now was how to move the patient down three flights of stairs as it became apparent Neville would not be going anywhere under his own steam for the foreseeable future!

An hour later a paramedic was deep in conversation with a fireman and a small crowd had gathered at the foot of the ladder. Neville was lying on a stretcher covered with a red blanket, his bald, bloated pate just visible at one end. Helpful comments were in abundance.

"Send him down the bucket chute into the skip!" volunteered Sam.

"Cut him up and take him down bit by bit!" suggested Jim.

The patient had recently complained of being too hot and was now shivering under his blanket after his work colleagues had tried to alleviate the situation with a bucket of cold water and some makeshift water pistols made out of laboratory syringes.

"Panzer One......ready....aim...fire!"

Sam was in his element. All thoughts of running the plant put on hold.

Eventually, after the arrival of a second fire truck, the inert form of Neville was manhandled down the stairs and out to the waiting ambulance.

Sadly, the last his fellow workers saw of him was the twitching of his moustache just visible above the contours of the blanket. For Neville was destined never to return and life at Global Molasses became slightly duller as a consequence of his passing. For although Neville was a work-shy, incompetent fantasist, his exploits undoubtedly enriched the lives of his fellow workers and made their days go faster.

Contrary to his suggestion that he had been seconded for a secret mission by the Territorial army, not long afterwards Neville was spied taking tickets at London Bridge station and being gobbed on by drunken Millwall fans. By and large Neville was forgotten at Global Molasses although were one to look closely at the manufacturer's sticker on the ladder involved in his finest hour it now read, as visitors to The Victory in Portsmouth would no doubt have similarly observed, a tiny plaque which read:

"Here marks the spot where Neville fell in the year of our lord MCMLXXXIII"

Chapter 5

Global Molasses nestled snugly in a bend of the meandering river Thames. The present building superceded an older construction that had all but been destroyed in the great Silvertown explosion of 1917 when 73 people were killed at a wartime munitions factory. Some isolated ruins of the original edifice were still in evidence and would be for the foreseeable future having been recently granted listed status. There was also, still just visible, remains from a much older site apparently used by Lightermen in the previous century. The Lightermen were responsible in the old days for unloading the ships into smaller boats or lighters and transferring them to the bank just using the power of the tide for propulsion. Gradually technology and the construction of the docks took over and the job became obsolete – the Lighterman being consigned to history.

The devil makes work for idle hands and Sam Tayler had been mulling over an idea for some time now and had recently been sewing the green shoots of his masterplan and planting seeds in the impressionable young minds of the new starters that had for some unfathomable reason been left in Sam's unscrupulous charge.

"Yes apparently there was one old boy – a retired Lighterman I believe...worked his whole life not fifty yards from here in the old warehouse. After the explosion he came looking for his boys...only thing he found was one scorched boot!....tragic when you think about it! Bloke never recovered...died shortly afterwards...near the old warehouse I heard....is that the time...its 2am..whose turn is it to go down and get a sample?"

The two young lads looked nervously at each other.

"er..I think we'll both go!"

"Ok..Ok...you can hold each other's hand if you want"

And so the legend of the Lighterman Ghost began!

Initially there was just a half-imagined glimpse of a ghostly form out of the corner of the eye. This then gave rise to more positive sightings – a spectral figure visible for a few seconds before vanishing in the dark, until after a few months the talk was all of the ghost. Sam fanned the flames by recounting tales of ghostly sightings over the years.

And so it was on a stormy night with the wind howling through the girders and buffeting on the corrugated iron walls of the building that our story begins. Jim Goodale had just settled down for the night. Even by his dubious standards his workload that evening was light to say the least. All he had to do was wake up in six hours, transfer tanks and go home. The door opened and Dave Priestly walked in.

"Evening Jim....we're not going to have any trouble tonight are we?"

"Trouble? What do you mean?"

"I mean you've got one bleedin' thing to do all shift...don't fuck it up!"

Dave could feel himself getting wound up. His doctor had warned him about this. Taking a deep breath he idly glanced across Jim's shoulder to his crossword and frowned.

"Jim...five across...your sister is one to your kids...four letters ending in "UNT" - I think you may have put in the wrong answer!"

"Besides......two down...Latin for by way of or means of getting through something...three letters – you've put "VIC"!"

"But my sister's always been horrible to them – she's never liked my kids...never gets a birthday or Christmas present!"

"...but how would the sodding compiler know that you fuckwit!...besides what about the "VIC" you've put down?"

"Well...er....my cousin Vic helped me get through my divorce"

"...but how the fucking hell does the bloke who wrote this know that?"

"Er...I don't know...hadn't thought of that" admitted Jim.

Dave could feel his blood pressure rising and resisted the temptation for further comment and with a final warning took his leave. Jim settled down again. He had taken to using an alarm clock recently and had just set it for five in the morning. He'd had his eyes closed for a couple of minutes but sleep was eluding him. Just then he heard the faintest of noises coming from outside the control room. He held his breath and listened. There it was again. A scraping sound apparently just outside the door. Reluctantly he rose and went over to door and opened it. Outside stood a hooded figure. Where there should have been a face was just a black abyss. The figure was just standing there which somehow made it worse.

"Who...the...f..fucking hell are you!" whispered Jim, unable to give proper voice to his terror.

"I am the lighterman ghost!" said the figure.

Why the ghost of a lighterman should be wearing a monk's cowl was lost on Jim at that present moment. They say that sudden shock can lead to involuntary evacuation of the bowels and Jim was nearer to that unhappy fate than he had been for quite some time!

He was then vaguely aware, despite his present state of hyperventilation, of the unusual sight of a spirit collapsing to the floor with laughter, the cowl riding up to reveal the tears running down Sam Tayler's cheeks.

"You fucking bastard Sam!" yelled Jim, falling into his chair and taking deep gulps of air.

"I could have had a heart attack!"

"You've got to move about to have a heart attack so I think you'll be alright!" said Sam, now suitable recovered from his fit of mirth.

So Jim was now in on the joke. Sam needed to recruit a helper as he was fast using up all his time to keep the myth of the Lighterman Ghost alive. Thus it was unfortunate that it fell on Jim's "ghost shift" that Dan Bridges entered the scene. Dan was covering from another shift. It was rumoured that he had been in the SAS in Northern Ireland and had had to leave for pummelling a young Provo to within an inch of his life after a row in a dubious Belfast drinking establishment. He was not a man to be messed with!

Sam was oblivious to this fact when he had helped Jim into his ghostly regalia thirty minutes before. Now he was just wondering what had happened to Jim when his two young trainees walked in.

"What are you doing here...you're supposed to be getting the two o'clock samples!"

"Oh we've swapped for the night – Dan's doing it"

Sam felt a tinge of dread as he rushed down the yard to the warehouse. He would never forget the scene that greeted him upon opening the door!

The hapless spectre was mainly hidden under the huge bulk of the former squaddie - a small pair of hobnail boots just visible, twitching uncontrollably beneath the giant. The "ghost" was making ineffectual attempts to protect its face as the blows rained down upon him and Sam wondered in passing why this particular spirit had not used its innate ability to disappear when presented with the terrifying sight of this madman coming towards him.

"Try and jump out at me would you!" gasped Dan between punches

"I'll fucking show you!"

It had proved impossible to drag him off and Sam had quickly got help to hold back Jim's demented attacker. By this time, though, the Lighterman Ghost had been reduced to a gibbering wreck, blood pouring from various wounds and a couple of teeth lying next to the blood-splattered remains of his monk's cowl.

It had taken quite some time for Jim to recover from his beating.

"What's he done to my faith...my faith...?"

Putting aside the bizarre notion that the victim in his hour of need had discovered religion and realising Jim was having trouble enunciating, Sam regarded the swollen countenance in front of him dispassionately. Both eyes were closed and various lumps were starting to appear like golf balls under the skin. The remains of two front teeth poked bloodily through the puffed lips.

"It's a good job you haven't got any looks to lose Jim!" he observed.

"It hurths....it hurths!" wailed Jim

"Sorry about that Jim...don't know what came over me...must be the training" said Dan

"Just keep that thoddin' gorillath away fromth me!" cried Jim through swollen lips "..and another thing...Tham - you canth thtick your fucking gotht up your arth!

So that was the end of the Lighterman Ghost – never again seen to walk the floors and corridors of Global Molasses. The whole incident was hushed up. Jim went sick for four weeks and the mystery of the Lighterman Ghost remains so to this day....and Jim, when recovered, always had urgent business to attend to elsewhere if ever requested to venture near the old warehouse!

Chapter 6

Global Molasses formed a microcosm of society as a whole and nowhere was this more so than with regard to race relations. This was the seventies and TV programmes like 'Til Death Us Do Part, Love Thy Neighbour and It Ain't Half Hot Mum were at the height of their popularity. Words and attitudes which, twenty years later, would cause those of a nervous disposition to swoon and cause open-mouthed disbelief in others were deemed perfectly acceptable on television and indeed in society as a whole. At Global Molasses this was no exception. The honest citizens of this particular institution were gradually becoming aware of the multi-culturism of their working environment as more and more immigrants from various far flung regions of the Empire sought gainful employment in this quiet corner of east London. Without the presence of a nanny state to provide instructions for the correct procedures everyone just had to get along!

Xenophobia, scientists would have us believe is a natural human instinct. It works on a number of levels and is designed primarily to ensure our DNA fingerprint survives and, more importantly, is preserved in our offspring. The first of these is on a personal level. Animals will fight each other for the best food, the best home or the hottest female of the species in order to stay alive at the expense of others. Filial loyalty constitutes the next stage. We will favour our own over unrelated individuals to ensure the survival of our genome. Cooperation between members of different families within a tribe constitutes the next level and so on. Loyalties can change for the good of the many. Tribes can work together when posed with an external threat. Witness the cooperation between England fans at internationals. Millwall fans happily found knocking lumps out of Chelsea fans the previous weekend would get together with their erstwhile combatants and merrily set fire to VW's and Audi's with gay abandon and a feeling of mutual respect on the eve of a Germany game.

This innate sense of mistrust of the unknown or anything different was heightened in Jim Goodale. Anyone not a stunted Neanderthal was viewed with deep suspicion. His father, alarmed at the increase in dark faces around him as the influx took hold in the fifties, had fuelled his prejudices by lecturing Jim about the list of diseases and disabilities that could be caught if he were to associate with any of these newcomers and Jim had no reason, or indeed the common sense, to think any differently.

Black Barry, an admittedly uninspired nickname but adequate for the purposes of identification, was a man mountain. His skin was of a particular hue that rendered it almost blue. Not overly tall but incredibly wide. He could lift a two-hundred weight sack of molasses with one hand. He was harmless in his own way but was unaware of the strength he possessed. Dan Bridges had lost his temper with him once and had exploded into violent action. Dan had gone in with an initial flurry of twenty or so strikes in the first five seconds, a strategy that had in every other circumstances led to the comatose form of his victim, but this time it had proved strangely ineffective. Barry now had hold of him and was literally squeezing the life out of him when Dan spotted the iron valve handle just within his reach. It had taken four or five direct hits to the granite-like skull of his attacker to just subdue him and then render his escape- each blow simply eliciting a deep-throated chuckle of amusement from Barry. Jim Goodale had witnessed this scene and his initial trepidation at being around Black Barry was multiplied tenfold. He was absolutely terrified of him. Barry reminded Jim of Guy the gorilla at London zoo and thereafter his sleep was interrupted with nightmares of a black giant chasing him around the factory. Sam Tayler had also witnessed Jim's reaction to the fight and his subsequent terror. Which was why, in order to enliven his dreary existence, he always tried to make sure Barry and Jim worked together. Seeing the two of them side by side was hilarious in itself; Jim short and squat with a massive belly, a bald pate sitting above a jowly, red-eyed countenance. If anyone could be considered a missing link in human evolution it was Jim, a living Troglodyte inhabiting the twilight world of permanent nights! And Barry towering over him all biceps and gleaming pectorals - a magnificent specimen seemingly carved of pure ebony. It was unfortunate that the two of them changed next to each other and Sam had seen the goggle-eyed expression on Jim's face one day when Barry had exposed his python-like member after showering and the wistful look Jim gave his own shrivelled appendage at the same time.

Jim's phobia manifested itself not only in his reluctance to be anywhere near Barry. It extended to being in contact with anything belonging to or having been touched by him. Remembering his father's advice, plates, cups, knives and forks, regardless of cleaning would be eyed with deep suspicion. When Barry cut his finger one night and asked Jim to help bandage him up the screams could be heard all the way to the Albert Dock.

"Keep that away from me you bastard!...I don't know where you've been...all those jungle diseases!"

"..but I aint been near no jungle man!" protested Barry.

It was no use. Barry had to get Dave Priestly to come over and fit a plaster. Had our main protagonists not been occupied with other matters they may have observed the look on Sam Tayler's face and been worried. Sam was hatching an idea!

As fate would have it an opportunity for Sam to put his plan into action arose not long after. Jim had arisen precipitously from his chair at 3am in response to an alarm and knocked himself senseless on the beam above his head. When Jim came around he was on a hospital trolley with Sam Tayler and Dave Priestly looking on.

"Ah you're back with us then Jim?..how do you feel?"

"Like shit..why does my head hurt?"

"You've had a little accident...nothing to worry about..you'll be right as rain but you've got a nasty cut and lost quite a bit of blood!"

"Blood!...how much?" One of Jim's phobias was the sight of blood.

"Oh about an armful I should say" responded Sam then winked at Dave.

"But it was a good job Barry was there for you!"

"What do you mean?" asked Jim suspiciously.

"Well you should be grateful to him...could have saved your life!"

"I don't understand. What do you mean?" persisted Jim.

"Well...turns out Barry was your only match...got the same blood group as you!"

"You don't mean....!" Jim's voice trailed off.

"Yep..I reckon you've got about three pints of Jamaican red coursing through those veins of yours Jim my boy!"

And so it was that Jim over the next two weeks of recuperation and armed with his book on tropical diseases and all his father's prejudices, exhibited all the imagined symptoms of malaria, yellow fever, leprosy, rabies and dengue fever. When none of these manifested themselves in his early demise Jim reluctantly returned to work. Now it was time for part two of Sam's plan.

Jim had just showered and was towelling himself off when Sam looked over and remarked conversationally.

"Jim...is your cock getting bigger?"

Jim quickly covered himself up. He had always been a little ashamed of the size of his endowment which had been heightened since he had been forced to change next to Black Barry.

" You know what I think?" said Sam

"I reckon that black blood's done it!"

Jim let his towel drop and forgetting his former embarrassment observed his genitals intently.

"Looks the same to me" said Jim suspiciously.

"No definitely bigger. I tell you its that transfusion from Barry. Its getting bigger..just look at that!"

Conveniently Barry chose that moment to step out of the shower and share the impressive length of his member with all and sundry. And everyone stopped what they were doing and admired Barry's naked form respectfully.

"Have you tried measuring it...here I think I've got a ruler" and Sam reached into his back pocket and handed Jim a short, makeshift metal ruler of the type that the fitters had made up for use in the sheet metal shop.

"I'm not doing it now!" cried Jim, his shyness returning with all eyes on his nether regions.

"I'll do it in private when I'm up on the job"

And so, to Jim's utmost amazement, over the next few weeks his penis grew three quarters of an inch!

Every day at the start of shift he would ensure he was alone in his little hut. Several times he would open the door suspiciously to make sure no one was about then he would get the ruler from his shelf, unzip his flies and measure the length of his manhood! And it was definitely growing! Not much at first but then over the next week about an eighth of an inch every three or four days! He couldn't wait to share his delight.

"Sam..Sam...you were right – its growing...my prick's getting bigger!" he yelled at the top of his voice one day in the canteen. Soon Jim's story was the main topic of conversation in all the best social circles within Global Molasses. And then just as suddenly it stopped! With disappointment Jim noted down three days with no change, then a week, then two weeks.

It took Jim all his will power to do what he had to do. He tried to leave behind all his prejudices and ignore the little voice of his late father inside his head. Eventually he plucked up courage and across a crowded locker room walked reluctantly up to Barry who was busy towelling down his magnificent ebony physique, the monstrous growth between his thighs never far from view.

"Er hello Barry..I was just wondering..er..if its not too much trouble..and I know you might be busy"

"What is it you want man?"

"Well...er...I don't know how to say this!"

"Just spit it out man!"

"You know how grateful I am for the way you helped me out the other day at the hospital....."

Barry had been tipped off by Sam concerning the fake blood transfusion.

"Well I was wondering...Please could I have some more!"

Had Jim been just slightly more intelligent he would have noticed three weeks later when Sam was getting changed that a number of items accidently fell from his locker. Jim may also have observed on closer inspection that the items were in fact seemingly identical metal rulers..no not identical! Each one had the markings slightly closer together than the one before. Similarly Jim would have been aware of the significance of this and of the private joke Sam was sharing with Bob, his mate from the fitters shop. But Jim was blissfully and ignorantly unaware!

Then there was Raj. Raj was from Bengal and had come over with his family twenty years before for a better life and had found this at Global Molasses. He had embraced the British way of life with gusto and nothing gave him more pleasure than that sense of belonging at Global Molasses. Raj was strictly of the "when in Rome" attitude to life which was in part responsible for a spectacular fall from grace from his highly respected position within the family hierarchy back home.

Sam Tayler was many things to many people at Global Molasses. He was their legal aid in times of trouble. No high court barrister in his finest wig and robes that had just successfully defended his client against a murder count in the Old Bailey took as much pride as Sam did when getting a written warning for persistent lateness downgraded to a verbal at the last moment. He was their own personal counsellor when the men had trouble at home. He was the man that the managers came to if they desperately wanted to get something done but were frightened of the men's reaction. He always had a witty saying to fit an occasion:

"If you don't think money's important then try not paying us and see how often we come to work!" was one of his favourites when the managers tried to steer the topic away from remuneration in their talks with the unions.

Sam was all things to all men. And so it came as no surprise to a newcomer to find that Sam fulfilled the role of porn baron to the honest burghers of Global Molasses. He had a special arrangement with Imran at the local corner shop and the following exchange was a weekly occurrence on his short walk to work.

"Just The Sun Mr Tayler...or do you require anything else!"

"Anything new Imran?"

Imran would cast a theatrical look left and right then beckon Sam towards the back of the shop. They would then enter an Alladin's cave, where the finest collection of VHS and Betamax porn in the south east was to be found nestling behind boxes of crisps and crates of pop.

Raj had got wind of the service Sam provided some months before and had been pestering him non -stop since the latest Betamax recorder had taken over pride of place in the Ganguly household. Sam had been rather reluctant at first although he was not sure why. Perhaps he thought Raj was not up to viewing some of the more unsavoury titles at Sam's disposal. Anyway, he was glad he had resisted after Raj had come in one day and seen Sam.

"Ok. If you don't want to give me any porn. How about a nice family film. I have my relatives coming over from Bengal and I want to show off my new system. Have you got anything?"

Sam hesitated. Had Raj known Sam better he would have been slightly unnerved. But he didn't. And so it was with eager anticipation that Raj ventured home that evening armed with his tape of the wonderful story of a magical, flying car.

Sam didn't see Raj for a couple of days and when he saw him coming over to his table in the canteen he casually asked.

"Hello Raj..how was the film?"

Raj seemed to be in some sort of discomfort. He was hopping from one foot to the other with his hands thrust deep into his pockets. Sam realised he was trying desperately to stay calm.

"I'll tell you how it went!" he whispered, his voice reverting to a Bengali lilt as he struggled with his emotions.

"We were all there in front of the TV...my wife next to me on the sofa...my daughter next to her. My daughter's fiancé opposite...his parents next to him...and my six year old son on the floor at my feet....and then....and then I press the button....and...and!"

"And what?" said Sam

"I'll tell you bleddy what.... you bleddy besterd!" Raj exploded

"This bleddy great prick comes on the screen!"

"I try to turn it off and the bleddy button gets stuck!...you bleddy besterd!"

"My wife..my children...my daughter's fiancé...her family – the shame of it all!"

Raj reached into his pocket and hurled the cassette across the table. The case flew open and the film clattered out coming to rest in front of Sam. He observed the film title displayed in front of him, something that Raj should have done originally to avoid finding himself in his present predicament. Sam leaned over and placed Chitty Chitty Gang Bang back in its case.

Chapter 7

One would have thought that the men at Global Molasses would have been happy with their lot. Their wages were obscenely high and the amount of work that was expected to justify such a salary, both physical and mental was ridiculously low. However there are no limits to the greed of man and mankind in general especially when hands are idle. And so it came to pass that the great overtime scandal of 1983 was enacted at Global molasses.

It was not uncommon at the time for employees to work every day for months on end. They would work their own shift and then cover on their days off. The only shifts they couldn't do was the day shift when coming off nights as working twenty-four hours on the trot was frowned upon, and indeed illegal, despite the fact that most of it would be spent in quiet repose! Making head or tail of all the overtime sheets was a nightmare but the girls in the office did a valiant job. Mistakes happened often and were swiftly rectified. The rule of thumb was: If you were out of pocket you screamed blue murder. If the error was in your favour you kept stum! And that was the way the system worked for many a year with the occasional bonus of a shift paid out when one had obviously been nowhere near the plant for days.

And then Jim had casually mentioned one day when on an errand to the offices with Sam.

"You know we could put down whatever we wanted to on these forms...they never check!"

Sam, who had only half been listening, came to with a start.

"Run that by me again, Jim"

"These overtime sheets...we could put what we like....they never check!"

And so it had begun. Charge hands were responsible for filling in overtime sheets and invariably left them lying around in the office for days until someone had to go up to personnel and were then given the task of delivering them. It was the matter of thirty seconds work for Sam to nip into the office and fill in a modest claim for four hours overtime that he had no intention of doing!

And then they waited. On payday, sure enough Sam was credited with four hours overtime for a period that he knew had been spent in the company of Gladys, the buxom daughter of the landlord, at the bar of The Admiral Nelson.

When this scam had proved successful a number of times Sam then extended it to include holidays which were entered on a similar sheet and made their way to personnel in the same haphazard fashion. It was slightly more involved than simply filling in a blank overtime form but Sam became adept at marking someone down as holiday then filling in himself or one of his "customers" on an overtime form for cover. He had to do some background work first to establish who did and who didn't keep a track of their own holidays and then modify the scam accordingly. And so it was that poor Ted Collins, a charge hand on another shift, who was one of the few at the factory who always did things by the book, was dismayed to find he had only three days holiday left when he went to book his annual sojourn to Hastings with Mrs Collins. Not one to argue or indeed to keep track of his holidays he had returned home to give his wife the bad news. He would have been even more upset to find that Dave Priestly had used Ted's holiday for a nice fortnight in Tuscany, for which Dave had also received overtime in return for Sam's standard fee!

And then the piece de resistance! Again Jim had been instrumental in the process. Sam only half listened to Jim's wild babblings as ninety nine per cent of it was complete nonsense. However, occasionally, very occasionally, he hit the nail on the head and stated the bleeding obvious when it had, up to that point, been eluding all and sundry!

"You know what Sam" said Jim as they made their way up the yard one day armed with yet more falsified overtime and holiday forms.

"What's that James my boy?" Sam answered distractedly as one of the buxom secretaries passed them by.

"Well we fill all these forms in for the people working here...what would happen if we just made someone up!"

Sam was still looking at the back view of the the young lady passing by.

"What are you talking about...what do you mean....make someone up?"

"Well I was just thinking...remember that bloke who was only here for a few months...came in to work twice then disappeared. Sheep shagger never even met him. He got paid for three months without ever being here....it was just as if he never existed!"

Sam stopped in the yard and looked down at his stunted chum.

"Jim....I think I'm going to kiss you!"

Sam grabbed Jim's ears and leant over. But there was something about the grinning, bloated face beaming up at him, a freshly squeezed pustule oozing slowly, that stopped Sam in his tracks and instead he patted Jim on the head.

"Jim...that's brilliant..we've been looking at this the wrong way!"

And so it was that Sam's brother came to Global Molasses looking for work. He had no need of a job as he was in the Merchant Navy and was only in town for a few days before his ship sailed and he embarked on the next stage of his adventure which entailed going around the world drinking and fornicating!

Two days later Harvey Griffin began work at Global Molasses. Only he didn't! That first day was the last the company would see of him but more importantly he was in the system and was officially an employee. In those days nobody had a bank account. All the wages were delivered from the office every week on a tray that contained a multitude of small brown envelopes, one for each worker. They had to be signed for but it was common practice to get your mates on the day shift to pick up and sign for your wages to pass on at handover when you were on nights.

Thus Harvey Griffin was paid weekly for six months and never set foot in the place. He only existed on Sam's doctored overtime and holiday sheets. Aficionados of James Stewart and HG Wells may have had suspicions aroused by the name, Harvey being the invisible star of a film made by the former and Griffin being the main character in The Invisible man by the latter but the literary nous of the higher echelons of Global Molasses was sadly lacking and the name passed without comment!

Sam found that once the first crime had been committed it became easier and easier. At first he had taken charge of matters and was careful not to arouse suspicion. He charged a nominal fee for four hours overtime that worked out at approximately ten per cent. But as usual the men weren't happy with this. Once Jim had let slip how it had all began the men had decided to dispense with the middle man and that's where the whole scam fell apart! When Sam had been running things he had been careful to ensure no-one was getting more than their fair share - even to the point of turning down his commission. And he always endeavoured to make sure that men weren't being paid twice for their own shift which could easily be traced back. Even so, the scheme continued for many months until one day Sean called Jim into the office and suggested he might like to be accompanied by his union rep thus giving warning that this was trouble afoot.

"Tell me Goodale...you're a clever fella" began Sean in his usual sarcastic tone.

"How was it possible for you to work last Saturday night on your own shift...be paid overtime for the very same shift....and for you to be at the company golf day at the same time, although I can't find any holiday booking, and where, if I recall rightly, you offered me a drink at the bar!.....I'm not surprised you were feeling flush!"

Jim tried desperately to save himself, usually this involved saying the first thing that came into his head. Today was no exception.

"It was that new bloke Harvey what done it...not me...he must have filled in those forms all wrong!"

"Who the bloody hell is Harvey?"

Sam shot Jim a withering glance.

"New starter Mr Davies...not used to the system!"

"Well..let's get him in here to see what he's got to say!"

Sam was thinking on his feet.

"Can't do that Mr Davies...he's on nights"

"Well let's see how he likes a written warning then shall we!"

Sam, for the first and last time in his union career, found himself fighting the case of an employee that didn't actually exist!

"As you know Mr Davies we're not responsible for overtime and holidays...the charge hands do it...must be their mistake. If Mr Griffin has filled in a sheet erroneously and without authority I'll have a quiet word. I'm sure we can cut him some slack. Besides, I can't be held responsible for the men when they find out you've been picking on him"

This veiled threat of industrial action was always enough to swing it but Sam knew he was living on borrowed time.

And so the scam came to an end. Harvey "resigned" by post the next day. Sean was vaguely aware of some alarming discrepancies but had found it impossible to estimate the cost to the company as there was just too much paperwork to go through with no means of judging whether an entry was genuine or false. However, the wages bill in the months following the exposure, were reduced by a third! The new system was computerised and relied on the charge hands entering data only after using a password. Sam, although sad at the demise of his scheme, still found consolation in the fact that the benevolent software often threw up an overtime payment for a day spent happily in the company of Gladys in the Admiral Hardy.

And, whenever anything went wrong thereafter someone was sure to pipe up.

"I think Harvey was looking after that!"

Chapter 8

There comes a time when every working man has to let off steam and have time away from the daily drudge of his professional life and indulge in some form of recreational activity with his colleagues. At Global Molasses this comprised solely of inter shift sporting activity. And no sporting challenge was held in such high esteem as the Global Molasses Seven a side football league. In those far off days anything that happened outside the working environment was considered off limits to any form of disciplinary activity. And so it came to pass that many an old score was settled upon the field of play – the perpetrator content in the knowledge that he was immune from prosecution as his hapless victim was observed writhing in agony on the pitch in front of him!

And so the scene was set for the top of the league clash between Amber shift and Blue shift. The winner would take the league title. The rivalry between the two shifts was at melting point. It should be pointed out at this juncture that Amber shift, because of the way the shifts fell, always relieved Blue shift, never the other way around. And so Blue shift had carte blanche to leave the plant in any form of disrepair or cleanliness they chose to, content in the knowledge that Amber shift could never get them back! And prior to the match, Amber shift had experienced Blue shift in all their glory.

One morning Ted Collins, the Amber charge hand had come in early to find Blue shift bodies scattered around the plant in various positions of repose. Empty beer kegs littered the floor. Jim Goodale snored on his bed of used filters. Someone had drawn fake moustache, glasses and beard on his bloated face. Sam Tayler hiccupped gently in his sleep from underneath the storage drums and a bleary-eyed Dave Priestly rose from his seat to give Ted his handover. Various alarms were ringing from around the plant and sugar oozed lazily from an overflow pipe rendering the floor like superglue. Ted took in the sight.

"What the fuck's been going on?"

"Sorry Ted...we had a little party...Sam's birthday you know...sorry about the alarms and the tank going over...must have just happened!"

And with that Blue shift en masse raised themselves from their slumber and went home to bed!

Amber shift were still smarting a few days later as they got changed for the big match.

"Who's got the shirts?" said Sam.

"Thought you had!" said Ted

"No I gave them to you after the last match!"

"No you fucking didn't!"

"Gentlemen...gentlemen doesn't matter who's done what...seems we haven't got shirts" Dave tried to calm things down.

"What we gonna do?"

"Um....I might be able to help." Volunteered Jim

"How?"

"Well I've got my '66 replica shirts with me!"

Jim was singularly lacking in any sporting talent, or any other form of expertise for that matter but that was another story. However he always liked to be well equipped. Sam had watched him with amusement once getting ready to bat during the inter shift cricket. Way down the order Jim had started to get ready an hour before he was needed. And no international about to take to the crease on his debut at Lord's put as much into his preparation as Jim did. He unzipped his brand spanking new cricket bag to unveil an immaculate kit; cricket whites of an almost luminescent brightness, pads that covered his entire body and a brand new bat many sizes too big. The whole ensemble finished off with an MCC cap worn at a rakish angle!

Walking out to bat Jim was hampered by his ill-fitting attire and he stumbled repeatedly. When at last in position, he meticulously received his bearings from the umpire and adjusted his stance appropriately. He was now ready and the crowd held its breath!

There could only be one outcome after such an introduction. Jim was out first ball!

It was the same with darts, the myriad of little holes in the door below the board belying the promise of a set of expensive tungsten arrows arranged neatly on the shelf!

The replica shirts of both teams, with names emblazoned across the back were duly pressed into service.

And so the match began. With just seven a side Messrs Charlton J, Stiles, Hunt and Ball had to sit out the first quarter as did their German counterparts. It did not take long for the first flare-up. Bobby Charlton, wearing a long wig and sporting a halterneck dress under his shirt that somewhat impeded free-flowing movement was taken out unceremoniously by Beckenbauer!

"You dirty bastard!"

Screamed Charlton, alias Gloria, the transvestite, who had his own issues with Amber shift having found Ted happily cleaning up a spillage with a very fetching ensemble that had just happened to be hanging up to dry in the panel room!

Hurst and Peters combined well up front but the latter was involved in an off the ball incident with Overath that necessitated him leaving the field with blood dripping from an eye injury - a scenario that could have been avoided had Hurst not stolen Overath's overtime some weeks previously!

The match was gradually descending into farce! A bloated, balding Bobby Moore had lost all interest in the game and had stopped to have a crafty fag by an open fire door in the large gymnasium where the tie was taking place. Snellinger, Schulz and Weber were involved in an off-field altercation with Stiles and Hunt concerning the mess that had been left behind on the previous shift and Messrs Wilson, Banks and Cohen had miraculously appeared with full pints on the touchline even though the bar didn't open for another half hour!

The referee, Arthur Chambers, was fighting a losing battle trying to keep up with a multitude of unsanctioned substitutions and desperately attempting to prise apart the flailing limbs of various combatants. He finally had enough with fifteen minutes still to go and Blue shift were duly crowned league champions having enjoyed the only goal of a bruising encounter scored, naturally, by Hurst, alias dirty Des for the simple reason that no one was prepared to get close enough to tackle him and the fact that he had been extremely reluctant to give it to Ball running up the middle, desperately shouting for the pass, as Ball had quite recently made some quite unpleasant, hurtful remarks concerning his colleague's personal hygiene - thus finally resolving the mystery! Charlton J and Stiles were secretly glad that they had not been called upon to perform as their doctors had been warning them that they were too old and fat to play for some time now. And Weber, Haller, Seller and co would have to wait another day to seek revenge.

Chapter 9

Jim Goodale sat up in his chair and sighed. Normally he could sleep through anything - the gentle hum of the agitators, the hiss of airlines operating valves, the ribald comments of a team of passing fitters. It was rumoured he had slept through a number of changes of government in his years at Global Molasses but tonight, whatever he tried, whatever position he adopted, sleep was not forthcoming. It was 11:30pm. In three hours he had a tank to change over and the ever present alarm clock was set accordingly. But how could he occupy his time until then. He had exhausted his supply of crosswords and quizzes some days before. It would have been thought that a man with such an avid thirst for these puzzles would have made up for lost time and overcome the poorest of educations that had resulted in his semi-literacy. But not Jim! Anyone who had the time or inclination to glance over his shoulder would have found that Jim's solutions bore no relation to those of the compilers of these books. Jim completed his puzzles in record time by the simple expedient of putting in any words that fitted his grid, no matter how far removed from the initial intentions of the writer. Whether the word existed or not was of no importance to Jim provided he could squeeze it into the spaces. And to question the veracity of his answers would induce an apoplectic rage of extraordinary violence!

"If I want to write that fucking word in my fucking crossword I will...and you can fuck right off!"

And the offending puzzle would be flung through the air at the perpetrator of such ignominy.

So, forced into unaccustomed action by boredom, Jim raised himself from his chair and with a determined look on his face, made his way out of the building and started walking down the yard.

During his time at Global Molasses Jim had been on many of these nocturnal wanderings. He now knew the site like the back of his hand and was aware of every nook and cranny that could be utilised as a place to hide himself away to avoid getting involved in any work. During one of these peregrinations he had stumbled upon the entrance to a tunnel behind the old warehouse. This entrance was hidden from the view of the casual observer by a thick coating of crystallised sugar that had built up over many years over a wrought iron trap door in the floor. A steep flight of steps led down into the gloom below. Jim had explored the tunnel before but had always turned back before reaching the end, scared of the cracks in the soft, earthy roof with its many plant roots poking through and the occasional sprinkling of his head with soil. This time he persevered and after a few minutes of slow progress illuminated with his company torch, Jim found the tunnel opened into a larger chamber, the roof of which had a lighter, yellowy tinge. On the far side it narrowed again and he made his way over, ducked down below a thick root and found himself in another tunnel which, after a few minutes stumbling in the gloom, led up to another short flight of steps. Jim climbed the stairs and found his path blocked by another iron door. Bracing his back against it and pushing up with his legs a narrow chink of light shone through a gap. A few seconds later he was standing in the dimly lit corner of a blind alley and Jim strode forward to get his bearings. At once he knew where he was and the reason for the gloom around him. Looking up he was standing in the shadow of a vast gas cylinder. The gasworks were about a quarter of a mile away from Global Molasses and Jim had covered this distance underground.

Had Jim been of an inquisitive nature, which he was not, then a trip to any local library would have enlightened him to the knowledge that the local area around Global Molasses was pitted with sand mines. These deposits of Thanet sand had been laid down by the ebb and flow of the Thames and had been mined through horizontal tunnels rather than vertical due to the overlying rock strata that had proved impervious. Long since forgotten or caved in, the loss of access tunnels had left these cavernous chambers beneath the ground for the likes of Jim to explore when not lying in the arms of Morpheus.

Jim cautiously crept to the far end of the alley, the shadow of the gas cylinder providing cover. He peered out into the council yard holding his breath. But there was no-one around, a small hut further up the path emitted the glow of a light and the intermittent flicker of the security guards watching television. Relaxing Jim reached into his pockets and made a roll-up. He had become an expert over the years and could do this with one hand – and blind-folded if necessary – one of his few party tricks. He struck a match, lit his smoke and casually flicked the match to the back of the alley. Returning to his pocket he withdrew a hip flask and, seemingly in one movement, took a swig followed by a long drag of his cigarette. Thus satisfied, Jim exhaled and contemplated whether he felt tired enough to return to his hut.

It was at this point that he heard a crackling sound behind him and swivelled round to see a small flame in the darkness. Grabbing his torch, he flashed a light into the gloom and saw to his horror that the match had ignited a pile of rubbish in the corner. The halo of light now also clearly illuminated a large sign in foot high red letters on the side of the gas cylinder:

"No Smoking – Inflammable Gases!"

Always one to panic in such situations Jim ran back up the alley and launched himself back through the iron door. Then, trying to hold his torch and run at the same time, exhibited a turn of speed that belied his stature and age. About halfway back to the other end of the tunnel at Global Molasses, Jim was felled by the shock waves of an almighty explosion, slightly muffled by his subterranean position, but which nevertheless marked the end of the council gasworks cylinder.

Spluttering, his mouth full of sand, Jim emerged into the relative brightness and familiarity of the yard at Global Molasses and ran straight into Dan Bridges.

"Jim...where have you been...the gasworks just went up!"

"Dan..I..I think I may have done something stupid!"

Unskilled in the art of subterfuge, Jim blurted out his story to Dan who listened intently, interrupted by the occasional..  
"You stupid tosser!"

At the end Dan mused for a moment and then said.

"I think we better get Sam!"

Half an hour later they were gathered in the canteen holding a war council.

"Well Jim....you've really fucking done it now! I can't help you....just popped out for a breath of fresh air and blew up the local gasworks! They'll have you out so quick your feet won't touch the ground!"

"....Unless....unless...Dan, what did you think when you heard that blast?"

"Thought it was those bloody provos again" said Dan

"Yes me too...thought it must be an IRA bomb!......and who's to say it wasn't" added Sam enigmatically.

And so it came to pass that on that January night in 1979 the local gasworks were blown up. The IRA, in a phone call using the code word to authenticate the call, admitted liability. This was just another example of the IRA's activity on the British mainland at this time. They had also blown up a pub in Woolwich not far from Global Molasses and no one questioned the veracity of the IRA's admission. No-one had any reason to doubt the authenticity of the call they received, even though the code was some time out of date. No-one thought to establish who else may have known this information or, more to the point, to check where these individuals may now be working. This was not the only time that Dan Bridges' Belfast posting would prove useful.

Chapter 10

And so things could have gone on indefinitely like this. Global Molasses was an institution that looked after people in many ways not dissimilar from a prison or, possibly more appropriately, a lunatic asylum. Provided you played by the rules there was a job for life and everyone was insulated from the effects of the big bad world outside. Governments would rise and fall. Wars were fought and won or lost in far off places but the employees of Global Molasses trundled on regardless, impervious to the consequences of the ebb and flow of world affairs.

However nothing is forever and the lives of Sam, Jim, Dave, Ted, Gloria, Des and all their colleagues were about to change irrevocably.

In general most people would agree that unions were a good thing for mankind. Many honest men had fought and lost everything including theirs lives in order to get better working conditions over the last hundred years or so when unscrupulous bosses would consider the lives of their employees worthless. The creation of the Unions were the upshot of this campaign. Now, however, all but the most militant would agree that things had gone too far! Bosses lived in fear of doing anything to upset the status quo lest their employees voted for strike action. Instead of reaching a point of mutual agreement the pendulum had swung too far the other way. The British did not do happy mediums. A common ground where everyone worked with mutual respect for each other was a step beyond the pale it seemed. Attitudes to sexual orientation and race followed a similar pattern. Twenty years later Gloria, Raj and Black Barry would have been astonished at the opportunities open to them just by the accident of their birth - their minority status being welcomed with opened arms in the diversity orientated society of the near future.

The Unions at this stage of history were inextricably linked to the labour party which just happened to be in power at the time. In an effort to control inflation which was running wild, the government sought to cap pay rises in the public sector which would then set an example to the private sector over which they had little control....or so they thought! The Unions were having none of it and the almighty cock-up that ensued was thereafter labelled "The winter of discontent" . The conservative party waiting in the wings couldn't believe their luck that all the hard work had already been done for them and swept comfortably into power in the general election of 1979. Very soon the miners took on the new government and lost. Legislation was introduced to curb union powers and the pendulum began to swing inexorably back in the favour of the management.

Not that anyone at Global Molasses was particularly worried by this turn of events. Many of the old hands had seen the cycle of government a number of times over. Boom followed by bust, a change of leadership, the promise that this time everything would be fine, the optimism, then the gradual realisation and the disappointment. But life in general went on as before for the men of Global Molasses and there was no reason to suspect that this time it would be any different!

Chapter 11

Gus Cherrydown sat in his office and surveyed the local papers with pleasure.

"Workers beaten into submission with water cannon!"

And

"Big Gus takes no prisoners!"

And

"Sugar workers lose houses!"

He nodded to himself with satisfaction. It had been a good couple of weeks. Brought in as a trouble-shooter at Amalgamated Sugars Incorporated he had single handedly overthrown a workers uprising that had threatened to, and indeed had become, very nasty indeed. It was slightly easier to do this in the US as typically factories were built in the middle of nowhere and often the job came with accommodation. It was easy to concentrate the minds of workers when they had their homes to lose as well as their jobs. He was sorry he had had to resort to the water cannon....hell - no he wasn't! It had been the best bit - seeing those godamned rednecks get what they deserved! Bringing on the firetrucks to disperse the angry mob preventing a small group of workers getting to their jobs had been a stroke of genius. He could still see the look of shock on the faces of the men slipping and sliding across the yard as the jet of water cut a path through the dissenting gathering. Gus was on a roll and looking for his next challenge. He was a gunslinger and this gun was for hire!

Meanwhile back in Global Molasses Sean Davies was licking his wounds after yet another encounter with Sam Tayler in which he had come off second best. It was a simple enough case for Sean. A bike had been stolen and the perpetrator apprehended with the stolen goods in the back of his van. Sean had wanted him sacked but Sam had so beguiled the team sent down from head office with tales of a broken home, child abuse and numerous medical conditions which rendered the sufferer incapable of restraint when presented with an easy bike theft that the man was let off with a final warning. At one point Sean had been sure that Sam was going to say the man had been dropped on his head as a baby.

So, still smarting, Sean had retired to his office and was flipping through a trade journal when an article caught his eye.

"Amalgamated Sugars Inc claims victory in long running dispute"

Sean grasped the basic facts of the case with a quick read through. But it was the accompanying photo that caught his attention. It was of workers facing up to the water cannon. One face summed up the situation. A look of shock and indignation. A face that knew the battle was now over. A face that knew things would never be the same! That face reminded Sean of Sam Tayler!

Chapter 12

Sam Tayler gradually became aware of a furious pounding inside his head. He opened one eye and tried to get his bearings. How much had he drunk last night? Well, enough for the room around him to move slowly from side to side in a rhythmical manner. He tried shutting his eyes again and rubbing. There was no doubt now. The room was moving! The answer was somewhere near the surface as he racked his brain to try and piece together the events of the previous evening.

The shift had begun in promising fashion. As Sam was reluctantly getting changed – the prospect of twelve hours staring at Jim's ugly, recumbent form uppermost in his mind, Dave came over and said:

"Sam. I've put you on the jetty tonight. Your mate Otto's due in later!"

Sam knew what this meant. Otto was the captain of the MS Nurnberg, a grain ship which brought feedstock to Global Molasses and with it the inestimable hospitality of the captain. Not one to dally too long at customs, Otto had an enviable stock of fine wines, beers and spirits. Also, cheap clothing and trinkets from a North African stopover and last, but not least, in Sam's much sought after opinion, the delights of Otto's three daughters, all in their early twenties and brought along to concentrate the minds of his men and prevent the motley crew from straying. Otto's generosity knew no bounds and he was willing to share his bounty with a select, chosen few at Global Molasses. And all for very reasonable rates!

"Sam...it is gut to see you...no!" Otto gave Sam a bear hug as he came aboard the ship.

"Come and see vot I have for you tonight"

Sam was led away into the hold of the boat and Otto indicated a table with two chairs in one corner. A large bottle and two glasses awaited their attention.

"Bavarian Gold, fifteen per cent beer. I've got two hundred bottles. You vant to try?"

Sam took a sip which took his breath away. He was vaguely aware that his speech had become reduced to a mere whisper as to attempt any volume hurt the back of his mouth!

"That's...um..very nice Otto!" he proclaimed sotto voce

And so the evening had progressed. Otto had some new items: boxer shorts from the markets at Marrakech. Three weeks later Sam had been amused to glance up as he got changed at the end of his shift to see seventeen men in various stages of undress, all sporting matching undergarments!

The last thing he could remember was the arrival of the formidable Helga and being led away with the promise of a nightcap followed by a snooze.

Sam lifted himself to the side of the bed and with a monumental effort stood up. He made a grab for the table as the room began to swirl around in his vision. Steadying himself, he inched toward the porthole and glanced out. Expecting to see the familiar sight of the jetty at Global Molasses he was surprised to see nothing but blue. When his eyes became accustomed to the light he vaguely made out the horizon and the gentle sway of the ship as it carved a path through the open water.

Sam returned to his bunk to consider his predicament. Not only did he not know where he was headed - Otto had told him the ship would be moored up for three days in London, he also had a nagging suspicion that his presence was urgently required elsewhere. Then in a blinding flash he remembered - the meeting!

Back at Global Molasses Sean was deep in conversation with The Weasel.

"Are you sure Tayler was still on board when the boat left?"

"Yes...I never saw him come off...and I watched all night!"

"And what did Otto say when you told him the plans had changed and he needed to head back to do another urgent job?"

"..seemed a bit surprised but he must have bought it otherwise he wouldn't have gone."

"Excellent..that rabble will fall apart without Tayler...this time next year they'll all be gone!"

Sean smiled at the thought of killing so many birds with one stone!

The notice had gone up some weeks before:

"Meeting. Tuesday 2pm Board Room. All Union Reps and employees to attend to discuss the future of Global Molasses"

There had been rumours for a while that something big was in the offing. Global Molasses profits had fallen sharply in recent years and the shareholders were getting impatient. Something drastic had to happen to reduce costs, by far the highest of which was the wage bill. For years Global Molasses had been over-manned. The process was separated; at least two or three men being responsible for each part and run from a panel room which also served as a tea room and sleeping quarters for the men involved. No-one knew the first thing about what went on in another area and their responsibilities ended once the product had left that particular part of the factory. Multi-skilling was a word with which they were all unfamiliar.

Sean had been aware for some time of the levels of debauchery that accompanied a delivery ship every few weeks and had determined to put a stop to this particular avenue of pleasure. However, today he was more than willing to let it go ahead unchecked, even arranging for Sam to be switched to jetty duties at the last minute to facilitate his plan. Sean knew Sam was what made Global Molasses tick. Everything had to go through him first otherwise nothing would ever get done, the threat of industrial action never far from the surface. Without Sam's calming influence the other reps were like putty in the manager's hands. They would fall apart. And this was one time Sean wanted Sam as far away as possible for the plan he was about to put in action to come to fruition.

Had Sam been aware that he was being observed on that particular afternoon he may not have entered into the spirit of things with quite so much gay abandon. After a few minutes deliberation Sam got up from his bunk and went to seek reinforcements in the redoubtable shape of his friend Otto.

Meanwhile, back at Global Molasses everyone was gathering for the big meeting. Jim, Gloria and Dave Priestly were there in their capacity as union reps. Five "suits" had been summoned from head office and sat there with implacable expressions. Arthur Chambers was there, fiddling nervously with his tie. Sean Davies was going to act as master of ceremonies. Behind him, almost overlooked by the rabble who had taken up the rest of the room, sat Gus Cherrydown, smoking a large cigar and glowering at anyone who happened to look in his direction.

And so the presentation began. Various graphs were wheeled out and displayed on the overhead projector. Falling profits, a pie chart showing a big red cheese of salaries, projections of where Global Molasses would be in five years if nothing changed. By and large the men were bored. They didn't understand anything they were being told and they were used to managers complaining about the wages bill without actually doing anything about it.

Then a video was shown. An American plant with central characters called Bubba or Sonny all sporting mullet haircuts and whose southern red-necked drawl made them sound retarded. But this was no factory like Global Molasses. Instead of the workers being insulated in their own separate compartments everyone worked in a central computerised control room \- the factory equivalent of open - plan offices. But the numbers didn't add up. There were only about five of them seemingly running the plant by themselves. Where was everyone else?

"And so gentlemen..this is the future of Global Molasses...a central working area controlled by computer. You'll never have to leave the room! All you need to know is shown on the screen. And the best bit is that you'll all know how to run the whole plant...everyone will know each other's job. It's called multiskilling. And finally, most important of all, is that we can reduce our costs by having five people per shift...not twenty-five!"

Dave Priestly was shaken out of his reverie by the last pronouncement. They wanted to cut the workforce to a fifth of its present level! Dave looked at his watch. Where on earth was Sam? He was already an hour late for the meeting and Sean had been right. Without Sam the others didn't know what to do in the face of such disaster!

"But what about cleaning filters \- that's a big part of the day. Who's going to run things when there's three of us out there?" Dave was clutching at straws.

"Filter cleaning will now be a one man job...remember that - one man one job!"

"I'm afraid that won't be possible!"

As one, everyone in the room turned to see the figure of Sam Tayler standing in the doorway. Admittedly a rather dishevelled Sam Tayler, seemingly dripping wet with a face drawn and haggard, revealing his recent excesses.

"Health and safety I'm afraid!" Went on Sam

"Can I refer you to Knight vs Polly Petfoods 1976. Very nasty situation. Man was instructed to go out and clean a screw by himself...three hours later they found him...well half of him anyway...still screaming by all accounts! Yes very nasty. Upshot of it was the recommendation of no lone working in such situations!"

Sean groaned inwardly and threw a dirty look at The Weasel who shrugged his shoulders.

Sam was back and battle lines had been drawn!

Chapter 13

Sam had finally located Otto asleep in his bunk. Bleary eyed he seemed only mildly surprised to see him.

"Vat are you doing here...that Herr Veasel say you back on shore! Ve nearly back at Hamburg now!"

"Otto...you have to help me get back..the men need me!" Sam begged his friend.

The big German scratched his chin for a moment.

"Tell me Sam...can you handle a speed boat?"

"Er..I'm not sure...I've never tried!"

As luck would have it Otto kept a small boat on board, not only for recreational purposes. As well as Otto's little alcohol import business he occasionally did a run of marijuana across the channel.

"Then you must take Helga...she knows how to avoid ze custom men!"

"And you vill need a passport....just in case!"

"Well I'm sorry...I forgot to put my passport in my pocket when I came aboard..I didn't realise you'd kidnap me and take me to Hamburg!"

Otto ignored Sam's sarcasm and called Helga.

"Helga...we'll need a passport for him"

Helga looked slightly taken aback.

"For who?"

"For _him_!" Otto repeated

Otto's expertise, it seemed, knew no bounds and Sam was soon issued with a slightly dodgy looking passport made up from a pile of blanks Otto had paid two thousand Marks for in an insalubrious drinking den in Dusseldorf some months before.

And so those going about their legitimate business along the Thames estuary that day were entertained by the spectacle of a middle-aged man in a speed boat, arm in arm with an extremely attractive blond beauty and seemingly under the influence of a psychotic drug! Not one to overlook such an opportunity Otto had decided to kill two birds with one stone and bring forward his monthly marijuana run. Naturally Sam had been offered the usual standard of hospitality as befitted his status. Unused to such substances, he was now giggling hysterically and waving at passers-by, the lovely Helga taking a firm grip to ensure that the trip did not end in ignominious failure and an unceremonious dip in the water!

Plotting a course which took in all the usual precautions to avoid any customs and excise officials, they made steady progress. Just as Sam thought how easy it had been, Helga squeezed his arm to caution him to the sight of a small, official looking launch headed their way, which on closer inspection had a "Port Of London Authority" sign on the side.

"Do not say anything...let me talk!" hissed Helga

"And what exactly do you think you two are doing?" asked the young officer as the launch pulled aside and signalled them to stop.

"Who do you think you are.....Patrick Campbell?"

"..Er...I think you mean Donald!" whispered his partner.

"..Yes whatever...you got any ID?"

Sam, who had been too busy before to scrutinise his makeshift passport now opened it and was about to hand it over when he casually glanced at the photo. To his horror the image that grinned back at him was that of Jim Goodale. But it was too late. He handed it over.

The officer gave it a quick look while Sam held his breath.

"Well...seems to be in order...don't you know the speed limit here's 4knots?"

"Ve are very sorry...it vill not happen again!" Helga flashed him a winning smile and a fair proportion of her ample cleavage.

Staring at her chest with obvious glee the man motioned to them to move on.

"Well don't let it happen again!" and then deftly swung the wheel of the launch and they were gone.

Sam turned to Helga, not sure whether to be relieved or annoyed that someone could mistake him for his chubby friend.

"Can you tell me why the fuck I've got a photo of Jim in my so called passport!"

Helga looked confused.

"But my farter tell me to get passport for Jim!"

With Helga's pronunciation, suddenly the confusion became apparent!

"He said for him....meaning me...not fucking _Jim_! Why the fuck would I need a fake passport for Jim?"

Helga still looked confused.

"Vell I don't know...my farter gets cross if I argue!"

Sam thought to himself that in another time, in another place Jim and Helga would have been a suitable match for each other!

"Besides...where did you get the photo from?"

"You remember last summer...vhen ve had the crates of Schnapps and everyone came aboard...I have my camera..I cut the photo out"

And so they continued. Having had a little doze after his reaction to the drugs Sam felt slightly more with it and noted that he was just half an hour late when they finally drew up to the east end docks. With a final kiss and a wave, Sam parted company with Helga, who had an urgent meeting upstream with a wealthy city Yuppie. He took a sharp intake of breath and marched off up the yard and prepared for action.

"Who the goddamned hell are you boy?"

Gus Cherrydown rose from his seat and withdrew the cheroot from his mouth.

Sam, who wasn't used to being spoken to like this, took in the newcomer at one glance and recognised trouble when he saw it.

"Everyone here knows who _I_ am! Replied Sam.

Sean stepped in.

"Oh I'm sorry everyone. Let me introduce Gus Cherrydown. This is the man who's gonna put this thing together. He's the future of Global Molasses!" Sam noticed for the first time, but not the last, that Sean imitated the American's southern drawl when in his company.

The two men stared across the room at each other, a look of mutual mistrust on their faces.

"You guys never heard of a man down alarm? We use 'em all the time stateside. Man goes down..alarm goes off in security. Rapid response team gets there in five...problem solved!"

"Well that's an issue we will have to discuss at a later date" Sam replied, casually glancing around the room at the dishevelled, lethargic group of men in front of him and wondering how any of them in any circumstances could ever be considered for a rapid response team!

"I vote we adjourn and consider the proposals on the table" Sam decided to buy some time to reflect on their next move.

Chapter 14

Despite a "failure to agree" being issued in the minutes of the meeting, plans for Operation Phoenix, the rebirth of Global Molasses as Gus had christened it, continued apace.

Within months the "skeleton" for a central control room was in place for every department. Jim Goodale watched forlornly as the contents of his panel room were stripped bare. His old armchair was ripped out and thrown on the skip. All the buttons were pulled out leaving bare wires dangling untidily from the panel. A two foot mound of what the unfortunate crew chosen for the job thought was crystallised sugar, was removed from behind a panel. Jim's guilty look belied this theory. This was fifteen years' worth of Jim's bogies, lovingly picked from his hairy nostrils and flicked behind the panel! All that was left were the bubbles fluttering through the glass dial and a solitary green light glowing in the gloom. To Jim it was like losing his home to the bulldozers! He had spent many years of his life in quiet seclusion here, unstressed by the ebb and flow of the world outside.

Besides, Jim was now very much out of his comfort zone. Years of a sedentary lifestyle had played havoc with his health and now, just being required to remain awake all day extended Jim to the very limits of his physical ability. Sam observed him now as the IT man was running through how to run the plant from the central computer.

"So now tell me how much have you got in that tank?"

Jim looked at the screen and scratched his head.

"Can't I just have a quick look inside..it's only over there!" Jim pointed pleadingly at the feed tank less than five yards away.

"But it's all here on the screen....look...it's simple!"

"It's not bleedin' simple to me!" groaned Jim.

The man tapped the VDU with his knuckles in exasperation.

"Cursor...the cursor!"

"Fucking computer!" moaned Jim

"I said cursor...not curse!" the man screamed at him.

"Use the mouse!"

Jim picked up the mouse and waved it about.

"No..no..the mouse ball has to be in contact with the pad!"

"The mouse has balls?"

"Not that type of ball...just one big one underneath..." he trailed off, realising this was not helping.

Jim's eyes opened wide in amazement and confusion. In the coming weeks his dreams would be filled with images of giant, single-testicled mice chasing him round a giant Swiss cheese!

And so it went on. Gus had a panel in his office with a map of the plant laid out across it. Little red dots of light shone from various spots across the screen. He had been having teething problems with testing the man down monitors and had just had a heated discussion with the manufacturers.

"You told me these goddamned pieces of shit were working...so you tell me mister how all the dots appear together in the canteen for twelve hours last night?" he shouted, overlooking the blindingly obvious answer to the question of his men's movements over the time in question!

Sam Tayler suddenly found that his hands were tied. The election of a conservative government in 1979 had brought sweeping changes to the trade union movement and one by one, Maggie took on the various industries and won. Many people believe it was just the miners but it started with the steel workers closely followed by the print workers and the railways. On a wave of patriotic pride following victory in the Falklands, the Tory's swept to second term. No-one wanted to return to the shambles of the seventies and The Winter Of Discontent. When Maggie came to power eighty per cent of the workforce belonged to a union. When she left it was down thirty. The significant shift in power was not lost on Sam Tayler as every time he threatened any form of action, Gus Cherrydown, who had meticulously done his homework, pointed out the legal implications of such a move.

"Can't let you do that sonny!" Gus had drawled as Sam threatened industrial action because Operation Phoenix was going ahead without proper discussions with the unions.

"You've gotta follow procedures boy....some of these guys don't wanna be in a union...can't force 'em...have you had a ballot? And remember boy...you cost this company money..we gonna sue the arse off your goddamned union!"

And thus Sam Tayler found himself backed into a corner for the first time since he first agreed to represent his fellow workers. He needed a plan and there was no time to lose!

Chapter 15

And so the criteria for who was staying and who was going had to be implemented. As Gus surveyed the talent on offer to him, his first instinct was to try and get rid of the lot of them but, even with the swing of the pendulum coming back into his favour it still wasn't legal to sack everyone and then rehire.

And so an overcomplicated points system was put into place taking various factors such as sickness, age, ability and how the men were shaping up with the new computers into consideration. This just meant, of course, the management had carte blanche to choose whoever the hell they wanted!

Things gathered apace and Sam found himself three months down the line in the office with Sean and Gus.

"Ah Tayler...Mr Cherrydown and I have just been discussing your future. We've added up all your scores and I'm very much afraid...not to put too fine a point on it...but you haven't done very well!"

"Well that's a shock I must say!" Sam responded sarcastically.

Ignoring his remark Sean continued.

"And so it is with regret that I have to inform you that in seven weeks from now you will be made redundant!"

Sam withdrew without comment.

"Brilliant!....Did you see his face? I've waited fifteen years to get rid of that bastard! Just wait and see....this company's going places without the likes of Sam Tayler...we've won!"

Gus Cherrydown turned and looked Sean in the eye.

"Whaddya mean _we_....what's all this _we_ business?"

"Well...er I just thought with Tayler gone this could really be a new beginning for us...we.."

"There ya go again...listen Davies...summit I bin meaning to tell ya!"

"What's that?"

In many respects Gus was similar in outlook to Sam Tayler, both did not like to mince words.

"Your arse is on the line too boy!"

Before Sean could recover from the shock Gus continued.

"Way I see it..this goddamned mess is down to you. You're in charge of these no-good bums. Whydah let 'em get away with it?"

"Well...I...er"

"And another thing...heard about you on the grapevine...summit about a goddamned sheep!...well listen sonny..that may be acceptable where you come from..but where I'm from they lock you up..its 'gainst the bible anyhows!"

Gus was a god fearing man and many of the bolder decisions he made that ended up wrecking lives were made in the firm knowledge that he was doing the good lord's work down here on earth. And this helped him sleep at night with a clear conscience! Especially since his draconian methods had to date directly resulted in three deaths back in the states.

"But...but..you can't do that! It was my idea to hire you!"

"Yeah...and you said you wanna get ridda all the deadwood and shit!....well that's just what I'm doing boy...just what I'm doing!" and Gus got up and left the room.

And so that was it, thought Sam as he went forlornly about his business in the weeks coming up to his departure. Nearly twenty-five years for nothing! Even the redundancy package was a joke. Three weeks for every year....it barely came to a year's salary. And he was too young to retire. His reverie was broken by Dave priestly.

"Sam...Sheep Shagger wants to see you!"

Sam wondered what he could want. The only good thing to come out of this mess was that, although the battle was lost, Sean Davies was coming down with them.

"Ah Sam....take a seat" This was the first time he could remember being called by his first name.

"It's all a bit of a cock-up really this Phoenix thingy...not really how I'd seen it pan out at all!"

"You mean you didn't mean to put your own arse on the line!"

Sam was not a man of many words but those that he did offer were blunt and to the point. Many a union meeting when straying off topic and venturing into some hypothetical scenario would generally be brought back down to earth by Sam with a swift..

"Yeh...and if my auntie had bollocks she'd be me uncle!"

Sean ignored Sam's comment.

"Seems like we're all fucked!"

"For once I'd agree with you."

"..Unless...unless!"

"Unless what?"

"Well..." Sean hesitated

"What?"

"Well..what I'm about to tell you must remain inside these four walls"

"My lips are sealed" replied Sam

"Well....what do you know about our death in service insurance?"

Sam wondered where this was going.

"It's what it says on the tin...one of us dies working at Global Molasses and our missus gets four times our salary"

"Precisely!" Sean moved forward in his seat and looked over each shoulder as if half expecting eavesdroppers.

"Probably what you don't know is that there is an accompanying clause......if the workplace, through some act of god, was no longer around to provide the employees with an income...then the policy still pays up...even though none of us are pushing up the daisies!"

Chapter 16

Sam was still mulling over what Sean had told him as he sat in on a safety meeting. One of his roles was as safety officer which, as part of the deal, came with regular overtime to attend boring meetings with talks and videos from boring guest speakers. But Sam's mind was elsewhere. Poring over the insurance document he and Sean had tried to find a definition of "Act of God". Simply shutting down the plant did not count and similarly an act of sabotage, if proved, would also nullify the policy.

Sam reluctantly pulled his thoughts back to the monotonous tones of the night's speaker explaining the properties of powder in the sugar silos and the risk of dust explosions.

"And so with a certain level in the silo...and a certain amount of dust in the airspace above you have a critical point where the whole system becomes nothing more than a bomb waiting for a spark!"

Sam sat bolt upright.

"Yes gentlemen...that's the best way I can describe it..its that dangerous a mix...if I could just show you the next slide"

A picture went up which could have been Global Molasses but was in fact a similar plant in South Dakota. A familiar selection of tanks, silos, steam pipes, loading bays and lorries.

"And this is the same factory after a spark ignited the airspace in a corn silo"

The man flicked the switch and Sam was looking at a picture of utter devastation. The only thing he could liken it to were the grainy images of Hiroshima and Nagasaka after the bombs had been dropped! The whole plant had been flattened, not a single structure remained. Ten thousand gallon tanks crushed like a can of coke underfoot.

The speaker continued but Sam was again miles away. At last he had a plan!

Chapter 17

Sam moved swiftly into action. Although quite willing to be actively involved in theft, deceit, drug smuggling, pornography, infidelity and many more nefarious practices, he did possess a moral compass, albeit one slightly battered and prone to malfunction. He genuinely had a soft spot for the men he looked after at Global Molasses and would not condone any action that was likely to result in any of them coming to any harm. For this reason, the forthcoming Christmas shut down became the focus of Sam's attention.

He recruited Dan Bridges into his select team. Dan, although a known psychopath, had good experience of explosives from his time on active duty in Northern Ireland. His knowledge of timers and fuses would prove invaluable.

Next Sam studied all the information he could find about dust explosions. He had purloined the safety video at the last meeting and sat down to watch it.

"Many materials which are commonly known to oxidize can generate a dust explosion, such as, coal, sawdust and magnesium. However, many otherwise mundane materials can also lead to a dangerous dust cloud such as grain, flour, sugar"...Sam ears pricked up!

..powdered milk and pollen. Many powdered metals(such as aluminium and titanium) can form explosive suspensions in air."

It continued:

"Dusts have a very large surface area compared to their mass. Since burning can only occur at the surface of a solid or liquid, where it can react with oxygen, this causes dusts to be much more flammable than bulk materials. For example, a 1 kg sphere of a material with a density of 1g/cm3 would be about 27 cm across and have a surface area of 0.3 m2. However, if it was broken up into spherical dust particles 50 micrometres in diameter (about the size of flour particles) it would have a surface area of 60 metres cubed. This greatly increased surface area allows the material to burn much faster, and the extremely small mass of each particle allows it to catch on fire with much less energy than the bulk material, as there is no heat loss to conduction within the material. When this mixture of fuel and air is ignited, especially in a confined space such as a warehouse or silo.."

Again Sam made a note.

"A significant increase in pressure is created, often more than sufficient to demolish the structure. Even materials that are traditionally thought of as nonflammable, such as aluminum, or slow burning, such as wood, can produce a powerful explosion when finely divided, and can be ignited by even a small spark......"

He paused the video for a while. Now what could cause a small spark that would go unnoticed and seem to be a complete accident? And when had he been talking about sparks recently? Ah yes of course...the agitator bearings of the crystallizers. These would be one of the few things left running over the break. If they were switched off or cut out Sam knew to his cost that they would be chipping lumps of rock solid sugar out of the vessels with a hammer and chisel until Valentine's Day when they came back from the Christmas break. Sam knew that there was an oil leak on one of the agitators and he had had to report it a number of times. As yet, the fitters had not managed to drag themselves away from their card game to rectify the situation. If one were to help matters along by draining the remaining oil by loosening the plug, conditions should be just right. Sam had already witnessed the consequences. Upon reporting the first time the motor was simply glowing red hot. By the second time he had summoned "a team of engineers" as he sarcastically called the lonely figure that eventually appeared, there were sparks arcing across the case. The fitter merely topped up the oil leaving the leak. Perfect conditions! And the silos were just the other side of the corrugated iron wall..not ten feet away!

And so the scene was set. Over the next few weeks whilst the rest of the factory were engaged in preparations for the forthcoming shutdown, Sam was to be found entering into hushed conversations in dark corners with members of his co-conspirators, namely Dan, Jim and Dave Priestly. It was essential that at least two maybe three of the four silos would have exactly the right conditions for their plans to come to fruition. They also tested the agitators and were pleased to see how quickly extremely high temperatures could be reached when the motor stopped being lubricated.

With Jim and Dave standing in front of them, Sam and Dan had found a rusting weak spot in the wall of the building and it was the work of five minutes to construct a small flap that could be opened or closed to reveal the dark outline of the storage silos outside.

Next they experimented with fuses constructed from everyday materials around the plant. They found the string interwoven into the top of hundred weight bags of sugar designed to facilitate opening, burnt most effectively with a slight coating of candle wax. This was an inspired choice as Sam had found an entry in the incident book concerning the preponderance of this string across the plant and the fire risk that such a scenario presented. Looking around the plant it was obvious that no-one had actioned this report, pieces of the offending material strewn far and wide across the floor.

Chapter 18

Christmas Eve at the Admiral Nelson was in full swing. Always a lively affair, tonight's festivities had an added poignancy as everyone knew it would be the last for the boys from Global Molasses as they took over the public bar en masse. At the end of January Sam, Jim, Dave, Gloria, Dan, Black Barry, Raj and many others would make their last journey to the hallowed gates, throw a middle-finger gesture at The Weasel and clock-on for the last shift. Gladys had lain on a sumptuous feast and behind the bar was a pint pot with over two hundred pounds to keep them all going into the early hours after Gladys had locked the doors and dimmed the lights for the year's most memorable lock-in.

"It'sssss....Christmas!" Noddy Holder informed them all.

Barry was engaged in taking on all comers at arm wrestling and had resorted to using just a finger when the task had proved too easy. Dan was knocking back whisky chasers after each pint and wondering who he was going to pick a fight with. Jim was in his favourite chair, a collection of empty glasses in front of him and a large plate of Gladys's finest fare on his lap and a look of benign contentment of his bloated face. Gloria had chosen a little pink number for the evening but the overall effect of dress and make-up was somewhat diminished by a very conspicuous five o'clock shadow across her chin.

Sam sat slightly apart from the rest of the group and had managed to distance himself from the majority of the festivities. He was deep in conversation with Dave Priestly.

"Everyone knows what to do then?"

"Yes...if anyone asks you were here with us all night...but I don't think it will come to that!"

"Always pays to cover your arse!" Sam responded

The noise in the bar around them was increasing. Barry and Jim, now reconciled in adversity had put their differences behind them and had taken centre stage for a nerve-jangling rendition of Ebony and Ivory on the brand new karaoke machine. Dan had found a squaddie to take issue with but Barry had stolen his thunder and the chance of some action by picking up the hapless victim up by his belt and hurling him through an open window into the cold December night outside.

This had so amused Jim that he fell off his chair and demanded refreshment to recover from the shock.

"Where's Sam...it's his turn at the bar...why is it always me...?"

But Sam had gone.

Chapter 19

Sam had crept out unseen through the back door and was at this moment making his way toward the dark silhouette of Global Molasses that stood out like an ancient monolith in the night sky, illuminated by the light from the streetlamps lining the river.

Sam slipped in the side gate. He had had the key for many years and it saved him ten minutes coming to work this way. He hadn't clocked on for years – there always being a friendly face to do this for him.

Everything was as he'd left it. The factory was eerily quiet when shut down and he shivered involuntarily as he strode down the yard. The lighterman ghost had been a figment of his fertile imagination but he was sure he had glimpsed a figure in the shadows. As he got closer to the warehouse he could hear the dull, comforting wine of the agitators as they stirred the thick sugar around and prevented it crystallising. He went over to the motors and one by one removed the oil reservoir drain plugs. After a short time the tone of the motors changed as the lack of lubrication caused metal on metal contact. Next he carefully laid his piece of string over the motor and attached the end to a piece already fixed in contact with the casing. Next he prised open the rusty flap in the building wall and connected his piece of string to another that led to the sugar silos. With satisfaction he noticed that the motors were starting to glow in the darkness. Not long now he thought to himself.

"Cant let you do that boy!"

Sam swivelled round and there on the steps stood Gus Cherrydown!

"Kinda thought you goddamned arseholes would try summat like this...you think I don't know 'bout that insurance...jeez I bin tryin' to get rid of it for months! They wont let me cancel...so I'm here to stop ya boy!"

Sam looked around him. This was getting out of control. He spied a large valve handle and, in the desperation that the situation necessitated grabbed it by one end and held it like a sword.

"Hey we've got a tough guy have we!"

Gus grabbed another handle and started to come towards Sam.

"Did I mention I was college fencing champion Tayler!"

And he lunged at Sam with his improvised sword!

Sam parried with his own weapon and pushed his aggressor away.

"That must have been thirty years ago!..We do this all day long!"

And Sam expertly swung a blow at Gus's head. Gus parried skilfully and struck again. Sam met the attack but the metal slid down the other shaft and smashed into his fingers forming a purple welt and causing him to drop the weapon. It wouldn't have happened to Errol Flynn he thought bitterly to himself as he blew on his injured hand and put it under his arm.

The powerful form of Gus Cherrydown now stood over him, the handle raised above his head.

"I'll just say I was workin' late and thought I heard an intruder...they'll never know!"

Sam looked up at him and then noticed two things. Firstly, that the string attached to the motor had started to burn but had become detached and was now smouldering on the ground. Secondly, that the overflow pipe for the tank was just behind his attacker. Sam glanced at the panel and saw the tank was full. If the agitation was stopped the contents would surge out of the overflow. Sam was lying on his back but managed with a flick of his boot to hit the red stop button.

"Hey..Whaddya think yer doin' boy!"

Sam indicated with a glance over Gus's shoulder. As Gus turned he was hit by slug of thick treacle-like molasses which sent him crashing to the floor. Within seconds his whole body had been covered. Sam managed to leap out of the way and in the same movement place the string on the red hot motor and rushed out the door!

Chapter 20

Jessie Orford had lived at 34 Oriental Road all her life. Number 34 was one of the last two houses in the terrace, all the others having been either bombed in the Second World War or earmarked for demolition to make way for the new City Airport. Now 87, at the age of 17 she had witnessed the Silvertown explosion in 1917 in a munitions factory on the site of Global Molasses almost exactly 70 years before. And again in 1979 she had been there to witness the IRA finish off the rest of the gasworks that the explosion in 1917 had failed to do. She had also lived through the destruction and hardships of two world wars and was hardened to the disasters that life had thrown her way. She had just been on the point of going to bed and was closing the curtains when she happened to glance out.

"Aw gawd...not a-fucking-gain!"

The night sky was lit up as it had been all those years ago and the whole area was illuminated as if daylight although it was past midnight.

Jim sat up in his chair inside the pub and looked at the glow coming through the window.

"What the fuck was that!"

Everyone stopped what they were doing and rushed outside.

"It's the factory man!" said Barry

"Hey where's Sam?" asked Dave "Someone's blown up the factory!

"Oh there you are Sam...look...look at the factory!"

Sam had sidled in behind them and joined the group standing outside The Admiral Nelson staring at the unnatural glow in the night sky and listening to the sound of sirens in the distance.

"It's over...IT'S OVER!" sang Roy Orbison.

Epilogue

Hiram Cherrydown was just sitting down to have a TV dinner in his luxury penthouse flat in the Docklands area of East London overlooking the river. It was 2012 and Hiram had just recently moved in to the place having parted company with the best part of a million pounds. He was a so-called dotcom millionaire having made his fortune from the internet and had his main home back in the states - a ranch in Texas. He'd got his first break many years before by inheriting some money from his late father's estate, the proceeds of some insurance scheme that had paid out upon the latter's early demise as the only human casualty of the Great Silvertown Explosion of '87. In another twist of fate he had just come to realise that his new place was built exactly on the site of his late father's final resting place which, after the accident, was snapped up as prime real estate. Hiram had invested wisely and with his father's ruthless streak had soon started to amass the fortune that had resulted in his present exalted position.

All the men at Global Molasses had got a huge payout when the factory went up in smoke and with it Operation Phoenix. The insurance company had tried to claim sabotage but the investigators maintained it was a classic dust explosion in one of the silos that had caused the devastation and could find nothing untoward in their inquiry which concluded that a small fire in an agitator motor had led to the sparks which ignited the contents of a storage silo close by and catalogued the series of warning signs and reports that had been overlooked.

So Sam, Jim, Dave and the boys found themselves sitting on a small fortune and had no need to find gainful employment.

Sam returned to the bosom of his family and that of Gladys whenever passing The Admiral Nelson, which was often. Harvey Griffin reared his ugly, albeit invisible, head again as Sam's non - existent lodger who was living on benefits, the funds invariably ending up over Gladys's bountiful counter. Jim became a domestic god - forever to be found up a ladder at Mrs Goodales' behest- a never ending task from his worst nightmare. Barry and Raj returned home to their respective parts of the globe older and wiser. Gloria retired to run a clothing stall in Camden market where he/she had cornered a gap in the market for the rather fuller-figured transvestite about town, specializing in size twelve stilettos and rubber bondage trousers. And Neville, who had jumped ship early, was rumoured to have moved abroad and become the safety advisor at a now infamous nuclear power plant in the Ukraine.

Hiram Cherrydown was about to take a bite from his dish of Sushi when a strange rumbling sound distracted him.

Suddenly the walls of the living room began to shake. A huge lump of plaster parted company with the ceiling and joined him on the sofa. Incredibly, looking up he could see the night sky and then as the walls finally gave way around him he had a panoramic view of the river and The Albert dock.

About the very last thought he had as his block collapsed into the sixty foot wide sink hole was why could he smell sugar. The secret of Neville's missing loads was finally revealed in the vast subterranean cavern that had predated the lightermen, munitions factory, Global Molasses and now this luxury penthouse.

As the dust began to clear one last vision filled the eyes of Hiram Cherrydown as he shuffled off this mortal coil.

A green light glowed in the darkness and small bubbles fluttered through the glass dial.

55

