Read Online The Unknown Industrial Prisoner by David Ireland - Free Book Online Page A

out of sick-pay, he moved among the men of a strange shift like a man apart. His week of seven night shifts weighed heavy on him. Several of the shift, noting his dazed condition and because of it moving in for a quick thrust, taunted him with being hungry, believing he was called in on overtime. Many left their phone numbers prominently displayed so they might be called in on days off. He wouldn’t bother to correct them. The trouble with a private system like the Samurai’s was that others had to learn, over a period, where the boundaries were they could not cross.
    He walked out on the plant at sundown, checking over his plant knowledge, following lines. The cracker was a graft on to a patchwork of old plants. Puroil expected men to acclimatize to the old, the feeble, the makeshift, but this was new. It should work.
    The sunset was magnificent, but it was butchered by a few malicious minutes, and fell in ruins to discoloured cloud.
    There was a little flurry after dark. The Good Shepherd visited the wharf while girls were there; not everyone took advantage yet of the privacy of the Home Beautiful. These girls were rowed from Clearwater Bridge directly to the wharf.
    Quick Tip, quick on the uptake, barred the doorway with his thick body and racing conversation—he had been a bookie’s penciller in real life—while the others got the girls into lockers. Since you could open all the narrow-shouldered lockers with a paper clip, this took only a few seconds. The Good Shepherd left after they had given him a cup of tea. Part of his saintliness was in accepting their tea in mugs tasting of mouth and brewed in their urn. Socks were washed in it. After he left, the gallant seamen of the wharf continued their exercises.
    â€˜Back to navel manoeuvres!’ shouted Quick Tip joyfully. It was a phrase coined by the Two Pot Screamer, who delighted in making up words for others to say.
    But the time was ripe to take the women off the job. No consultations were held, no meetings arranged, the general trend of thought moved naturally and gratefully in the direction of the Home Beautiful.
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    DIGNITY OF LABOUR The Samurai was eating. He found a neutral seat to occupy and this was important. There were invisible priorities to the tiny patches of seating space available in the amenities room; special places for sitting and staring at certain spots on the floor. Some sat and stared vacant and unseeing at the floor for seven days till pay day. A few adventurous ones ascended to the top of the structure and followed the movie at the Jerriton drive-in.
    Out of the night came Mogo, famous for making rude signs at every refining plant he passed. He knew work was a curse.
    â€˜All you fellers got books?’
    The prisoners looked up from their humble pursuits. It was night, they were disoriented, their minds focused uneasily, unwillingly.
    â€˜Good. Stick your noses in them. I’ll have a cup of tea but no talk.’
    The rebuff was unnecessary. Their heads swung down over books or patches of floor; in a few seconds they forgot he was there. Lovers in the locker-room made noises.
    â€˜How are you, Mogo?’ said the Samurai.
    â€˜Stop the gush. You don’t care how I am.’
    â€˜Love job?’
    â€˜Love. The Elder Statesman caught me for this one. I’ll take the last day off next shift. Suits me.’ Mogo was also a soft touch for love jobs.
    â€˜Want the paper? There’s a good story on the struggle for leadership among politicians in Victoria.’
    â€˜Politicians are arses. I don’t read anti-Labour papers. I don’t recognize Victoria. The only good thing about Victoria is they fought on our side in the war.’ The other prisoners gaped.
    The low control block shot beams of light defiantly out the windows at the dark, which was a live monster crouched hugely above the hemisphere trying to leak darkness gently in at the cracks.
    On a peculiar impulse, the Samurai got hold