LONDON FEB 2006 - LIVING THE SPY LIFE
Life at the Bud brewery had taken a turn for the bizzare. Bud employed Trident security, but they were unhappy with Trident, so some genius at Bud came up with the idea of bringing Crusader (my company) in to work alongside Trident for a month. At the end of the month the best company would be awarded the new security contract. This meant I was the sole Crusader representative amongst a gang of paranoid Trident guards. They were all convinced that I was there to discredit them and to win the contract for Crusader.
I was oblivious to it all though, at first. My company had sent me in without telling me anything. I thought it was odd that I was the only one wearing a Crusader uniform, so I asked the Pakistani supervisor about this. He told me he thought Bud was being very unfair, and did I know that he had a wife and a kid? When I stared blankly at him he added quickly, 'But don't get me wrong! Bud is a good company. There is good people wot works here. But some of the independent truckers is spreading rumours about Trident, and misleading Bud.'
Right. Something was going on between Bud, and Trident, and Crusader, but all I cared about was that I had a month of work to get through - six night shifts a week, at £7.50 an hour. I was working with Mike, who was something of a social outcast in his own right, and the two of us were happy in our own way: Mike phoned his whores, and counted the days until he flew back to Lagos for his fook spree; I was saving money, and counting the days until my flight back to SA at the end of my working month.
I enjoyed going on patrols. The brewerey was huge, and it would take an hour to cover all the check points. Some areas were brightly lit, like the hangar-sized room where endless streams of Bud bottles jiggled along on conveyor belts. They created a clinking, musical cacophany like the din of small birds. Other areas were dark and eerie: massive cube shaped buildings with no windows; sheer corrugated iron walls, creepily lit with security lights shining up from the ground, making a staggering monster of my shadow. Steam was constantly hissing all around, sometimes billowing into the sky, backlit for a nice ghostly effect, to remind me of the wierd chemical processes going on in the making of Bud.
There was a tall, rectangular building like a launching pad, made from corrugated iron. It had a stairwell up the centre of it, leading to rooms where people in white coats arranged beakers of labelled beer formulas on tables. They took samples from the beakers with ear-drop dispencers, and tested them in advanced looking machines that winked and flashed, making sure the Bud taste was maintained. The procedure had a hushed, important air, as if an important medical breakthrough was being made. Mind you, it would be serious, if Bud was sent out tasting like Heineken.
When Mike had the night off one of a string of grubby Ghanain guards filled in for him. Mike generally slept more than I did, but these Ghanains were terrible. It wasn't unusual for them to pass out at eleven and sleep solidly until five the next morning. This meant that I had to scuttle back and forth, signing trucks in and out.
After perhaps two weeks of this a tall, gaunt Ghanain with a filthy collar arrived and promptly passed out. He lay sprawled in his chair, with his head hanging back and his mouth wide open, snoring loudly.
'Sod me! I wouldn't mind having his job!' the truckers said, looking in the window and grinning, while I weighed their trucks and signed their paper work and grew grimmer and grimmer. After three hours of this I'd had enough, so I phoned the Pakistani supervisor in his South guard-house. Thinking that I was planning some elaborate set-up, he went and roused the Bud site manager and brought him along. He thought, I learned later, that if he hadn't brought the manager I would have said, 'Aha! You didn't bring the site manager, when it clearly states in the security manual that you must!' The gaunt Ghanain was never seen at Bud again, and the darkest suspicions of the Trident guards were confirmed: I was a covert agent, sent to discredit Trident and win the contract for Crusader.
'But I just wanted you to crap on him. He's your guy!' I said to the Pakistani supervisor.
He gave me a sly look and said nothing.
I tried, weakly, to defend myself to the other guards. 'I didn't mean for him to get caught. He was sleeping by eight! I only wanted the Indian to wake him up!'
'Yes, but maybe the man has got some problems at home. Maybe he has got no home! You must give a man a chance,' they said, looking at me with distrust and dislike. I felt like saying, yes, but every one of you buggers comes to work with a story about having to shop all day for your sick friend, or - a favourite story - about how a girlfriend needed satsifying. 'I told her no, I need to work tonight. But she is coming to my home. She is banging on the door! She is saying, Sam! Sam! Let me in. Ha! Then she is keeping me awake the whole day!'
All I said was, 'I feel bad. I've never ratted on anyone in my life.'
'Ho! You feel bad,' they said, mocking me. I was so desperate to show them what a decent guy I was that I let them sleep all night. But they still lurched awake and looked around them wildly when I made a noise, thinking I'd brought the site-mananger.
One night I was working with Mike and he said to me, 'Ay! Do you know that Indian man thinks you are a spy?'
'How do you know?' I asked.
'He told all of us. He put us together and he said, that Crusader man is a spy! You must watch out for him! He is going to take your jobs.'
'Jesus Mike, you don't think that, do you?'
Mike looked at me groggily. 'Me, I don't care. I don't worry about this business. I like gals! I like to fook!'
I was oblivious to it all though, at first. My company had sent me in without telling me anything. I thought it was odd that I was the only one wearing a Crusader uniform, so I asked the Pakistani supervisor about this. He told me he thought Bud was being very unfair, and did I know that he had a wife and a kid? When I stared blankly at him he added quickly, 'But don't get me wrong! Bud is a good company. There is good people wot works here. But some of the independent truckers is spreading rumours about Trident, and misleading Bud.'
Right. Something was going on between Bud, and Trident, and Crusader, but all I cared about was that I had a month of work to get through - six night shifts a week, at £7.50 an hour. I was working with Mike, who was something of a social outcast in his own right, and the two of us were happy in our own way: Mike phoned his whores, and counted the days until he flew back to Lagos for his fook spree; I was saving money, and counting the days until my flight back to SA at the end of my working month.
I enjoyed going on patrols. The brewerey was huge, and it would take an hour to cover all the check points. Some areas were brightly lit, like the hangar-sized room where endless streams of Bud bottles jiggled along on conveyor belts. They created a clinking, musical cacophany like the din of small birds. Other areas were dark and eerie: massive cube shaped buildings with no windows; sheer corrugated iron walls, creepily lit with security lights shining up from the ground, making a staggering monster of my shadow. Steam was constantly hissing all around, sometimes billowing into the sky, backlit for a nice ghostly effect, to remind me of the wierd chemical processes going on in the making of Bud.
There was a tall, rectangular building like a launching pad, made from corrugated iron. It had a stairwell up the centre of it, leading to rooms where people in white coats arranged beakers of labelled beer formulas on tables. They took samples from the beakers with ear-drop dispencers, and tested them in advanced looking machines that winked and flashed, making sure the Bud taste was maintained. The procedure had a hushed, important air, as if an important medical breakthrough was being made. Mind you, it would be serious, if Bud was sent out tasting like Heineken.
When Mike had the night off one of a string of grubby Ghanain guards filled in for him. Mike generally slept more than I did, but these Ghanains were terrible. It wasn't unusual for them to pass out at eleven and sleep solidly until five the next morning. This meant that I had to scuttle back and forth, signing trucks in and out.
After perhaps two weeks of this a tall, gaunt Ghanain with a filthy collar arrived and promptly passed out. He lay sprawled in his chair, with his head hanging back and his mouth wide open, snoring loudly.
'Sod me! I wouldn't mind having his job!' the truckers said, looking in the window and grinning, while I weighed their trucks and signed their paper work and grew grimmer and grimmer. After three hours of this I'd had enough, so I phoned the Pakistani supervisor in his South guard-house. Thinking that I was planning some elaborate set-up, he went and roused the Bud site manager and brought him along. He thought, I learned later, that if he hadn't brought the manager I would have said, 'Aha! You didn't bring the site manager, when it clearly states in the security manual that you must!' The gaunt Ghanain was never seen at Bud again, and the darkest suspicions of the Trident guards were confirmed: I was a covert agent, sent to discredit Trident and win the contract for Crusader.
'But I just wanted you to crap on him. He's your guy!' I said to the Pakistani supervisor.
He gave me a sly look and said nothing.
I tried, weakly, to defend myself to the other guards. 'I didn't mean for him to get caught. He was sleeping by eight! I only wanted the Indian to wake him up!'
'Yes, but maybe the man has got some problems at home. Maybe he has got no home! You must give a man a chance,' they said, looking at me with distrust and dislike. I felt like saying, yes, but every one of you buggers comes to work with a story about having to shop all day for your sick friend, or - a favourite story - about how a girlfriend needed satsifying. 'I told her no, I need to work tonight. But she is coming to my home. She is banging on the door! She is saying, Sam! Sam! Let me in. Ha! Then she is keeping me awake the whole day!'
All I said was, 'I feel bad. I've never ratted on anyone in my life.'
'Ho! You feel bad,' they said, mocking me. I was so desperate to show them what a decent guy I was that I let them sleep all night. But they still lurched awake and looked around them wildly when I made a noise, thinking I'd brought the site-mananger.
One night I was working with Mike and he said to me, 'Ay! Do you know that Indian man thinks you are a spy?'
'How do you know?' I asked.
'He told all of us. He put us together and he said, that Crusader man is a spy! You must watch out for him! He is going to take your jobs.'
'Jesus Mike, you don't think that, do you?'
Mike looked at me groggily. 'Me, I don't care. I don't worry about this business. I like gals! I like to fook!'
posted by Krisstoffel at 2:05 PM
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