The Contract

By Eric Sterling

When Danny McAllister loses his job and seeks to drown his sorrows in the local pub, his personal woes inadvertently start a chain of events that ignites trails in all directions; all of which will ultimately lead to the biggest of bonfires seen for a long time in sleepy Tetlow. The good, the bad and the ugly are all in town for an hilarious rollercoater ride resulting in a breathtaking climax that will leave your head spinning

• Language: English
• Publisher: AUK Authors
• Release date: Jun 11, 2014
• ISBN: 9781781660928

Book preview

Title Page

THE CONTRACT

By

Eric Sterling

Publisher Information

The Contract published in 2011 by

Andrews UK Limited

www.andrewsuk.com

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.

Copyright © Eric Sterling

The right of Eric Sterling to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Chapter One

Tetlow was once a thriving cotton mill town situated in the North of England. It is, of course, still situated in the North of England, but the cotton industry that generated the wealth for the town had long since become extinct.

One of the major employers in the town was Tetlow Corrugated Casing Ltd. It existed within in the structure of one of the old cotton mills. The business was relatively successful, employing around forty people in all.

The mill – or factory as it was now – was positioned just on the outskirts of the town and being just enough of a distance as to warrant a short bus ride or car journey. .

This particular Monday had started as Mondays usually did. The staff had reluctantly walked to the clocking-in machine with a laboured shuffling of feet. They recounted to each other the events of the weekend as they huddled around the clocking area, searching for their ‘clocking in’ cards that were stacked vertically in the metal rack screwed onto the wall next to the clock. The shuffling mass then spread, in an even more laboured flow, across the factory floor. There then followed a series of clanking noises as the electrical power levers were switched on at the individual machines, and the droning that had been silenced the previous Friday evening, commenced once more to herald the start of another working week.

By the mid-morning break they had all settled into work mode again, and as they settled down to have their cups of tea, the silence was rudely interrupted by the annoyingly high pitched volume setting of the tannoy, as it blasted out the usually dulcet tones of the receptionist.

Will Danny McAllister please report to Mr. Callans’ office immediately. Thank you.

I wish someone would do somethin’ to that bleeding tannoy. It wants kicking up its’ arse, so it does. Elsie said, through clenched teeth.

Tannoys haven’t got an arse. They’re machines. Danny smiled as he got up from his chair, which had been a car seat in a previous existence.

Well maybe we should just kick your arse, and tell Callan he can wait in the queue, you cheeky little bleeder. He shouldn’t be calling for you at brew time anyway. Let him wait and go and see ‘im in his own time. If he wants to see you he can pay for the privilege. Elsie still had her teeth clenched.

It played havoc with her jawbone.

Danny made his way across the factory floor, negotiating his way past discarded cartons that littered the area of floor that wasn’t occupied by plant and machinery.

He reached the exit door and kicked a carton out of the way before opening it.

The corridor and stairway leading to Mr. Callans’ office was both grotty and dark. The handrail leading up the stairwell was hanging precariously by two or three screws. When he reached Callans’ door, there was just enough trace of the black lettering on the slim oblong brass plate, to identify the occupant.

Callan was sitting at his desk with Danny’s personnel file opened in front of him. The file was opened at the first page displaying the personal details and employment history of Danny. As he slowly read the details, he wondered what had ever possessed him to employ him in the first place.

Danny was twenty-six years of age, but often displayed the mental age of a twelve-year-old. Callan had now convinced himself that it was time to get tough. He had to start to set standards, and if that meant that heads would roll, then so be it – as long as it wasn’t his head that did the rolling.

Callan had finally been persuaded to take action after Jim Riley, the factory foreman, had come into Callans’ office the previous Friday afternoon.

Jim Riley was on the verge of a nervous breakdown and his outbursts on that afternoon came echoing back to Callan.

Look Derek, no matter how many times, or how slowly I explain it to him, it just doesn’t sink in, he’s nothing short of a thick useless bastard. I can’t do anything with him. If I have to look at that stupid puppy dog expression on his face for one more minute, I swear I’ll rip his head off. He’s completely fucked up the whole production line again. That’s another hour’s downtime and an hours less bonus for that lot out there. If I don’t kill him, there’s a queue out there waiting to oblige. You’ve seen it countless times yourself, Derek, the blokes a menace, you’ve got to get rid of him and quickly.

Callan knew Jim was right. He was only putting off the inevitable. He made great efforts to avoid this part of the job and fortunately hadn’t needed to do it in his ten years in relative stages of management. The new Derek wasn’t going to tolerate ineptitude.

He had a reputation to create.

Danny had to go and he couldn’t put it off any longer; best get it over with now. This wasn’t one for him to pass to the owner of the factory, as it was Callan who had employed Danny in the first place. It could also be embarrassing if he had to explain why he had kept Danny on for so long.

There was an erratic muffled knock on his door.

Come in Danny, Callan called out.

Danny pushed his right shoulder into the plywood door to Callans’ office. This action was always accompanied by a tight squeaking sound, as the door hinged away from its ill-fitting frame; an action that always caused Callan to shift uncomfortably in his PVC swivel chair.

One day he would get that bloody door fixed, he thought to himself - again.

Morning boss, how’re you doing? What can I do for you?

Danny had casually meandered over to the low-backed plastic chair facing Derek’s’ desk. Its four tubular legs were firmly imbedded in the grey, grubby office carpet. Judging from the way the edges turned up away from the walls, the carpet appeared to occupy its’ office environment reluctantly.

Danny proceeded to sit himself down, facing Callan across the desk without the slightest indication of what was to follow.

This made Callan even more unsettled.

He had, despite being in new territory, assumed that the employee in question would have more than a slight inclination as to what was going on.

Danny, Danny, Danny. Callan uttered gently.

He cleared his throat loudly and composed himself.

Now then, er, Danny, we appear to have a situation here that we need to address, er, as soon as possible, together…well…now really. No time like the present, eh?

It wasn’t going well.

That’s right boss, and I’m happy that you think I can help. What do you want me to do then? I’d get the suppliers out if I were you. That machine is just not up to the job. You’ve dropped a bit of a bollock there boss, but don’t worry; we all make mistakes eh!

Danny, what the hell are you talking about? There’s nothing wrong with the machine - nothing! It’s state of the art stuff we’re talking about here. I personally selected it, and I can tell you it cost a bloody fortune. Danny lad, that machine only has a problem when you go anywhere near it. It must be frightened to death of you; it must dread you coming towards it.

Bloody ‘ell! That is state of the art.

For Gods sake, I can’t believe I’m hearing this. Look Danny, there’s no easy way to do this. Jim’s been having some problems where you’re concerned. Whenever we have a breakdown, nine times out of ten you’re there or thereabouts. You’re costing this company a fortune. I’ve…I’ve really got no option mate, I’m going to have to let you go.

Go? What d’ya mean; go? Danny asked, confused.

Danny, I can’t possibly make it clearer can I? You’re going to have to leave. You’re too much of a liability. I don’t get any pleasure from this, believe me. I’ll make sure you get your full entitlement, and maybe a little extra. I can’t say fairer than that now can I?

What do you mean boss? I’ve got to leave? Bloody hell! I really like it here boss. You should be sacking Jim and getting a decent machine installed. It’s not my fault it doesn’t like me and that Jim’s a shit foreman anyway, ask anyone? You can’t blame it all on me boss.

Danny, please. Don’t make this more difficult than it need be. You can finish straight away and I’ll pay you to the end of the week. Get your stuff together and call in to see Marion. She’ll have your money ready lad, I’m sorry, I really am, but it’s for the best, honestly.

Danny became furious.

For the best: best for who? Bollocks! It’s not the best for me that’s for sure. I’ve got a family to feed and to look after you know. It’s shit this is; our Linda will kill me. She will you know, she’ll go bloody spare!

It’s best you go now Danny. Say your farewells, and then, as I say, just call into the office on your way out.

Marvellous! Absolutely fucking marvellous! So that’s it. Two years dedication to duty up the swannee without a paddle, or whatever it is. Marvellous that is!

All right lad, all right, now come on, lets just get on with it shall we. Just get your stuff together, don’t start being daft about this, let’s keep things civil lad.

I’m going, don’t worry, in fact I wouldn’t work here if you paid me. I’m off. Danny stormed out of the office leaving the plastic chair to tumble backwards onto the carpet.

Callan was grateful that Danny had eventually left the office. This was all a very unpleasant business for him.

He picked up the receiver of his multi-function telephone; the functions of which to this day he never fully understood; and dialled Marion’s internal telephone number.

Hello.

Marion, it’s me.

Oh Derek! What can I do for you love?

Marion, Danny McAllister is coming over to see you. He’s going, so sort out his money will you.

Going? Going where?

Oh, don’t you bloody start Marion. He’s going...finished…out…sacked, get it? Now please, sort out all his money; holiday pay and all that business. I’ve told him I’ll pay him until the end of the week.

What’s he done? He was a nice lad Danny. I mean he still is, Oh you know what I mean. It’s a shame; I liked him, well mannered I thought, spoke very highly of you, although a bit slow on the uptake, to be fair. So what happened then?

Marion, believe me, these things aren’t done lightly. Danny had just become too much of a liability. It’s not enough to be ‘nice’ or ‘well mannered’; being able to do the job competently and possessing the merest minuscule of common sense isn’t, in my opinion, too unreasonable a requirement to ask of an employee. Danny was severely lacking on both counts. Just sort him out. If you haven’t enough in the safe, tell him you’ll send it on to him.

Okay then, Derek. Leave it with us. It’s a shame though, poor kid.

Danny entered the pay office and collected his money from Marion, who had packaged it in a small brown envelope.

I’m sorry love, all your money’s there, all accounted for. She said. Don’t worry, I’m sure something else will turn up love. Good luck, pet.

Danny left the office, breathed in deeply, and headed towards the main gate, contemplating what he would say to his beloved Linda.

Chapter Two

It was exactly ten o’clock in the morning and Linda was just sitting down in her armchair to watch a few snippets of daytime television. She had a cup of her favourite coffee and a large chocolate biscuit.

Linda was a couple of years younger than Danny, and they had been married for two years.

Their baby was only eight months old, and had eventually complied with mothers’ wishes, and was having a mid-morning nap.

Linda had spent most of the morning dusting off and re-stacking Danny’s collection of Elton John LP’s and CD’s. Danny was proud of his collection. The LP’s and CD’s stood in neat chronological order, on the shelf above the stack hi-fi in the corner of the living room.

Naming their first child after him was a declaration to all and sundry of Danny’s obsession.

Linda had fought right up until to the morning of the christening to persuade Danny to change his mind. He was adamant, and it was probably the only occasion in their entire relationship where Linda had been unable to dominate the situation and take full control and responsibility. On this one particular occasion, she had been forced to concede to Danny’s wishes.

What baby Elton would think of her name when she grew up remained to be seen.

Linda hadn’t decided how the rest of the day would unfold. The ironing mounted ever increasingly in the