Rust and Dust

Scratching the styptic strip from under his double chin and craning his neck, the gaffer stared past the Tink as if trying to catch him out.

The Howff was a trantle-hole off the pier filled with debris, some of it human.  The air heavy on the nostrils. More a sticker and tickler on the back of the throat than the greasy fish-and-chip of Aldo’s stalls or the salty tang of wind-whipped sea air. A musty bouquet of oil drips on rough concrete over decades that created hieroglyphics. Musty panels of unfinished wood and wormholes. Rubber braiding from old parts and bicycle tyres stuck together. The burnt-oil that clung to blackened machinery The metallic, slightly sweet aroma of the blood of unused fuel—oil and petrol—characteristic of junk ready to spring back to life.

Solutions found in the Tink’s toolbox. An ordered space where problems could be diagnosed with a dipstick and his keen nose for mechanical failure.  ‘Which wan?’ the gaffer wheezed and leaned against the doorframe.

The Tink’s windblown face never gave anything away. Small as nut with a soft down blossoming on his cheeks.  Shirt without a collar, unbuttoned, and showing a scranny neck. Braces so high, his short legs looked spooked by a rack and his forced inside a pair of ill-fitting wellies that gave off a distinctive pong. His hands, stained with oil and grease, he wiped with a rag from his jacket pocket. His lips twitching. ‘Yer wan-eyed gypsy.’

‘Madame Zita? Fuck that’s a money spinner. Folk seem tae love aw that shite. Whit’s wrang wae her noo?’

The gaffer didn’t wait for an answer. Stepping out of the gloom to breathe sea air. The fill up of good-natured shouts of hawkers and stallholders, the laughter of holidaymakers, and the thrum of countless machines bled into a chaotic money-making din. His brightly lit amusement arcade a chorus of metallic rattles and chimes—the incessant clatter of falling coins. The whir of gears and levers. Distant yet muffled, Billy Cotton’s big band drifting from a ballroom wrapped in the cloying smell of candy floss.

 Going to have a gander for himself. The pier stretched black, slick with summer rain, boards groaning under their boots. The Tink limped behind him. His toolbox banging against his thigh.

Madame Zita stood in a prime positon near the end of the pier. Punters arriving by ferry keen to have a laugh and know their fate. Men, women, couples out for a stroll and keen for a distraction.  Its paint gleamed fresh, as though all those thousands of elbows leaning in had polished it with their longing.

The gypsy inside smiled back with painted lips. Her eyes gleaming wet, alive and indifferent to her gaudy jewellery and their gaze. A quill in her hand. Waiting for those that dare step inside the tall, blue cabinet, engraved with gold cursive lettering that promised to unearth the supplicant’s secrets.

A gull screeched at being disturbed from the roof of Madame Zita’s box leaving a deposit of shit. The machine’s innards rattled. Soft as loose coins shoved into a pocket.

The gaffer scowled and squinted at Madame Zia. ‘Thought you said this fucker wasnae working?’

The pier smelled suddenly stronger of brine, as though the tide had surged right beneath—and something sweeter like a women’s fragrance. The hollow lapping waves echoed against the pilings. Louder than before, louder than the lost music from shore.

The Tink held in the palm of his hand, a Palestinian penny, drilled in the middle.

‘Whit the fuck’s that?’ asked the gaffer.

‘Kids do shit like that,’ the Tink explained. ‘They think they’ll get a free shot and their money back. It jams the machines.’

‘Wee fuckers.’

‘Some are no so wee.’

The gaffer rolled his tongue around his teeth and then lit a cheroot. ‘So it’s fixed then?’

‘Aye and no. It can be a wee bit temperamental and immature.’

‘Whit the fuck ur yeh talking about yah stupid wee cunt?—If I think yer taking the pish.’

The Tink handed him the Palestinian penny and pointed to the slot.

He clenched the cheroot and grimaced. ‘Thought yeh said this would fuck up the machine?’

‘I fixed the coin so you get a free shot and yer money back.’

‘I thought yeh said yeh cannae dae that.’

‘I said they couldnae. I can.’

‘Don’t get fucking cheeky.’ He waved a finger in his direction. But a fog began to roll in. Behind them—steps. Slow, deliberate. Faded away. He turned, but the fog pressed them closer, hiding everything beyond a few yards.

 ‘And don’t be thinking of using this coin in any of the o’er machines. Yeh hear me?’ He pops it in the machine.

Madame Zia’s eyes lit up.  The gentle clink of a ratchet. Low, steady hum of an electric fan as Madame Zia lowers her head and the pen in her hand moves across the stylus. Her glossy lips parted lips.

A creak like wood splintering. The gaffer felt it as a tightening on his chest. He spat out his cheroot, gasping for breath. He swore he smelled perfume—cheap roses, cloying and heavy, the kind his mum used to wear for special occasions, mainly funerals—pouring from the open cabinet, drowning out the sea. He stumbled and would have fallen into the machine if the Tink hadn’t grabbed his wrist.

He fumbled for the card. Damp ink. Smudged beneath his thumb. Flung the slip into the waves. It fluttered between the pier planks, vanishing into the fog.

‘Whit did is say?’ the Tink asked.

‘Jist shite. At midnight, the sea will call yer name.’

‘Here,’ he handed the Tink the Palestinian coin. ‘You try.’

The gears inside whirred with a dry rattle. Belts snapping tight. The card popped out. The gaffer grabbed it. ‘Whit kinda shite’s that?’

Peace in our time is fool's gold. Prepare a shroud of iron.

He balled up the slip and flung it into the fog. ‘I see whit yeh mean. Punters don’t pay tae read that fucking crap. They want roses are fucking red and violets are fucking blue. Can yeh no adjust the gears or something?’

‘Nah, the Tink shook his head. ‘Best take a hammer tae it or tip it into the sea.’

‘I’ll take a hammer tae you. That fucker of a machine cost good fucking money.’ He slapped the side of the panelling. ‘Behave.’ He stuck the coin in the slot.

Tomorrow. Ayr. Red Rum by two lengths