Bad Karma

BAD KARMA
The poachers followed the trail marked at turning points by the advance
party. A fitting trail where dead fish indicated the direction. What
else? Wilkie was furious with himself. He refused to put them in his
bag. They were small ones. He had caught nothing. Fuck all. He couldn't
believe it. Imagine fuck all. Worst of it was he had had the first
strike. The first big splash was his. The wrong knot saw to it a splash
was all it was.The wrong fucking knot. How many times had he tied that
knot in the dark? hundreds? thousands? Okay he had been pished but that
was hardly a first on an all night loch poach. The rest had started
reeling them in after that. Big ones. The rumours had been true, the
loch was stocked with beauties 5, 6Ibs - every one putting up a heroic
fight. But the feeding frenzy had been short lived and by the time
Wilkie had set up his rod again it was over. Over and out. Wilkie was
out. Out of patience. He walked alone across the hills blighting the
heads off thistles with his rod as he went. Muttering. It was easy to
see that here was a man who had been sent off four times already and
with the season only seven games old at that! A feat that would
probably cost him the captains armband - the coveted status symbol he
had worked so hard to attain. His world was falling apart around him.
He had lived for fishing, football and golf most of his life. First he
got himself barred from the clubhouse, then the red cards and now this.
What had he done to deserve it? What indeed? **
Back in the pub his hippy{ish} friend Iain suggested that bad karma had
returned to haunt him. That the negative energy created by his previous
bad behaviour had not disappeared but had merely holed up in some kind
of cosmic bank - which paid out its customers with intrest. An
explanation dismissed by Wilkie with such a display of contempt that
the manager wondered if it had not been a mistake to open his doors
early to this hungry, thirsty fishing party. Iain though was unfazed
'that's exactly what I mean' he said 'you just bumped up your account
with a hefty deposit of negative karma there, just now.'
Wilkie calmed down.'But ah dinny believe in any o that shite', he
offered in a lowered tone, 'that's OK for a bunch o slopes ringing
bells an` chanting 'hare Krishna' in a goat hide tent in the Himalayas
or somthin but no a hairy-arsed tink like masel.'
'That doesn't mean that your immune to the effects,' Iain insisted
'that's like expecting the Devil to hand out exemption certificates to
atheists. You, as an adult, are responsible for your actions and these
may well have consequences that are beyond your understanding and
control. Belief is irrelevant.' **
Wilkie left his local early that night. He told himself that it was
because he had work in the morning but the truth was that Iain had
planted a flea in his ear. A nagging annoying flea that wouldn't go
away. If that bad karma crap was true, what next? He shuddered to
think. Christ knows he had been responsible for countless sufferings in
his life. Too many. Ach he was just being stupid. He'd drunk too much.
His thinking head was going into overdrive. Just a load of
superstitious fucking nonsense. Typical of that lettuce eating tube. He
cheered himself up by booting a curled-up hedgehog into the middle of
the road.***
Elsie was worried. She had allowed her lover to stay too long. They had
had a glorious night of passion. So glorious she had taken the risk of
allowing him to stay that little bit longer and then they had fallen
asleep. Although he had gone now and Wilkie nearly always stayed in the
pub until closing after a nights fishing, she couldn't quite shake the
feeling of dread her carelessness had conjured up. What if she'd missed
something. She made a mental check - she'd showered, the sheets were in
the machine, she'd emptied the ashtrays of roaches, the empty wine
bottles were in the bin, she'd hoovered and polished. Yes, she was
being silly, everything had been covered. Just relax and light a
cigarette. Watch Corrie. And smile. It was hard not to - not after the
night she'd had. ***
The Witch &; Warlock was not one of Wilkies usual haunts, too full
of the kind of middle class wankers he despised but none the less lived
amongst - ever since his migration to suburbia. Tonight though he
decided to grab a final pint and soak in the inane drivel that
constantly spewed from the clientele. It would take his mind of things.
He wandered in nodding to the lame greetings he received and ordered a
beer. Taking up the classic predatory male bar stance he was surprised
to notice Skoosh McIntyre sitting on his own reading the football
results on the corner stool. He wandered over unseen and slammed the
counter next to Skoosh`s bent head 'right McIntyre your fukin rumbled'
he shouted at his unsuspecting victim. Wilkie expected a reaction, of
course he did but he couldn't have been more triumphant with the
result. This was Skoosh McIntyre one of the most promising new boys
from his team. He was; talented, enthusiastic, two footed, versatile
and [most importantly for Wilkie] - fucking well hard. He could also
hold more than his own when it came to the sarcastic banter and
boisterous camaraderie which was such an intregal part of any football
team.
'Whaaaaaaaat wooooow' Skoosh got such a fright he nearly fell off his
stool, he spilled his pint and the paper he was so studiously examining
was flung into the air. His expression changed from fright and shock
into fear - with an ominous sense of dread thrown in for good measure.
To Wilkie it looked as if he was genuinely scared, shiting himself in
fact.
'Ya beauuuuty, fuck sake Skoosh ahaaaaaaahaaa ya cunt, ah fukin well
gotcha there, ya fukin doss cunt' Wilkie was beside himself with
delight. Skoosh seeing that it was a 'joke' composed himself said
something in the spirit of the occasion and grabbed Wilkie in a pretend
head lock. A good recovery but his heart was beating so fast he thought
it was going to burst.
After the 'hilarity' the two 'friends' sat down.
'Whit the fuck are ye doing up in this neck o the woods Skoosh? No
exactly your style is it? What are ye nippin a wee bird up here or
somethin?'
'Naw, naw, ah came up tae score a bit o dope offa guy that lives just
roond the corner like, thats why ye gie me such a fright ye big
bastard.'
'Hahaha thought ah wiz the polis eh.'
'Aye too fukin right ah did, ah mean its no as if ah expected tae meet
any cunt ah ken in here.'
'Naw ah only live up the road an` ah hardly ever come in, fukin dump,
never any decent crack, boring bastards knowwhatamean.'
' Aye but its fine an` dandy tae catch up wi the football after ye`ve
been working all day, nice an` quiet like.' Skoosh gave Wilkie a
sidelong glance.
Wilkie chuckled 'Ach ye`da done the same yirsel, ye know ye wid ya
cunt.'
'Too right an` a woulda, too fukin right, aye it has tae be said, ye
caught me a cracker there el capitano, ye did that.'
The brief liason with his teamate had put the spring back into Wilkie`s
step. He had stayed till closing time after all, the two of them
blethering away about the football like the bosom buddies they weren`t.
His previous depressive mood had lifted. He had been maudlin over
things for nothing. Karma, what the fuck did he care about karma,
things were going to change from now on, he had just had a run of bad
luck that was all. He hoped Elsie was still up.
She wasn`t. She was in bed joyfully indulging that blissful limbo that
floats between wakefulness and dreamtime sleep. Not for long though. In
came the pig of a man she had once loved, or at least liked enough to
marry. She tried to recall any contentment or happiness that she had
felt then. In vain. It was either too long ago or had never properly
existed in the first place. Probably both. Wilkie was enthusiastically
recalling his fishing tales. He might as well have saved his lies.
Elsie`s indifference, as usual, took on all the features of a brick
wall, she just groaned and complained to her husband that she`d taken a
sedative and that he could tell her all about it at breakfast time. She
smiled to herself as she recognised the disappointment in Wilkies
'mmmmm okay' reply. He got into bed. Despondent but still eager to
carry on a conversation or at least a monologue [which his
conversations with his wife usually amounted to anyway].
'Caught one o the young lads from the football team a silky one the
night' he said, changing his subject matter in the hope of prompting
some kind of reaction. Preferably one that would trigger a degree of
wakefulness which would allow him to have sex with her.
'Ah wiz a bit surprised that he shat himsel so much though,' he added
thoughtfully, 'Skoosh is a right wide boy, then ah found out he wiz
carrying, dope like, thought ah wiz the polis, haha, ye shoulda seen
his face hahaha'.
Elsies eyes snapped open, her heart missed a beat, 'who did ye say' she
asked tentatively.
'Skoosh, Stuart McIntyre, ye ken `im, he was up here at the hogmany
party....Whit are ye awake noo?'
'No I`m sleepy and so should you be, now get off,' but Elsie was far
from sleepy. Fear had snatched her suddenly away from the sandmans
gentle caress. Indeed it would take her a while to drop off into the
safety of slumber - where getting caught presented no consequences and
physical pain is blissfully illusionary.
***
Auld Doogie had been busy over the week-end. He had waited a long time
for this day. This day of revenge. No not revenge, justice. He would
try and not lose any sleep over it whichever way it was wrapped. All
that was necessary was for him to recall that ghastly image of his
disfigured nephew and all feelings of guilt dissipated immediately. The
young man had stood before them, mutilated, shocked and silent. The
empty arm socket spewing blood. At first the assembled men had failed
to notice. They were engaged in their usual tea hut activities. Then
the realisation. Panic spreads. 'The laddies no got an arm'. Doogie`s
quick thinking probably saved his life. He layed him down on the floor
and wrapped up as many towels he could and kneeled on the injury
partially stemming the blood flow until the arrival of the ambulance.
**
His kid sister had begged Doogie to get her son a job at the quarry. He
had had no luck finding a job since leaving the school. Okay he was a
bit slow but he was nice enough and was more than willing to work, it
was just that no-body was prepared to give him a chance. Most employers
regarded him as a simpleton and there was plenty 'normal' laddies on
the lean eighties job market. Doogie himself had reservations about the
prospect of him working in such a dangerous environment. However,
Wilkie as quarry manager had agreed to take him on, not through any
benevolence on his part but because he realised the boy would never
complain, there was a lot of tasks at the quarry that were menial low
paid work and even in the unemployment glut it was difficult to fill
them.
On his first day first day Wilkie sent him to work on the huge conveyor
belts used at the quarry to transport the stones from the crusher to
the various sieves. His job involved him clearing out the debris that
had collected underneath the belts. The whole plant had been idle that
day due to electrical failure so the belts had been inoperative. Next
day they were not. Wilkie had been busy when his new employee had asked
him what he should do. 'Just do what you were doing yesterday' he had
replied. So he did. With disastrous results. His caught arm was ripped
out like a well done chicken wing.
At first Doogie could see that it was probably a genuine mistake on
Wilkies part. Just one of these things. It happens. The laddie should
have had more sense than to crawl beneath a moving conveyer belt no
matter what he`d been told. Intuition should have alerted him to the
danger he was putting himself in. A part of him blamed himself - he
should never have got him the job, he never had the savy. But it was
what happened afterwards that really made his blood boil and caused him
to hate Wilkie with such a vengeance.
The boys mother had put in a large compensation claim against the
company but when it came to the court case Wilkie had lied through his
teeth. He told the tribunal that he had warned the boy not to go near
the belts and that he had in fact assigned him another task sweeping up
the tar plant floor. This had had the effect of dramatically reducing
the sum payed out to the disfigured nephew and not only admonshed
Wilkie of any blame but elevated his standing with the quarries owners.
After all compensation pay outs were an expensive business.
One of the tipper drivers was on holiday. Wilkie as usual had taken the
decision not to call in a relief driver. He would take his place
himself. Fuck paying an agencies extortionate rates. They were robbing
bastards. It would keep his costs down and earn him more points with
the bosses. He prided himself on being able to do every job that
existed in the quarry. He was an impressive example of what hard work
could achieve. Had he Wilkie not risen from a humble crusher operator
to manager in six years. Quite a feat. Fucking agencies could go and
fuck themselves.
Today though he was feeling out of sorts. The combination of recent
events and a stinking hangover had hurled him back into the melancholy
state that he had being experiencing the previous day. Well at least
that was what he put it down to. But he was aware of something else,
something he couldn`t pin down. It was a weird feeling and it made him
uneasy.
Doogie was employed as a Caterpillar loading shovel driver. This
involved feeding the tar plant hoppers with various sizes of limestone
from the bings [dunes of stones]. Some of these bings were so huge that
the tipper lorries actually reversed on top of them to tip their load.
The Cat drivers were cutting into the bings from the bottom so they
always had to make sure that they elevated their shovels periodically
to bring down any overhang. Doogie had deliberately cut deep into the
bottom of the bing but unaccompanied with the necessary safety work
with his shovel, it resembled a concave arch. What appeared as the
usual solid edge from the top of the bing, was in fact a death
trap.
Oblivious Wilkie reversed into oblivion.