He is lying awake one night when there is a quiet tap on the door. Before he can sit up, Dia pokes his head in.
‘Mick, are you awake?’
A remote panic straight away upon him. ‘Aye, what is it?’
‘Come on. We are doing a raid.’ Dia smiles broadly and steps out, letting the door close and the room go back to darkness. He gets up and pulls some clothes on. It occurs to him, amidst his confusion, that Dia knows which is his room.
In the corridor Dia is stood waiting with Eric, Obi and Vincent, all of them grinning and dressed in trackie bottoms. Christ knows what they’re up to. He doesn’t question it but. Dia puts a finger to his lips and Mick follows with them, away up the corridor toward the hotel. Who cares what it is, it’s better than being awake in his room, anyway. He walks behind Eric, who keeps turning around smiling, a small rucksack on his back. He’s never seen him so cheery. They are in their baries, all of them. Surprising how pink the soles of their feet are.
‘Okay, wait.’
They are at the entrance to the potwash. Dia nudges the door open, looks inside, then turns round and motions for Mick to come in with him. Quickly, without speaking, Eric goes in before them; Obi and Vincent stay guarding the entrance. They’ve obviously planned it, then; or they’ve done it before.
It is dark in the potwash, and then in the kitchen, the blue light of the flytrap glinting off the microwaves. Eric waits behind in the throat and he follows Dia, who is taking a key out of his pocket; unsnibbing the padlock to the cold room.
It is big inside, and he feels the chill immediately as he goes in. There are shelves of food all around, cartons and packets everywhere. A whole wall lined with sausage boxes, bloody thousands of the bastards. Giant plastic sacks of chips humped on top of each other like mixing cement, or body bags. Dia clear knows what he’s after: he’s stood balancing on the chips with his hand feeling inside one of the top-shelf boxes. He looks down at Mick a moment. ‘It is okay. The stocktake was yesterday,’ he says, pulling out a handful of what looks like steaks, each tightly cauled in plastic.
The two of them are smiling as Dia hands him down five steaks, then gets ransacking another box off to the side. They are surprisingly squishy, the steaks, like tube feed-bags. Dia’s got what he’s looking for: mashed tatties. Even these are vacuum-packed. Fucksake, they no cook anything theyselves here? Dia gives the signal and they are away, quickly through the potwash and out to Eric and the others, who clock the steaks and start slapping him and Dia on the back.
Genuine a smooth operation. By the time they get back to the basement and go in the staff room, they haven’t come across a single person. The door is closed and they start laughing. Eric gives him a no too brilliantly executed high five. And then, as Dia gets the steaks under the grill, Eric pulls out bottles of beer from the rucksack.
‘How ye get the keys, Dia?’ he asks as they drink.
Dia turns round from poking the mash with a spoon. ‘The pastry chef, he is an idiot.’
The steaks are almost black, they’re that well fired, and the mash is dry and powdery. Christsake it tastes good but. They eat without talking, like at the lunatic, but this time with satisfied nods and smiles and the sweet pure fucking magic of a stolen beer to go down with it. When they’ve finished, they clean away meticulously all the evidence and prop the door open as they leave, to clear the smoke. Firm gripped handshakes. Greasy smiles. Bloody genius.
Dear Robbie,
I hope you and Jenna and Damien are well. I’m sorry I haven’t called or wrote to you sooner. I was meaning to call but for one reason or another I haven’t been able to. It’s no excuse, pal, I’m sorry. I’m in London now if you’ll believe it. Don’t know if I can myself actually. They let me go at Muir’s and as well I just needed something different, you know, so when I saw this job advertised and they gave it me I decided I’d come down. I’m working in a hotel, believe it or not, in the kitchen. It’s alright. I’ve got a decent place to stay and it’s worked out okay. They are a good lot here, no the bosses of course but what can you expect? I’m getting on fine and I’m well so you don’t need to worry. Food’s not up to much but!
I didn’t tell your brother I was coming down here. It all came about so quick to be honest but I will do when it’s the right time, so you’re no to put the mix in, okay? He’s dealing with things in his own way and he’s the better left alone until he’s ready, so I’m waiting my time just before I tell him what’s what. Same as I was with you, being honest, Robbie, I just needed to wait while I had things fixed out until contacting you. It’s just it needs a bit longer with your brother.
I will write again soon, I promise. With where the hotel is, it’s probably easier than calling, but when I’ve got my day off next I will go find a telephone and I’ll call you.
Take care, son, love to the family,
Your da
He seals up the envelope and fishes the address out of his wallet. It’s a fair pathetic effort but what else can he say? Whatever he puts it doesn’t change anything, and as well if he’d been in contact with him sooner and given him the full run-down, Robbie would’ve been straight onto the plane, knowing what like he is. Nay point telling him it all the now. He is fine, that’s all he needs to know. He’d thought about putting in about the stolen steaks or the housekeepers’ dispute, but it didn’t feel right; plus he wouldn’t want him getting the wrong idea why he’s got involved helping them.
He goes to the post office at the terminal on his next day off and gets the letter sent off there. Better that than seeing if the hotel’s got its own service. You can fine well imagine the crafty bint up the stair, there with her envelope steamer, weeding out the radicals. So, the food’s no good, then — that what you think, is it? We’ll see about that, Scottie, we’ll just have to see about that, won’t we?
There is a meeting called for four o’clock one afternoon. By the time he and Eric get there after the lunch shift it is already under way, and they go and join Dia, beckoning them over at the back of the room by the oven. The ringleader is talking in English about a new development. The management, she says, have started putting out more spies on the floors, so what the housekeepers are doing is they’ve fixed out a system of lookouts, making sure there’s always one of them keeping watch at the end of the corridors to signal when a bandit is on the approach. She tells this story that happened: a few days ago two of them are trying one of the doors with no reply, when they get the signal from the lookout and they hurry into the room, presuming it’s empty. Inside but, there is a guy in the bare scuddy doing exercises in front of the TV. She does an impression of him, his face black-affronted, hands shooting down to cover himself.
They are all laughing at this story when the operations manager comes in the door.
She stands, looking at them.
‘Every person in this room faces instant dismissal.’
She’s no beating about the bush, then.
Silence. Confused faces. She’s got the heavy team with her, two big fellas stood either side of the door, and another man in a suit beside her.
‘Unauthorized meetings and organization of staff without consent is in breach of the terms of your employment, and is an immediately sackable offence.’