Ducie by Chris Freeman
Chapter 8. There are no dogs in Ducie
In an uncomfortable rattan wood bed on the North, West coast of Ducie, Andrea’s unconscious mind fought desperately to accommodate the shrieking drone of the miner’s wagon alarm into his dreams. First as music, coming from the corner of a small courtyard which he didn’t recognise. It wasn’t in Ducie. A fat, bald, happy looking man playing trumpet, which faded. The noise came back louder now, as the happy bellowing of a young boy he’d seen on the beach the night before. He was running towards Andrea, holding a fish he’d caught. Shrieking more wildly, excitement, fear. He vanished. The same sun that had given such grace to yesterday’s celebrations seeped through the gaps of the window black-out, piercing an unwelcome preview to the gruelling day that lay outside.
That drone had been the precursor to Andrea's day for as long as he could remember, but today it seemed to impregnate his gut, giving new life to a sleeping belly of wine and duck meat. His habitual autopilot guided him on a surprisingly smooth trip through the morning self-preparation routine, leaving him to focus on taming the rowdy, banging creature that had seemingly commandeered the inside of his head as its temporary home. It wasn’t often he worked with a hangover, but if he could just get through today…
15 minutes after waking, which could have been 15 seconds or hours, Andrea was stood at the door of his hut ready for the day. He eyed the pill on the wooden side-table and watched as the two digits on the capsule merged into a messy blob. He covered one eye to realign his vision.
A '2' and a '2', no, hang on, a '3'. Twenty three! He summoned what saliva he could to the pit of his dry mouth, popped in the pill and swallowed.
On a normal day, keeping the wagon waiting for 15 minutes would have been punished by a journey of loutish insults for the entire journey to the pit. It could have been because the usual chief of taunts, Vasco wasn’t on board today or because the other men were suffering in much the same way as Andrea. Either way, today’s late arrival was greeted with little more than grunts and raised hands in scant acknowledgement of the wagon’s newest passenger.
As the wagon wound its way inland, leaving the Island Circular Road, onto the well beaten track and through the off-road greenery, the clattering of the chassis began to rouse the slumped men in the open trailer.
The wagon protested with a groan as it came to a standstill at the entrance to the main shaft, giving birth to a cloud of dust that escaped with the wind as quickly as it had rose. Then silence. Andrea had been awake for the whole journey, so he was on his feet before the others who were just rousing. As he stood, a black dog darted across the main entrance of the pit and fled into the undergrowth. There were no dogs in Ducie.