Intermission

Cal was brought to his senses again by three soft knocks against the window. Shifted groggily and stared out at a large man in a yellow hardhat and tabard, glowing loudly in the dark. The man motioned at Cal to roll down his window. The light was still red, or red again. Cal turned off the radio (left blaring away) then let the window down.

"Sorry there pal but you can't stop here."

Cal blinked. "But it's a red light."

"Yeah bud but when it changes you can't stay here."

"Did it?"

"Wha?"

"Did it change?"

"Nah bud. But when it does you'll have to move along asap. You're in the fast lane, you could get creamed."

"No problem," Cal nodded slowly the panned his head around to see the low key disruption of a few minutes ago (surely) changed into a chorus of flashing yellows and blues for as far as his tired eyes could see.

Up and down the motorway now Cal could see more flashing hazard lights and bollards and two men with signposts walking the length of the road. Cal rubbed his eyes, grabbed his camera and stepped out of the car, he left the keys in the ignition and the radio on low.

"You'd better stay inside the car there bud," said the hardhat, "you don't know when that light's going to change."

Cal waved him off and raised his camera, framing a shot of some more hardhats coming towards him from the opposite side of the overpass. He took the shot and the flash lit up the concrete for an instant. Cal took in big lungfulls of cold, damp air as he walked from one end of the structure to the other, snapping shots at intervals, careful to capture the image without disrupting the work. He got the hardhats moving the signs, carrying bollards, looking at his car, talking on phones. He got the overpass from every angle, he got slogans on the walls, football teams and accusations of homosexuality directed not at one particular person but at entire suburban areas. He got more tired and couldn't feel his feet anymore so he went back to the car until the light changed. One of the hardhats came back over to the car while Cal rubbed his eyes.

"You with the paper?" he asked.

"Sometimes," he replied, "I do portraits mostly."

"Lucky you," the hardhat nodded and walked off he nodded at a gang of similarly dressed men and called over to them.

"He only does porrrrrrr-traits," he shouted, exaggerating Cal's accent for effect. Cal stared after the hardhat as he joined the others on the other side of the road, smoking and laughing together. He grit his teeth and fidgeted about in his seat waiting for the signal to go.

Minutes passed with no change. Cal rooted around in his glove compartment and found a bottle of stale cola, enough to keep him afloat for another while at least. The first hardhat came back over to the car. "Probably a manager," Cal thought. "Yes, a manager, he has the walk of a boss about him."

"Sorry about this but there's been a problem with the road, we're only sorting it out now. Didn't you hear on the radio?"
Cal shook his head. He glanced at the clock on the dash, it read 2.13 am.

"No, I must have missed it," he said, "I was just resting my eyes, had a late job at a function."

"Then you'd better see what the story is."

The Manager lead Cal to a point in the road just beyond the flyover, where the earlier downpour had been reduced to a light shower. In front of them the road curved to the right before rolling off into the distance towards the city.
Cal took in a breath, raised his camera and took a shot of the road, angling the camera to take in the size of the overpass in relation to everything around it. Through the viewfinder he could see more trucks and men glowing on the other side of the structure, the effect made them seem tiny in comparison. His stomach felt heavy, acidic, too much cola and fatigue.

"Is that a good porrr-trait?" a voice called from behind them.

"Fuck off youse," bellowed the Manager. Then he turned back to Cal and resumed his friendlier tone. "Don't mind them bollixes, they're tired and cranky for having to come out at this hour. That's all."

"That's alright," yawned Cal, "water off a duck's back."

The Manager turned Cal around. "But that's where the real drama is," he said.

Cal lifted his camera and zoomed in close as he could, gasping as the image came to him in full.

"Yup, the whole thing's a mess," the Manager explained. "Thought you might make a few quid off this. Headed back to the city?"

"Just beyond actually. Home to bed first then town tomorrow morning. Communion season."

"Don't talk to me about communions," said the manager, "I've five of me own and the one dress won't pass at all. 'Specially not the lads."

They shared a laugh as Cal followed the manager's gaze along the road curving off to the right. Further ahead the road was a mess of rotating blue lights, uniforms, spilled bodies and wrenched chrome in silver and bright purple. Cal raised his camera and took the shot, not much use at that range but worth the effort nonetheless. Nobody seemed to notice the flash going off, one more voice in the choir and nothing else. He fired off shot after shot of departing fire ambulance crews and their fragile cargo. A Garda marked the scene with blue tape wrapped around a set of red bollards. Another took pictures with a digital camera, checking each image before moving on to another angle. A fireman stood idly by with a hose draped over his shoulder, hands in his pockets, waiting on word to mop up. Cal shivered, felt the cold penetrate his skin. The shivers made his hands unsteady, he lowered the camera, scuffed a foot along the smooth tarmac. Some skidding. Looked like being another frosty one.

"They're mostly gone now," the Manager said. "I can tell you they lost a kid in the back of the Focus and some girl in the passenger seat of the Peugot. Boy-racer gone mad it looks like, barrelling down the wrong way of the road, probably high too. And not a bother on him now. Some poor sod's still stuck in the Ford, they've got to cut him out. Bet you'll get good money for that one."

"Maybe," Cal said, "but there's nothing on the radio about it. Maybe I'll just get on up close anyway."

The Manager took his arm, squeezed it enough to stop him in his tracks. "Sorry bud but by rights you shouldn't even be standing here. Get what you can and wait till we've got a clear lane for you."

Cal relaxed, nodded. "Fair enough."

"We'll change the light soon as we can," the Manager said.
Cal turned back to his car. He could have slid through the net, covered the accident, gotten some choice shots of the more bloodied casualties but he was too tired to bother. The papers would have to make to without their gore fix. A few of the hardhats were leaning against the boot drinking tea from thermos flasks, another peered in through the window. When Cal approached they made no move.

"Any chance of that light changing?" he asked.

"Not till they clear a lane down the road," one of them said between drags of blue smoke. "Soon as they're ready we'll get word over the radios."

"Fine."

Further down the motorway a yellow truck sat on the hard shoulder, on its back a flashing sign warning of delays ahead. Closer to the signals other signs warned to slow down. Cal caught them all on film. He changed to black and white for pathos and caught silhouettes of the workmen and a portrait of the lights as they hung on top of the overpass. For the last shot on the roll he found one of the hardhats urinating against the wall of the overpass. Cal took his time as the hardhat relieved himself and took the shot only when there was enough piss on the road to pull between his ankles. The flash went off and the hardhat spun around spraying his last in the process. "What the fuck was that?

Cal nodded at the hardhat, his camera raised, big smile.

"Savages," he thought.

At once the hardhat zipped himself up and made for Cal, hunched over, fist raised. Cal recognised him as the one from before, the one who insulted him. They all looked alike in the dark. Some other hardhats turned to see what the fuss was and began jeering,

"Oh you've done it now mister camera man."

Cal smiled back over at the hardhats as he was approached. He was as big as any of them but lacked their easy joviality, another man half tired and irritable.

"You, come here."

Cal smiled nervously. "It's only a shot from behind, you can't make out your face or anything."

"No," he said, "you wont."

The hardhat slapped the camera out of Cal's hands, snapping the cord around his neck, sending the camera to the ground. It fell hard, Cal bent over to pick it up then felt himself heading that way. One swift blow to the back of the head and he was downed. Cal came down badly on his face, feeling his front teeth make contact with the tarmac and give way in an instant. His mouth filled with blood and splinters he turned his head away as a steel-capped boot slammed into his lower back, he felt his kidneys rumble. Sounds of heavy footfalls, booted feet on the move.

"Jesus Mick get off him he was only playing."

"Somebody get one of those ambulances up here now."

Cal rolled onto his back and spat out blood, enamel and loose a chipping. The cold came in through his skin as his clothes soaked up the wet from below. A strong set of arms pulled him up to his feet while a hard hand held his jaw in place while his mouth was inspected.

"Ooooooh. That's going to cost."

Cal didn't recognise the voice. He was put back inside his car while they waited for the ambulance to arrive. He tapped the heater with a limp hand and felt warm air gush out onto him, soothing everything. The car seat was put back and he lay down with his eyes tearing everything into obscurity. Someone new tugged at his arm. Random voices all around, he tuned in and out to find some purchase, some clue.

"What happened him?"

"What's his name?"

"We found bits of his teeth, do you want them?"

"Nah keep 'em as a souvenir."

"Sir we're going to take you away now is there anyone we can call?"

"Looks like a concussion."

"That faggot provoked me. I'm not even s'posed to be workin' t'noigh."

Cal turned towards the man at his side, another serious man in laytex gloves and yellow-green jacket. He smiled his broken smile. Careful hands prodded around his wrist and delved into his mouth then drew back.

"Lovely. Jack get the trolley." Then a sigh as something rattled it's way towards him.

Cal felt himself hoisted onto a soft mattress and thoughts of sleep flooded over him like a warm blanket.

"Did the li' thange yeth?" he mumbled.

"No sir," the ambulance man said. "The light's still red." Cal could tell the ambulance man was smiling, he could hear it in the man's voice. Others were less gentle.

"Did you hear that? He was asking 'bout the light!"

Chuckles grew to hysterics. In the few seconds between Cal betting strapped down and being loaded into the ambulance everyone at the overpass had heard and enjoyed the joke. It was the funniest thing any of them had heard all night.

^

Biography

Penniless Writer available for heavy industrial labour: Niall Kitson, born 1977 and in possession of a fine sturdy skeleton, good teeth (mostly his own) and thick skin lives in Dublin near the industrial base. A conscientious worker with a high pain tolerance other examples of his fictional output can be viewed at this location and at www.virtualwriter.net.