"You what!" said Caramarin.
"Why do you think you're here? Remember, should be one hundred and sixty condoms full. You might like to rinse them after you've counted 'em."
"Any gloves for fuck's sake, comrade?"
Pojer pointed to the decorator's table. The two men looked at each other. Then Caramarin burst out laughing. It was either laugh or get angry. The first real laugh he'd had in what felt like ages. Pojer looked at him, his lips wrinkled then he too laughed.
"To think I used to a big wheel with the world at my feet and now I'm searching through buckets of shite for H."
The three women looked at the two big bruised men laughing like lunatics and huddled together. Their eyes were wide and staring. After he'd calmed down, his shoulders still occasionally shaking with spasms of mirth, Pojer led the women outside. Caramarin heard the Beemer fire up then pull away. Then he was left to sort through the mess. He wasn't laughing any more.
Caramarin pulled on the decorator's gloves, and then doubled up to be on the safe side. Very carefully, one at a time, he carried the buckets downstairs, keeping them as far away from his body as possible. The stench was bad. But the thought of what he had to do was worse. It was one of the few times he wished he smoked. Anything to mask the foul stench.
Setting the buckets down in the ripped out kitchen he turned on the cold tap. Icy water splashed into the sink carrying away layers of builders dust. Now it was like looking down into the bowels of Hell. His gorge rising, he lifted up the first bucket onto the draining board. With his fingertips, he removed a layer of toilet paper and dropped the soiled mess onto the floor.
The condoms looked like a nest of drowned brown slugs in the mess. Despite the cold, he took off his jacket and hung it from a nail. He lowered his hand into the bucket. No, he couldn't do it. He paused, his hand half in, half out of the bucket, hovering above the faeces.
He'd heard that breathing through your mouth made things easier. It didn't. But he had to go through with this job. And he'd done far worse things in his life than sift through shite. Hell, sewer workers did this and worse every day. And they didn't complain. But he'd never worked down a sewer. And never wanted to neither.
Right, on with it. He leaned down; his shrinking fingertips touched one of the condoms. He hoped. Quickly, he fished the rubber out and held it under the cold tap for a few seconds. He dropped it onto the stainless steel draining board where it lay, like an obscene brown slug waiting dissection. One down. One hundred and fifty nine to go. Fuck-shit.
Once he'd broken the taboo, the next were easier to deal with. Caramarin lifted the filled condoms out, rinsed them and placed them next to the first. A small mound soon built up. But too soon, he'd run out of the ones on the surface of the mess. Then he had to place his hand deeper into the filthy shite and feel for the rest of the condoms by touch. Despite the cold, the muck was still warm through his glove. He almost threw up his chicken fried rice, only a supreme effort of will keeping it down.
Eventually, he finished. With a heavy heart, he lifted up the second bucket and dropped the toilet paper over the side. This poor girl had the wild shites. Excrement was streaked round the sides of the bucket. Looking down into the diarrhoea saw the woman had sweet corn for lunch, little yellow nuggets embedded in the foul mess. The stench was unbelievably foetid. He gagged, felt his acid gorge rise again before controlling himself. Despite the cold of the unheated room, sweat trickled down his face and dampened his armpits.
Get over it, he thought. It's not going to kill me. Shit, well it's just human waste, nothing more. Wasn't going to kill him. But with increasing horror, he carried on with his disgusting task. Lift one out, rinse it, and drop it with the others. But the feel of the semi-solid slimy mess, even through his doubled-up gloves was almost more than he could stand.
The mound of rinsed condoms grew bigger. A graveyard of these obscene slugs. Finally, he'd finished. Only one last bucket of waste to go through.
The door bell rang. What? It couldn't be Pojer as he had the key. Caramarin looked behind him. The kitchen door was missing, so light from the bare bulb spilled into the hallway and out the fanlight. They must know someone was at home. Was that the cops out there? Fuck-shit. Was this a set-up? Stanga sacrificing some H to get rid of him? But why? He didn't think he'd done anything to upset Stanga.
If he was caught with this load of H, they'd chuck him inside for years. No way. He looked at the kitchen window. It was locked but he could smash the glass, then out into the back yard, over the wall then run as fast as he could.
The door bell rang again, longer this time. Caramarin glanced round the kitchen; saw a long metal spirit level propped up in the corner on top of a bag of plaster. He hefted it. Yeah, that would do. He crossed to the window, prepared to thrust the spirit level through the glass. He glanced back in time to see a leaflet flutter down through the letter box.
Caramarin tip-toed to the front door and picked up the leaflet. Probably for some religious order as there was a cross on the top above a picture of a church. He dropped the leaflet. Sweat stood out from his body. Caramarin was about to wipe his forehead but then remembered just in time. That wouldn't have been a good idea.
Slowly, he returned to the kitchen. How the fuck had he got involved with this? Fortunately, there was only one last bucket to go through. Caramarin lifted it up onto the drainer and lifted out the condoms then felt through its contents. This must be the plumper girl as there seemed more stuffed condoms than before in the mess.
The Dulcolax must have really ripped through her guts as there was blood mixed with her stools. Unless she was on the rag. Poor girl. His repugnance for the job wasn't so great now. It was true. You can get used to anything. But he didn't want to have to do this again any time soon.
Finished at last, Caramarin set the last bucket down next to the other two. Let the builders deal with the stinking shite inside them when they come back. He counted out the condoms. One hundred and fifty eight. What! Fuck-shit. Should have kept them in separate piles, not just lumped them together in one big shitty mound. Carefully, he counted them out again. One hundred and fifty seven. What!
Caramarin took a deep breath. Big mistake. He felt his stomach heave with the stench. Right. Calm down. He counted the condoms out into groups of ten. Eight left over. Definitely two missing. All repugnance gone, he frantically searched through the buckets again, the contents sloshing about. Found one. He lifted it out. Oh fuck, it was just a stool. He looked at it eyes wide with horror for a second. Dropped it back with a plop. And then he fought a long battle to hold his dinner down.
Almost recovered, Caramarin stood and flexed his back. No, he couldn't say he blamed the girl for helping herself to a bit extra. But Stanga's mob would think he'd nicked it. No, he'd never done horse in his life and wasn't about to start now. Just a loser's drug for people who couldn't cope with life. That's what he thought. But that would cut no ice with Stanga.
Caramarin examined the condoms. As he thought, they'd been double wrapped to last longer inside the girls' stomachs. He glanced at his watch. Of course, he had no idea when Pojer would be returning. He didn't know how far this empty house was from Stanga's place. Caramarin could have all the time in the world or Pojer could burst in at any second. No way of telling.
He quickly unwrapped some of the fatter condoms then separated them. With one of the builders' teaspoons he spooned some of the H out of those condoms then filled up two of the single skins. Still not enough. Nowhere near enough. The new single skins looked really scrawny compared with the others. He rubbed his forehead with his forearm, his eyes searching the room, jumping from object to object.
The plaster. That would have to do. Caramarin dug a little hole into the sack and bulked out the condoms with grey plaster dust. Then he shook the condoms about a bit before tying the ends. One hundred and sixty. Still a single skin but hopefully whoever opened the packages either wouldn't notice or would think a mistake had been made at the shipping end. Probably wouldn't draw attention to it if they were scared for their life or their job.
If he was lucky.
Caramarin ripped a bin bag from a roll and dropped all the condoms into it then tied the top. He peeled off his sweaty gloves and dropped them into the buckets. Searching amongst the litter and debris in the kitchen, he found the world's oldest block of soap. He was washing his hands for the second time when Pojer came back.
Caramarin's heart raced as the front door opened. Knowing what he'd done he half expected Pojer to come in with a silenced semi-automatic and doom him then and there.
"Thanks for that," said Pojer. "Let's go."
The two men stepped out into the rain. Caramarin slung the bin bag into the trunk and slammed the lid. His heart was still racing as Pojer dropped him off near Narcisa's.