The Gathering Dark (Inspector McLean, #8) by James Oswald Read Online (FREE)
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Christ, but he hates having to use another driver’s rig. The cab stinks for one thing, and there’s something not right about the engine. The brakes aren’t much better than stamping on a block of wood; they make more noise than actually do anything. How it passed its last inspection is anyone’s guess. Bloody typical.
He belches, thumps his fist against his chest as the acid burns. Should have taken more time over breakfast, but then if he’d had more time he wouldn’t have been driving this heap of shit. Hauling slurry from the sewage works over to some helpful farmer to spread over his fields. If people knew what went into their food.
At least there’s satnav, even if it’s an old set with half the screen darkened and scratched. Boss said something about it being a special delivery. Just let them empty the tanks themselves and not ask any questions. Aye, like he ever would. Thirty years driving trucks for the old man and his son, he’s seen it all before. Do the job, get paid, go home. Be better if he didn’t have to drive this piece of shit, though. Dodgy goods are one thing, being expected to drive a crap rig is something else entirely.
Shouldn’t be a long trip, mind. He can give Bill in maintenance a piece of his mind when he gets back. Knock off early after that. Last time he does the boss a favour.
Another belch and flames leap up his throat. Christ what was in that bun? Not like Sheena to serve him a dodgy burger. And the smell’s not helping either. Making his eyes water, so it is. He’s sweating, too. No bloody aircon in this thing. Fucking marvellous. Satnav wants to take him through the town as well. Must know about a balls-up on the city bypass he doesn’t. He’d check the radio for traffic news only that’s one other thing that doesn’t work.
It’s just a job. Be done soon enough and then home. Maybe even get in before Mary’s back. Surprise her for a change. Mind you, the way his luck’s been panning out lately he’d probably find her shagging the postman.
Traffic’s buggered all the way up the Gogar road, buses overtaking each other then pulling into the next stop, holding everyone else up as if there was no rush. Christ, but his chest hurts, and struggling with this ancient truck isn’t making things any easier. Maybe he’ll stop somewhere on the east side and have a kip. Just got to make it through the city centre.
Through the lights and on to the Western Approach Road. Thank fuck the traffic’s easing up. If he can coax this asthmatic engine up above 2,000 revs, maybe he’ll even get to the farm on time. Might even get some air through the cab and clear the foul smell.