I wish I’d taken the warning seriously. I should have realised something was wrong when I entered the workers’ tent; how I wish I had.
I’d only been on the job for a day. We were building an extension to a busy motorway. No one realises how dangerous working out on the roads can be, no matter how many precautions we take, there are road workers killed every single year. No amount of high visibility jackets, or flashing signs to inform drivers to take care, seems to completely stop these deaths. It’s just the sad reality of the job, and it’s compounded by the need to work primarily in the dark so that there are fewer disruptions to vehicles during the day. But it also means that drivers sometimes don’t see us before it’s too late.
I’d been drafted in because the extension to the road was behind schedule, so the powers at be had brought in a few extra bodies to speed things up; I was one of them, as was my friend Scott. I was glad to have him with me as he was good fun and always made the hours go in that much quicker. Working through the night for weeks at a time isn’t the most enjoyable way to earn a living, but when you have good people around you, it can at least be bearable.
We were being worked pretty hard, pulling 12 to 15-hour shifts to get things back on track. When we were that tired, something bad was bound to happen. I’d been on many large-scale road builds before, and while there was an occasional injury, only on two jobs had I heard of a fellow road worker being struck by oncoming traffic and killed, left to bleed out into the night. But I’d never actually seen it happen, I’d never known anyone directly who had died on the roads. And I was lucky for that.
I knew there was something strange going on as soon as I was assigned to that stretch of road. It cut through a mountainous area and had a nasty bend to it; a blind corner which hid what was coming.
I’d started at dusk, meeting the guys I was going to be working with over the following few weeks. They seemed like a nice crowd, and as is common amongst road workers, there was a lot of gallows humour, with very little being taken too seriously.
A work tent had been set up alongside the road so that we could have somewhere to enjoy some hot coffee, and take a break. Or even shelter from the elements if the sky opened up. It was big enough for a table, a radio and a few chairs. And not much more. I remember how the night breeze would catch the outer sheet, and rustle in the darkness, allowing a cold draft to make its way inside.
There were five of us in the team, including myself and my friend Scott, but during our first break at around midnight, I noticed that there were six cups of coffee sitting at the small foldout table, one more than was needed. We were playing a few rounds of cards with the radio on, and I felt I was already becoming part of the team when I just casually mentioned the sixth cup.
“Who’s the sixth man on the team?” I asked, not realising the seriousness of the question at the time.
The men looked at each other hesitantly. It was as if I’d asked a personal question and they were offended that I’d brought it up. They moved nervously in their chairs. Finally our gaffer, a man called Brody who was in charge, simply said: “That’s Joe’s cup.”
“Who’s Joe?” Scott asked, sitting beside me.
At first, they seemed reluctant to tell us. Scott and I just wondered when this Joe was going to join us, as neither of us had seen him working on that section of road that night.
Through hushed voices, the group told us who he was. As it turns out Joe was a previous worker on that team. He’d been struck by a car at night while working a year previously and unfortunately had died of his injuries.
I thought perhaps the cup was then there to somehow honour their dead friend, which seemed like a touching sentiment. But it soon became clear from the look on the other men’s faces, that it wasn’t affection which kept the cup sitting at the table whenever they were working together. No, it was fear which kept it there.
As the nights wore on, each time we took a break and sat at the table, there it would be, Joe’s cup for all to see, filled with coffee. It didn’t really bother me, by all accounts the other men had worked together for years, and if they had their own reasons for keeping Joe’s cup filled, that was up to them. But what did bother me was their reactions whenever Scott or I brought it up. All we’d get were nervous glances and being told to keep out of their business. Quickly, we were made to feel quite unwelcome.
It became apparent that because we’d brought attention to Joe’s cup, we were being ostracised. Made to feel like the outsiders, I suppose some way, we were. The job was only going to last for a few weeks, so I decided to just wait it out. If they wanted to harbour a grudge, then so be it.
But Scott, he just couldn’t do that. It wasn’t his style. He found our treatment unfair, and that was the type of thing he always railed against. One night, around 2 AM, we all sat around the table in the small work tent by the side of that almost silent stretch of road. Scott and I were talking, but no matter how much we tried to have a conversation with the other men, we were greeted by stony faces and one-word answers. That was when Scott did it. He leaned over and took a large swig of coffee from Joe’s cup.
The other men shouted angrily at him to put the cup back immediately. Even Scott seemed shocked by the level of anger his joke had provoked, after all the impression we had was that none of the group had particularly liked Joe. Brody grabbed the cup out of Scott’s hand, placed it back on the table, and then topped it up quickly with more coffee.
At that point, I could have sworn that Brody whispered “I’m sorry, they don’t know” under his breath.
Brody looked at us, not now with anger, but sadness, and said: “Guys, this isn’t working, don’t bother coming back for your shift tomorrow. I’ll make sure you get transferred to somewhere else along the road, a few miles away.”
“This is ridiculous!” I said.
“Maybe,” replied Brody, “But you both need to leave, now.”
I was getting ready to pick up my bag and head home when Scott point-blank refused. “I’m finishing my shift, no way am I walking off-site so you can get me fired in the morning.”
Scott pulled his luminous orange waistcoat on and headed out into the night.
I remained in the tent for a moment with the rest of the team. Brody turned to me: “You need to get Scott out of here, right now. I won’t be held responsible.”
The other men then refused to work if Scott and I didn’t go home. It seemed so childish, but I’d lost the desire to argue the point.
“Fine,” I said. And walked outside to find Scott.
By then he was up at the blind turn where we’d been working previously. I shouted on him, and as I did, a truck screeched around the corner. It struck Scott head-on, and I watched in utter horror as his body was crushed and broken under the wheels.
I ran as fast as I could to help him. But I knew he was already dead.
Scott’s death was listed as a standard road accident. The type which is not unheard of among road workers. But I had seen it, I knew there was little about it which was standard.
A month later, Brody agreed to meet me for a drink to discuss what had happened. He was not surprised that my questions focussed on Joe, rather than my dead friend. Away from his team, Brody seemed more open to talking about it. He told me that Joe had always been a nasty piece of work. No one on their team liked him. He was cruel, and spiteful, and took great delight in mocking those around him. He had an obsession with being the quickest of the team when it came to put-downs, and like all bullies, more than anything he wanted his place at the top of the pecking order.
One night, Brody’s team were working on a country road. Joe was a distance away from the others, putting out cones to close off part of the road which was in bad need of repairs. But as he did so, he stumbled on the uneven ground, falling flat on his face. The other men laughed at him from down the road; and why not? Joe was always mean to everyone else, it seemed only fitting that he should get a taste of his own medicine.
He shouted something, but no one heard the word for the sound of laughter.
Brody said he’d never forget the look in Joe’s eyes as he stared up from the ground towards his colleagues who were in hysterics; there was venom there, utter hate. The laughter soon stopped, however, when a couple of drunk locals came blistering down the road in their car, careening straight into Joe, and crushing him to death.
As it turned out, Joe had twisted his ankle when he’d fallen, had most probably heard the car nearby, and had shouted for help. Brody admitted then, that though he did not blame anyone for it, he felt that in some way they’d left Joe to die and that whatever was left of him held them responsible.
Ever since then, each member of the team had felt it. A horrible presence while they worked. Brody called it the evil eye, but he recognised the feeling, it was the same way he felt when Joe had looked at him just before Joe’s death.
“But why the cup?” I asked.
“Because,” said Brody fearfully, “Anyone who’s taken Joe’s place on our team has come to some sort of harm. It’s only through giving Joe his place at the table, that things seem to calm down. We still feel him, but at least no one gets hurt… Until Scott… I think Joe prefers it that way, to watch us all squirm with fear and admit that we’re scared of him.”
I wouldn’t have believed the whole thing if I hadn’t seen it for myself. I’d have explained Scott’s death as a tragic accident and left it at that. But I know that’s not true. I saw what happened that night, because Scott didn’t fall onto the wrong side of the road, he was pushed, by a man dressed in orange worker overalls, who looked on with a grin on his face as my friend was crushed to death, before fading away into the night.
I do wonder after all this time if Brody and his men still work on the roads. Most of all I wonder if Joe’s cup is still placed at their table during each break and if anyone has ever dared drink from it. I know I certainly wouldn’t.