The Guv’nor Recruits A NEW Bin Man to The Crew
Peter Sullivan had sealed the deal of a lifetime on Friday afternoon, a multimillion-pound merger that would cement his corner office and his wife's dreams of a second home in the Cotswolds. The boardroom champagne had been crisp, the handshakes firm, and as the sun dipped low over the city, Peter felt invincible. Why not celebrate? He phoned his wife, Alice, telling her not to wait up. “Going for a few drinks, a crawl through the old haunts, nothing more.” He told her.
He was thirty-eight, sharp-suited, a fitness fanatic, always kept his body in shape, and hated smoking with a passion. By nine o'clock, the polished bars of Shoreditch had blurred into something seedier, the neon signs flickering like faulty synapses as he wandered deeper into the East End.
That's when he found the pub. It squatted at the end of a cobbled alley, its sign a faded silhouette of a dustman tipping his cap, swinging crookedly in the damp wind, The Drop and Bucket. The door creaked open, the air thick with the sour tang of spilt ale and something earthier, like wet cardboard left to rot. The place was dim, lit by a single bulb over the bar that buzzed like a trapped wasp. A handful of men hunched at scarred wooden tables, their laughter low and rumbling, their accents broad cockney. They were broad-shouldered, faces etched with the kind of weariness that came from hauling the world's refuse, day in, day out. Binmen, Peter realised with a flicker of amusement. The dregs of the night shift, off-duty and anonymous. He ordered a pint of the house bitter, ignoring the barman's squint, and settled onto a stool by the bar, toasting his invisible victory.
It didn't take long for the guv to notice him. In the low, amber glow of The Anchor, the pub smelled of stale beer, tobacco, and a seedy past. Peter’s slightly cleaner look stood out.
Mick, the Guv, had been perched on his usual stool in the corner, a position from which he commanded a view of his crew and anyone audacious enough to enter their orbit. His head, a formidable block, swivelled slowly, his gaze snagged on Peter.
Mick was a bull of a man, not just in stature but in the sheer, unyielding mass of him. Mid-fifties, with shoulders like a dry-stone wall and a neck thick as an oak trunk, he exuded an almost primal force. framing a face that was a roadmap of hard graft and harder decisions. And then there were his eyes – like chipped flint, sharp, unblinking, and alarmingly direct. They seemed to strip away pretension, assessing, measuring, and missing nothing. These were eyes that had seen too many sunrises from the cab of the bin lorry, too many botched jobs, too many empty promises.
His hi-vis jacket hung over the back of his stool like a discarded skin. It was stiff with accumulated grime, a testament to years of graft, and stained with old spills: curry slicks from countless greasy spoons, the slick sheen of engine grease, the rust-red splatters of something metallic and undeniably blood-like, a faint sheen of cement dust. Each stain was a testament to the messy, physical reality of his trade.
"New blood," he rumbled, the words emanating from deep within his chest, a sound that bypassed the ear and vibrated deep in the chest. Without a flicker of hesitation or a word of invitation, he pushed off his stool with surprising grace for a man of his bulk and slid onto the worn wooden stool next to Peter. The stool groaned under his weight. His voice was pure East End gravel, every vowel stretched, every consonant a blunt instrument. It wasn't aggressive, exactly, but it carried the weight of unquestioned authority.
He leaned forward slightly, his flinty gaze never wavering. "You look like you've wandered off the set of one of them posh dramas," he remarked, a hint of dry amusement in his voice, a casual jab to test the water. He didn't wait for Peter to reply. "Name's Mick. Guv for this lot." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, a dismissive yet proprietary gesture towards the rest of the crew.
They were a motley collection of hardened faces, clustered around sticky tables, nursing pints. At Mick's signal, a ripple of recognition went through them. A few raised their glasses in a lazy, practised salute, their grins wolfish and knowing under the pub's nicotine-stained light, adding another layer of weary welcome to Peter’s unsettling introduction. What brings you into our domain asked Mick.
"Just celebrating a win," Peter announced, his voice a little too loud, a little too bright for the dim corners of the room. He ran a hand through his immaculately styled hair, a glint of self-satisfaction in his eyes. "Big deal closed today. Months of grind, but we nailed it." His gaze then swept across the small group huddled around the table, their filthy high-vis and work-stained hands a stark contrast to his own polished appearance. He paused, a flicker of disgust crossing his features. "You lot... binmen, right? “Tough work,” the words said in a patronising tone.
Mick noted how Peter answered; he could see the disgust on his face. But didn't dignify the observation with a direct answer. A harsh, guttural sound tore from his throat the laugh that was a bark, raw and devoid of all humour. He wiped a hand across his bristly chin, eyes the colour of stormy seas locking onto Peter's.
"Tough?" Mick repeated, his voice a low growl, the word stretched out with derision. "Nah, mate. It's bleedin’ honest. Gets the blood movin', the muck off the streets." He gestured towards the grime that lingered under his fingernails. "Real work, see? None of your paper-pushin bollocks." Then, a subtle shift. Mick leaned in, his imposing frame closing the distance, the scent of sweat from his day's labour suddenly more prominent. His gaze dropped to Peter's half-empty pint of pale lager.
"Fancy tryin' a real drink?" he murmured, a dangerous glint in his eye. "House special. Opens the mind, like. Clears out the cobwebs."
“Pint of the house special brew for this gentleman”, sarcastically, he said, gesturing to the barman. Peter eyed the murky pint as Mick slid it across; it was dark as sump oil, with a head that clung like foam on a sewer grate. Why not? One couldn't hurt. It went down smooth at first, warm and earthy, with a bitter undercurrent that radiated in his chest.
They talked, or rather, Mick talked, spinning yarns of dawn raids on overflowing skips, the camaraderie of the depot, the shared house they lived in, the simple thrill of a full truck groaning under its load. Peter nodded, the room tilting gently.
Another pint appeared. Then another. The crew drifted over, slapping his back, their hands rough as sandpaper, their accents a thick fog that muffled his own polished tones. Laughter echoed, stories blurred. The special brew worked its magic, unspoken: Psychedelic drugs and barbiturates, Mick's private recipe, distilled from information he found on the dark web, the recipe concocted from crooked chemists. It didn't just loosen the tongue; it pried open the mind, it allowed it to be altered.
Peter's head lolled forward sometime after the fourth. The world dissolving into a black sea of the pint.
They didn't carry him gently. Two of them, burly and unyielding, hauled him between them, while a third kept a firm hand on his head, preventing it from lolling too far. The air in the shared house, a place that had seen better days, nicotine stains on the walls, a haze from the cheap tobacco, they all smoked, fry-ups, and unwashed work clothes, felt thick. they finally manoeuvred him through the narrow doorway. No lights were switched on immediately, the dim, greasy glow filtering in from a distant streetlamp just enough to paint the scene in shadows and muted, sickly greens.
They brought him to the centre of the living room, a space dominated by an ancient, sagging sofa and a television that perpetually hummed. Peter, still barely conscious, was held upright, propped between the unwavering grips of the men. Their hands, calloused and strong, pressed into his armpits and against his ribs, keeping his frame from collapsing. His head swam, jarring of pain and fading memories, fighting through the haze of whatever they’d given him or done to him.
Around them, the others formed a semi-circle, their figures solid and imposing in the gloom. Their faces, normally ruddy and expressive, were smoothed into identical, unsettling masks, their eyes fixed on Peter with a singular, unnerving intensity. From their throats began a low, rhythmic sound, a collective chant that was less a song and more a primordial drone. It was a litany, ancient and guttural, each syllable a slow, grinding whisper that seemed to vibrate in Peter’s very bones. It wasn't melodic, yet it possessed a hypnotic effect, a repetitive, half-sung, half-curse that spoke of earth and grime and endless, unchanging toil. It was the sound of a spell being woven, a truth being hammered into existence.
Mick moved forward. He stepped into the dim pool of light, his presence cutting through the low hum. His eyes, usually crinkling with rough humour, were hard and unblinking, focused solely on Peter. He didn't shout; his voice, though not loud, resonated with an undeniable authority, each word a deliberate, percussive strike, meant to hammer down the last walls of Peter's resistance, to reforge him from the inside out. "You're one of us, Pete," he began, his voice a drill into the deepest recesses of Peter's subconscious, bypassing thought, targeting instinct. "You're a binman from top to toe, ain't you? Not by choice, nah, it's in your blood! Born to it, raised in the muck, Pete. It's in yer bones, mate, in the dirt under yer nails."
He paused, letting the chanting swell slightly. Mick gobbled on the floor, a gesture of profound contempt. You love the grind, the stink, the taste of stale tobacco in your mouth after a long shift. You love the ache in your back, the raw skin on your palms. It’s who you are, Pete. It's the only thing that feels real."
His eyes bore into Peter's, demanding silent agreement. “Filthy Hi-vis on yer back, shoutin' to the world who ya are. Fag in yer gob, the smoke curlin’ up, a bit of a rebel, Doin’ what the guv’nor says, no questions, no palaver. Easy peasy. Right. No need to think, muscle o'er smarts, no need to fret. Just the graft. The rhythm. The geezers." Mick gestured vaguely around the room at the chanting figures, their faces still blank, their eyes still unwavering. "The house is home, Pete, our house. This is home. Wiv, me and the bleedin' lads. Yer fam'ly."
He bent closer, his breath smelling of tobacco and stale lager against Peter's cheek. Just us, Just the crew, right? The filth, mate. That’s what they call ya now. That’s your life, it is. And ya wouldn’t have it no other way, would ya?"
It was starting to get light outside, another day for the round. Two members of the crew tied Pete's hands to the chair, and they all left for another day collecting bins, leaving Pete in the hands of the Guv’onr.
Pete drifted in and out of consciousness for the next 2 days, Mick chanting the mantra telling Pete he was now a proud, filthy East End binman living in filth, he was born for this. A flicker of something, fear or a dying memory, passed through Peter's eyes, then slowly, terrifyingly, dulled. His body, still limp, seemed to settle, a subtle shift that indicated not collapse, but acceptance. The fight, whatever fragile spark remained, had finally been extinguished.
Mick's words had burrowed deep into Pete’s mind.
Mick stripped him of the expensive suit, his I.D, wallet, all went into a skip out back, never to be seen again. The SIM card snapped. His mobile phone, which looked like the latest model, would find its way to a porn shop.
Mick, started the physical transformation, starting with his hair, he buzzed his hair using a set of clippers so he would blend in better with the rest of the crew. He dressed him in their uniform, hi-vis vest crusted with week-old kebab grease, trousers stiff with dried slurry, steel-toe capped boots caked in the city's filth. A tattoo gun hummed briefly, a crude bin lorry etched on his forearm, something all the crew wore. A permanent mark to the crew and the Guv.
By dawn on Monday, Pete was ready.
The alarm klaxon wailed at 4:47 a.m., within the gloom of the shared house, walls yellowed with nicotine, floors buckling under the weight of empty cans and takeout wrappers. Pete stirred on his bunk, the familiar smell in the air heavy with the reek of unwashed socks and yesterday's curry. His head throbbed, but not with confusion, only the familiar ache of a skinful. He sat up, scratching at the stubble on his freshly shaven dome. The vest clung to him, damp and comforting, its stench familiar, worn for the past month.
As Pete blinked, the fog lifted to reveal a life etched in grease and routine. Home? Yeah, this dump, with the lads snoring in their pits, the communal ashtray overflowing on the kitchen table. No flash flat in Islington, no board meetings, no Alice with her perfumed hugs and disappointed sighs. Alice? The name flickered like a faulty bulb, then snuffed out. Never happened. He was Pete, always had been, twenty years of slinging bins, from apprentice to one of Mick's grunts, like the rest of the crew. He loved it.
"Oi, Pete! You lazy sod, up you get!" Mick's voice boomed from the side of the bed,
a steaming mug of builder's tea in one hand, a pouch of Pete’s favourite Golden Virginia tobacco in the other. Mike was already kitted out, belly straining against his belt, a fag dangling from his lip. “Blimey, looks like you 'ad a right proper bender last night. Found ya slumped out by the skip at the back of the Drop and Bucket, brought ya 'ome, the lads helped out.”
“Shift's in ten, truck's waitin.'"
"Cheers, Guv" Pete grunted, his voice with a hint of the same accent. An echo of Mick's own, the posh edges sanded away, vowels already slipping. He took the offered baccy and rolled a fag, lighting it with a Zippo scarred from a thousand fumbles, inhaling deep till his lungs burned sweet. "Fuckin' hell, needed that, and what a night. Can't remember a fuckin thing after that third pint."
Mick clapped him on the shoulder, hard enough to rattle teeth. "That's the special for ya. Clears the pipes. Now shift your fuckin arse, Alf's drivin', and you know he doesn't wait."
Pete stubbed out the half-smoked cig in the dregs of his tea, hauling on his boots, swearing as he tied the laces. "Right you are Guv. Let's get this shite collected 'fore the posh lot open their bleedin’ eyes and moan, and complain"
He lumbered out into the grey morning, joining the crew by the kerb, lighting up another rollie.
Two of the lads ribbed him about the skinful he had last night. “Yeah, fuckin don’t know wot's got into me” was his short reply.
The truck was a behemoth idling like a beast. The first bin clanged open, spilling its guts: sodden nappies, shattered bottles, all types of rubbish.
Pete heaved it in, grinning through the splatter, the filth flecking his cheeks like war paint.
The guv watched from the cab, satisfied. Another soul sorted, another binman for the crew. The truck groaned forward, swallowing the dawn.
Across town, in a sterile flat with views of the Thames, Alice stared at her phone. Peter’s last text, a mundane “See you tomorrow, love x,” had arrived at 11:58 PM. Then, silence. The subsequent attempts to connect were met with that flat, impersonal message: “The number you have dialled is not currently available.” Not unavailable. Not busy. Simply… not available
Alice called Peter’s work colleagues, his friends; no one had seen him since he left the office to go and celebrate. The police were called soon after. Following preliminary investigations, the police commenced the search. Surveillance footage of the area revealed something disturbing: an image of a man fitting Peter’s description falling into the Thames.
The police reported back that evening, informing Alice of the findings so far regarding a man who had fallen into the Thames. The police officer told her that “We’ve alerted the marine unit. However, I must warn you, due to the strong tides and the amount of debris in the river, it’s often… difficult to recover a body.”
The police closed the case six months later. they chalked it up to a bender gone wrong. Peter had vanished into the night while out celebrating. A neat, tidy conclusion for their report.
But Pete? He was right where he now belonged, elbow-deep in the city's grime and shit, swearing at a jammed lid, "Come on, fuckin you bastard!" he spat. His unfiltered fag, wet on one end, burning too quickly on the other, dangled from his gob. The smoke stung his eyes, mixing with the sweat and the gritty dust.
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