Free The Legend of Kevin the Plumber by Scot Gardner

in.
    â€˜Bloody Homer,’ he growled. He pulled the ashtray out and tutted at the little pile of crushed butts. The van rocked as he got out and emptied the butts into the yellow industrial bin at the back of the yard. Kevin didn’t say a word as we drove past the turn-off to Mullet Head and towards Blinley.
    He drove like Grandad. Like he had to be gentle with the clutch and deliberate with every gear change. It was like he was in slow motion. Push-pull on the steering wheel like a driving instructor, all the way to the car park at the milk factory. He told me to stay in the van.
    That I could do. Easily. I clicked the radio on, put my knees on the glove box and slouched into the seat. Kevin was gone for three songs and I think I may have nodded off. Just for a second. The second when Kevin wrenched the door open and threw a plastic bag at me.
    â€˜Put these on, Sleeping Beauty.’
    There were three white shower caps in the bag.
    â€˜One on your head to cover your . . . hair . . . orwhatever you call it. One on each boot, but not until we get inside. Right?’
    I jogged to the door of the milk factory with my shower caps tucked under my arm. Kevin was at the van collecting tools. I walked back to the van and thought that there may be an award for the dickiest assistant in the universe. I’d be a hot candidate already.
    Kevin loaded me up and talked into his beard. ‘There’s a blockage in the waste line somewhere. It’s not totally blocked but it only carries liquid waste, so why it would gum up at all is a bit of a puzzle. We’ll take the probe, that way we’ll at least look like we know what we’re doing.’
    He handed me something that looked like a garden hose reel, only the handle had a little TV screen beside it. We put our shower caps on in the foyer and pushed through the glass doors into the industrial hum of the factory. Towering tanks of stainless steel, networks of pipes and the warm stink of moo juice. No people to be seen. Maybe it was just the shower caps but I felt like a doctor. Well, a doctor’s assistant.
    A bloke with thick black-rimmed glasses and flaky red skin appeared from nowhere and spoke to Kevin.
    â€˜We’ve isolated the waste line. You’ve got about twenty-five minutes until we need it again. Will that be long enough?’
    â€˜We’ll soon find out. Gary, plug the probe in over there,’ Kevin said, pointing to a power outlet tucked under a low stainless steel trough.
    I could handle that. My first bit of actual work. Did a good job, too. I unwound the cord and made sure the plugwas the right way up and she slipped into the socket like they were made for each other. I looked at the switch. I thought about turning it on but what if I stuffed it? What if the hose thingy had to be unwound before . . .
    â€˜Did you turn it on?’ Kevin shouted.
    I flicked the switch and the screen glowed. ‘Yep.’
    So, Gaz, I imagined Mario asking. What did you do today?
    Mate, it was awesome. I plugged some things in, flicked a few switches . . .
    â€˜Right, over here,’ Kevin said.
    I scuttled to where he was crouching beside a drain hole. He’d pulled the grate off.
    â€˜The probe,’ Kevin said.
    â€˜Yeah, what does it do?’
    â€˜We’ll need the probe. Get the probe. Bring it over here.’
    â€˜Right,’ I said. There’d be no competition at this year’s dickiest assistant awards. I’d get the award for the thickest assistant, slowest assistant and all-round most useless assistant.
    â€˜The probe has a light and a camera in the end. We use it to have a look up the pipes to see if there’s any damage or to find out what’s blocking it.’
    â€˜Cool,’ I said. And it was. The little screen was colour and as Kevin pushed the hose down the pipe it showed the slimy-looking walls. It was like one of those inside-the body documentaries. Maybe being a plumber was a bit