This is one in a series of 30 stories and essays by leading Irish writers marking the 60th anniversary of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights. The series was created by Sean Love for Amnesty International and continues next Saturday. www.amnesty.ie In a new story, Eoin Colfer responds to Article 24 of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, as part of a continuing series in association with Amnesty International to mark the 60th anniversary of the declaration
MARCO DREAMED of lying in fat green grass and gazing at blue sky. Sometimes the dream was so solid in his mind that he thought it must have actually happened. In another life maybe.
A thrown spool of thread knocked his forehead.
"You dreaming about grass again?"
Christopher. Of course. The Kenyan boy's smile was white in his dark face.
"Grass? Grass like fat worms?"
"Caterpillars, stupido," corrected Marco.
Christopher frowned. "Cat hair peelers? You are stupido, Marco baby."
Marco chuckled twice. It took a lot to drag two chuckles out of a person in this place but Christopher could do it.
"You are the stupido, Christopher baby. And you stink like the backside of a sick dog."
Now Christopher chuckled. "Backside of a sick dog. This is a prince among insults."
Heavy footsteps creaked on the floorboards and the boys stopped their joking. Bluto was on the workfloor. The factory foreman honked into the phone for a minute then hung up, muttering about whatever new problem the phone call had brought him. This was a dangerous time. Bluto fined people when he was upset.
Marco hunched low into his work, shutting out the universe. This was what Bluto wanted to see in his employees: a good work ethic. On this Sunday Marco was stitching gold wings on the pockets of fake Nike shorts. The wing was the adopted symbol of the AC Milan striker, Costas Andioni.
"Andioni breaks his leg and we're gonna be picking these wings out with our teeth," Christopher had whispered just loudly enough for everyone to hear, earning himself a clout on the ear and yet another visit to the office.
Mrs M had left the door open so the workers could hear what happened to smartmouths.
"This ain't no sweatshop, Kenya," she had shouted, her shrill voice rising to the concrete ceiling. "You're free to go anytime you want. You want to go, please go. You going, Kenya?"
Christopher shook his head, chin so low it touched his chest.
They have broken him, thought Marco. Even brave, shining Christopher.
But when Christopher returned to his bench, the first thing he did was to ask whether Marco had farted.
Not broken. Still Christopher.
Marco never offered backchat as he could not afford to be docked an hour's pay. Bluto loved to dock wages. Christopher said that whatever Bluto took from you, he kept for himself to buy rare Pokemon cards for his collection. Everyone pulled their weight at Marco's home, even the twins helped to make the foil roses that Mother sold at the city's traffic lights.
"Speedy, Mr Bluto," Marco would say, hating the man even as he smiled. "Just the way you like it."
And so he worked that day. Wing after wing. Gold thread on the inside, red flames feathered around the border. Marco worked without a break until dusk, until his backbone was a glowing rod and his fingers were claws.
Eventually, he leaned back and sighed, his breath pluming like chimney smoke. Mrs M always turned off the heat around midday, claiming that the workers' own industry should keep them warm.
Marco pushed back his chair, tugged at his cushion to make sure it was tied down securely, then walked stiffly towards the bathroom past the 30 or so workers.
In spite of the factory's chill, a dense smell clogged the building. There was bleach in the mix, and sweat, rubber and oil. Though he knew it was merely a mixture of chemicals, Marco imagined the smell was alive. He could use this in one of his stories.
Marco often wrote stories, most featuring Quantum Boy (Marco himself) and his sidekick, Dreadlock (Christopher of course). Quantum Boy zipped through time getting himself entangled in famous historical adventures and Dreadlock was always on hand with a witty comment at the right time. For example: This time you have come up short, Napoleon.
Marco ducked quickly inside the cramped bathroom. He did not pull the bulb cord, because then Mr Bluto would see the light leaking out under the door and come to hurry him along.
The bathroom was colder than the rest of the building because it wasn't really part of the building. There was a gap one block wide all the way around where the breeze blocks had subsided from the factory proper. The wind whistled through and froze the toilet seat.
And while Marco warmed the seat with his palm, he did not notice the click-clack of Bluto's approaching footsteps. And because there was no light on the floor, Bluto presumed the bathroom was empty.
He barrelled into the cramped space backwards, shouting into his phone. "I said Tropical Mega Battle, gold edition, you idiot. Not bronze. I won't pay a penny for bronze."
Bluto did not realise Marco was there until he sat on him. Even then he did not know that it was Marco, because if he had he surely would not have run onto the work floor with his trousers in his hand screaming: "Toilet monster! It bit me. They are real. I knew it. I knew it."
The experience was not pleasant for Marco either. One second his life did not seem to be in any immediate danger, and the next there was a sudden overpowering smell of sweat and cheese and his face was mashed by back fat.
Marco stumbled into the factory, squinting and gasping like a prisoner released from his dungeon. "Sorry," he coughed, knowing that whatever had happened would be his fault. "I'm sorry, sir. I must hurry back to work."
Bluto lurched forward, grabbing Marco's shoulder.
"Tell them, boy. You must have felt it." Then Bluto stuttered to a halt as the truth became clear. It had been Marco in the bathroom with the lights off. Only Marco.
"No toilet monster," he breathed, calming himself with gulps of air. "Just a boy."
And for a moment he was happy, then the red tint of embarrassment coloured his cheeks. By now every worker in the factory had gathered round - even Mrs M had come from her office to check on the disturbance. She stood, wrapped in her knee-length puffa jacket, glaring at the foreman.
"When I was a child," explained Bluto. "My brother told me stories of a monster who lived in the toilet bowl." It was ridiculous, even to his own ears.
"This boy!" he shouted, hoisting his trousers with one hand. "Skulking in the bathroom with the light off. He must be docked! Fired!"
Christopher piped up from the throng of workers. "The toilet monster. He is the one who must be fired." A few workers tittered but not Bluto. "Shut your mouth, Kenya. This boy must go."
"But if Marco goes, who will stitch Andioni's wings?" asked Christopher. "The toilet monster. His fingers are clumsy and he will drip on the material."
More laughter now, even Mrs M's mouth was twitching at one corner.
"Please, Mrs M," pleaded Bluto. "Fire him now."
Christopher contorted his face and limbs in a hilarious impression of a dull monster trying to sew.
"Arrrrrgh. Dis work be berry difficult for poor toilet monster."
Bluto dropped Marco and charged at Christopher. The other workers clapped and whooped as Christopher easily dodged the foreman, weaving between the machines. The fun might have lasted for longer, had not Mrs M anticipated Christopher's route and snagged him by the ear as he shot around a corner.
"That's the end of your little game, Kenya," she snapped. "Into the office with you."
Bluto was still in attack mode, but Mrs M froze him with a single pointed finger. "And you! Prepare my peppermint tea. And in future, whistle before entering the bathroom. Everyone knows that the toilet monster cannot bear whistling."
"A good joke, Mrs M," said Christopher, still smiling.
Mrs M shrunk his smile with another tug on the ear, dragging the skinny boy towards her office, where he would surely be fired.
Marco did not know what to do. Quantum Boy would blast Mrs M into the dinosaur age, but Marco had no special powers. He was a scared boy who still hadn't used the bathroom. Though he felt a little guilty, Marco backed into the bathroom, remembering to switch on the light. In the corner of his eye something moved. It was Mrs M. Her office window could be clearly seen through the gap between bathroom and factory wall.
Before Marco realised what he was doing, his arm was through the gap, seeming to pull the rest of him after it.
It was a tight squeeze, but Marco sucked in his ribcage, flattened his nose and managed to inch through the gap until he emerged into the factory yard. The sky was wrong. Where there should be the dark blue of night, there were orange bellied clouds, reflecting the city's street lights.
Go back, whispered Marco's good sense. Go back.
But he did not.
The window blinds were old and missing several slats so Marco's view was barely obstructed. He made a funnel with his hands and looked through it to the room inside.
Mrs M was behind her desk shouting at Christopher, who sat in a wooden chair facing her. She shouted and pounded the desk, making the pens jump.
I must call out to him, thought Marco. Share the blame. Perhaps Mrs M would fine us both and fire neither.
But then Marco noticed that something was not right. Mrs M smiled and even winked at Christopher who did not seem in the least afraid. As a matter of fact he seemed comfortable and relaxed, propping his knees on the desk and helping himself to some peanuts from a bowl.
Marco moved further along to a spot where the pane was cracked and a dagger shaped sliver of glass had fallen out.
"Another incident like this and you will be let go, Kenya!" he heard Mrs M say.
"Thank you, Madam," Christopher said, his white teeth like rows of chewing gum. "I will be a good worker."
It was all fake, Marco realised. For the benefit of those listening on the factory floor.
Mrs M spoke again, this time in quiet tones. "You go too far with Bluto," she said. "Your job is to keep the workers happy. Happy workers are hard workers."
"Bluto was scaring Marco," said Christopher. "He is the best one we have."
Mrs M was impressed by such wisdom. "You are right, dear Christopher. If Marco had gone, 10 more would follow him and the Andioni order would never be finished on time." She opened her desk drawer and took out a few notes. "A small bonus for my Trojan horse."
Christopher took the money and tucked it into his sock. "You should tell Bluto to leave Marco alone. He is soft but I like him."
"I will tell him. Now, you go back to work."
"Five more minutes - a can of Pepsi?"
Mrs M smiled almost tenderly. "One can. Five minutes, then you go out of here crying like a baby."
Christopher pushed out his bottom lip.
"No one cries like Christopher," he said. Then in a typical Christopher motion he popped out of the chair like a circus acrobat and trotted across to a small fridge on the floor. He selected a cola and stretched on the ground to drink it.
"Drink slowly," Mrs M chided. "Or you will give yourself tummy ache." Christopher's reply was a gentle burp.
Marco turned away from the window. His friend's job was safe, that much was clear. But was his friend his friend?
Dreadlock is gone, he realised. There is only Quantum Boy now.
Marco felt cold and betrayed. Christopher had been masquerading as their comedian, when all the time he was under Mrs M's wing. Even so, I still laughed. Does it matter why he jokes?
It did matter, Marco decided. Christopher's jokes were like glossy red apples with black sludge at their core. He would not laugh again.
Marco felt sick to his stomach and wished that he could just go home. But he knew he must return to the factory. But before he went back inside, Marco allowed himself one last longing look at the lights and life of the city beyond. His mother was out there somewhere, selling foil roses at the traffic lights of east London.
Everyone has the right to rest and leisure, including reasonable limitation of working hours and periodic holidays with pay