I sat there in me bunk, the dim light from the porthole castin' shadows on the walls o' this cramped wee room. The North Sea rig, aye, she was a beast o' a thing, perched out here off the Highlands like a giant metal spider clingin' to the waves. The constant hum o' the drills and the groan o' the structure vibrated through everythin', makin' ye feel like ye were part o' the machine yerself. I'd been starin' at the envelope for what felt like hours, the familiar scrawl o' Suze's handwritin' on the front. "To ma darlin' Scot," it said, with a wee heart doodled beside it.
I tore it open, careful like, and unfolded the paper. Her words jumped out at me, warm and achin' all at once.
"Dearest Scot,
The house feels empty without ye, love. The bairns are askin' after their da every day. Little Jamie's drawn ye a picture o' the rig – he thinks it's a castle floatin' on the sea, bless his wee soul. And wee Isla, she's missin' yer stories at bedtime. She says naebody tells 'em like ye do, with all the funny voices.
I'm copin', but it's nae the same. The wind howls off the Highlands, and I think o' ye out there on that great big platform, fightin' the same gales. Come home soon, ma love. We need ye here.
All ma love,
Suze x"
A lump formed in ma throat, big as a golf ball. The kids – Jamie and Isla – they were growin' up without me half the time, and Suze, ma bonnie lass, holdin' it all together back in Aberdeen. I folded the letter careful, tucked it into ma pocket, and rubbed ma eyes. Hunger gnawed at ma belly now, remindin' me I hadn't eaten since the night shift. Time to head to the cafeteria, I reckoned.
I swung ma legs off the bunk and pulled on ma boots, the steel toes clunkin' against the grated floor. The room was nae more than a box, with a sink, a locker, and the faint smell o' oil that never quite washed out. I grabbed ma jacket and stepped into the corridor, the fluorescent lights buzzin' overhead like angry bees.
The cafeteria was a short walk down the hall, a big open space where the lads gathered to fill their guts and blether away the boredom. As I pushed through the door, the noise hit me – laughter, clatterin' plates, and the sizzle from the kitchen. A group o' co-workers were clustered round a table, chattin' and havin' a right banter.
"Och, look who it is! The ghost o' the rig himself!" shouted Tam, one o' the drillers, his face red from laughin'. "Ye been hidin' in yer hole all day, Scot? Thought ye'd turned into a hermit crab!"
"Aye, or maybe he's been writin' poetry to his missus," chipped in Big Al, winkin' at the others. "Come on, ye big Jessie, sit yer arse down and tell us what's eatin' ye."
I forced a grin and waved 'em off. "Ach, away wi' ye, ye bunch o' numpties. Just needed a bit o' shut-eye after fixin' that dodgy wirin' last night."
The lads burst into more laughs, slappin' the table. "Dodgy wirin'? That's what ye call yer love life, eh?" Tam roared.
I shook ma head, chucklin' despite meself, and headed to the counter. There was Ray, ma best mate, the main cook – a bit on the hefty side, with a belly that strained against his apron and a face always sweatin' from the heat o' the stoves. He was stirrin' a pot o' somethin' that smelled like heaven – probably haggis or stovies, knowin' him.
"Alright, Ray? What's on the menu for a starvin' electrician?" I asked, leanin' on the counter.
He looked up, his eyes twinklin' under bushy brows. "Scot, ye old rascal! Been wonderin' when ye'd show yer ugly mug. Got a plate o' neeps and tatties wi' a side o' sausages – proper Scottish grub to put some meat on yer bones. Ye look like ye've been wrestlin' ghosts."
"Aye, sounds grand. Cheers, mate."
He piled it high, slidin' the tray over with a nod. "Anythin' for ye, pal. How's the family? Suze keepin' ye in line from afar?"
Before I could answer, the intercom crackled overhead. "Scot MacKenzie to the boss's office. Scot MacKenzie, report to Douglas's office immediately."
The lads at the table went quiet for a second, then whistled. "Ooh, someone's in the shite!" Big Al teased.
Ray frowned, wipin' his hands on his apron. "What ye done now, Scot? Pinched the last biscuit?"
"Dinnae ken," I muttered, grabbin' ma tray. But a knot twisted in ma gut. Douglas didn't call ye in for a friendly blether.
I wolfed down the meal quick-like, the neeps hot and buttery, but it sat heavy now. Leavin' the cafeteria, I headed for the exit to the deck. The office was on the other side o' the rig, meanin' a trek across the open platform. I grabbed ma helmet from the rack by the door – safety first, or ye'd get yer arse handed to ye – and strapped it on tight.
Steppin' out, the wind hit me like a slap from a giant hand. The rig was a massive beast, towers o' steel risin' up into the grey sky, cranes swingin' overhead, and the drill poundin' away below. Pipes snaked everywhere, slick with oil and salt spray, and the sea churned far beneath, waves crashin' against the legs o' the structure. It felt raw out here, aye – the cold bit through yer jacket, the salt stung yer eyes, and the whole thing swayed just enough to remind ye ye were nae on solid ground. The Highlands loomed in the distance, misty hills like old friends watchin' over us, but they felt a world away. Every step on the grated walkways clanged, echoes lost in the roar o' the wind and machinery. It was exhilaratin' and terrifyin' all at once, like dancin' on the edge o' a cliff.
I crossed the deck careful, dodgin' a couple o' lads haulin' gear, and finally reached the admin module. Douglas's office was at the end, a wee glass-walled box overlookin' the operations.
I knocked and pushed in. Douglas was behind his desk, a stern-faced Glaswegian with a beard like wire wool and eyes that could bore through steel. Papers were scattered, and he didn't look up right away.
"Ye wanted to see me, boss?" I said, takin' off ma helmet.
He leaned back, steepin' his fingers. "Aye, Scot. Sit doon."
I perched on the chair, heart poundin'. "What's this aboot?"
He sighed, like he was dealin' with a bairn. "Police called this mornin'. Somethin' aboot an incident back home. Assault charge or some such bollocks. Company's got a zero-tolerance policy on that shite. Yer fired, effective immediately."
The words hit like a hammer. "What? Wait, Douglas, it's nae what ye think. It was a misunderstandin' – a bar fight, nae more. I can explain, get it sorted. Gie's a chance, man. I've been here years, fixin' every wee spark and short on this rig!"
He shook his head, nae budgin'. "Nae, Scot. Rules are rules. Dinnae care if ye're the best sparky we've got. Ye've brought trouble to ma door, and I willnae have it. Pack yer bags and get oot on the next chopper. And dinnae think aboot arguin' – yer nae indispensable, ye ken? Just another daft Jock who cannae keep his fists to himself."
The insult burned, but I bit ma tongue. Negotiatin' was pointless; his face was set like stone. I stood, helmet under ma arm, and stormed oot, the door slammin' behind me. The rig felt even colder now, like it was spittin' me out. What the hell was I gonna tell Suze?