Dirty Fracking Business by Peter Ralph Page B

cigarette hanging out of the side of his mouth. He was more appropriately dressed for the weather, in a flimsy white T-shirt and jeans, and he was clearly supporting the younger man.
    As Dean watched, he realised that the others were all on Beck’s side. It wasn’t Beck who was surrounded, but the odd couple. He didn’t know who the two men were but he sauntered over, intending to talk to Beck - whom he had always found reasonable - about the compressor noise.
    The younger man was rolling his eyes and shouting and, when he started to unbutton his shirtsleeves, Dean, convinced it was a prelude to fisticuffs, moved quickly to intervene. As he reached the group, he saw the man pointing at his bare arms, which were covered with ugly red welts. ‘You poisoned our water, you bastard,’ he roared. ‘I’m covered with these things and so are my kids. And to think you made yourself out a big man when you watered our roads and tracks to get rid of the dust, when all you were doing was saving the cost of getting rid of your contaminated wastewater. Bastard!’
    ‘You poisoned all the dams in the area,’ the older man added, spitting in the gap between Beck’s feet, while rolling another cigarette.
    Beck lolled up against the door sneering, his well-muscled body barely contained by his tight, short-sleeved shirt. The man next to him looked over at the younger man and said, ‘Jeez Shawn, Filliburton and Frank are good for the town. Look at all the business they’ve brought to it and you don’t know what you’re talking about. God, as if a respected American company like Filliburton would poison your dam. Why don’t you apologise to Frank and get back to the estate ?’
    ‘You must be selling an awful lot of newspapers these days, Jason,’ the older man said.
    ‘Keep out of it, Mick,’ another man said.
    ‘Ah, Bill, I hear you’ve doubled the rents on your motels since the gas companies came to town, and business is so good that you’re building another one.’
    ‘Shut up, Mick. You’re nothing but a trouble-maker.’
    ‘Have a look at this,’ the younger man bellowed, slipping his overalls down to his waist and removing his shirt to reveal a body covered in red, weeping welts. ‘My kids are covered in ’em as well. They scratch all day and can’t sleep at night and we only got ’em after Filliburton’s tankers watered the tracks with that toxic wastewater.’
    ‘You don’t know that, Shawn,’ the newsagent scoffed.
    ‘Yes he does,’ Dean said, pulling his T-shirt over his head to show the scars on his well-developed chest. ‘I don’t swim in my dam anymore and me and my kids have been on tablets and creams for weeks. And to think I thought you were doing me a favour with that water, Frank, you slimy piece of shit!’
    ‘Well,’ Beck drawled, ‘it seems we’re no longer welcome in Tura, so I’ll have to relocate my men to Paisley. If this town’s not prepared to support Filliburton, we’re not prepared to support the town.’
    ‘No, no, Frank,’ the motel owner pleaded. ‘They don’t represent the town; you don’t need to go to Paisley.’
    ‘That’s right,’ the proprietor of the hardware store said. ‘Apologise to Frank for making those ridiculous claims, Shawn. You probably got those bloody things on your body because you don’t wash properly?’
    ‘Well that applies to me too,’ Dean snarled. ‘Are you saying me and my kids don’t wash ourselves?’
    ‘He didn’t mean anything,’ the newsagent interrupted. ‘Look, Shawn, just say you’re sorry and we can get things back to normal again. Frank’s a big enough man to accept your apology and let bygones be bygones, aren’t you Frank?’
    ‘I ain’t ever apologising to that bastard.’
    ‘And nor should you.’ Dean struggled to stop himself from crashing his fist into Beck’s sneering face.
    ‘That’s right,’ Mick chipped in, firing off a squirt of saliva that landed next to the hardware man’s shiny shoes.
    ‘Come