Dice

With a heavy thud the iron gate to the service tunnel fell shut and Tom Conlin put his ladder back into its locker. He pulled a sterling flask from his shirt pocket. Tom had started his job as a British railway worker only three months ago. He hoped to be accepted by the seniors soon, but they seemed to shut him out for some reason.

Tommy lifted the flask up to his dry lips, taking a greedy swig, until excited voices startled him.

"Hello?" he shouted into the darkness. “Lads?”

“Who's that?” somebody shouted back at him. “Join us or leave!”

Tom held his oil lamp out in front of him. He followed the rail tracks that lead him deep into the narrow tunnel. At last the voices became clearer and louder. The humid cold of the tunnel penetrated his bones and his trembling hand pinched a cigarette from his shirt pocket. He lit his fag with the lamp. It was sheer, idle curiosity that drove him back into the tunnel. He didn't know what he had expected, but found a group of co-workers seated around an old barrel. They were in the middle of a dice game. Tom felt almost offended, that they'd never invited him along before. He loved a good gamble.

Jug ears flashed him a wide grin and waved. “Do you join us, Tom?”

Tommy waved at them. His smile froze on his face, when he spotted a severed finger on the barrel. They waved him over and Tom realized for the first time that they were all missing a finger, or two, or three. Jug ears held up a blood smeared butchers knife.

“Slice the dice, lad!” The man quipped, offering him a seat to his side. “Only mammiesboys need all fingers, eh.”