We’re pleased to announce the winner of the August WWWC: Span Hanna. Responding to the prompt ‘plenty of books’, Span’s ‘Toward the End of My Shift’ follows an unnamed narrator navigating a very strange day at his very strange off-books job.

Read Span’s winning piece below.

Toward the End of My Shift

He’s really a decent bloke to work for.

I’m not saying he doesn’t have a strange sense of humour. That goes with the job, and I reckon for some employers humour might be the wrong word to use. It isn’t a problem for me. He’s welcome to his idiosyncrasies. The hours are good, not too long a stretch, and the pay is fine and regular. Cash in hand, no tax, no need to declare it on my dole form. I’m committing an offence by taking it, but he’s probably committing one too by employing me.

So I don’t mind and I don’t even consider it my business that he wants to cast me as a Greek hero. It’s laughable, a skinny weed like me, but I’m not paid to laugh, just to stand here, naked, with my wooden sword poised to thrust. Not upraised, mind you: he isn’t a sadist. It kind of encourages me to be honest and keep to my side of the deal. I might be cheating the government by taking his money, but I couldn’t feel comfortable cheating him.

It has to be his sense of humour. The woman on the other side of the room is as unsuited to her role as I am to mine. Short, almost obese, and hair like a broom left out in the weather. He’s got her in an Aphrodite pose, a few shreds of gauze and a plastic golden apple she holds out.

My arm holding the sword has reached that stage where the strain has become an ache buried in numbness. The natural opiates at work. I can’t tell how she’s doing with her apple. It’s bound to be lighter, but the real strain comes from keeping your arm in position.

At least she’s got a name. I figure I’m someone from the Trojan wars – it was a golden apple that started all that – but I don’t know who. Maybe he doesn’t either. Maybe he doesn’t care. Sometimes her shift’s already started when I arrive, like it did today, and sometimes she comes in later. I’ve seen her outside, on buses or out shopping, but we never speak, even when we pass close by. She’s got a look about her: I think she might be a little mentally disabled.

He calls me in by text two or three times a week. Usually he’s in the room when I start my shift, but once in a while he lets me start in the empty room and he comes in later. He just sits at the table over there and reads or plays patience. A few times he’s had friends around, and he chats with them. There was a bloke here once who really freaked me out. He looked familiar but I couldn’t place him. I tried to observe him surreptitiously, without reacting. The boss must have noticed, because I wasn’t called in for a few weeks. 

One day I was queuing at Centrelink to hand in some paperwork and the familiar-looking guest came out from behind the screens to call someone for an interview. I realised I’d seen him in there many times, he was a counsellor or administrator or something like that. I couldn’t help staring at him, then panicked and turned away, then just had to look back at him. He didn’t seem to notice me. Nothing ever came of it, though I lived in mild anxiety for a while afterwards.

I don’t know what my employer does for a living himself, but this house is pretty upmarket, and lavishly furnished: plenty of art, plenty of books, so obviously plenty of money. In the early days it used to bug me having him around, but you can get used to anything. I suppose it doesn’t make any sense to hire people to stand around in your house naked when you’re not there. Apart from the obvious security issues, there’s no point. But I wouldn’t be surprised if there are some out there who actually do that. If you’ve got the money, you can do anything.

That made me uneasy in the early days. Some people have very strange tastes, and they can buy their way out if those tastes turn around to bite them. I’d look across at Aphrodite, try to establish eye contact, retinal telepathy or whatever. She just held her apple, looking bored. I still look at her, often, and she sort of looks back but doesn’t look back. I’m looking at her now, because I’ve never been freaked out like this. Neither has she, probably, but she isn’t showing it.

She was here before me today, so I don’t know how much longer she’s supposed to be here. Or me. He only ever texts the starting time. Usually two hours, or three, is the limit. He lets you know by pointing at the door. He closes his eyes while we’re leaving the room, sometimes together, sometimes alone. Our money’s in an envelope in the locker where we stash our clothes. The door and the street gate let us out.

It’s been nearly four hours now. That’s not unheard of, but it’s rare. I don’t know how much longer I can hold this sword up. She’s still managing to keep her apple in position. I’m sweating, but she isn’t. I’ve been goggling my eyes at her for a while now, but I’m getting no response. 

If she’s a little shortchanged up top, as I think she is, she’ll probably stand there till the crack of doom. I can’t do that, but I don’t know what else I can do. The rules are simple, but strict, as simple rules are. I could walk out of here, right now, but there’d be no envelope in the locker, there’d be no texting me ever again to come back. 

I can’t afford to risk it. There are bound to be other blokes out there offering the same work, and anyway, I like it here. I’m used to it. And he’s really not a bad bloke to work for.

I just wish he’d get up off the floor.