Sorry not sorry

They’d diverted the flow of water, but even so the rancid waste came up to Peter’s waist.  Johnson switched off the high-power jet and lifted his mask to speak.
 
“Your turn, Lofty.  Shovel time.”
 
“Why do I have to shovel when you get to hose?”
 
“Seniority.  Besides, the jet’s just not cutting it.  Anyway, I’m getting a neck ache, stooping.  You’re all right.  Just imagine it’s gold.”
 
“That’s dwarves,” said Peter, regarding the wall of fat with disgust.
 
“And?”
 
“And I’m not a fecking dwarf.”
 
“Fair enough.  You’re just a giant who’s short for his height.  Come on, another hour and we can have a brew.”  Johnson reseated his mask and backed out of the way.  “And try to get as much of it as you can in the barrow, right?  We don’t want it floating downstream and blocking up the sewer further down.”
 
“Yeah, right.”  Peter stabbed at the wall of congealed fat, wet wipes and nappies with the blade of his shovel.
 
“So what are you then?” said Johnson, his voiced muffled by the gas mask.
 
Peter thought back to last night’s meeting.  “Just a person.”
 
“No way!  They said you were a fairy!”
 
Peter shoved the spade into the mass in front of him as though he were spearing a mammoth.
 
“Fae.”
 
“What?”
 
Peter tugged at the spade, trying to free it from the fat.  “It’s fae, not fairy.”
 
“Okay.  So what?  Are you ‘fae’ or are you just a midget?”  Johnson had a way of pronouncing inverted commas.
 
Peter worked at the spade, wiggling it from side to side in an attempt to free it.
 
“Fae,” Peter grunted.
 
“So you are a dwarf.”
 
“No.  I’m not a fecking dwarf, I said.”
 
“What then?”
 
Peter paused in his fight with the shovel.
 
“I’m a leprechaun, aren’t I!  Is the accent not a clue?”
 
“No, really?”
 
“Really.”
 
Peter felt a heavy hand on his shoulder.  He turned.  Johnson held on tight, his eyes wide behind the lenses of the mask.
 
“Gimme your gold, then.”
 
Peter sighed and shook his head.
 
“Really?”
 
“No, but you got to.  I’m holding you, so you got to give it to me.  It’s the rules.”
 
Peter made a show of looking around at the Victorian brickwork in the tunnel, the foul water around them.  He turned and slapped the handle of the shovel embedded in the disgusting wall blocking the sewer.
 
“Seriously?” he asked.  “Do you really think, if I had any gold, any gold at all, I’d be down here, up to my arse in crap, shovelling second-hand fat and dirty nappies?  Do you think I just do this for fun?  Do you think this counts as a good night out in Ireland?”  He so-soed his hand.  “Okay, maybe in Longford it might, but seriously?  You think I’d be down here, shovelling shit, with you, if I had any choice in the matter?  Really?”
 
He could see the doubt in Johnson’s eyes, but still the human kept his grip.  “You got to,” said Johnson, grasping hold of the one idea he had.  “It’s the law.  You got to give me your gold.”
 
“Oh, I’ll give you something, all right,” muttered Peter.  He slapped Johnson’s hand away from his shoulder.  For a moment it looked as though Johnson might grab him again, but Peter’s look stopped him.
 
“Use your head.  I’ve been here for a year.  I walk down the street.  You think someone wouldn’t have grabbed me a long time ago?  You think I’d ever cross the water if I had a crock?  You think anyone, fae or human, anyone, would do this job if they had money?  Do you have any gold?  Do you have any money at all?  We’re shit shovellers, that’s what we are, and we’re shit shovellers because we’re desperate for the money and we don’t have any other job we can do.  And I’m fae!  At least you’re human.  You get paid a living wage.  You can choose where to live, where to go.  Me?  I’m lucky if I can afford a pint at the weekend.  And you want to rob me?”
 
“Not rob,” said Johnson.  “Just, well, it’s the rules.”
 
“Just take every penny I have, simply because you’re bigger than me?  Just because you can grab hold of me?  How is that not robbery?”
 
Johnson shrugged.  “It’s just the rules.  I don’t make the rules.”
 
“Right.”  Peter turned and grabbed the handle of the shovel.  “You don’t make the rules.  The rules just make themselves.  It’s not like it’s the fecking humans that make all the rules.”  He placed a boot against the blockage and heaved on the shovel.  It broke free.  Peter staggered back, his elbow snapping back into Johnson’s groin.
 
He looked down, Johnson’s head finally lower than his, as the human knelt in the filth, hands gripped between his thighs.
 
“Oh dear. ‘Sorry’” he said, being careful to pronounce the inverted commas.