Chapter 10: The Final Insult

Chapter 10: The Final Insult

The war ended not with a bang, but with a memo. It was pinned to the noticeboard on Friday morning, a single sheet of sterile, corporate letterhead. It announced, in the blandest possible terms, that Mark Thompson was resigning his position as workshop manager to “pursue other opportunities.” The official line was a carefully constructed fiction, but the truth spread through the workshop like wildfire. After Kaelen had opened the ledger, Dave had walked into that office and, in a quiet, trembling voice, had not only corroborated Kaelen’s account but added his own litany of petty cruelties and abuses. The wall of silence hadn't just cracked; it had been utterly demolished. One by one, others had followed, their long-suppressed grievances finally finding a voice in the safe, confidential space Eleanor Davies had created. Thompson hadn't resigned; he had been given a choice between being fired and walking away quietly. He chose the latter.

A strange, muted atmosphere settled over the workshop. It wasn't celebratory. The relief was there, a subtle loosening of shoulders and unclenching of jaws, but it was tainted with the awkward guilt of their own complicity. They were free, but their freedom had been won by the man they had ostracised.

Thompson’s last day was a masterpiece of pathetic denial. In a desperate, transparent attempt to rewrite his own legacy, to pretend he was a beloved boss leaving on good terms, he ordered in food. Just after noon, a delivery driver arrived with stacks of lukewarm pizza boxes and foil trays of sweating sausage rolls. Thompson stood by the canteen entrance, his face a waxy mask of forced bonhomie, urging everyone to help themselves.

“Come on, lads, tuck in!” he boomed, his voice straining for a jollity he did not feel. “My treat! No hard feelings, eh?”

The mechanics shuffled forward, their reluctance palpable. They took paper plates of greasy food out of a sense of awkward obligation, mumbling thanks and avoiding his eyes. They ate in near silence, the festive food tasting of ashes and regret. It was less a party and more a wake, a funereal feast for a tyrant’s reign.

Kaelen participated in none of it.

His notice was already handed in, his last day coinciding with Thompson’s. He had no desire to pretend, no need to perform the social niceties of forgiveness. He worked through the lunch break, his back to the canteen. The sounds of the funereal party—the forced laughter, Thompson’s booming voice, the clatter of paper plates—were nothing more than background noise. He was at his workstation, meticulously cleaning his tool chest, his movements calm and methodical. He wiped down each spanner, each socket, each screwdriver, leaving them gleaming under the harsh fluorescent lights. It was a ritual of closure, a way of cleansing himself of the place.

Dave appeared at his side, a paper plate with a single, sad-looking sausage roll in his hand. He didn't try to coax Kaelen into joining the charade. He just stood there for a moment, watching him work.

“Heard you’re finishing up today, too,” Dave said quietly.

Kaelen nodded, not looking up from polishing a wrench. “Got a new job lined up. Lead diagnostician at a specialist firm in Cardiff.”

A genuine smile touched Dave’s lips. “Good for you, mate. You deserve it.” He looked back towards the canteen, where Thompson was trying to start a weak round of applause for himself. “Thanks, Kaelen. For everything.”

“You did your part, Dave,” Kaelen replied, finally meeting his gaze. The acknowledgment passed between them, a final salute from two soldiers in a war no one else had been willing to fight. Dave nodded, a silent understanding in his eyes, and walked away, leaving Kaelen to his work.

The end-of-shift klaxon was less than an hour away when the final confrontation came. Thompson, having exhausted the goodwill of the other mechanics, began his final walk of shame, a cardboard box filled with a sad collection of personal effects tucked under his arm. He had changed out of his overalls and into a cheap, ill-fitting suit for his departure. He made his way across the workshop floor, a disgraced king surveying his lost kingdom one last time. His path led him directly to Kaelen’s bay.

Kaelen was aware of his approach but did not acknowledge it. He was focused on arranging his tools in their foam cut-outs, his movements precise and unhurried. The entire workshop seemed to hold its breath, sensing a final, inevitable moment of drama.

Thompson stopped a few feet away. He cleared his throat. Kaelen continued his work, the soft click of a socket wrench being set in its place the only sound.

“Adebayo,” Thompson said, his voice a low, resentful growl.

Kaelen gave him nothing. Not a glance. Not a pause. He picked up another tool and began to wipe it down.

Thompson’s composure cracked. This was not how it was supposed to go. He had expected a final, bitter exchange, a shouting match, something that would allow him to leave feeling like he’d had the last word. Kaelen’s utter indifference was a weapon he had no defence against. It stripped him of his power more effectively than any insult.

He took a step closer, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper, a pathetic echo of the malice he had once wielded so effectively. “You think you’re clever, don’t you? You think you’ve won.” He paused, waiting for a reaction that never came. In a final, audacious bid to reclaim some vestige of his former authority, he delivered his parting shot. “You just behave yourself after I’m gone.”

The words hung in the air, a final, pathetic attempt to frame Kaelen as the problem, as the one who needed to be controlled.

Kaelen finished wiping the tool in his hand. He placed it carefully into its designated slot in the chest. He then picked up the final tool, a small ratchet. He did not look up. He did not speak. He did not even tense a muscle. He simply continued his task as if Thompson were not there, as if he were nothing more than a ghost, a bad memory already fading into insignificance.

The silence was absolute. It was vast. It was a vacuum that sucked all the air from Thompson’s pathetic bluster, leaving him exposed and small. He stood there for a long, humiliating moment, a man trying to land a punch on a phantom. He had been denied closure. He had been denied a reaction. He had been denied his very existence. He had been dismissed.

Defeated, Thompson turned and walked away, his shoulders slumped. He didn't look back. The entire workshop had witnessed his final, utter castration.

The klaxon blared, signalling the end of the day, the end of the week, the end of an era. Kaelen closed the lid of his perfectly clean tool chest, locked it, and placed the key on the workbench. He walked to his locker, gathered his things, and crossed the floor to the time clock for the very last time.

He slid his card into the slot. The machine gave a satisfying, final clunk. He looked out through the large bay doors at the fading afternoon light. He wasn't walking out into the cold, oppressive world he had entered that first day. He was walking towards a future he had meticulously, patiently, and deliberately built for himself. He had faced down prejudice and humiliation not with fists or fury, but with cold logic and unyielding dignity. He had taken every ugly word, every petty insult, every casual act of cruelty, and he had forged them into a weapon. His victory had not been loud or explosive; it had been quiet, methodical, and absolute. He had won, one penny at a time.