by Lesley Kelly
This had been followed by five nights sleeping on a very short sofa in his mother’s sheltered housing flat, until one of the neighbours had complained about her harbouring a flatmate who clearly didn’t meet the age restrictions. That had led, desperately, to his current living conditions. The best thing he could say about them was that at least they were ending. In fact, they were concluding that very evening when he picked up the keys to his new one-person flat. Until he was properly settled in his new home and back on an even keel, he was sticking to mineral water and eating his greens, in a slightly doomed attempt to protect his mental health.
Also, he was slightly ashamed to admit, to stop him getting fat. For the first time in his life, he was experiencing unwanted weight gain, noticing an increasing amount of flesh that could be termed ‘love handles’ appearing. In his life before the HET he had been a professional badminton player, training three hours a day, six days a week. He’d followed a strict, protein-rich diet, which he’d continued to keep to while he’d retrained in health promotion. But with every passing month at the HET he’d fallen further into the world of fast food, snacks from the canteen and chocolate bars from the corner shop. His slow, sauntering journey toward obesity had to stop. He couldn’t get fat. Especially not now that he was single.
There was an outburst of expletives from the direction of Maitland’s desk. His ire seemed to be directed at the contents of his email Inbox. Bernard chose to ignore the ranting. In his experience of the other HET members, there did tend to be a great deal of swearing, much of which was directed at him. He’d been horrified when he’d first heard Mr Paterson refer to a colleague from SHEP as a bit of a ‘c-word’. He was largely able to screen it out now, although, like the junk food, he was doing his best to avoid developing a cursing habit himself. It was a slippery slope from an occasional oath in the office to accidentally telling your mother to F Off.
He returned to his musings about singledom. He and his wife had split by mutual agreement (it wasn’t like she’d kicked him out or anything, no matter what Maitland seemed to think) after ten years of marriage. They’d lost their baby son to the Virus, and the marriage had never really recovered, floundering on the difference of opinion about whether to have another child or not. And now he was torn between making the best of things, moving on, maybe even signing up for one of the dating sites that his friends Marcus and Bryce had been talking about. The other half of his brain was thinking desperately of a way to reconcile with his wife, a difficult reconciliation given his reluctance to bring a child into a world filled with the Virus and her insistence on . . .
A stapler crashed onto his keyboard. Startled, he swivelled round on his chair to confront the aggressor. ‘What are you playing at, Maitland? You could have hit me!’
‘I was aiming for you! You haven’t listened to a word I’ve said.’
‘Yes, and . . .’
‘Check your emails – I’ve got one from HR that I don’t understand. I must be reading it wrong.’
‘If it’s got the phrase “P45” in it, I think you are reading it just right.’
Maitland stood up and headed in his direction. Bernard spun hastily back toward his computer. ‘All right. I’ll look.’
Maitland shoved him out of the way and double-clicked on one of his emails. ‘There – that one. It’s been sent to every member of staff.’ He began to read aloud. ‘Due to the continuing challenges presented by the Virus, we are invoking Clause 74 of your contract of employment. Please note that this may affect your annual leave, retirement, and severance plans. What does that mean? It’s not going to be good, is it? I mean, they’re not going to email us all to say they’ve improved our terms and conditions?’
‘Have you looked at what Clause 74 actually says?’
‘Of course not! It’s not like I carry a copy of my contract around with me in case I need to cross-reference it against my incoming emails.’
‘Do you even know where your contract is?’
‘At home! Probably. Or maybe I left it at Emma’s flat when I moved out. Or it could be in a pile of stuff I left at my mum’s. We’ll need to get HR to send us new copies out.’
‘No, we won’t.’ Bernard opened the bottom drawer of his filing cabinet and pulled out a ring binder. He flicked past his timesheets and expenses claims for the past six months, then found what he was looking for, neatly stored in a plastic pocket. ‘My contract. The same as yours and, I assume, everyone else’s.’
Maitland made a grab for it, but he managed to get it out of the way just in time. With his back to his colleague, he found the correct page. ‘Oh, this is bad.’
‘What?’ Maitland made a second, and this time successful, grab for the contract. ‘Clause 74: In the event of exceptional circumstances the Scottish Health Enforcement Partnership has the right to insist that all staff are retained within the HETs in order to meet the requirements of the service. This could include cancellation of annual leave, delaying of retirement and revoking the right of staff members to resign.’ He lowered the paper. ‘Can they do that?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘What do you mean “you don’t know”? The one, solitary contribution that you make to this team is that you understand shit like this.’
‘That’s not true! I . . .’
‘I mean, there must be some regulation or other that protects our rights.’
Bernard retrieved his, now crumpled, contract from his colleague, smoothed it out and re-read the offending clause.
‘Did you have provisions like this in your Police contract?’
‘I don’t think so. I mean, there was something about the right to cancel annual leave, but nothing about having to work for the Police for the rest of my life.’
‘It won’t be for the rest of your life, just until the Virus is under control.’
Maitland snorted, and turned back to his seat. ‘No time soon then.’
Bernard read and re-read the clause, his heart racing a little faster each time. The one thing that had made life at the HET tolerable was the thought that after one too many taunts from Maitland, or Mr Paterson, he could tell them where to go. In fact, he fantasised about it on a fairly regular basis. The cutting jibe he would make about Paterson’s leadership style. The pleasure he would take in telling Maitland that the only good thing about him was his girlfriend. And now – now – he was trapped here. Hell is other people, particularly those with the letters H.E.T. in their job title.
‘Look who I found.’ Mona, and her coffee cup, appeared in the doorway, her arm round a middle-aged woman, with an untidy mop of long brown hair.
‘Carole!’ Maitland rushed over to embrace his HET partner. ‘We’ve missed you.’
‘I’ve missed you too.’ She smiled, but Bernard thought it looked a little forced.
He gave her a discreet once-over. Pale, he thought, her rosy-cheeked good health no longer shining through. There were stress lines around her eyes, and more grey in her hair than he remembered. Something in her stance conveyed a weariness with life that was a complete contrast to her former optimistic self. She seemed to have aged in the six weeks since he’d last seen her, not surprising given the events that had led up to her extended compassionate leave.
‘How’s the jaw?’ The jaw had received a booting from a suspected health defaulter, leaving Carole barely able to eat or talk.
She made a show of chomping her teeth together. ‘Full working order.’
‘And the boy?’ The boy, Carole’s teenage son, had been an unwitting pawn in an attempt by a local drug dealer to get some traction over the HET. A pretty girl, drugs, and teenage bravado had combined to put young Michael in a compromised position. After a bit of nudging Stuttle had agreed to six weeks’ leave for Carole to get on top of the situation.
‘He’s . . .well, he’s OK. He’s still down living with my cousin in Alnwick. We’re thinking about trying to get him into school there, actually. Which brings me to my visit today.’ She reached into her
bag and produced an envelope. ‘I’m afraid I’m not coming back. This is my resignation letter. Is Mr Paterson in?’
‘Oh, Carole, are you sure about this?’ Mona reached out to her.
Maitland took several large steps backwards and poked Bernard’s shoulder. He looked up, and Maitland made a nodding gesture in Carole’s direction. Bernard interpreted this to mean that whoever was going to break the bad news to their colleague, it wasn’t going to be Maitland.
‘Ehm, Carole, I don’t think you can resign.’
Her face crumpled a little, and he thought for a moment she was going to cry. ‘I know you don’t want me to go, Bernard, and I’ll miss all of you too, but I really have to put my family first.’
Mona put a comforting arm round Carole’s shoulder. ‘Of course you do. We understand.’
Bernard looked up at Maitland for help, who repeated his nodding gesture more vigorously than before. He sighed, and prepared to try again.
‘No, I mean you really can’t resign. We got an email this morning telling us that SHEP’s invoking a clause in our contract that means we can’t leave.’
Carole’s face contorted through a number of emotions. The denial and bargaining stages quickly rushed past before her features landed heavily on anger.
‘Are you sure about this?’ asked Mona.
‘Check your emails if you don’t believe me – or have a read of mine.’ Maitland rolled his chair out of the way and the two of them pushed in to the computer.
‘Where’s Paterson?’ Carole’s voice had the low measured tone of someone who was trying very hard not to completely lose it.
‘Him and Stuttle disappeared off to some meeting,’ said Maitland. ‘I’m pretty sure the “meeting” will be full of HET Team Leaders from across Scotland hiding out until their staff have calmed down.’
‘This,’ Carole’s voice was losing its controlled edge, ‘this is WRONG! HOW CAN THEY DO THIS?’
‘Carole—’ began Bernard.
‘Please say you are not about to tell me to calm down?’
‘Ehm . . .’ He gave up. If unhelpful suggestions weren’t to be allowed, he really had no other weapons in his armoury.
‘Because I do not feel calm. I feel furious. I’ve lost two teeth because of the HET. I had to relocate my son to England because of the HET. And now you are telling me I’m trapped here, like a bird in a bloody cage? You’re telling me I have to work for them for the rest of my life?’
‘It won’t be for the rest of your life, just until . . .’ Maitland trod heavily on his foot, which he took as a sign to shut up.
Carole glared at them all and turned on her heel.
‘Where are you going?’
She snatched up her bag. ‘To get a lawyer.’
The three of them sat in silence until her footsteps disappeared.
‘When do you think the Guv will show his face?’ asked Maitland. ‘I’m betting we don’t see him before Wednesday.’
There was the sound of footsteps in the corridor.
‘Or he might be about to front it out?’
They watched the empty door frame, until Ian Jacobsen loomed into view. ‘Your colleague shot past me with a face like fury. What did I miss?’
3
‘Are you going to crack a smile at any point today, Mona?’
They were in Ian’s car, en route to the Scottish Government’s offices in Leith.
‘Probably not.’
‘I still think this is a pretty poor way to treat someone who saved your life.’
She kept silent, refusing to rise to the bait.
‘It could have turned out very badly for you and Bircham-Fowler if Bob and I hadn’t ridden to the rescue.’
She leaned forward and turned the radio on. Ian tutted, but at least he stopped talking.
A year ago the name Professor Alexander Bircham-Fowler would have meant very little to her. She’d probably have known that he was Scotland’s leading virologist, with a long and distinguished career at one of Scotland’s top universities. But as he led a largely private life, aside from popping up occasionally on the Scottish evening news to discuss Ebola, or swine flu, or one of the many pandemics that never quite arrived, he’d have remained one of these half-familiar faces that you could never quite put a name to. But then the Virus had struck, and as the go-to person for commenting on viral issues, he had been catapulted into something approaching celebrity.
Maybe notoriety would be a better word, as the Professor’s approach to the Virus had not won him many friends within the Scottish establishment. He was often at odds with official government policy, and had gained a reputation for speaking truth to power. Not surprisingly, this had given him a large cult following amongst health professionals, trade unions and young people. As a keen supporter of the Health Check regime, he was popular with the HET staff, but his open criticism of other aspects of Virus policy had bought him some serious enemies.
Mona’s knowledge of the Professor and his work had deepened significantly some weeks previously. Bircham-Fowler had inexplicably disappeared dangerously close to both his scheduled Health Check, and an important speech he’d been due to give at the Scottish Parliament. Stuttle – a signed-up member of the Bircham-Fowler Fan Club – had ordered Paterson to find him, and in turn Paterson had ordered her to help. With the assistance of Theresa, the Professor’s extremely bossy secretary, they’d tracked him down to London, where he had been looking for his estranged daughter.
It transpired that tracking him down was the easy bit. Whatever the Professor had been planning to discuss in his speech, it had alarmed someone so much that they’d spent most of their journey back to Scotland being tailed by a car on the M1. When they’d stopped at a service station, things had taken a turn for the murderous, as one of their unknown assailants had stalked them through the dark and attempted to shoot the Professor. And the thing that had alarmed Mona most about the whole event was that the man who had taken the potshot knew her by name, a turn of events that no one at SHEP had ever explained to her satisfaction.
Annoyingly, there was some truth to Ian’s claims to have saved their lives. Ian, and his colleague Bob Ellis from the Police Scotland Virus Liaison section, had driven down from Scotland to find them, and had arrived in just the nick of time to help.
At least, she’d thought they were being helpful. She’d become increasing suspicious of their motives and had reluctantly left the Professor in their care. Her suspicions had been vindicated when the Professor had a heart attack on the steps of the Parliament. Whether this was down to stress or something more sinister she didn’t know, but she did know that every fibre in her body distrusted Ian Jacobsen.
The car turned into the Scottish Government offices.
‘Hello there, gorgeous.’
The car bonnet nudged the barrier to the car park. Ian passed both their Green Cards to the woman in the security booth, and blew her a kiss.
Mona rolled her eyes, but the Scottish Government woman didn’t seem so bothered. ‘Oh, you.’ She smiled and handed him his card back. ‘You’ll be the death of me.’
The barrier to the car park lifted, and Ian drove off.
‘Really?’ Mona stared at him, arms folded.
‘What?’
‘“Hello there, gorgeous”? Is that how you talk to Scottish Government staff?’
‘What’s wrong with that? I’ve known Margaret for years.’
‘And that makes it OK?’
‘Yes! It’s not like I walked into a meeting and groped the Permanent Secretary’s arse, or felt up an intern. Margaret’s an old pal and she doesn’t mind. In fact, judging by the smile she shot me, I think I made her day.’
‘Well, I think it’s a really unprofessional way to talk to women at work.’
He swung the car into a space so abruptly that she slid to the side, bumping her shoulder on the door. ‘Really, Mona?’ He turned off the engine and twisted toward her, a hint of a smirk around his lips. ‘You of all people wan
t to talk about behaving unprofessionally with women at work?’
Her stomach lurched, and she turned to look out of the window.
‘Sudden silence, Mona? Aren’t you going to say, “Why, Ian, whatever do you mean?”’
He knew.
How could he know? How had he found out about the single, stupidest thing that she’d ever done at work? Oh God, he’d seen the video. She’d been set up, of course. Amanda Harris, a tiny, beautiful, and as it turned out psychopathic flatmate of a health defaulter, had turned to her for comfort. A reassuring hug had turned into something more, captured for posterity by a camera hidden in Amanda’s hallway. Amanda had sent her a copy, a prelude to blackmail she’d assumed at the time, although it hadn’t turned into that. She’d always wondered if Amanda had made good on her threat to pass it on to Mona’s colleagues, and she supposed that she knew the answer to that now. Stuttle and Ian had probably had a good laugh at it. Why was she even surprised that he knew? People like Ian Jacobsen and Cameron Stuttle made it their business to know about people’s indiscretions.
‘I mean, it’s out of character for you to sit there quietly, not asking any questions.’ Ian grinned at her, obviously enjoying the moment. ‘Hmm, could it be that you are sitting there thinking, “Oh God, surely he doesn’t know about me throwing myself at Amanda Harris. Oh God, don’t let him have seen the footage.”’ He elbowed her, less than gently, in the ribs. ‘And in case that is something you are wondering about, I can confirm that I have seen it. Several times, in fact. Watching the two of you snogging like that, I have to tell you, gave me a definite tingly feeling. Have you told your colleagues about your feelings for the ladies?’
