Empathy is not a Colour. Chapter 11
Blunt was having his break in the canteen. A weekday midmorning in
February and fairly quiet, only about ten other drivers were there,
spread out across the tables in one's and two's. He had just finished
his breakfast - kippers - and was reading his paper, the Gruaniad.
A liberal broadsheet that carries all the contradictions which liberals
have. For all progressive causes until it affects them personally, and
infamous for typo's. A general manager of the company, Franz Gray
and Peter Roberts, his deputy, came into the canteen for a cup of
tea. They did this occasionally. Let everybody know they were
around and together. Unlike the union.
Blunt, as usual wished everybody he saw, “Good Morning". He didn't
discriminate, even when it was management. They both replied,
“Good morning”, and sat down at a table next to him.
Blunt returned to the paper and an article on the build up to war.
After a few minutes Gray turned to him and asked with an accusatory
tone,
“Do you always read that?”
“Yes. I don't read the lies and propaganda of the Antipodean Neanderthal's
papers. They take a fact, distort it and spin a web of their own reactionary
opinion that is the opposite to a search for truth. At least the Grauniad
gives you more than one fact, which makes it easier to find your own
point of view.” Replied Blunt, thinking 'here we go again'.
(Nine months before, a month after he had arrived at the garage,
Blunt had had a run in with Gray. It was in the canteen again. Blunt
had been at a non-smoking table smoking. Gray had again sat at the
table next to him and said like an authoritarian,
“Don't smoke at that table.”
That had got Blunt's back up and he replied with a hard tone.
“Who are you?”
“I'm the General Manager, Franz Gray.” He said the 'Franz Gray'
with an arrogance that suggested Blunt should have known who
he was. If they had an induction process in the garage for new
drivers, introduce them to the management, engineers and shunters.
Then yes, everybody in the garage would know who he was. But no.
They weren't interested in welcoming the new drivers, easing their
integration into the work and workforce. The drivers were just
treated as units of production. The 40% staff turnover every year was
testament to that.
Blunt put out his cigarette and quietly fumed. He had made an enemy
of the management already. No bad thing. He and they knew where
they stood.)
“I suppose you disagree with invading Iraq to stop them using weapons
of mass destruction?” Sneered Gray.
Blunt replied, holding back a natural inclination to get harsh with such
stupidity.
“Of course I do when they don't exist in Iraq but in America and
Britain. The UN inspectors haven't found any and don't believe they
will. All we've been fed by the media and politicians for the last eight
months has been a load of lies. The build up to invasion is about
nothing but the projection of American power around the world. Oh!
And mustn't forget. Oil.”
Another question with an even greater degree of aggression came
from Gray.
“So you support the terrorists who attacked the World Trade Centre,
and not support the Iraqi people who have been oppressed and
murdered by Saddam?”
This was turning into an inquisition not a discussion and Blunt was
getting annoyed that a manager, somebody who should have some
intellectual ability to do the job, was sounding like an editorial in the
Sun and some of the thicker drivers he was supposed to give
leadership to.
“Nonsense. Firstly. I was campaigning against Saddam when he was
gassing the Kurds and Rumsfeld was shaking his hand. Secondly. My
heart went out to America, like billions around the world who
witnessed and shared the depths of despair. September the 11th,
will long live as a day obscene. No peoples deserve such a vile
affront to their dignity. No matter what the grievance. But to just
denounce the bombers as evil, as 'other', without at least trying to
understand why they could even contemplate killing 3, 000 people along
with themselves, is grossly irresponsible. And anyway this drive to
invade Iraq is not about the World Trade Centre but the doctrine of
'full spectrum domination' as developed by the 'Angel of Death'
Rumsfeld and his cronies. Thirdly. Saddam was on the list of
apostates that Bin Laden wanted killed. Iraq's is a secular state and
doesn't have any links with al-Qaeda or other Islamist terrorist
networks. These are deliberate lies put about by Bush and Blair.”
Blunt was starting to stray into polemic using words and ideas that
were not registering with Gray's grey matter.
“Your anti-American.”
“Of course not.” Blunt shot back.
By now all ears in the canteen were tuned to the argument, the
drivers hadn't had so much fun in years. A manager getting argued
with. Exciting. Peter Roberts sitting opposite Gray, held an inane
grin throughout the exchanges.
“And that's to miss the point.” Blunt continued. “Its America's
Bush administration that the antiwar people are against, not the
decent everyday American. Millions of whom oppose this coming war
and Bush. Bush is a President who lost the popular vote, even in
Florida, and was anointed President by the casting vote of a Supreme
Court judge appointed by his father. He is not the legitimate leader
of America. So I'm anti-Bush. Anyway getting back to the papers.”
Blunt wanted to end this, it was pointless arguing with him, but
before he could continue Gray interjected.
“All papers lie by omission or blatantly.” He said as he started to rise
from his seat, knocking the half drunk mug of tea over in his
desperation to get away. He left that for the canteen staff to clean
up.
Gray had been badly embarrassed in front of his lessers. It expressed
itself in the redness at the shirt collar and that ran up his neck. His
accusatory tone when questioning the paper that Blunt read,
betrayed a serious weakness in his management skills. He was scared
anybody below him on the ladder might be more intelligent and instead
of working with them, he attacked them.
So it was true thought Blunt. The longest serving drivers had
been right. At the time that the London bus routes were privatised
the best in management left, not being able to swallow the new,
American business practise. Their pride and commitment in the job
destroyed. Those that remained implemented the doctrinal
prescriptions of Thatcher, managed by disrespect and contempt.
Those delivering the service, those that meet the public face to face,
earned the companies profit, became 'other' and disposable. New
contracts for new starters with lower wages were introduced. The
longest serving drivers were offered deals to leave and their higher
wage bill cut. That and the 40% turnover a year in drivers, allowed
the company to halve its wage bill within eighteen months. The
service suffered and the drivers got it in the neck from the public
whose main concern, rightly, is to get from A to B with the least
hassle. The management that was left, promoted above their abilities,
didn't worry about what the drivers were facing. In fact the opposite
- they were pleased. It helped with the turnover of drivers. Their
success in cutting the wage bill was reward with salaries increased,
and preferential share options proved lucrative. London's buses are
only now coming good. Not from the endeavours of petty
administrators of profit like Gray, but by London's Mayor,
Livingston, forcing through congestion charging and improving bus
regularity.
“Yeah, I can agree with that.” Blunt said, pleased the argument was
coming to an end and that he at least gave Gray the semblance of
having said something true. But it was bloody obvious to everybody
else in the canteen that he should not have picked the argument.
For Blunt it was the start of a bad time in the garage.
Gray wasted no time once back in his office to check up on Blunt.
He had to find a way to neutralise him. Roberts had told him as they
left the canteen that Protheroe was recently diagnosed with Multiple
Sclerosis so that might be a way to get him out. But he needed more
if he was to convince his managing director that they should act
against him.
Gray contacted Personnel and requested Blunt's job application
and other files. They arrived within the hour. So desperate was
Gray's tone when speaking to the personnel manager, that a courier
was used to get the information to him.
When he read Blunt's application form he fumed. How had he passed
through the interview? Blunt, as was his way, thought honesty the
best practise and had been very truthful about his employment history.
The forms had only asked for the last three years employment, but
Blunt had given them the last twenty. For the previous ten years he
had been finding occasional work as a freelance photojournalist and
signing on. Like most photographers he had been living in poverty to
try and further his vision. Prior to that he was the leader of the
Welsh Communists and had worked full time for the CP for seven
years.
When Gray got to this he knew he had the means of convincing his
superiors that Blunt should be acted against, removed from their
employ. He phoned David Johnnson, the Managing Director.
Johnnson went ballistic. Gave Gray the worst bollocking he had ever
had and demanded that he see who this Blunt was.
Blunt knew Gray would not let the matter rest so tried to think of a
response that would wind him up some more and, at the same time
develop some unity amongst the drivers. It wouldn't take long for the
word to spread among the drivers about the argument with Gray in
the canteen. Some would think Blunt was dangerous, but most would
think he was a fighter who did not fear management even if they
disagreed about his opposition to the war. Perhaps they would go for
it if he came up with something they could relate to.
He knew it would have to be international in scope. During the
football world cup the year before, somebody had raised an English
flag at the fuel pump. It fluttered lonely. Yet the garage had drivers
from around the world, some of whom came from some of the
countries competing. He did mention to a few drivers that it would
be a good idea for every country competing and represented by a
driver in the garage, to have their national flag hoist and join the
English one. End its isolation. Then when a country was eliminated
the flag be brought down. A good idea they thought, bringing the
global celebration of the commonality in international football to the
local level. But he was too new to the garage to have the idea turned
into action.
It took twenty-four hours after the argument to think and work out
what to do. Establish an international book library in the garage with
the support of the union was what he settled on. The drivers would
be asked to donate their surplus books and be able to borrow books
from the library. Blunt couldn't think of a better way to try and
break down the ignorance that people had about the different cultures
and histories of their fellow drivers. It's second purpose was to
relieve him of the 500 books he had read and had no space for in his
flat. The next day he approached the branch chair and the union
representative with the idea, arguing that it would benefit the branch
by offering a service to the members and could help with recruitment.
They were both interested, though the chair was suspicious and
insisted that Blunt take responsibility for it only if he could
convince the branch secretary to help. No problem. The branch
secretary was all for it. He enjoyed reading and had to many books.
Within four days he had leaflets run off and put up. The management
weren't happy and refused to designate space for it, they saw it as a
threat. Unity of the drivers their greatest fear. Which meant the
union had to find it.
The day before the leaflets went up, he was having his break in the
canteen again and chatting with Kiwi Joe, a Londoner who had moved
to New Zealand twenty years before and just recently returned. A big
bloke, full of bravado and, as Blunt was about to find out, low
cunning.
Gray had asked Kiwi Joe that he parade Blunt in front of Johnnson.
Kiwi Joe was one of those who only saw relationships with other
people as transactional. From whom a profit could be made. He had
bragged about his past as a bailiff. Not the nicest of jobs.
“How much and why?”
“£2, 500.00. We've discovered he used to work for the Communist
Party.”
Was Grays to quick response.
“No. I wouldn't do it for less than £5, 000, and then it would be a
fucking pleasure to fuck over a commie.”
“OK. You've got a deal. The money will be deposited in your account
with your pay cheque the week after he's seen by Johnnson.”
Kiwi Joe realised he could have asked for more, but five grand would
serve his purpose.
“Great. But I want the money in my account before I do it. This is
good news, I can return to New Zealand and get out of this fucking
country. It's gone to the dogs. To many fucking blacks.”
“OK. I will authorise the transfer of the money today. Just ensure
that you don't fuck up. We'll change your duty for tomorrow so that
you have as near as possible the same break times.”
With that Gray returned to his paper work. It signalled the end of
the meeting and Kiwi Joe felt as though dismissed like the dog he was.
Kiwi Joe was due to start his second spell fifteen minutes after Blunt
but he insisted on accompanying him to the change over point. As
they were passing the allocations office, Blunt noticed Gray standing
with someone he didn't recognise but didn't pay much attention.
“Do you know that bloke.” Asked Kiwi Joe.
Blunt looked over and found himself being glared at by Gray and
Johnnson. He immediately realised what was going on. Blunt was
being paraded in front of management in an attempt to belittle and
intimidate him.
“You bastard.” He said to Kiwi Joe.
“Fuck you commie. I'm going back to New Zealand at your expense.”
He said with a vicious smile in a nasty face. Kiwi Joe turned and
headed back to the canteen his job done and £5, 000 richer.
The leaflets went up.
Once he saw the leaflets Gray phoned Johnnson.
“He hasn't taken the hint. Instead he's put up leaflets with the fucking
union masthead asking for the donation of books for an international
book library. We can't allow him to get involved in anything with the union.
We have it were we want it at the moment and he could very
well increase its membership and develop some unity amongst the
drivers. Get them motivated. We can't afford that. I think we have
to have a meeting to sort something out. He has been diagnosed with
multiple sclerosis so that might be a way of dealing with him.”
“What! He's got multiple sclerosis and driving a bus?” Was
Johnnson's surprised response.
“I know. But it's been cleared by the DVLA. He has to have a medical
every year.”
“OK. Arrange for Roberts and Likha Patel to be at a meeting when its
Blunt's next rest day. I'll bring Jones, our security consultant. Make
sure it's not a weekend. I'm not having that bastard fuck one of them
up. And give me twenty-four hours notice.”
” Two days time at 10.00hrs in the garage is the earliest date and it's
convenient for everybody here. I checked it before I phoned you. It
will be good to see Jones again.”
“Good. We can thrash this out then and hopefully give this Blunt a
thrashing.” With that Johnnson hung up.
Johnnson turned to Jones.
“We've got a problem in Gray's garage. Some one who worked for
the Communist Party has managed to get past our screening. Clever
bastard put all his work history on the application form. They didn't
even look at it during the interview and tests. He must have known
that they wouldn't. The fucking dickhead responsible has been sacked.
Anyway. I want you to use your contacts with Special Branch to get
all the information you can on him. We have to find a way of getting
him out before he does any damage. His name's Blunt and we
need the information by 10.00 hours in two days time. Bring what you
get to the meeting at Gray's garage. We know he's got multiple
sclerosis so any odd behaviour because of that we would certainly be
interested in.”
“Right. We haven't had one of these for a long time. I thought the
CP had ceased to exist ten years ago, but then again he may still think
like one. This should be interesting, I've always enjoyed fucking up
Commies. See you in two days.”
Jones rose, left the room and headed for the car park and his Merc.
He got on his mobile, called one of his Special Branch contacts,
explained what he wanted and arranged to met him the following day.
Fortuitously he had been at Johnnson's office for their regular weekly
meeting to discuss any developments in the company that needed his
attention. These could range from petty theft in the office to
industrial espionage. The tendering process for routes was a mire of
intrigue suited to his skills and much appreciated by the bus company.
For the last eighteen months he had been doing background checks on
the Muslim drivers that were being employed in greater numbers. The
suicide bombing of the Twin Towers had ensured that.
His contract with the company stipulated that the successful removal
of 'politically motivated employees' from their employ would increase
his fee by 25%. on a pro rata basis. His firm, 'Behind You! Plc' had a
contract with the bus company that averaged £8, 000 a week, so he
could look forward to depositing at least £10, 000 a week into his
firm's account until this was resolved. Tidy.
It was just one security contract of many, though the most important
one. He'd done well in his own corrupted terms since forcefully
resigned from Special Branch.
He liked his job when secretly tagging people. The subterfuge, the
illegal phone taps and computer hacking, perversely excited him. He
especially enjoyed tagging the left. His father had been a Commie in
South Wales and Jones hated him. The moral certitude, the always
being proved right in an argument, the continual pushing of him to be
better than anyone else at school had turned him against his father's
politics. The first opportunity he got, he left for London. When
Thatcherism took hold he embraced it with the devotion of a
green-eyed sycophant. He told his father the last time he saw him,
after a twenty year gap, and as he lay dying of emphysema,
“You were a stupid cunt for thinking that communism would succeed,”
Gloating at his fathers impending death.
But his father was a fighter and mustered all his strength and spat in
Jones' face. The black, coal stained phlegm hung from his chin as he
left with his mother's and brothers curses chasing him through the
town. His father died within the hour. He didn't attend the funeral
and when his mother died he didn't attend hers either. His brothers
would have led the whole community in killing him if he ever returned.
It was the last time he would see Porth and the Valleys.
Once Jones had left the room Johnnson swore, "Bastard” and kicked
the desk. Petulant. He didn't like to spend time having to think about
the drivers unless they were young and pretty and easy to exploit. He
preferred sitting on his ass laughing at them as he racked in £150, 000
a year. The drivers who did the work were lucky to earn £20, 000 for
putting in 55 stressful hours a week. With overtime to make even
that. Work and sleep for the drivers. For Johnnson, presenting
quarterly reports to the Board of Directors that were produced by
his over-stretched secretary and accountants. Easy work. The
congestion charging made for an expanding bus network so the
reports continually showed an increase in profits and a rise in the
share price. And he took the unwarranted credit. His share options
were going through the roof. A carpet bagger from when the routes
were privatised. It left him a lot of time for golf and womanising.
'Fucking Commies,' he thought, 'making me work.'
February and fairly quiet, only about ten other drivers were there,
spread out across the tables in one's and two's. He had just finished
his breakfast - kippers - and was reading his paper, the Gruaniad.
A liberal broadsheet that carries all the contradictions which liberals
have. For all progressive causes until it affects them personally, and
infamous for typo's. A general manager of the company, Franz Gray
and Peter Roberts, his deputy, came into the canteen for a cup of
tea. They did this occasionally. Let everybody know they were
around and together. Unlike the union.
Blunt, as usual wished everybody he saw, “Good Morning". He didn't
discriminate, even when it was management. They both replied,
“Good morning”, and sat down at a table next to him.
Blunt returned to the paper and an article on the build up to war.
After a few minutes Gray turned to him and asked with an accusatory
tone,
“Do you always read that?”
“Yes. I don't read the lies and propaganda of the Antipodean Neanderthal's
papers. They take a fact, distort it and spin a web of their own reactionary
opinion that is the opposite to a search for truth. At least the Grauniad
gives you more than one fact, which makes it easier to find your own
point of view.” Replied Blunt, thinking 'here we go again'.
(Nine months before, a month after he had arrived at the garage,
Blunt had had a run in with Gray. It was in the canteen again. Blunt
had been at a non-smoking table smoking. Gray had again sat at the
table next to him and said like an authoritarian,
“Don't smoke at that table.”
That had got Blunt's back up and he replied with a hard tone.
“Who are you?”
“I'm the General Manager, Franz Gray.” He said the 'Franz Gray'
with an arrogance that suggested Blunt should have known who
he was. If they had an induction process in the garage for new
drivers, introduce them to the management, engineers and shunters.
Then yes, everybody in the garage would know who he was. But no.
They weren't interested in welcoming the new drivers, easing their
integration into the work and workforce. The drivers were just
treated as units of production. The 40% staff turnover every year was
testament to that.
Blunt put out his cigarette and quietly fumed. He had made an enemy
of the management already. No bad thing. He and they knew where
they stood.)
“I suppose you disagree with invading Iraq to stop them using weapons
of mass destruction?” Sneered Gray.
Blunt replied, holding back a natural inclination to get harsh with such
stupidity.
“Of course I do when they don't exist in Iraq but in America and
Britain. The UN inspectors haven't found any and don't believe they
will. All we've been fed by the media and politicians for the last eight
months has been a load of lies. The build up to invasion is about
nothing but the projection of American power around the world. Oh!
And mustn't forget. Oil.”
Another question with an even greater degree of aggression came
from Gray.
“So you support the terrorists who attacked the World Trade Centre,
and not support the Iraqi people who have been oppressed and
murdered by Saddam?”
This was turning into an inquisition not a discussion and Blunt was
getting annoyed that a manager, somebody who should have some
intellectual ability to do the job, was sounding like an editorial in the
Sun and some of the thicker drivers he was supposed to give
leadership to.
“Nonsense. Firstly. I was campaigning against Saddam when he was
gassing the Kurds and Rumsfeld was shaking his hand. Secondly. My
heart went out to America, like billions around the world who
witnessed and shared the depths of despair. September the 11th,
will long live as a day obscene. No peoples deserve such a vile
affront to their dignity. No matter what the grievance. But to just
denounce the bombers as evil, as 'other', without at least trying to
understand why they could even contemplate killing 3, 000 people along
with themselves, is grossly irresponsible. And anyway this drive to
invade Iraq is not about the World Trade Centre but the doctrine of
'full spectrum domination' as developed by the 'Angel of Death'
Rumsfeld and his cronies. Thirdly. Saddam was on the list of
apostates that Bin Laden wanted killed. Iraq's is a secular state and
doesn't have any links with al-Qaeda or other Islamist terrorist
networks. These are deliberate lies put about by Bush and Blair.”
Blunt was starting to stray into polemic using words and ideas that
were not registering with Gray's grey matter.
“Your anti-American.”
“Of course not.” Blunt shot back.
By now all ears in the canteen were tuned to the argument, the
drivers hadn't had so much fun in years. A manager getting argued
with. Exciting. Peter Roberts sitting opposite Gray, held an inane
grin throughout the exchanges.
“And that's to miss the point.” Blunt continued. “Its America's
Bush administration that the antiwar people are against, not the
decent everyday American. Millions of whom oppose this coming war
and Bush. Bush is a President who lost the popular vote, even in
Florida, and was anointed President by the casting vote of a Supreme
Court judge appointed by his father. He is not the legitimate leader
of America. So I'm anti-Bush. Anyway getting back to the papers.”
Blunt wanted to end this, it was pointless arguing with him, but
before he could continue Gray interjected.
“All papers lie by omission or blatantly.” He said as he started to rise
from his seat, knocking the half drunk mug of tea over in his
desperation to get away. He left that for the canteen staff to clean
up.
Gray had been badly embarrassed in front of his lessers. It expressed
itself in the redness at the shirt collar and that ran up his neck. His
accusatory tone when questioning the paper that Blunt read,
betrayed a serious weakness in his management skills. He was scared
anybody below him on the ladder might be more intelligent and instead
of working with them, he attacked them.
So it was true thought Blunt. The longest serving drivers had
been right. At the time that the London bus routes were privatised
the best in management left, not being able to swallow the new,
American business practise. Their pride and commitment in the job
destroyed. Those that remained implemented the doctrinal
prescriptions of Thatcher, managed by disrespect and contempt.
Those delivering the service, those that meet the public face to face,
earned the companies profit, became 'other' and disposable. New
contracts for new starters with lower wages were introduced. The
longest serving drivers were offered deals to leave and their higher
wage bill cut. That and the 40% turnover a year in drivers, allowed
the company to halve its wage bill within eighteen months. The
service suffered and the drivers got it in the neck from the public
whose main concern, rightly, is to get from A to B with the least
hassle. The management that was left, promoted above their abilities,
didn't worry about what the drivers were facing. In fact the opposite
- they were pleased. It helped with the turnover of drivers. Their
success in cutting the wage bill was reward with salaries increased,
and preferential share options proved lucrative. London's buses are
only now coming good. Not from the endeavours of petty
administrators of profit like Gray, but by London's Mayor,
Livingston, forcing through congestion charging and improving bus
regularity.
“Yeah, I can agree with that.” Blunt said, pleased the argument was
coming to an end and that he at least gave Gray the semblance of
having said something true. But it was bloody obvious to everybody
else in the canteen that he should not have picked the argument.
For Blunt it was the start of a bad time in the garage.
Gray wasted no time once back in his office to check up on Blunt.
He had to find a way to neutralise him. Roberts had told him as they
left the canteen that Protheroe was recently diagnosed with Multiple
Sclerosis so that might be a way to get him out. But he needed more
if he was to convince his managing director that they should act
against him.
Gray contacted Personnel and requested Blunt's job application
and other files. They arrived within the hour. So desperate was
Gray's tone when speaking to the personnel manager, that a courier
was used to get the information to him.
When he read Blunt's application form he fumed. How had he passed
through the interview? Blunt, as was his way, thought honesty the
best practise and had been very truthful about his employment history.
The forms had only asked for the last three years employment, but
Blunt had given them the last twenty. For the previous ten years he
had been finding occasional work as a freelance photojournalist and
signing on. Like most photographers he had been living in poverty to
try and further his vision. Prior to that he was the leader of the
Welsh Communists and had worked full time for the CP for seven
years.
When Gray got to this he knew he had the means of convincing his
superiors that Blunt should be acted against, removed from their
employ. He phoned David Johnnson, the Managing Director.
Johnnson went ballistic. Gave Gray the worst bollocking he had ever
had and demanded that he see who this Blunt was.
Blunt knew Gray would not let the matter rest so tried to think of a
response that would wind him up some more and, at the same time
develop some unity amongst the drivers. It wouldn't take long for the
word to spread among the drivers about the argument with Gray in
the canteen. Some would think Blunt was dangerous, but most would
think he was a fighter who did not fear management even if they
disagreed about his opposition to the war. Perhaps they would go for
it if he came up with something they could relate to.
He knew it would have to be international in scope. During the
football world cup the year before, somebody had raised an English
flag at the fuel pump. It fluttered lonely. Yet the garage had drivers
from around the world, some of whom came from some of the
countries competing. He did mention to a few drivers that it would
be a good idea for every country competing and represented by a
driver in the garage, to have their national flag hoist and join the
English one. End its isolation. Then when a country was eliminated
the flag be brought down. A good idea they thought, bringing the
global celebration of the commonality in international football to the
local level. But he was too new to the garage to have the idea turned
into action.
It took twenty-four hours after the argument to think and work out
what to do. Establish an international book library in the garage with
the support of the union was what he settled on. The drivers would
be asked to donate their surplus books and be able to borrow books
from the library. Blunt couldn't think of a better way to try and
break down the ignorance that people had about the different cultures
and histories of their fellow drivers. It's second purpose was to
relieve him of the 500 books he had read and had no space for in his
flat. The next day he approached the branch chair and the union
representative with the idea, arguing that it would benefit the branch
by offering a service to the members and could help with recruitment.
They were both interested, though the chair was suspicious and
insisted that Blunt take responsibility for it only if he could
convince the branch secretary to help. No problem. The branch
secretary was all for it. He enjoyed reading and had to many books.
Within four days he had leaflets run off and put up. The management
weren't happy and refused to designate space for it, they saw it as a
threat. Unity of the drivers their greatest fear. Which meant the
union had to find it.
The day before the leaflets went up, he was having his break in the
canteen again and chatting with Kiwi Joe, a Londoner who had moved
to New Zealand twenty years before and just recently returned. A big
bloke, full of bravado and, as Blunt was about to find out, low
cunning.
Gray had asked Kiwi Joe that he parade Blunt in front of Johnnson.
Kiwi Joe was one of those who only saw relationships with other
people as transactional. From whom a profit could be made. He had
bragged about his past as a bailiff. Not the nicest of jobs.
“How much and why?”
“£2, 500.00. We've discovered he used to work for the Communist
Party.”
Was Grays to quick response.
“No. I wouldn't do it for less than £5, 000, and then it would be a
fucking pleasure to fuck over a commie.”
“OK. You've got a deal. The money will be deposited in your account
with your pay cheque the week after he's seen by Johnnson.”
Kiwi Joe realised he could have asked for more, but five grand would
serve his purpose.
“Great. But I want the money in my account before I do it. This is
good news, I can return to New Zealand and get out of this fucking
country. It's gone to the dogs. To many fucking blacks.”
“OK. I will authorise the transfer of the money today. Just ensure
that you don't fuck up. We'll change your duty for tomorrow so that
you have as near as possible the same break times.”
With that Gray returned to his paper work. It signalled the end of
the meeting and Kiwi Joe felt as though dismissed like the dog he was.
Kiwi Joe was due to start his second spell fifteen minutes after Blunt
but he insisted on accompanying him to the change over point. As
they were passing the allocations office, Blunt noticed Gray standing
with someone he didn't recognise but didn't pay much attention.
“Do you know that bloke.” Asked Kiwi Joe.
Blunt looked over and found himself being glared at by Gray and
Johnnson. He immediately realised what was going on. Blunt was
being paraded in front of management in an attempt to belittle and
intimidate him.
“You bastard.” He said to Kiwi Joe.
“Fuck you commie. I'm going back to New Zealand at your expense.”
He said with a vicious smile in a nasty face. Kiwi Joe turned and
headed back to the canteen his job done and £5, 000 richer.
The leaflets went up.
Once he saw the leaflets Gray phoned Johnnson.
“He hasn't taken the hint. Instead he's put up leaflets with the fucking
union masthead asking for the donation of books for an international
book library. We can't allow him to get involved in anything with the union.
We have it were we want it at the moment and he could very
well increase its membership and develop some unity amongst the
drivers. Get them motivated. We can't afford that. I think we have
to have a meeting to sort something out. He has been diagnosed with
multiple sclerosis so that might be a way of dealing with him.”
“What! He's got multiple sclerosis and driving a bus?” Was
Johnnson's surprised response.
“I know. But it's been cleared by the DVLA. He has to have a medical
every year.”
“OK. Arrange for Roberts and Likha Patel to be at a meeting when its
Blunt's next rest day. I'll bring Jones, our security consultant. Make
sure it's not a weekend. I'm not having that bastard fuck one of them
up. And give me twenty-four hours notice.”
” Two days time at 10.00hrs in the garage is the earliest date and it's
convenient for everybody here. I checked it before I phoned you. It
will be good to see Jones again.”
“Good. We can thrash this out then and hopefully give this Blunt a
thrashing.” With that Johnnson hung up.
Johnnson turned to Jones.
“We've got a problem in Gray's garage. Some one who worked for
the Communist Party has managed to get past our screening. Clever
bastard put all his work history on the application form. They didn't
even look at it during the interview and tests. He must have known
that they wouldn't. The fucking dickhead responsible has been sacked.
Anyway. I want you to use your contacts with Special Branch to get
all the information you can on him. We have to find a way of getting
him out before he does any damage. His name's Blunt and we
need the information by 10.00 hours in two days time. Bring what you
get to the meeting at Gray's garage. We know he's got multiple
sclerosis so any odd behaviour because of that we would certainly be
interested in.”
“Right. We haven't had one of these for a long time. I thought the
CP had ceased to exist ten years ago, but then again he may still think
like one. This should be interesting, I've always enjoyed fucking up
Commies. See you in two days.”
Jones rose, left the room and headed for the car park and his Merc.
He got on his mobile, called one of his Special Branch contacts,
explained what he wanted and arranged to met him the following day.
Fortuitously he had been at Johnnson's office for their regular weekly
meeting to discuss any developments in the company that needed his
attention. These could range from petty theft in the office to
industrial espionage. The tendering process for routes was a mire of
intrigue suited to his skills and much appreciated by the bus company.
For the last eighteen months he had been doing background checks on
the Muslim drivers that were being employed in greater numbers. The
suicide bombing of the Twin Towers had ensured that.
His contract with the company stipulated that the successful removal
of 'politically motivated employees' from their employ would increase
his fee by 25%. on a pro rata basis. His firm, 'Behind You! Plc' had a
contract with the bus company that averaged £8, 000 a week, so he
could look forward to depositing at least £10, 000 a week into his
firm's account until this was resolved. Tidy.
It was just one security contract of many, though the most important
one. He'd done well in his own corrupted terms since forcefully
resigned from Special Branch.
He liked his job when secretly tagging people. The subterfuge, the
illegal phone taps and computer hacking, perversely excited him. He
especially enjoyed tagging the left. His father had been a Commie in
South Wales and Jones hated him. The moral certitude, the always
being proved right in an argument, the continual pushing of him to be
better than anyone else at school had turned him against his father's
politics. The first opportunity he got, he left for London. When
Thatcherism took hold he embraced it with the devotion of a
green-eyed sycophant. He told his father the last time he saw him,
after a twenty year gap, and as he lay dying of emphysema,
“You were a stupid cunt for thinking that communism would succeed,”
Gloating at his fathers impending death.
But his father was a fighter and mustered all his strength and spat in
Jones' face. The black, coal stained phlegm hung from his chin as he
left with his mother's and brothers curses chasing him through the
town. His father died within the hour. He didn't attend the funeral
and when his mother died he didn't attend hers either. His brothers
would have led the whole community in killing him if he ever returned.
It was the last time he would see Porth and the Valleys.
Once Jones had left the room Johnnson swore, "Bastard” and kicked
the desk. Petulant. He didn't like to spend time having to think about
the drivers unless they were young and pretty and easy to exploit. He
preferred sitting on his ass laughing at them as he racked in £150, 000
a year. The drivers who did the work were lucky to earn £20, 000 for
putting in 55 stressful hours a week. With overtime to make even
that. Work and sleep for the drivers. For Johnnson, presenting
quarterly reports to the Board of Directors that were produced by
his over-stretched secretary and accountants. Easy work. The
congestion charging made for an expanding bus network so the
reports continually showed an increase in profits and a rise in the
share price. And he took the unwarranted credit. His share options
were going through the roof. A carpet bagger from when the routes
were privatised. It left him a lot of time for golf and womanising.
'Fucking Commies,' he thought, 'making me work.'
posted by les at 09:55
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home