Empathy is not a Colour. Chapter 13

Blunt's rest days were occassionally spent with a camera around the

streets of London, scanning the images or trying to set up photo

projects recording and documenting the amazing tales in everyday

life. He'd set up a photography business two years before with a loan

from the bank. He had been trying to establish himself as a freelance

photojournalist for ten years, but most of the time he was signing on.

Depressed and not knowing what was wrong with him. Knowing

something was wrong but refusing to confront it. Frightened at what it

could be.




Trying to set up a business had been a reaction to being pressurised

by the Job Centre to take a job, any job or lose benefits. The New

Labour Government had decided to get heavier than the Tories with

the Signing-on. Thatcher's whipping horse whipped again, this time by

their own representatives. Single mothers had been the first to feel

the harsher policies of New Labour, and now betrayal hung heavier in

the air, becoming concrete with the imperial drive to war.



More stress. More relapses and still no understanding that he had MS.

He managed to convince the Job Centre that establishing a photo

business was a better way to go for him. They gave him time, not much

but some, to develop a business plan and put the loans in place. The

business plan hadn't worked, which would have been glaringly obvious

if he or anybody had known his condition. Blunt worked driving a bus

to pay off his debts. He still contributed to a couple of Photo Libraries,

one on-line, and tried to keep his hand in. The libraries hadn't sold any

of his work for eighteen months.



It's not that Blunt's images weren't any good, they were. The best

could make people laugh, reappraise a stereotype, question their

prejudice or just ponder in a landscape. No, the main reason he was

not selling his eye's interpretation was that the media's focus had

changed. The demand for pictures had become the celebration of

narcissistic lifestyle. Images no longer a search for truth. Merely

displayed for feel good. A one-off, drop-in photojournalistic shot will

occasionally appear in a daily or weekly, usually depicting the poor of

Africa either killing each other, dying from aids, starving, dependant

on handouts and stripped of all dignity. Without context and open to

misinterpretation. There is no longer the space for photo essay's

conveying the deeper story, the deeper truth. It does not fit the

'neocon' ideological agenda, and advertising space is more lucrative.



But about once a year a paper or magazine will give some space, carry

a spread by one of the handful of freelance photojournalists world

famous. Primers for the blockbuster international touring exhibition

and glossy book showcasing the plight of the poor, the migrant, the

worker from exotic lands and all with dignity intact. The skills of the

photographer used searching for truth and hope. Beacons in a

lightless time. In reality it is just an optional add-on for the press,

one that their owners/editors cynically use to give themselves and

their papers a shallow veneer of compassion.



Blunt was commissioned a few times for exhibitions on homelessness

and mining in South Wales. They were fairly well received. Made a

local splash. But no commissions followed, sales were meagre.

Exhibitions never make money. He kept signing on as a fall back.



He established a collective of photographers early into the start of

what he hoped would be a photographic career. A mix of amateurs,

students and professionals who thought photography's ethos was to

always maintain the dignity inherent in human nature. Their style had

been decribed as raw. A word they accepted as compliment.



They did a few good things. A comparative exhibition of Tiger Bay

between the 1960's and 1990's. A cache of old negatives had been

discovered and the group were asked to think up some way to use and

show them. The show was well attended. And those that came

enjoyed it, had memories realised and the changes rued or embraced.

Blunt's contribution had been a study of the Yemeni Mosque right in

the centre of Tiger Bay. Others produced essays on the remnants of

the docks, it's redevelopment and the Greek Orthodox Church. The

group had offered a service to community organisations at cost, and

it was that that had secured some funding for the group from the local

Council to help their projects.



And all the while the spread of incidious MS was slowly eating at his

myelin, causing the occasional psychological storm and making it more

difficult to motivate himself. He would spent long periods dull with

depression and dull with hashish dulling the depression. He

externalised the problem. Didn't see it as physiological, an illness.

Told himself his storms were anger at a depression caused by the

unremittingly hostile political climate. The hegemonic spread of

Thatcherism had coincided with the onset of his MS. For twelve years

her lies about human nature, “THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS

SOCIETY”, had enraged him. The more he raged, the more the MS

bight. Once he knew it was multiple sclerosis he christened it Margaret

in homage to Dennis Potter naming his cancer Rupert - the

Antipodean philistine. Know your enemy and name it obnoxious.

Easier to struggle with. Deal with. Somehow survive with.


Two days after Bush had declared an end to hostilities in Iraq a meeting

was called in the garage. Present were Johnnson, Jones, Gray, Roberts

and Likha Patel.


Likha Patel, aka 'Lickass' by the drivers in the yard, met every new

driver to the garage with rudeness and hostility. No “welcome”

here. Just an arrogantly thought through managerial strategy of

intimidation. Hence the name 'Lickass', for doing his American

masters bidding. His contempt for the drivers was obvious, yet he

started as a mere bag-boy taking the days takings from the conductors

at the end of their duties. 'Lickass' had been with the company for

fifteen years. He had gradually worked his way up through Allocations

to Deputy Operations Manager licking ass while shitting on those

behind him. He had taken and passed his PSV two years ago on the

insistance of the company. If he had had the choice he wouldn't have

bothered, thinking himself above driving a bus.


One of his favourite tricks was to pick-up the drivers doing earlies

who had requested the staff bus to get them in. This was the job of

the spare night driver. But 'Lickass' would do it in his car and claim

overtime for it. The practise was stopped for a while, not by his

present boss - Peter Roberts, but the previous one, one of the last

of the LT era managers. Those with pride in the job and the work

the drivers did. Straight and fair.



'Lickass' was the human expression of the managerial culture

imported from America when London's bus routes were contracted

out. It had insinuated it's festering corruption, it's intimidatory,

bullying practise throughout a once great public transport system.

The drivers were paid a pittance and constantly under pressure from

TfL Inspectors, Company Inspectors, Allocations and, most

invidiously of all, Mystery Pasengers. The Mystery Passengers would

act like ordinary passengers, paying fares but secretly watching

drivers all the time. Assessing their driving - hand-brake on?

Excessive speed? Doors routine correct? Attitude to passengers

subserviant enough? A report would then be made to a drivers

garage. No driver heard about the positive reports just the

disciplinary ones. The Mystery Passenger never attended the

disciplinary meetings. The driver would not have the opportunity to

question, to disagree. It was written down so it couldn't be

challenged. A check-up and disciplinary system open to being abused.

And it is.



Maybe 'Lickass' despised drivers so much because they took on the

difficult job when compared to his. Even despising those who hang

around Allocations and lick up to him for over-time or changed rest

days. The ones who laugh the laugh of lost dignity as 'Lickass' puts

them down, embarrasses them as they plead a special case and beg to

sell their time. But they laugh all the same, desperate for the extra

work, the money that feeds the family they hardly see. They still

called him 'Lickass' when with their fellow drivers, but you couldn't

trust them. They'd sell a canteen conversation for 2 hours overtime.


David Johnnson opened the meeting that declared war on Blunt.


“We, the company have a problem with one of the drivers. I think

you all know who I mean. Blunt. He used to work for the Communist

Party and didn't take the hint a couple of days ago to not get involved

with the union. Our Security Advisor has drawn up a report at my

request which he will present in a minute. I want you to listen

carefully, and if you have any ideas say so.”


He looked at everyone in turn emphasising his determination, “OK.

Jones?”


Jones had been more successful with his contacts at Special Branch

than he could have hoped for or wanted. He had been called to a

meeting on the day that America and its poodle Britain invaded Iraq and

killed thousands of innocents. Killed under the terms of engagement

passed on to them by the Israelis who used them in their brutal

oppression of the Palestinians. Blunt had taken the day off in personal

protest and attended the school childrens occupation of Parliament Sq

taking pictures.


Jones was introduced to two men who refused to give him their

names but implied they were from the Secret Intelligence Services.

Protheroe the SIS agent who had the bearing of someone with a private

school education and was dressed in Guards Regiment mufti of cavalry

twill trousers and dark blazer started to talk.


Jones kept glancing at them both trying to decipher the nuances

in their body languages. His own gave away his worry.


"We put two people into bus training a month after Blunt and

ensured they would get sent to his garage to keep an eye on him.

One has achieved his goal and has since been removed. The other is

still there." Then Elizabeth Boro walked into the room.


Jones spluttered, "Why wasn't I told?"


"Do you really think we'd tell you with your history?" Protheroe asked

rhetorically with a sarcastic tone and continued, "Remember the Ola's?

Well we do."


Jones started shaking. He remembered.


Elizabeth was enjoying the situation. The man who thought he had

power over her while she was enslaved to the Ola's was now

nothing but a shivering wreck.


Jones had approached the British SIS to let them know about the

contacts the Ola's were starting with the East Europeans. The

anti-communism he had developed as a boy had the unexpected

effect of looking after his back. Though he didn't know that when

he decided to contact them.


The information he had provided was of no consequence to SIS.

They already knew and were preparing the raid that resulted in the

Ola's deportation. His coming in saved them from having to pick

him up. He was held and interrogated until the deportations then

let go. Dumped in Porth from the back of a van. That scared him.

Since then he had been 'legit' not wanting to get on the wrong side

of the SIS and be disappeared in his own country.


Again Protheroe spoke, "So you recognise Elizabeth. If you blow

her cover or even try to talk to her it will be the end for you, your

family and business. Do we make ourselves clear?"


The other agent had kept quite but his eyes never left Jones and Jones

could not look him in the eye. He couldn't keep his eyes of Elizabeth

and his slowness of response betrayed his fear and his age.


Elizabeth just stood and grinned enjoying, savouring the moment


"Did you hear me?" Demanded Protheroe with a force that jolted a

monosyllabic reaction from Jones.


"Yes." It was the only answer left available to him. There is a

ruthlessness that unites the worlds of the gangster and the secret

agent and it had never been made so clear to Jones. This would

be his last dirty piece of work. It was time for him to retire.



"We have a plan that can be instigated in a couple of months. But

we need to have Blunt seriously shocked so that he goes into a

massive relapse and this is were you can prove useful for a change."

Said Protheroe.


He then proceeded to explain that they needed a group of black

people to instigate the shock to Blunt's system that would force him

into an MS relapse. That they would have to be recruited from the

bus drivers at the garage and their friends, but must not know of

SIS involvement.


"We know you have a network of black drivers in the bus

company who will do what is asked of them for the right money.

Use them." Protheroe finished what he had to say and he, his colleague

and Elizabeth left the room to Jones. It took Jones a few hours to gain

enough composure to venture out and face what he now knew to be his

last job for Behind You Plc.


It was the way with SIS that when they had a white anti-racist target

they always tried to use black operatives against them. The

complexity of the plan this time meant the SIS simply did not have

sufficient black agents to put the plan into effect.


The files that Jones had finally received, heavily censored, had

included Blunt's medical records and surveillance notes. Jones came

across one of his own from the Special Branch of the early eighties.

He had swapped a duty with a colleague so the name hadn't registered,

Blunt wasn't one of his own cases then.


Jones addressed the meeting in the garage.


“I think we could have a way to deal with his bloke. He has multiple

sclerosis, a degenerative and incurable disease of the central nervous

system. His is a type called relapsing/remitting. When he's in a relapse

he can go nuts. It depends how serious the relapse is and that seems

to have something to do with the level of stress. It shouldn't be to

difficult to create a very stressful situation on his bus but that would

be a bit simple for this guy. We want to ensure he his seriously

damaged. So to finesse the approach, I want to relate a near criminal

situation he got into in the early eighty's which we can now see was

the psychological symptoms of a very serious relapse of his multiple

sclerosis. The only reason it didn't go criminal was because it was

aberrant to his nature and the respect within which he was held by his

comrades.


“He'd got involved with a young single mother of two and originally

from Scotland. She was a very beautiful redhead and fellow member

of the CP. It didn't last long and the end of the affair seemed to have

affected him so badly that he constantly rang her and tried to be at

places she would be. Now it's called 'stalking'. Our medical

experts believe he was in a very severe relapse caused by extreme

emotional stress at the loss of someone he obviously loved. They did

put forward the conjecture that this might have something to do with

his childhood, but that doesn't really concern us. What we want is to

get to a similar situation but this time and ensure he is prosecuted for

'stalking' and gaoled or, more prosaic sectioned as a dangerous sexual

preditor and his politics discredit amongst the rest of the drivers. So

if you have any ideas put them in the ring now.” Jones had done what

he was told by SIS, left out the bit about Elizabeth as operative.


When he'd finished Jones nodded to Johnnson. Gray, Johnnson, Roberts

and Jones then all looked to Likha Patel. Gray and Johnnson didn't

bother themselves with the intricacies, the small 'p' politics of the

drivers relationships with the company, Allocations or with each other.

Gray only got involved occasionally, like now. Roberts hadn't been

in the garage long enough to get a grasp on the intrigues, who liked

who or disliked who.


Elizabeth had done her job well enough for it to be noticed in the

garage which is what SIS had intented and Lickass confirmed it.



“I think he has an eye for one of our newer drivers, but I will have to

check it out with one of the other women. A union committee

member. She keeps me up-to-date with the union's decisions and who

says what at meetings. She gets a lot of overtime for it so should be

co-operative for this. There are also a group of friends of mine who

just love to have a go at him. They think he is to arrognat by half for

a bus driver. I can report in twenty-four hours. I must also say that I

am personally very pleased to be going after this bastard. Most of the

black drivers like him, find him the most approachable of the whites in

the garage. That has the possiblity of bringing some ugly unity between

the white and black drivers making my job more difficult. Anyway, this

is personal. I'm not having somebody who dares argue publically with

me in the shunting yard, call me a piece of shit, remain here.”



Thirty years in the anti-racist struggle in one capacity or the other had

been destroyed by an angry turn of phrase. Blunt usually called black

people who disrespected him a 'piece of garbage', reserving the 'piece

of shit' for whites. But the arrogance of Lickass had got to him.


Three things had now combined that were to be Blunt's undoing; his

political opposition to the War; the labelling as racist and still looking

for love.


Likha Patel had finished with a smile that surprised everybody there.

They had never seen it before and had become accustomed to his

arrogant moroseness.


Johnnson was very pleased even if he didn't know about Elizabeth.

The meeting had gone smoothly, no dithering over the moralities

when the two most senoir staff in the garage had made clear their

personal animosities toward Blunt quickly and with the possibility

that they had a way of dealing with him with extreme prejudice.

He rose and said,



“Right. Patel report to Gray about what you find out from the women

by no later than tomorrow afternoon. Depending on that we will

instigate the plan immediately. It's code name is 'Red One'. You are

all to deny that this meeting ever happened. Do I make myself clear?”


All nodded or mumbled their agreement, as the meeting broke up.


As they were heading for their cars, Johnnson and Jones passed

Elizabeth as she was just reporting to start her days work. Both she

and Jones looked at each other with hard eyes.



"Do you know that woman?" Asked Johnnson, never slow to miss

a change in an atmosphere.



"No." Jones lied. "I just thought she looked stunning."