Chapter 11 – Kannyman aftermath – the mysterious death of Robert Macintosh – Katy the Bird Girl

I got in late the next day, in part because I was shattered but also to avoid chat about the day before. I needn’t have worried. No one was interested in any trauma I might have suffered, they were too busy gossiping about Kannyman’s antics. 

Jamie had his mobile phone out showing Becky videos and pictures having headed down to Tescos after seeing it kick off on Twitter. ‘Even though it was winding down by the time I got there, it was still mental! Like in the fruit and veg bit it was like a greenhouse, dead hot, everything gone wild, growing everywhere and there were these wild birds, like parrots and birds of paradise and shit flying everywhere and someone said they’d seen a tiger over by the alcohol. It was like a fucking jungle in there.’

Alan rolled his eyes at the swearing, but Jamie was oblivious, Kannyman fever having taken hold. I was trying to ignore him, concentrating on Robert Macintosh’s case file. 

‘-one of the shop assistants was going on about how all the tomatoes and the cucumbers and like the pineapples and stuff had melded together and become faces and bodies like y’know that artist guy, whatshisname, Archimboldo and, hey, Cathy d’you want a look, here, on my phone -’

‘Jamie,’ and even I was shocked by the harshness in my voice, Jamie shutting up stunned, Alan flicking a look in my direction. ‘If I want to find out what some Dali rip-off Superfreak gets up to of a night out, I’ll let you know. But seeing as how they’ve yet to give me back my Dad, I think it unlikely. In the meantime, I’m trying to do some work. Remember that? What you’re paid for?’ 

Jamie slipped his mobile back into his pocket, slumped in his seat and I almost felt sorry for him until I got back to Robert’s case. Just a quick glance had told me he’d been a ‘Problem Case’ or ‘Attention Seeking Nuisance’ depending on the cynicism of the caseworker. His symptoms fell under ‘Weather-related’ as according to him his life had been made a living hell by localised fog patches surrounding him as he tried to cross the road or rogue blizzards attacking him in the foyers of offices. All he could summon up in his assessments, however, were a few icicles around the tap of a water dispenser and a tiny rainbow over the assessor’s cup-a-soup. 

But when I opened his recent emails with photographs attached showing a worsening of his condition they looked…well…real. The roof of a neighbour’s battered in by hailstones the size of bowling balls, a washing machine with a frozen waterfall choking up the mouth of it. Any idiot could work something up in Photoshop but after so long at SACS I could tell what was real and what was faked. Plus Robert wasn’t bright enough to commit convincing fraud. 

Then there was the tone of his emails. That he might have been exaggerating about his condition before but the Knoxians had told him to repent and if he told us he was saying sorry for wasting our time, would that count as repenting? Could we put a stop on his benefits, would that be penance? And could we do it quick because his mum was sick of the lightning strikes in the living room messing up the electrics?

The last email sent out from the Slorach had been one calling him in for a priority assessment, but after that…nothing. No response. The offer Robert had been asking for for weeks, months, met with silence. Then I noticed the Slorach’s email had been ‘CC’d’. To that SSANON. Scrolling down to the bottom, past our usual disclaimers and stuff had been typed three letters. ‘PFR.’ Passed for Review. 

I went on to Google and typed in Robert’s address. There had been something familiar about it and I soon found out why. It had made the news a couple weeks back. A localised hurricane had swept along a street in Broughty Ferry one night, uprooting trees, turning over cars, but blowing the windows out and ripping the roof off only one house. Mrs Macintosh, who lived there with her son, was uninjured but there had been no sign of her son, 28-year-old Robert Macintosh, since that night.

‘Jeeesus,’ I whispered, glanced up from my screen and there was the Slorach, far down the end of the room behind her desk staring at me. I was distracted from staring back by the ping of an email arriving in my inbox.

It was from Lindsay O’Donnell, a colleague down in the Borders who’d helped out with a client who’d travelled from her region to ours claiming he caused important documents to disappear. Whenever he turned up to an assessment with the papers he’d been asked for he’d bring along this cardboard folder, open it up and make a big show of them having turned invisible. It was Lindsay who’d given us the tip of covering the table with talcum powder to prove they weren’t invisible, they just weren’t bloody there.

Hey Cathy, great to hear from you! Weird you’ve got in touch with me about Katy McLeish, you psychic or something? Caught a bit of Ability?!! Katy’s been bothering me for a few weeks, tried to get a hold of her but she’s disappeared off the face of the earth!! If she’s shown up in your neck of the woods that’s great to hear, any info much appreciated! I’ve attached a video, will send another soon. The second one, it’s of Katy’s flat, went on a home visit, a neighbour let me in (don’t tell management!!). Didn’t find Katy but…you’ll see. Weirdest thing, have had nightmares ever since!! This job, drives you mad doesn’t it!!! Sure I’m worrying over nothing. Anyway, great to hear from you, when you coming down for a drink? Bye for now, Lindsay. P.S. You asked about that “Passed for Review” and there was this weird email that I’ve attached. Don’t know what to make of it either!!’

I clicked on that email first. Blank apart from ‘PFR’ and that same email address, SSANON. Closed it down, put on my headset, double-clicked the video file and knew from the first few seconds if Katy McLeish had come in for an assessment, I’d have remembered. 

The film had been taken by a camera up in the corner of a standard interview room, its grey walls and plastic furniture inducing instant boredom. But Katy was there to distract you, the dullness of the surroundings emphasising her prettiness. Sitting at a table opposite Lindsay, light from the window turned her blonde hair almost white, big blue eyes, pale skin, cheekbones you could slice a lemon on. A little too sharp, unhealthily so, and you noticed the shadows around her eyes. Haunted was the word that came to mind looking at Katy McLeish.

She was gazing off at the window on her left, frowning. Her hand moved to her mouth as if she was about to start biting her nails but instead she gave an odd little wave as if to someone outside. Lindsay asked, ‘You alright, Katy? Need a glass of water or anything? Cup of tea? Coffee?’ and Katy shook her head, dragging her attention away from the window to smile shakily at Lindsay and I noticed how the light was flickering. Shadow and sunlight across the walls, too quick to be clouds. 

What happened next was the reason why caseworkers often video assessments. There are some where a written report couldn’t do it justice. I heard scratching, a rustling, a soft thudding at the window. Katy’s head twitched towards it as the noise became frantic, asking, ‘Is it alright if I let them in now? They’ll be fine, they’ll settle down if I let them in. They might break the glass and I don’t want to -’ and Lindsay, trying to sound calm, replied, ‘If you feel safe enough Katy and you’re sure that they won’t – ah, Katy!’

The speed of her was incredible, up out of her chair, twisting open the window’s handle, shoving it open, Lindsay standing, her hands held out, trying to protect herself from what was happening, a whirlwind buffeting the camera, spinning through the room, Lindsay shouting ‘Katy, Katy! What – be careful!’ The room filled with birds, landing on the table, the floor, but on Katy mainly, who began to look like a kind of reverse scarecrow. Her arms open wide as if she was welcoming them in, the sparrows and the chaffinches and the blue tits and the starlings and God knows what else. 

The fluttering and flapping died down quickly, the birds calming once they were with Katy, feathers floating everywhere so it was difficult to see her properly. But when the feathers cleared I recognised that expression. It was the one you saw on the faces of the genuine clients when they’d shown us their Ability. Fed up but also proud. Like the wee kid made to do their party piece by their Mum. 

‘My friends,’ Katy said, and when she did the pigeons at her feet started cooing, the other birds twittering and I felt this lump in my throat. Something about her gentleness. 

‘…they call me Tippi. You know, like in that Hitchcock film.’ 

‘Uh-huh…and how, how does that make you -’ 

Katy interrupted, ‘In that film they make out it’s some kind of punishment, don’t they? All the birds attacking. A judgement. The Knoxians, that’s what they’ve been saying. They say I need to -’ but she’s interrupted by a bloody great cawing that makes me jump, a massive crow zooming through the window, battering against the camera and I was scrabbling for my mouse, trying to put it on pause –

‘Cathy!’

‘ – shit!’

The Slorach was at my side, squinting at my computer screen, and by some magic panic reflex I managed to shut the film down.

‘Sorry, sorry, was, I was just, you gave me bit of a fright, not sure if I saved that email or -’ 

‘Well, you can sort it out when you come back.’

‘Back?’

‘We’re going Quiet Zone, you and I. For a chat,’ and she was walking off, expecting to me to follow as Jamie got his revenge by grinning while humming a funeral march. An invite to the Quiet Zone. The Room 101 of SACS. Pastel-shaded.