Chapter 2 – Busy day for Benefits – the fearsome Slorach – a troublesome client

The drive in to the Benefits Agency the next day wasn’t as bad as I’d expected. Usually after a Flighting it was a nightmare, what with stray laser blasts having knocked down trees or some joker giving traffic lights independent thought so they ended up having these existentialist debates with pedestrians, ‘Yes, but why do you want to cross to the other side?’ But apart from a lump of blue smouldering something I had to swerve around on the Lochee Road, it was fine.

After such a display by the big Boys and Girls, the folk with Abilities would get ratty, demand their claim get passed through faster, complain about all the attention being paid to Heroes. When I swung Martina, my Mitsubishi Colt, into the Agency’s car park it wasn’t too busy and that seemed a good sign. Should have known better. A pair of bastard Knoxians were there at the door, handing out their leaflets of doom, telling folk with Abilities that if they only changed their ways, gave up drinking, drugs, everything that made life better, they’d be cured. I glared at them as I walked past and they nodded, soor-faced at me, giving me a quick blast of guilt to which I replied with a satisfying ‘Fuck off’. Stepping into the foyer, the waiting area for clients before they meet their case officer, I had to resist the urge to turn and walk right back past them. Bloody Heroes. 

A few months after the Change and the initial wave of proper, bona fide Superheroes, with back stories and origin myths and everything, those with Abilities started appearing. And when they began claiming benefits, a few incidents took place at the office, people with disabilities getting narked at the freaks jumping the queue. So the area was split, a three-inch-thick Perspex floor-to-ceiling screen dividing it, stopping a few feet before the Reception desk. It was supposed to offer protection but was so scarred and dented, pockmarked with burn holes, that it made you feel less safe seeing it. 

The side you entered was where the Normal folk sat, waiting to complain about how long their Disability Living Allowance was taking to come through or asking why their Working Tax Credits had been cut. There were only a handful there that day and the way they were gawping at what was going on one the other side of the screen made me strongly suspect they’d only come in because This Morning wasn’t on for some reason.

Because the other side was mobbed, absolute mayhem. The front row of plastic seating was taken up by a group of women who all looked similar. At first I thought they were sisters but then the one in the middle looked more solid than the others on either side of her, who were blurred round the edges, and I realised those weren’t her sisters, they were fainter copies of her. Then there was this older guy who looked shattered, dancing about the place like a crap version of Riverdance shouting, ‘Can’t, can’t stay still! If I do, I’ll sink, sink into the floor!’ A young guy was leaning against the Perspex, bare palm flat against it, melting it, pushing the material out slowly, like a Hollywood superstar leaving his mark outside the Chinese Theatre.

I tapped the Perspex next to his head, pointing out the damage he was doing. He gave me a ‘What you gonna do about it?’ stare that I returned with interest having spent five years dealing with arsey clients like him, one that said ‘I may be short but I don’t take no shit.’ Slowly he lowered his hand, pretended to take an interest in the woman in the row next to him whose hair had been replaced by a halo of flickering blue flames like a human pilot light. I knew, I just knew from the smile spreading across his face he was thinking of lighting a fag off her. Because I was thinking exactly the same thing. 

The mild hangover I thought I’d managed to avoid after downing the rest of that vodka threatened to make an appearance when I walked into the office and got hit by a wave of caseworker chatter. The Special Abilities Claimant Section (or SACS as it was referred to with a snigger) was housed in a large open plan office with subbies of four dotted about the place. Practically every one of the fifty-odd caseworkers had their headsets on, talking to clients. Instead of processing claims they’d be explaining why it was taking so long (mainly because the idiots kept calling us up).

I was about to sneak off to the vending machine for a much needed coffee when a voice chillier than a kiss from the Cauld Blast froze me to the spot.

‘So nice of you to join us, Cathy.’ 

I swivelled carefully in part because of my headache but mainly because it was always wise to prepare yourself before facing off with the Slorach. That was Mrs Sheena Slorach, Section Leader of SACS, sitting behind the desk at the head of the room that gave her a commanding view of everyone, a one-woman Panopticon. The only way you’re ever likely to meet a woman more terrifying is if Margaret Thatcher rose from the grave, zombified. In her late fifties she had an embalmed quality, hair so fixed and immovable it looked more like some wood-effect plastic. Her make-up was applied mask-thick and sometimes I’d wake up at 3am from a dream where it had slipped off, revealing the lizard creature beneath. 

There was definitely something lizard-like about her eyes that morning. She’d never liked me with my jeans and my t-shirts and my never wearing my stupid bloody security pass. I’d kept a blue streak in my black hair which I hated for weeks just to piss her off. 

‘Sheena, look, it’s only half nine, I’m not staggering in at 11 and anyway, I’m down for a late -’ 

‘I’ve forwarded some emails to you,’ she near whispered and I’m sure the noise from the surrounding subbies died down a little. Nosey bastards. ‘They’d been sent into the general team inbox but due to their…’ the Slorach gave a light cough, ‘nature and the fact he was one of your clients, I’ve forwarded them to you. After you read them you may want to…’ She picked up a red felt tip pen and clutched it hard, as though it was an organ of the client in question, ‘…you may want to pay them a visit. Don’t worry about losing time. I’ll put an update through for you. Official business.’ 

There was a gasp from a subby and I clutched the corner of the Slorach’s desk. The Slorach was Old School, didn’t have much truck with that whole ‘client is always right’ shite. She saw clients less as suffering individuals than awkward buggers who got in the way of us doing our job. She also hated letting caseworkers out of her sight because she assumed that instead of doing a full assessment we’d be off home catching up on Four in a Bed. Which was completely lacking in trust and entirely accurate. So for her to suggest not only I go see a client in need but that she’d give me time for it was enough to make me wonder if Kannyman had been up to their old tricks, messing with the laws of the universe.

‘Ehmm…right, OK, I’ll…I’ll…there were those other cases you were wanting me to have a look at, the ones that had to get sorted by the end of this week? I’ve got most of them—’

‘They can be put on hold,’ and the Slorach snapped off the top of her pen with a sound like bone cracking. ‘I’ll pass them to another officer to deal with. I want you to give full priority to those emails. Once you’ve read them I’m sure you’ll understand my concern. And I know I don’t have to tell you this, Cathy, but I would very much appreciate your discretion on this matter. Email me your findings.’ 

‘What was all that about?’ Becky whispered as soon as I’d sat down at my subby, peering through the gap between our computers. Becky had only been at SACS for two years, one of the new batch brought in when the bosses finally admitted the Benefits system was crumbling under the demand of the Abled.  She was in her early twenties, not as cynical and worn-out as her colleagues which meant she came across either as refreshingly perky or bloody irritating. She was wearing pigtails that morning and I winced at her interest. 

Jamie sat next to her, the same age, fresh out of the Art School. On his first day here he’d laughed when I’d told him I’d been there. Still not entirely sure how I’d managed to not kill him. He had the hipster, or ‘twat’ look as I preferred to call it and of course he was in a band, seemed to use SACS as a place to get some sleep in between rehearsals. He was giving the autopilot spiel about which forms the client would need to download but even though he’d got the croaky voice and black-baggy eyes of a late night aftermath, he was staring at me, obviously keen for any distraction from the phones. 

‘I’d love to tell you, honest I would, Becky,’ I sucked my teeth as I switched my computer on, ‘but then I’d have to kill you.’

‘Go on, tell her, pleeeease!’ Jamie begged and I was hoping he’d hung up on that client as I wagged a finger at him. 

‘Jamie, we’ve had this conversation. Promoting the murder of your colleagues is something we do not do in this team. We’re short-staffed as it is.’ 

Becky slapped the top of his arm and he gave a wee cry, clutched it, looking at me in appeal, ‘Oh, right, so no killing but other forms of physical violence are alright, are they?’

‘Jamie,’ I could hear the electronic chirrup of a call coming through his computer, ‘haven’t you a client to answer?’ He scowled, saluting with his middle finger when Becky said ‘Hope it’s Mr Gilbert again.’ Mr Gilbert was one of the Names, a select group who’d gained infamy within SACS for being complete fucking arseholes. Gilbert’s supposed Ability was compulsive word-play, conversations involving puns, one-liners, limericks and long explanations for the origins of such phrases as ‘a hiding to nothing.’ He’d been consistently refused a full assessment as his Ability, according to the guidelines, did ‘not pose a threat to the client’s or to the public’s safety.’ Which was ironic considering after five minutes of his nonsense you either wanted to throttle him or strangle yourself with your headset cord. 

‘Now, now children, remember, respect in the workplace,’ I reminded them but I was glad of the banter, taking my mind off whatever was waiting for me in my inbox and Becky wouldn’t be stopped. ‘The Slorach doesn’t usually speak to anyone of a morning. Alan thought maybe you were getting your P45.’

‘Aw gee Alan, thanks for your support,’ I teased as Alan next to me gave a soft chuckle. A middle-aged experienced caseworker who displayed, much to HR’s continuing frustration, absolutely no desire to climb the career ladder, he’d been happy to stay in the same grade for the past fifteen years. Which meant he was one of the few left who knew his stuff, had trained me up when I joined all those years ago. He looked dull – grey hair, serial killer glasses, tie and one of those shirts chequered with the blue boxes you find in Maths exercise books – and he could be, especially when he was going on about football. But underneath that there was a sly humour, a fine knowledge of sixties and seventies pop and a talent for acoustic guitar as displayed occasionally at the SACS Christmas party. 

After clicking onto Outlook, I saw the email address and subject headings of the emails the Slorach had forwarded and groaned, put my head in my hands as Alan asked ‘Fun Monday is it?’ Muttering, ‘Davey Robertson. Bloody Davey Robertson. You will be the death of me,’ I almost, almost marched up to the Slorach and demanded to be put on the phones, as discussing with Mr Gilbert the origin of ‘arguing the toss’ would be preferable to the mess awaiting me.

The story continues …