Referendum

by Campbell Hart

  “Going somewhere are we chum?”

  Peter hadn’t met the guy before. His Irish accent was quite grating, “You from Belfast?”

  “You don’t ask the questions. Do you know how much you owe?” They were face-to-face, Peter could smell beer on his breath, he had a scar on his chin and every time he moved his leather jacket crackled.

  “You looking at my scar?”

  Peter looked away, “No, I wasn’t. I’ll get your money.”

  “Eck, I think this wee runt was looking at my scar.”

  Eck agreed. Peter was thrown back, through his own boxes and onto the floor. CDs scattered the carpet; which had been transformed into an indie walkway of lost voices.

  Niall Murphy’s boots crushed the plastic boxes as he closed in. The disruption had been deliberate; he thought it would scare him, added a bit of drama. Looking down, he saw the boy was crying. He knew what was coming alright; kept on offering the cash. But it was too late for deals.

  Peter Chalmers came to about an hour later. He could barely move. He could see his boxes were gone. At the door an old woman who lived next door, but who he’d never bothered to speak to let alone look at, was standing in the doorway. The look on her face told him it was bad. He just hoped the debt had been repaid. Somehow, he felt there was more to come.

  She was woken by a noise, and when she opened her eyes Karen Balfour’s first thought was for baby Jack, but for once he was sound asleep. She checked to see what the time was but the display from the alarm clock was blank. Clicking on the plastic switch the light didn’t come on. Bloody power card’s out again. Using the light from her phone to guide her to the gloom of the meter cupboard she pressed the button which released £5 emergency credit. It meant the next card would be eaten up by fresh debt. And every time she used the emergency debit the charges built up, meaning she was forking out more frequently for power, but had less to show for her money. She knew she was getting a shitty deal but she couldn’t afford to have the pre-payment meter taken away. The power company said it would cost another £60, that because she had bad credit this was the best option ‘for her’. She’d been annoyed at that, like she was some kind of leper. She pressed the button and the power came back on; the fridge shuddered back into life with its reassuring hum. But the power wouldn’t last. Karen would need to make the mile long trek to the newsagents to get another card first thing tomorrow. But she didn’t have much money, and with no job she knew the lights would go out for good soon. She needed to find another job fast.

  Community service hadn’t been quite what Lorna McMahon had been expecting. She’d pictured herself splitting rocks or removing graffiti from walls in the local neighbourhood, people would know what she’d done and pity her. A modern day stocks; public humiliation designed to make you conform. But it hadn’t been like that. She’d been sent to the Dennistoun Food Bank where she helped dole out food to people that were hungry, people like her. There were folk she knew, people she’d seen on the streets, and people who seemed lost already. They came from all walks of life and were referred from doctors, health visitors, social workers, citizen’s advice – even the Police. They’d brandish their voucher and claim their three day emergency food stocks. Lorna saw it for what it was, a sticking plaster which switched the responsibility for upkeep from the state to the public. She’d seen the collections in the local supermarkets but had never paid them any heed, simply walked past the table inside the automatic doors with its piles of food, mainly cereals and tins. It wasn’t her problem so she didn’t care enough to stop and think. She had plenty of time for that now.

  The food bank was taking up a lot of her time. She’d been ordered to do 120 hours community service but could only do a maximum of 16 hours a week if she still wanted to collect her benefits. They paid for the roof over her head and helped to cover costs. It hadn’t been easy but the food bank gave her options. They let her take the odd tin or two, they knew her position.

  But the mood seemed to be changing. On the TV there was a lot of talk about politics around the independence vote, but not much was being said about why people should vote. She picked up a copy of the Evening Times which had a picture of two men fighting in a pub on its front page. The headline was ‘Fight night –the shape of things to come?’ It seemed to have hit the nail on the head. She didn’t really follow politics, was too busy trying to stay alive, but the debate didn’t seem to have much to say for itself. The ‘No’ camp just kept repeating that the Nationalists would ruin the country, while the ‘Yes’ campaigners said they’d help build a better Scotland. Lorna didn’t know who to believe. Looking around at the queue of people being handed boxes and bags of food she knew one thing for sure, something had to change.

  ***

  Arbogast had checked the phone listings before he left for Northern Ireland. There were 52 McNally’s living in Belfast. He was looking for Colm McNally. The list suggested three of the 52 had the initial ‘C’. It was possible that his man wasn’t listed in the phone book but it was an obvious place to start, so he hired a car and started looking. At home it was accepted that the ‘troubles’ were over. Belfast was now a peaceful city, but listening to the radio news Arbogast knew they were only getting part of the story back in the UK. Item after item detailed sectarian fights, pipe bomb discoveries, and political unrest. It was still a city with issues; issues that would take a long time to change course. He couldn’t help them with that; he just wanted to delve a little into its recent history. But to do that he needed help; he needed to find Colm.

  So far he wasn’t having much luck. The first door, in the north of the city, was opened by Craig McNally. Sorry to bother you, sir. The second home looked abandoned. He scored that one off the list too. Driving along the Falls Road he turned right onto Leeson Street and right again onto Ross Road, hoping to make it third time lucky. A blue fence ran down past St Peter’s Primary School. It was the holiday period so kids littered the street. They didn’t know the car and watched suspiciously, a stranger in their neighbourhood.

  He stopped outside number 592. The estate looked reasonably new, possibly dating back to the 80s. It was made up of small, brown brick homes which looked like they’d been designed to allow the maximum number of houses in the smallest possible space; like the architect had used a spent concertina for inspiration. Arbogast didn’t feel like he should outstay his welcome.

  Ringing the bell there was no reply. He cursed himself for thinking he’d be able to find the man through the phone book. He took out his pen and paper and wrote his number down asking Colm to get in touch. Somehow Arbogast didn’t expect the call to come through and decided to head back to town. He’d booked in to a cheap hotel in the city centre for two nights so he didn’t have much time to get the job done.

  Outside, he didn’t know he was being watched. A man with crooked fingers tapped on the back of an industrial metal bin which had been wheeled out into the street ready for pick-up, its sides blackened by repeated attempts to burn it out. Colm McNally heard the bell ring and had left by the back door. He never answered when he wasn’t expecting company. Watching; obscured and hidden, Colm saw the Ford Focus drive out of sight. Who’s looking for me now? He was getting worried. He was tired of the games. Later he found the note.

  I need to speak to you urgently about your injuries. I can help.

  Phone the Premier Inn at 9 tonight and ask for John Arbogast.

  Colm felt uneasy, an old feeling washed over him. It had been a long time since he’d heard anything from the old network. He opened a beer and thought about what needed to be done to redress the balance. This time he needed to call the shots.

  26

  The figures were bullshit and everyone knew it. Everyone knew, but no-one would challenge them. David Barbour had worked in the job centre for ten years and nothing much had changed. Although the systems had been adapted many times, the underlying reality was never adequately addressed. The UK unemployment figure was sitting at around 2.6 million and i
f you believed what you read the figure was falling all the time. But David knew the stats didn’t tell the whole story. They told you who’d been looking for work in the last month; they didn’t tell you how many people were scraping by on zero hour contracts or people that were unemployed and wanted to work and hadn’t looked for six weeks. The real figure was around six million, but no-one wanted to say that. That would be bad, might make people aware of the Neo-Shakespearean factor, that there was something rotten at the heart of Primark. As he sat at his pod at the Parkhead Job Centre, David Barbour wanted to change the system but all he did was compound the problem. He imposed sanctions, cut people off from the benefits they needed, all to allow some politician to say what a great job they were doing. It’s a fucking joke. His next victim was shuffling towards him now, head down, weak smile and looking apologetic. He hated his job, but never more than when it came to this.

  “Good morning Mrs McMahon. Thanks for turning up.”

  Lorna McMahon didn’t take to the guy. She’d never dealt with him before but she felt his tone was a bit too superior. Thanks for turning up, who did he think he was?

  David Barbour wished he’d started differently. Sometimes when he was nervous he said the first thing that came into his head. He could see she’d picked up on it, “Look I didn’t mean to rile you there; it’s just, well, I think you know why you’re here today?” She was nodding, not saying anything; just looking at him blankly. She was concerned about what might be coming but wasn’t going to run to the sound of gunfire. Here it comes.

  “You missed an appointment last week and we need to review your claim. It’s the third time this has happened and you know the rules.”

  Lorna’s heart sank; she had hoped they might overlook it. She hadn’t missed the last appointment, it was just that she hadn’t known, “I didn’t get the message.”

  “We phoned to let you know you an appointment had been scheduled.”

  “Yes, but you left the message on my phone which is out of credit, so I couldn’t check.” She realised how lame it sounded but it was true, “I don’t have money to top-up my phone.”

  “Look, Mrs McMahon, I hear what you’re saying but the fact remains that you had a four month review scheduled for last week and you didn’t show up. We don’t have a record of the jobs you’ve been applying for and it’s something we’re going to have to look at.”

  Lorna hadn’t moved. She felt like a schoolgirl kept behind after class. She knew there was nothing she could say that was going to change the conversation; she could feel herself getting angry. “You know my husband died recently? The Police say it was suicide but I think it was something else. We were in debt. He was killed.”

  This was unchartered territory for David Barbour. Why do I always end up with the crazies? No wonder she didn’t turn up for the interview, she clearly has mental health problems. He tried to calm the situation, “Now, listen, Lorna; you don’t mind if I call you that do you?”

  Lorna was furious. Does this guy think this is all going to go away if he talks slowly and uses my first name? “Can we just get to the point, please? I think we both know where this is heading.”

  “Mrs McMahon, we have very strict rules here about benefits claims and you are in breach of those rules. I’m afraid I’m going to have to stop your benefits. You’ll need to reapply.”

  It took a few moments for the words to sink in. She knew they were coming but the brutality of the sentence still surprised her, “Well what am I supposed to do?” She left the sentence hanging, “What about my daughter? How long will my money stop?”

  This was the bit David Barbour hated. He knew the answer; they were expected to fend for themselves, get help from their family. “Thirteen weeks,” he stopped briefly to let the words sink in, “Look, I’m sorry Lorna but you’ve left us no choice.”

  “No choice? What the fuck do you know about no choice? You’re sat there behind your desk acting like you’re bloody God or something, deciding who gets and who doesn’t? 13 weeks might as well be 13 years – how can my family survive on nothing? Can you answer me that?” Lorna was shouting and people were staring, the security guard was looking across to see if David needed help.

  “I must ask you to keep your voice down, this isn’t helping anyone.”

  “Well it’s certainly not helping me is it? You’ve just ruined me; me and my daughter. How does that feel you fucker?” She was out of control; desperate. With no cash she might finally fold. She hadn’t realised it but she’d been hitting her fists off the desk and was threatening David Barbour who had shrunk back in his chair. She saw his eyes dart right as if he was looking for someone. Then she was being pulled back by strong arms, she couldn’t move. There was complete silence in the job centre but she didn’t notice. She knew she was finished.

  David Barbour changed her file to read ‘suspended’. The unemployment figures were heading down again. With a sigh he sat and waited for his next appointment.

  ***

  Policing the referendum was starting to become a pain in the arse. Rosalind Ying had pretty much sailed through the Commonwealth Games. It had been a mammoth exercise, and stressful to run, but in terms of issues they’d been lucky. The odd drunken exchange, some pick pockets, but nothing serious. It had gone well and her efforts had been noted. So much so that she was now on Referendum watch. That was already proving a much harder task as people seemed happy to take a polar approach.

  There had been a noted increase in fights breaking out in pubs over the issue of independence, while domestic call-outs were also on the rise. More draining, though, was the stretch on resources needed to police rallies and events. It would be ok if ‘Yes’ and ‘No’ events were contained to one or the other but they both targeted each other, it was playing out like a ridiculous game of Punch and Judy.

  Rosalind had been called by DS Mhairi Reid after things started to turn ugly at a rally in Buchanan Street in the city centre. The ‘Yes’ brigade were using the concert hall steps to address supporters. Although she expected the crowd had been bussed in by the campaign it was being presented as a flash mob, footage was already on Youtube. It had looked friendly enough early on, but DS Reid saw that things had changed.

  “I think we’ll need to call in reinforcements. The ‘No’ campaigners have just turned up and they’re trying to pen the others in. I’m getting concerned about public safety.”

  Rosalind arranged for another 20 officers to go from Pitt Street. They weren’t far away and the operation shouldn’t pose too many problems. She knew they had to be careful, though, as a heavy handed approach could easily make things worse.

  Karen Balfour had been wheeling baby Jack round town when she saw the banners at the top of Buchanan Street. Bored, she decided to take a look. She hadn’t been paying much attention to the Referendum debate but when she heard the singing she wondered what was happening. The yellow ‘Yes’ banners mixed with saltires while the voices were raised in unison, all shouting ‘Yes’ as a woman on the steps talked about childcare.

  “We know that children are our future and that’s why we’re committed to investing in your family. Is that something you want?”

  Yes

  “In an independent Scotland we’re committed to childcare for two year olds. Is that something you want?”

  Yes

  “In an independent Scotland we’ll commit to offering free school meals to the first three years of primary. Is that something you want?”

  Yes

  As Karen listened she felt the speaker knew what mattered to her. With no job she’d struggle to feed her children, had real concerns about the future. As the woman kept talking she started to say ‘Yes’ with the rest of the crowd. Later an old man with a young face and a guitar was introduced. There were a lot of cheers for the singer. She didn’t know who he was. But the song was familiar; she’d heard it in the pub. He sang about Caledonia being home and the crowd sang too. Quietly at first, as if they were afraid to have their voices hea
rd, too unimportant to sing along; but as the verses rolled by their confidence grew. By the end of the song the chorus was loud. Karen was smiling, this felt like hope, something she hadn’t felt in a long time.

  By the time Rosalind Ying arrived at the rally things had turned nasty. The Deputy First Minister was standing on the steps with a loud hailer trying to ask for calm but the standoff was already underway. A rival rally taking place nearby on Sauchiehall Street had got wind of the fact that the ‘Yes’ camp was being filmed by the TV crew and had upped sticks and relocated. They’d come in behind the crowd and had formed a cordon around the ‘Yes’ activists. They had turned against each other and had started to jostle. Claim and counter claim was being made. Rosalind was reassessing her approach; she could see the situation was getting out of hand. As the two van loads of uniforms arrived she knew the rally needed to be more actively managed. There were around 700 people crammed into the small space between the road and the concert hall steps and they needed to be split up. Rosalind directed the constables to form a chain and split the crowd. Ideally she’d have called in the mounted police but there wasn’t time. The mob had started to push back against one another. Rosalind led the line, megaphone raised; this wasn’t a time for mixed messages.