Mind Games and Ministers

by Chris Longden

  With a new haircut. A number two. Not many men of forty-four years old could carry that off and still look …

  Whatever.

  “All right, Stan,” he nodded. “Still waiting for your job application to come through … Been run ragged this week, thanks to all the shit that your new buddy in London has been creating for us.”

  I ignored his comment and instead opted for, “Thanks for the flowers, Shaun. I take it they were from you?”

  And I swear to God, that for the first time ever, in sixteen years of knowing him, I saw the hint of a flush glowing underneath the Shaun-stubble.

  But he shook it away with his usual ambivalence.

  “Yeah well, unless someone else calls you ‘Stan’ these days…”

  Gillian returned with a plate packed high with food and nodded churlishly at Shaun. She told us that she had done “my boot camp down at Chorlton Water Park at five this morning, so I’m necking three times as much carbs as I’d normally have today. I don’t fancy scrawny girls myself, so I think it’s best to keep my chunky bits for the lasses. And this lot might look a bit same-ish but it packs its whack of slow-release sugars.” Then she offered us both her pickings. Shaun refused, telling her that a diet of something that looked like dog biscuits wasn’t really up his street. And then he left us, mouthing “deadline – don’t forget,” at me.

  Gillian called after him.

  “Well, I know you fancy me, like – and you might not like the sort of food that I prefer, but you didn’t have to go and copy my haircut, now, did you? Like you’re stalking me or something!”

  I elbowed Gillian, causing her to drop several of her gluten-free soya dog biscuits.

  “Don’t piss him off, Gillian. He pays our wages.”

  “Yeah; for now. More funding cuts to face, so they’re saying…”

  I watched him take another turn of the room, switching on his special brand of disgruntled charm for Medlock’s finest. When he left the building I found myself wondering what it would be like, working in the same offices as him. Again.

  On Thursday afternoon I had heard nothing more from Michael other than a couple of texts that said things along the lines of “Sorry, it’s been crazy!” and “Sick of meetings”. I was sitting at my desk, sipping coffee and tackling last-minute paperwork, trying to get everything shipshape for my next day – that long-awaited Friday away from work – when I noticed the email.

  Marked ‘urgent’. From the Rottweiler. Not that the email address stated this, of course. Her real name was Renee, but when out of earshot, everyone referred to her as the Rottweiler. She was Shaun’s PA at Medlock and fiercely guarded his time, keeping the mere mortals from obtaining access to him. I had never met her, but had previously been the recipient of her clipped and cursory worded emails and phone calls:

  (Renee McCauley - On behalf of Shaun Elliot, Director of Communities and Leisure, Medlock Metropolitan Council):

  Dear Rachael Russell

  I am writing to you to let you know that due to the unexpected severity of the government’s recent funding reductions affecting Greater Manchester authorities, Medlock Council has been forced to make some difficult decisions as to where the essential cutbacks in our services will be located.

  Unfortunately, because the provision of advice and support for women fleeing from domestic violence is not a statutory obligation of any local authority in England or Wales, the Council will no longer be able to contribute towards the funding of the Sisters’ Space Centre. This will take place with effect from the new financial year.

  Similarly, the increased pressure on the Council as a result of central government’s funding reductions means that the authority will be undertaking an Emergency Asset Review of all its capital assets. As you are aware, the former Hartshill School, which has been leased for use by Sisters’ Space, is owned by the Council. We, therefore, wanted you to be aware that the ownership of this building will also be under review with the possibility of sale to a third party.

  We will let you know the outcome of this Emergency Asset Review decision by the end of November, once Medlock’s Councillors and Executive involved have had sufficient time to carry out the review.

  Regards, Shaun Elliot

  I slopped half of my coffee across my desk in horror.

  I re-read the email.

  What the hell?

  How could they – Shaun – have dictated this to his PA? To tell me this in an email? He was quite happy to turn up twice to see me last week. To send me flowers, remind me yesterday about the job offer. And forget to mention this? Relying instead on an officious – out of the blue – email?

  This would be a disaster. This would mean redundancies. This would mean Sisters’ Space closing – us becoming penniless and homeless. This would mean me losing my job. This would mean …

  I grabbed my phone and dialled his mobile. No answer. Straight to voicemail. I tried again. Same result. And again.

  Sod it. Call The Rottweiler.

  She must have been sitting on her phone. No doubt getting a cheapie because I had responded almost immediately to her doom-ridden email.

  “Renee. This is Rachael Russell. I’m the manager of Sisters’ Space in Medlock. The support service for women dealing with domestic violence. You just sent me an email …”

  “Yes.”

  “I need to speak to Shaun Elliot straight away. This is dreadful news.”

  “Yes. But you’re not the only service who has to face this kind of news.”

  “I’m sure. But, I just need to speak to Shaun.”

  “Well, Mr Elliot is a very busy man.”

  “I know he is. Aren’t they all, eh? But this is pretty desperate stuff, you know? I’m being informed about closure of our services – via email – which, incidentally, is a nasty way of dropping a bombshell on people …”

  “Are you questioning Mr Elliot’s judgement on this matter?”

  “Yes, actually. I am. Yes to the judgement about what I’ve just been informed of. And Yes to how I’ve just been informed of it.”

  “I see.”

  “Is that a big issue for you, then? Do you have a problem with people who question Shaun Elliot’s judgement? Or is he the kind of person who never screws up?”

  An icy silence. She clearly wasn’t used to being tackled in this manner.

  “OK. Look. Whatever. Can you just put me through to speak to him about this?”

  “I’m afraid not. He’s busy at the moment. He’s —”

  I interrupted her now.

  “A very busy man. I know. You said before. But I’m a very busy woman, so if you don’t mind, I must speak to him.”

  “I’m afraid you can’t. I can make you an appointment to see him, though.”

  “Fine. When is he free?”

  “Well. I’ve got a half-hour slot. Afternoon of twenty-ninth of September.”

  “But that’s nearly two weeks away!”

  “I’m sorry if you feel you can’t wait that long, but as I said before, lots of services are facing similar issues as yourselves and ...”

  “I don’t care what lots of others are facing! I care about our centre and our staff! And I bloody well can’t wait until then!”

  I could hear her getting riled now. Swearing at people has that effect on the faceless bureaucratic sorts.

  “Well, there’s no need to be abusive. If you have a problem with waiting to meet with him, you could send him an email back. And I can forward it to him.”

  “Well, thanks for that – it would never have occurred to me!” I replied and banged the phone down.

  I looked at my desk and began to mentally compose the email back to Shaun.

  No.

  Don’t get into an email war of words. Tackle the bugger, as my dad would say.

  I switched off my computer and stormed out of my room, informing my colleagues that I was going over to Medlock town hall before I went home for the day and that I would see them next week after my long weekend. Aft
er cutting across a chocca-busy A6 and skirting a couple of streets at the back of the Town Hall, I was lucky to find a parking space. Grabbing the ever-present sheaf of papers from my passenger seat, I tucked my head down and made fast strides past a council security guard and the reception desk. Luckily for me, they were both struggling with a translation issue – West African refugees, by the looks of it.

  I didn’t bother with the lift. I ran the three flights of stairs up to the Communities and Leisure Directorate’s floor. I had never visited this part of the town hall before and I was taking a bit of a risk. Renee hadn’t given anything away in terms of Shaun’s whereabouts. He could well be at some Convention for Tosspot Senior Managers in St Ives or wherever the nearest golf course might happen to be conveniently located. But screw it. I was going to track him down one way or another.

  After a bored-looking official pointed me towards Shaun’s office, I halted my stride just in time. There she was. The Rottweiler. Early fifties. Small, dark and wiry. Scary-looking with school-maam specs (the peer-down-your-nose-to-intimidate-others sort.) Her desk was right outside an office that displayed Shaun’s name on the obligatory brass-effect plate. I kept away from her line of sight and hovered next to some filing cabinets, leaning on them and pretending that I was casually doing some paperwork. Fido’s kennel was on quite a busy thoroughfare, with local authority officer-types scurrying to and fro. I was pretty sure that she didn’t know what I looked like. I stared at my pretend paperwork and strained to listen. The door to Shaun’s office was slightly ajar and I could hear his voice from inside. Nice one. I couldn’t hear anyone responding to his voice. He must be on the phone. I waited for the right time to make my move.

  The Rottweiler was rattling away at her keyboard, glaring at her screen. Even her typing sounded aggressive. Probably firing off an equally insidious email to some other poor sod who worked in the voluntary sector. After two minutes she got up and moved away from the desk, heading to a room marked ‘Kitchen’ just along the corridor. Probably off to find a bone to chew on. I seized the moment, stalking past her desk and straight into Shaun’s office.

  There he was. Size twelves propped up on the desk and leaning back in his enormous chair. Shaun’s employers always had to purchase special equipment in order to accommodate his height. In fact, everything in his room – desk, chair, plants, window – were large. To fit the Shaun scale. As though he was constructing the whole local authority around his own personal requirements. Maybe he was.

  Empire-building.

  He looked up, mid phone conversation. Surprised to see me. Gesturing for me to sit down, he took his feet off the desk and tilted his head to one side, looking out of the door. Wondering how I had dodged the Rottweiler.

  I shook my head to the offer of a seat and instead, walked back to the office door, closing it. He tried to wrap up the conversation.

  “Yep. No problem. Will do. Fine. So, it’ll be next week at Preston. We can catch up properly then. Bye.”

  Chapter 21

  ATLANTA RETURNS TO THE HUNT

  He put the phone down and took his feet off the desk. Gazing at the small but mad-as-a-hen woman standing on the other side of his desk. Arms folded over the paperwork now clenched to her chest. Tapping her foot.

  “How did you get past …?”

  “The Rottweiler? I brought a tin of Pedigree Chum with me.”

  “Right. Like that top, Stan. Colour really matches your eyes.”

  My shirt was red. So was my mood.

  I stayed quiet. He stood up. Mirroring Body Language with the Purpose of Calming Down Hysterical Female Employees was probably a module at Senior Local Authority Managers’ Finishing School. He flicked his thumb over his shoulder at a stunning stained-glass window set in the original stone framework of the town hall. It depicted St George stabbing a dragon to death or something.

  “Don’t believe you’ve visited me in my office before. That window’s one hundred and fifty-one years old. And never mind that – check out the view. Panoramic, or what? You can see Jodrell Bank on a clear day. Better than the vista from Roger’s office, actually. Of course, our cerebrally challenged CEO prefers to have the view of the shopping centre. Probably leering over the lasses.”

  I stared at him, though, not the view. He nodded his head towards the leaded glass, continuing.

  “And there’s good old St George, of course. Couldn’t ask for a more inspiring English role model on the shittier days that I have here …”

  “Shaun, did you not know that St George was actually Palestinian?” I sneered. “And I can’t believe you buy into all that St George for England crap. Anyway. Don’t start trying to get all chatty with me. I’m here about the email I just got from you.”

  He cocked his head to one side, listening.

  “You’re pulling the funding on us? You’re looking to sell off our building? And I’m informed by email? A snotty, officious email not even from you – from your pet dog?”

  He pulled a face. The Robert De Niro one.

  “I called her up straight away,” I continued. “And what an absolute cow that woman is! I tried to speak to you and she says that you’ve got no appointments free for two weeks!”

  “Well, things are mad. Thanks to your little pal in Whitehall …”

  “Yeah yeah – blame someone else, Shaun. But I’ll be the one sitting with members of staff and giving them their marching orders. Because you’re way above and beyond that these days …”

  “Your choice, Stan. You’re more than capable of a much more senior job where you don’t have to dirty your hands with that kind of —”

  “But some of us have a soul, Shaun, and some of us want to sleep at night.”

  “Yeah well, your principles are all very nice, but —”

  “Oh, don’t change the subject. Are you saying that I’ve also got to look at us losing our building? Renee tells me this in some twatty email?”

  “We have to focus on non-statutory services. And as for Renee, she’s probably going through the menopause or whatever. So I would have thought that you of all people would be sympathetic to the crosses that women have to bear in life …”

  Provocation. Courting controversy. This was just how Shaun Elliot’s mind worked. Whipping out a semi-offensive remark designed to wrong-foot the opposition. Marking them out as the illogical and overly emotional participant in the debate. I was aware of this kind of thing now. So, I swallowed my fury and tried to speak calmly.

  “OK. So let’s not talk about the insensitivity of it all. About the fact that it was hardly ‘best practice’ dropping that little bombshell on me via email. Let’s speak the truth here. Last week you seemed quite impressed with what we’ve been doing, so why all of a sudden …?”

  He shook his head. “Come on, Stan. I could hardly predict this one. But someone else who you seem to know pretty intimately could have forewarned you. Your man’s gone and chopped our revenue streams here at Medlock by some twenty per cent. I’ve got no other alternative than to find some serious savings here. Get rid of the non-essential services. Sell off some assets.”

  I cut him off.

  “Just because you don’t have a legal obligation to fund a domestic violence service doesn’t mean that we’re non-essential! You’ve heard about the kind of stuff our service users have to live with. They’ve got no one else to go to. They can’t trust the police. Won’t trust social services. They need independent support …”

  He held his hand up.

  “Rude to interrupt people, Stan. It’s not a decision that was taken lightly, I can assure you. And it wasn’t down to me, either. Whatever you think. It was the main Communities and Leisure Committee who had to carry out the emergency reviews and make some fast decisions. The politicians here.”

  “Yeah, I know. Headed up by a certain Councillor Kath Casey. Not our biggest fan. Even you said that the leader of the council can’t stand Sisters’ Space.”

  “Yes.” He leaned back on his heels. I was t
empted to poke a finger in his chest and topple him over. But I resisted the urge. “And as I said, Stan, we’ve also had to lose other services. Some of the mobile libraries, the free summer sports schools for kids, the welfare benefits advisors …”

  “You cut the welfare benefits advice service? Are you frigging mad?”

  “See – there you go. Being rude again.” He shook his head at me, trying to disguise the twist of a smile. “So, as you can see, other – very important – services like yours won’t get council funding. But don’t be having a pop at me. At the end of the day, I’m the one tasked with finding where the cuts could be. Not should be, though. The councillors are the ones who make the decisions. I’m not the politician. I’m the executive. Just carrying out the orders ...”

  “Bollocks. Don’t insult my intelligence.”

  I was so angry now that I had bitten the inside of my cheek without even realising it. I could taste the blood. It grounded me. What was I doing? Getting into an argument with Shaun had always been an utterly futile endeavour. I looked at the floor and, taking a deep breath, I put the palms of my hands together and pointed the tips of my fingers at him. An almost prayerful appeal.

  “Look, Shaun. Just level with me here. Is there no way back from this? Do I seriously need to tell people about redundancies? We’ve got Christmas only a few months away and it’s the worst possible …”

  He folded his arms and shook his head.

  “Typical, Stan. Thinking about your colleagues and not your own career. I mean, this whole thing could actually turn out to be a positive change for you. I still find it bizarre that a clever, talented woman is stuck in a dead end job when, given the chance, she could be making an enormous difference at the centre of things. Where it really matters. Affecting people’s lives en masse. A lot of people. That’s what you always wanted to do, isn’t it?”