Читать книгу Ramshorn Republic - Martin McMahon - Страница 3

September 2000

It rained and it rained and it rained. My wet gear had given up trying after the first hour. I was soaked through three layers, soaked through to the skin. Rivulets of chilled rainwater found a way past my helmet and rolled down the back of my neck. I shivered and twisted the throttle back a fraction. The rear wheel spun for a second in the river of rubbish, filth and rainwater that flowed down Shelbourne Road. I eased off a little and watched a car plough straight through the stinking oily pool that had gathered under the railway bridge on South Lotts Road. A wave of backwash flowed over my boots leaving a ketchup stained burger wrapper stuck to the bottom of the front forks, the next wave washed it away.

“28” Somers voice screeched over the two way radio.

I reached for the radio strapped to my right shoulder. My gloves were soaked through and through, so much so that I couldn’t feel the transmit button.

“28” Somers yelled again, “28 Martin, where the fuck are you?”

I pulled quickly to the kerb and flipped the tinted visor up. The driving rain stung my face. I squinted through the discomfort. Using my teeth, I pulled the dripping wet glove from my right hand. The skin on my hand was jet black where the dye had run from the glove.

“Go ahead” I shouted through the radio.

“Where are you?” Somers shouted.

He knew exactly where I was.

“South Lotts for the IFSC, Alexandra Road and back to Shell in Clonsky” I answered, “same as this time yesterday and the day before and the day before…”

“Thomas Street for the base by five” Somers cut across me.

“It's a motorbike I'm on not a goddamned rocket”.

“Just do it” he ordered.

There was no way I could make it. Forty-five minutes through rush hour traffic, not a chance and Somers knew it. He was trying to provoke an argument. I didn’t rise to it.

“There's another one in Fairview for Knocklyon” Somers voice blared again.

It had been like this all day. For eight hours I'd raced through the city, picking up here dropping off there. Somers was pushing me hard. They wanted me out, I knew it, they knew it. I flipped the visor down and pulled away from the kerb. Just as I passed through the deepest part of the flood the engine revs dropped off. I twisted the throttle back all the way but it wasn’t enough. It spluttered briefly and died. Water had gotten in somewhere. I tried to get it going but gave up after a few minutes.

“Shit” I mumbled not really caring.

“28” I yelled into the radio.

Somers ignored me.

“I'm broken down Alan” I tried again.

“What have you got on you” Somers finally answered, the anger in his voice clearly audible.

“Same as I had five minutes ago” I answered.

I knew that Somers was in the base staring at a computer screen. Every delivery was listed on the screen, he was the one who decided who did what and when, he knew exactly what I was carrying in the satchel.

“I’ll get to you when I can” he mumbled.

“Say again”.

“Just stay where you fucking are and Sean will pick up what you’ve got”.

An hour later, Sean Moran, the Senior Business Manager, pulled up beside me in his car. He said nothing, just held out his hand. I gave him the contents of the satchel. He sped off without a word. That was that.

I had no doubt that the fix was in, this was going to be a dirty fight. Senior civil servants, trade unionists and others were already holding secret meetings to close the Pandora's Box I'd deliberately and single handedly opened just weeks earlier. I parked the bike up and set off trudging through the filth.

December 1999

“We’ve got to make a stand” 13 Pete pleaded “we can't let them get away with it”.

I looked at the ground trying to avoid eye contact. An ambulance pulled up outside the main entrance to Hollis Street. I watched as a pregnant woman was helped out and onto a wheelchair. I understood Pete’s frustration. In a few short weeks, three of the most experienced couriers had been fired on the spot. The latest guy to go was 9 Sean. He was about the same age as me with kids and a mortgage. I felt for him, I really did, but what could I do? If I spoke up or as Pete wanted, went on strike, it was a certainty that I would be following Sean out the door.

Instant dismissal was something I had seen time and time again. Moran or Somers would take a dislike to someone and bang, they were gone. It was usually done in full view of the rest of us and the final line was invariably the same whether it came from Moran or Somers ‘give me your bag and radio and fuck off’. Sometimes it cut up pretty rough with Moran or Somers goading their victim to the point of violence. I could see that Somers, in particular, really got off on the power buzz. He threatened many times to call the gardai on anyone who went for him. Physical violence is not unheard of in courier companies in general. More than a few base controllers have been confronted, usually following incidents where the wielded their power to the detriment of one or more couriers.

“I'm sorry Pete” I mumbled and made an excuse about my financial commitments, but even as the words left my mouth they sounded hollow and pathetic. Pete stared at me.

“They told him he was fired” he repeated “how can they justify that. Somers asked him what part of fuck off did he not understand”.

“Bastards” said one of the other couriers.

“It's all a con” I told Pete “but how do we prove it?” It was Pete's turn to shrug.

I walked across the laneway to where my bike was parked. I put the key in the ignition. The green neutral light flashed. The engine roared to life when I pressed the start button. I got on and raced out of Hollis Lane past the ambulance. I blipped through the amber traffic lights and weaved furiously through the almost motionless traffic on Pearse Street. Thoughts drifted to the back of my head. I focused on the space in front, watching, calculating. Space opened up and disappeared in the blink of an eye. My concentration was fully focused. I monitored moving vehicles in my peripheral vision. Hand, eye and foot control in unison. I passed a double decker bus so close that the Kevlar lined elbow of my jacked scraped grime from the side of the bus. I held my breath as I passed through a cloud of diesel smoke. A quick tap of the rear brakes, a sharp bank left, bodyweight shifted to compensate and I was clear to the lights. Throttle back and I changed gear. I covered the quarter mile to the lights in seconds. Throttle down, hit breaks with equal force front and rear. I waited at the red light with one motocross boot on the wet blacktop.

‘But what can I do?’ I thought.

November 1999

‘Dear Mr. Hughes,

Please could you convey to the Minister for Labour, Trade and Consumer Affairs, Mr. Tom Kitt T.D., my disappointment that he cannot meet my request for a meeting to discuss the issue of Motorbike Couriers.

I am well aware of the organization of Working Time act 1997 and also the definition of employees. What I had hoped to inform the Minister of was that many people, in particular Motorbike Couriers, are against their will being classified as self-employed. However in many cases they are paid what can only be described as a weekly wage.

Whilst Revenue and Social Welfare have for the reasons of tax purposes and Social Welfare payment classified Motorbike Couriers as self employed, they do not see this as prejudicing any future determination on the nature of employment of Couriers.

It may be, and we are going through the process presently of finding out, that a legal definition of the employment status of Motorbike Couriers would differ from that determined by Revenue and Social Welfare. I understand that there may be cases where Labour Court decisions determined that people who are allegedly self-employed were indeed employees and we are investigating this at present.

Again, I would appreciate if you would reiterate my disappointment to the Minister as the intention of the meeting was to inform him of the concerns of Motorbike Couriers not to seek an explanation of the present situation as it is. However it leaves me no option but to raise the matter with opposition employment spokespersons in order to seek a just situation for our members.

Yours sincerely,’

I may not have known what to do, but there was one man who had begun to tackle the subject. This letter was written by the Organising Officer of the Communications Workers Union, Mr. Chris Hudson. The recipient of the letter, Mr. John Hughes, was at the time the Private Secretary at the Department of Enterprise, Trade and Employment. Chris’ letter explained the situation far more eloquently than I was ever able to. I didn’t know it at the time but approximately ten percent of motorbike couriers had joined the union. Most had done so secretly because of the ever present threat of instant dismissal.

It is clear from Chris’ letter that he was bitterly disappointed that Minister Tom Kitt would not meet with him to discuss the forced self-employment classification of workers in particular motorbike couriers. Chris captured the essence of the problem in two sentences ‘Motorbike Couriers, are against their will being classified as self-employed’ and ‘Whilst Revenue and Social Welfare have for the reasons of tax purposes and Social Welfare payment, classified Motorbike Couriers as self-employed, they do not necessarily see this as prejudicing any future determination of the nature of employment of Couriers’.

For Social Welfare, self-employed classification was hugely advantageous, self-employed persons are not entitled to any social welfare payments neither do they nor will they ever appear on unemployment figures. The reasons why the Revenue would want a self-employed label forced on ordinary employees was as yet unclear but it didn’t stay that way for long.

Could it be that people are misclassified as self-employment? You can bet your ass that people are misclassified against their will and that the Revenue and Social Welfare permanently prejudiced any future determination on the nature of employment. Every dog on the street knows that the entire area of employment/self-employment is a con, hell, even the Public Accounts Committee found huge misclassifications in certain industries.

So what's the big deal you might ask? The answer? Millions and millions of euro in PRSI contributions that should be going to your pension fund are instead going directly to company profits. Now, in a time of almost full employment, no one gives a shit. But what goes up must come down and sooner or later somebody will want to know why the well is dry.

August 1997

“Where's Hollis lane?” I asked the receptionist at the front desk in Hollis Street Hospital.

“Don't know”.

“It's over there” a nearby porter pointed to a laneway across the road just to the right.

“Cheers” I thanked him.

My bike was parked just outside the hospital. I didn’t bother starting it. I grabbed the bars, kicked up the stand, pushed it across the road and down the incline to the bottom of Hollis Lane. At the bottom of the lane was a two story building with a small court yard at the front. Blue and white signs on the doors and windows proudly identified the business as Securicor Omega Sameday. A minimalist drawing of a torso with a package clutched in hand and a helmet on head adorned every sign.

‘I m in the right place then’ I thought.

I'd been working in Temple Bar for a year or so but the money was crap and the hours were worse. On a night out I met up with an old friend in Fitzers. He brought a couple of other lads along with him. We had a few pints, talked the usual bullshit and settled in for the night. A few hours later we were standing in line waiting for the doormen to give us the nod to go into the Kitchen Niteclub. Some idiot in front was tanked and we were all held up as the doormen ever so politely told him that he could not enter. It was doorman language for fuck off home but idiot wasn’t getting the message. Eventually we reached the front of the queue.

“Alright John” a doorman greeted one of the guys in our company.

“How's it goin man” John replied.

“You still on the bike?”

“Yeah” John answered as we moved through the door and toward the ticket desk.

“Take it easy” the doorman called after John as we descended the stairs into the music pumping chamber that was the Kitchen.

“What's the bike?” I shouted over Johns shoulder as we pushed our way past a couple of girls wearing hankie tops and way too much make up.

“VT 600” he answered as we waited to be served at the back bar.

“Nice bike”.

“Not bad” he agreed “You got one?”

“I haven't been on a bike in years” I said as we grabbed our pints and headed to a spot near the dance floor where the other guys were already standing and scoping the floor. John and I talked about bikes for a while. He was selling a Honda KMX 200 and I arranged to go and have a look at it a couple of days later.

“She's a beaut” John gestured toward the bike with his free hand, he held his lid in the other, “wait ‘till you hear her goin”.

We were standing in the driveway of a three story house in Rathmines. Overgrown trees shadowed the entire area.

“How much?” I asked.

John didn’t answer. Instead he sat on the bike and pulled his lid on. He pushed the kick-start out with the toe of his right boot. With practiced ease he kicked down and twisted the throttle back. The Honda growled to life. A puff of smoked belched from the exhaust. The unmistakable smell of a two-stroke engine filled the air.

“I do love that smell” I said more to myself than John as he was busy revving the arse out of the bike. He kicked the bike into first and eased off the clutch. The bike pulled smoothly forward. I watched the exhaust but it all looked ok, not too much smoke. I followed him out on foot to Grosvenor Road. John accelerated to the top of the road before turning around. He held the bike motionless for a moment, balancing perfectly as he revved the engine twice. On the third rev he let the clutch go and the front wheel shot up off the ground. John wheelied the entire distance back to where I was standing before easing the front wheel down so gently that the forks of the big scrambler barely compressed. He put the bike on its stand without stopping the engine and whipped his helmet off. He handed it to me.

“Have a go” he invited.

Norwich Union was the only insurance company insuring bikes.

“I'm going to look for a job where I can work on the bike” I explained to the girl across the counter.

“What are you working at now?” she asked.

“Barman”.

I received my insurance certificate. Under Limitations as to use it said I was insured to use my bike for work delivering food and or courier work. Later that week I was scouring the Situations Vacant section of the Herald. I rang a Chinese takeaway in Rathgar and a Solicitor in Ballsbridge. I made appointments with both. Then I saw it, the advertisement jumped out at me COURIERS EARN MORE AT SECURICOR. Securicor was a household name. I called the number and spoke to a man who told me to come by at eleven the next day.

So there I was standing outside of the place I was to work in for the next three and a half years. I could see two doors at opposite ends on the front of the building. I chose the one on the left. I entered into a dimly lit room. Battered and tatty chairs were scattered around the floor. Two guys dressed in full biker gear sat in on corner drinking mugs of industrial strength tea. The room was about fifteen feet in length and the same in width. Close to halfway down on the right hand wall was an open hatch. The room was filled with a mixture of strong odours. A damp mustiness tried hard to outdo the wack of oil and wet leathers. I looked to one of the guys drinking tea.

“Where's Alan?” I asked.

He pointed to the hatch. I walked over and looked through. Two desks were situated immediately against the wall on the other side. Two computers sat back to back on the tables.

“Alan?” I asked the two guys sitting there.

“You here for the interview?” the taller of the two asked.

I nodded.

“Come on through” he pointed to the door behind him.

I walked through an open doorway at the back of the room I had just entered and opened the door on my right.

“Go ahead” Alan spoke loudly into a microphone on the table in front of him, “I’ll be with you in a minute” he added gesturing toward a chair at the end of the table where he sat. A garbled voice shouted over a speaker near the computer. I couldn’t understand a word.

“That fella's a muppet” Alan exclaimed to the guy sitting opposite him. He then issued a rapid fire list of directions over the radio.

“Ten four” a voice boomed back at him. He passed the microphone over to the other guy “watch that Mark”.

He ran up the stairs at the back of the room and returned moments later with a white sheet of paper in his hand. He gave it to me and sat on the edge of the table.

“Fill out your name address and telephone number”.

I looked at the page on the table in front of me. At the top of the page it said ‘Company Name’ in brackets but there was no company name. Immediately underneath it said ‘application form’. I filled out my details in the space provided. Alan asked me what I was doing at the moment. I told him I was a barman.