Читать книгу Ramshorn Republic - Martin McMahon - Страница 5

Being involved in a road traffic accident was not a matter of if; it was a matter of when. I'd spilled a number of times but never suffered anything more than cuts and bruises. My luck couldn't hold out forever and I knew it. My number finally came up in November 1999. I was left with a herniated disk, soft tissue damage and a broken finger on my right hand. I was lucky. It was a slow speed impact and only one other vehicle was involved.

The worst way to come off a bike is to high side, that's when you and your machine part company with you sailing out over the handle bars. My bike was a write off and I was going to need some time to mend. The day after I was released from the Mater Hospital I telephoned my local Social Welfare Office. I had never claimed illness benefit before and I wanted to know how to go about it.

“You are not entitled to anything” the anonymous woman on the other end of the line told me.

“Why not?” I asked genuinely surprised. Without some kind of income I was going to be in deep shit.

“You haven't got enough stamps”.

“You're mistaken” I insisted.

“I've been working in the same job for two years, PRSI is ducted every week”.

“That may be” she agreed in a supercilious tone “but it’s not A rate”.

“Explain?” I asked.

“It's a Revenue matter” she sounded defensive.

“So what are you saying?”

“You'll have to contact the Revenue Commissioners, it's nothing to do with us”

“So let me get this straight” I said “the deduction of PRSI is nothing to do with the Department of Social Welfare”.

“In this instance, it is not” she repeated as firmly as she could muster.

“I don't believe you, you're feeding me a line to get rid of me”.

“That is not true” she insisted “PRSI is generally a Social Welfare issue but in the case of couriers it's a Revenue matter”.

“I'll be back to you” I said trying not to sound like Arnie.

“Of course” she said not believing me for an instant.

Revenue

I rang the Taxation Office on O'Connell Street and asked to be put through to the relevant section dealing with the taxation of couriers. A woman answered the phone.

“How can I help you?” she asked pleasantly.

I explained the situation to her and asked why A rate PRSI was not being deducted. I and no doubt that I was an employee and I told her that I was sure the company was screwing me and by implication the Revenue as well.

“It certainly sounds suspect” she agreed “can I check it out and call you back?”

“That would be great” I said before I gave her my telephone number and finished the call.

She did not ring me back. Two days later I called again. I was put through to a woman. I couldn't tell if it was the same person I and spoken to before but she did have some new information.

“All couriers are classified as self-employed” she explained.

“How can that be?” I asked.

“I'm not sure” she hesitated “can you hold for a second”.

She put me on hold without waiting for a reply. Moments later she returned.

“Yes” she confirmed “all couriers are classified as self-employed”.

“I'm not” I insisted “I'm an employee, your own records show that tax and PRSI are deducted at source and I work exclusively for the same company. I'm paid by cheque every Friday and I receive a pay advice slip. I am not now nor have I ever been self-employed. I had no idea you classified me as self-employed”.

“Hold please” she said again.

This time I could hear muffled voices on the other end of the line. I couldn't hear what was being said but I recognised the woman's voice and a male voice saying something.

“Securicor put forward a good argument that all couriers are self-employed” she told me.

“What?” I could smell a big pile of bullshit straight away “I work for Securicor, and if they're claiming that all the couriers who work for them are self-employed, then they're conning you”.

“The deduction of PRSI” she explained “and the rate at which it is deducted is a Social Welfare matter, I suggest that you contact them”.

“Funny thing” I said before I hung up “the Social Welfare said it was a matter for you”. I didn't wait for a reply.

I was up against it. They had no reasonable explanation and they did not want to know. I went back and forth between Social Welfare and Revenue for the rest of the week. Eventually I gave up. I was fucked and I knew it. My employer was screwing me and officialdom didn't give a shit even though they themselves were being screwed. I'd had no pay check that week. The mortgage was due and every day bills were mounting. I borrowed money from the credit union (thank god for the credit union) and bought a cheap bike. I modified the clutch so that I could use the lever with a broken finger and went back to work.

The rest of that winter was hell. Every bump sent fresh pain scorching through my back and arm. Driving rain and freezing temperatures didn't help.

Fran

“Fran's down on Mount Street” the controller told me “take whatever's there and bring it back here”.

I pulled my lid on as I exited the base. I could see where Fran was as soon as I turned the corner from Hollis Street to Mount Street. Two or three people stood on the pavement leaning over Fran. I put my bike on its stand. Someone had picked up Fran's bike and done likewise. Fran was writhing and groaning in obvious pain.

“You OK?” I asked as I knelt down.

Tears trickled form the corners of Fran's eyes. A few strands of her blonde hair were visible at the side of her helmet visor. Fran was in training to be a beautician. She was one of only a handful of women working as motorcycle couriers and she did it well. She was tall, blonde and attractive. Behind her looks or perhaps because of them, was a tough girl. Not rough, just tough in the determined sense. She gave as good as she got and had a well earned reputation as a person not to be trifled with or demeaned in any way. I admired Fran, it took balls to get up every morning and mix it in a male dominated arena. Fran expected and received respect from her co-workers.

“It's my arm” she said barely above a whisper. “Don't touch it”.

I had no intention of touching her arm.

“Take my lid off” Fran pleaded.

She was breathing rapidly and breathlessly as she tried to undo the clasp under her chin with her undamaged hand. I pushed the red catch back and the black nylon strap popped open.

“Fran's hurt” I called over the radio to the base controller.

“There's an ambulance on the way” he replied nonchalantly.

I could hear the controller answering that Fran was hurt to another courier over the radio. The radios did not operate back to back. I could only hear or speak to the base controller. I could not hear or communicate with the other couriers but I could hear what the controller said to them. I presumed that the controller was talking to 5 Aaron, Fran's boyfriend. 5 Aaron arrived on Mount Street seconds later. An ambulance was close on his tail. Fran had a black storage box on the back of her bike. I emptied it of letters and brought them back to the base. The controller was handing the letters out to other couriers as I got back on my bike.

February 2000

I decided to contact the Health and Safety Authority situated at Hogan Place. Over the winter of 99/2000 I had seen courier after courier hit the ground. Some got back up, some did not, all were injured at work. I went in person to the HSA and spoke briefly to the receptionist. I asked her for available figures on courier accidents in the previous year. The receptionist got on the phone and I took a seat. Several minutes later, a be-speckled, neatly dressed man arrived at the front desk. I guessed he was in his early fifties, a lifetime civil servant with curt cordiality born from thousands of bothersome query replies.

“How can I help you?” he asked.

I wasn't at all shocked when he told me that there were no figures available. I asked did he mean that they hadn't been recorded. He explained to me that it wasn't a matter of recording, it was an issue of reporting.

“There is an obligation on employers to report all accidents at work to the HSA”.

“A legal obligation?” I asked to clarify the position.

He nodded.

“But I was injured at work last November, how come you've no record of it?”

“Are you an employee?”

“Yes” I answered emphatically.

He asked that I wait while he went to clarify the position. Half an hour later he returned. His demeanour was no longer that of the consummate civil servant. He was terse and obviously pissed at what he saw as a waste of his valuable time.

“You're not an employee”.

“But I am” I insisted “Who told you otherwise?”

“No” he said “you're not”.

“But…” I tried to interrupt him.

“If” he cut in “you believe that you are an employee, then you should take it up with the tax office”.

“So it has nothing to do with the H.S.A”.

“Correct” he nodded vigorously.

“Has any accident involving a courier ever been reported?” I asked.

“Not unless the courier reported it himself”.

“And?”

“Not that I know of” he said as he stood up to leave.

“Couriers are injured at work every day”.

“It's not reported to us”.

“And if an employer fails to report it?”

“As I already said young man, it's a Revenue matter”.

‘Young man’, I hate that dismissive crap.

“It's only a matter of time until a member of the public is killed by a courier”.

He shrugged.

March 2000

I decided to ring the Department of Social Welfare again. After several attempts I was finally put through to what I was told was the relevant section.

“Is this the Scope Section?” I asked.

“Yes” a woman replied.

I explained to her in detail the situation I found myself in and asked her if the Scope Section could investigate my employment with Securicor. She told me it was a Revenue matter. I hung up in disgust.

July 2000

By the beginning of July 2000 I was determined. Events covered in the second book of the Ramshorn series, had allowed me a brief glimpse at the inner workings of the civil service. I was sickened by what I had seen. I was going to pin these people down. I wanted accountability. I wasn't going to be fobbed off anymore.

I suspected that I had many obstacles to overcome but I concentrated my energies on the here and now. I had nothing in writing from Securicor. I had been working for them for three years and never once had I received anything in writing except for pay slips once a week, every week, on a Friday. Although the pay slip clearly identified Securicor as the ‘employer’ and me as the ‘employee’. I knew I was going to need more.

I rang the tax office again. I asked for any information used to classify couriers as self-employed. I was told that there was nothing available. I asked for any available information relating to contractors and sub-contractors in general. This they had. Unlike the courier industry, the construction industry has a plethora of rules and regulations governing the classification of workers as self employed and still the Public Accounts Committee found 20% of those they investigated to be misclassified.

“Would the same rules apply to the courier industry?”

“Yes it applies to contractors and sub-contractors in all industries”.

“Just double checking” I thanked the voice on the other end.

I asked for a copy of what was available to be sent to me. A letter duly arrived a few days later. I read through the two page document. There was no way, according to the criteria I'd just read, that I could be classified as self employed.

Occasionally, fate or the gods or whatever, throws a pass our way. On Monday the 10th July the pass was thrown my way. I went to work as normal. I usually started my VFR at eight fifteen and let the engine idle for five minutes. By that time I could feel the heat coming through the A frame. It was a bastard on a hot summer’s day but we don't get much of them so most of the time it was a godsend. On bitterly cold and wet mornings I'd lean tight into the bike and let the heat seep through my rain gear and leathers.

It took fifteen minutes to travel the N2 to Finglas. Most of the journey was spent on the wrong side of the road racing past the almost motionless traffic heading in my direction. It didn't do to be half asleep on the N2. Accidents were common place and reckless driving prevailed. I always watched carefully as I went, ready to take evasive action should the car I was passing pull out, or on occasion, swing right without warning. As eight forty approached, I would streak along the bus lane beside Glasnevin Cemetery. There were two ways to do this. One was to brazen it out and hope that there was no Garda hiding behind the end of the cemetery wall ready to lunge out and catch you making use of the safest permanently clear space on the road. The other way, and my personal favourite, was to stick behind a bus as close as I could to the rear right hand side. With luck I would be past the sad arse bus lane sentinels before they spotted me. Then left down Whitworth Road and right onto Dorset Street. Third left tearing past Temple Street and a couple of turns later I'd pull up outside the sorting office on Rutland Place. Here I would collect post destined for the IFSC. From there it was back on the bike, weaving along O'Connell Street, over the bridge keeping right at Trinity to the start of Dame Street where I'd pull into the first available space, usually a bus stop.

“28, 28 are you on the road have you got the stuff for the bank?” It was the base controller.

This morning it was Pat. Every morning at about ten to nine I'd get the same call regardless of who the controller was. The deliveries I carried were ‘set calls’ to be completed by nine. I was under strict orders to get them delivered. If I had any problems or hold ups I was to contact the controller immediately and he'd send someone else to do it.

“28 here, I'm on my way Pat”.

Fifteen minutes and two deliveries later I rolled down the lane and parked up outside the base at Hollis Street. Pat took what mail he wanted and entered the ones I was to deliver onto the computer in front of him.

“Here” Pat said as he handed me a single sheet of A4 paper “fill that out and get it back to me by Friday” he instructed.

I read the title at the top ‘Security Clearance’.