Cadogan Street

‘Hi, it’s me. Phone me back.’

‘Hi, it’s me. Phone me back.’

‘I’m a bit worried. Can you phone me back?’

‘Is there something the matter with this phone? Phone me back. Now! That’s it. I’m coming to pick you up.’

I was sitting in my van with the engine running when Subject Z phoned me. She was in a taxi at Yoker. She was running late. I had planned for this contingency. There was a train that would have got us into Glasgow and to Cadogon Street, twenty-minutes early, which the letter from Atos Healthcare suggested. The next train got us there at the appointed time and the one following that would have got us there fifteen minutes late. I told Subject Z not to go home, but to meet me at Dalmuir Station. I sat on the metallic seat on Platform two as the taxi drew up at the bay adjacent to the track. I waited as the train approached. The taxi driver got a fright as I jerked the door open. He joked, he thought it was a hold up.  I had to remind Subject Z that trains were not in the habit of waiting until you stepped onto them.

I paid for our Scotrail tickets. We were lucky, not only did we get window seats, ticket prices were subsidised by the Government and the rail infrastructure, billions of pounds which had already been paid by previous generations of taxpayers was not included in the cost.  

At Glasgow Central we passed two officers of the law, standing, doing nothing. These Government employees also cost billions of pounds. I thought about asking for directions to make good use of the taxpayer’s money, but Subject Z was sure she knew the way to Cadogan Street.  

Cadogan Street was in Glasgow City Centre, a premium would have to be paid for office space.  This fixed cost could be offset by Atos reclaiming it as a cost of production carried by the taxpayer. The Healthcare Company were guaranteed hundreds of millions of pounds by the Government regardless of their performance in providing a service. In management jargon this was called win-win.

A Healthcare company must make a healthy profit. Driving down the variable cost of wages increased Atos Healthcare profit. The receptionist at the reception area of the office, who told us where to go, would be paid much less than the two police officers that didn’t tell us the way to go, but more than the security guard. He was employed to sit on the same kind of sturdy padded seat as those waiting to be interviewed, which were not the orange buckets seats bolted to a scuffed floor I expected. Optional extras, he included in his job-skill’s category were pointing out where the water machine was. He also showed one woman how it worked. ‘Press down here,’ he said.   I employed this skill-set to get Subject Z some free water, which came from Loch Katrine at an ongoing cost of millions of pounds, the kind of project that would now cost billions, paid for by the taxpayer. The security guard was middle-aged. I’d guess he’d be minimum wage and his housing would be subsidised by Housing Benefit.

A Perspex screen separated office workers from possible contamination from those being tested by Atos Health Care Professionals. A young girl and boy, minimum-wage clerks, checked documentation and claims for travel. I produced Subject Z’s bankcard and passed it under the screen. Subject Z passed the first test of being who she claimed to be. We have all heard stories of one person sitting a driving test for another. I imagined some unscrupulous claimant bringing a corpse of their granny and claiming to be Subject A. The minimum-wage employee informed me that they were a bit behind and the waiting time for Subject Z was now forty-five minutes.  Subject Z’s claims for travel were ongoing and the claimant would find out later if she would get her train fare refunded.

Subject Z was seated near the fount of free water. I joined her. In the row of seats in front of us were a man and woman that smelled of day-old booze and tobacco. It was difficult to tell if they were husband and wife, girlfriend or boyfriend, or mother and son. When the waiting time was announced as an hour, he laid his head on her shoulder and said ‘that was it, he was goin’ hame’. I knew it was a lie. His girlfriend/sister or mother also knew it was a lie, and he let himself be persuaded he’d need to stay. I figured there were four people in front of us, still to be assessed.

Across from us was the guy with starey eye that never blinked. A family took up three chairs. It was difficult to tell which one was to be assessed. The younger girl did have tattoos round her neck, but I doubted whether Indian-ink could be classified, in old-fashioned terminology, as a disability. A woman by-passed the security guard, and sat two seats along from me. She was well-dressed and sprung out of her seat when her name was called by a smiling grey-haired older man.  She’d jumped the queue and into the workforce.

Subject Z touched my hand and said she was going to be sick. I told her to go and get a bit of air, maybe that would help. Miracles happen. I would come and get her if her name was called.

Another man came into the waiting area. He used two long walking sticks banded with c-shaped plastic to allow his hands through and support his elbows. One was stabbed down in front of the other to carry his weight as he dragged his feet forward. His head and body twitched and jerked as he tried to rein it in and a choking noise came from his throat even when seated. His companion spoke to him in German and brought him a cupful of water.

I picked up a Metro, which was lying in the seat next to me. The big story was the Glaswegian David Moyes had been sacked by the multimillion-pound entertainment company Manchester United. His severance pay of six million pounds was reduced to three-and-a-half million. David Moyes could very well end up in Cadogan Street in the seat next to me. We have met before, but I’m not sure if he’d recognise me now. The figures were there for all to see. Hundreds of millions had been wiped of Manchester United’s share price. Almost a hundred million had been lost by not qualifying for the Champions League and potentially finishing seventh in the league. This worried me because Manchester United, like most other clubs in the Premier League, pay little or no tax. They make a loss every year. In the same way that a gangster, when questioned by the police, tells them the million pound house he lives in doesn’t belong to him, but his sister and their dog, the Glazer family proclaim only debts. They may need more taxpayer’s money than that has been spent on the infrastructure outside Old Trafford, money that has been allocated to poor and sick people to help out their financial conglomerate.

Subject Z hirpled back to the seat beside me. She put her hand over mine to show that she’d been sweating. I suggested loading up on more free water. Subject Z’s name was called. I whispered that she should take her time. Every move she made was on camera. I skipped ahead of her. Her assessor was a pretty looking woman, about five-foot seven, with shiny shoulder-length brunette hair, blue blouse and pencil-thin dark skirt. She carried a clipboard. She apologised for keeping Subject Z waiting. Then the dance began. She held open a door, I go through first and watch the interviewer watching the way Subject Z walks through the door and along the corridor. She is polite and asks Subject Z how she’d gotten to Cadogan Street. This could be misconstrued as small talk. I answered. Subject Z said she needed the toilet. This was a tricky one. There are three toilets: Men’s, Women’s and Disabled. Subject Z chose the Disabled.  

I was seated next to Subject Z in the interview room. It was a big airy office space with an examination couch covered in protective paper. We have asked for the interview to be recorded. The interviewer puts on a pair of spectacles, put a CD into the machine and sits tapping into a keyboard across from us. I asked about her qualifications. She told me she was a Registered General Nurse (RGN). In terms of education, at a conservative estimate she had three or four times the taxation money spent on her than Subject Z. The older smiling grey-haired gentleman I’d seen earlier, I imagine to be a doctor, with twelve to fourteen times tax money spent on his education. I speculated on ideological reasons, Atos Healthcare Professionals believe that persecuting poor people makes them better. I figure the pay must be good.

I ask the RGN if she had any training dealing with people with mental health problems. She had not yet turned the tape on. She bristles. Her assurances that she has had a full training about how to deal with such difficulties were straw. I said nothing. The grounds for appeal were self-evident. The RGN asks question after question that are set out like a flow-chart on screen in front of her. She typed in the answers to her matrix. A typical day was portrayed as Edvard Munch’s ‘The Scream’ and the RGN probed for moonlight tea parties and laughter on the lawn. Subject Z bubbled and cried. The RGN asked if Subject Z wanted to terminate the interview and come back at another time. I explained that the stress of coming back to the same situation was more stressful than continuing. The interview took twenty-three minutes. Outside the sun was shining.

The odds on Subject Z not being found fit for work remain extremely low. The odds on Subject Z winning her appeal in six or nine months are extremely high.      

I’d gleamed this information from a friend, who works in the healthcare sector. Assessment had two parts and had begun before arriving at Cadogan Street. Pat said that Cadogan had over a 95% rate of finding people fit to work.