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’.
“What's this? Why are you looking for it now?”
Pat knew what I meant. I'd been working for Securicor for over three years and now they wanted me to sign a form allowing them to check if I had a criminal record.
“You're missing the point” Pat insisted “you were checked out when you started”.
“Who checked me out, I never gave permission for that?”
Pat clammed up.
“I'm
