“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