"So, Larkhall prison is apparently turning over a new leaf. No escapes, no suicides, no explosions. It cannot last, of course?" Alison Warner's cynical words were delivered with a smile that wasn't really a smile.
"You know, the more I examine the goings on of the group of prisons in my charge, the more that I see that the problems I had were not unique to Larkhall. It is interesting talking directly to a range of Governing Governors as I get the feeling very strongly that their prisons are functioning only as while they keep the hatches well battened down on trouble."
Grayling smiled that smile back at her while he capably lobbed her brand of sneaky remark right back at her without being outright confrontational.
Alison Warner pursed her lips in a disapproving fashion. She should have been warned that the Neil Grayling that was working for her combined the truculent Bolshevik politics of the worst sort of trade union activist like Arthur Scargill with the smoothness of the fictional Sir Humphrey Appleby out of "Yes Minister." The worst of it was that he had such a reputation as a radical innovating moderniser. He had turned out to be a sheep in wolf's clothing.
"I have examined your paper on how to reduce sick absence in the prison service."
At that point, Alison Warner paused to let the full effect of her disapproval sink in but Grayling declined to comment which irritated her.
"Rather controversial, is it not?"
"You found it interesting, I trust?" Grayling asked calmly.
"The impression that it and you leave is that you've 'gone native,'" Alison Warner explained dismissively.
"I don't understand. Can you explain what you're getting at."
"I mean," snapped Alison Warner. "That you appear to have adopted the point of view of a malcontent barrack room lawyer in the trenches as in the First World War with their petty minded negative criticisms of the grand design of the generals. It was they who had the strategic thinking of understanding that a temporary local reverse was the process of the grand overall design of the blueprint to victory."
"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Warner, but exactly which First World War battle had you in mind?" Came the answer in Grayling's most innocent tones.
Alison Warner's face reddened and she contemptuously flipped open the report and read a section from it.
"…….my research has found that personnel departments both in the private and public sector, have this fixed unalterable belief that they should seek to divine in statistics a supposed pattern of days of sickness taken on the Friday and the Monday following, and to draw misleading conclusions from this that an element of this sickness is either self induced or fictitious (i.e. bingeing over the weekend or deliberately 'pulling a sickie'). My conclusions are that caution has to be exercised in drawing such conclusions and that it is for the line manager to exercise discretion in handling the situation in being open to all possibilities and, above all, not to prejudge any situation. My definite conclusion is that figures for long term, unavoidable sick absence should be identified separately leaving the raw material of what is left as potential scope for improvement. This is not to deny that there is, inevitably, bound to be a minority of prison officers who do abuse the system," read the report in calm measured tones while the author remembered vividly the frequent absences of Mrs. Hollamby due to 'backache"This minority they can only operate where others are willing to collude to the point of covering up for them. Whether or not it is so is down to the specific 'work culture' at the particular prison or wing. It is for local management to be proactive in handling these issues with proper backup and, if need be, training of the prison governor's concerned.
It cannot be denied that there is a worrying trend in overcrowding in prisons and this will inevitably be bound to increase the overall trend of sickness. An especial 'red warning light' and one trend to be closely watched is stress-related sickness. In focussing on these issues, it is of course entirely possible that a self certificate or even doctor's medical certificate will be couched in terms of a more 'socially acceptable' less stigmatised form of illness which may be only a symptom of the underlying cause. It is incumbent upon the Home Office and judiciary to review its sentencing policies in not creating an environment whereby the positive policies on paper for rehabilitating the prisoner is undermined by an inadequacy of staffing in the prison service to give practical effect to these policies.
I have examined practices in other establishments of setting targets of "acceptable sickness" levels. A figure of 8 days in a year does seem to be a common figure where the prison governor (or line manager as the case may be). This is used as the starting point for initiating dismissal of staff on grounds for inefficiency according to a procedure of successive verbal and written warnings with the ultimate option of eventual dismissal. Even though this has been adopted by a number of organisations, this does not make a case for this to be introduced in the prison service. On the contrary, I reject this out of hand. My reasons for this is that management should not be, or be seen to be, punishing the guilty along with the innocent, being inflexible and unresponsive to the individual situation. Such a policy is inevitably counter productive in masking the symptoms instead of dealing with the root cause."
"This is an entirely negative paper with no real solutions," Snapped Alison Warner.
"This is a realistic and practical paper," Counter argued Grayling.
"I expected a report which recommended the fixed days marker of unacceptable sick absence per year, let us say, eight days in one year. Your reasons for rejecting this are cavalier. Sometimes I wonder whose side you are on."
Grayling smiled grimly. This woman had this in mind from the very beginning from her first discussion of the project with him.
"…….at which point, the prison governor should consider a verbal warning in a purely informal fashion….."
"Excuse me, Mrs. Warner, I should draw your attention to the last paragraph but one of my report."
Grayling turned over to the next page and indicated the final paragraph.
"It is, of course, an increasingly recent tendency for solicitors to engage in "no win, no fee" work of what is loosely called "compensation culture." It is my opinion that the Home Office could lay itself open to lawsuits of this kind, especially where the prison governor has a multitude of duties to perform and where borderline personnel work is not documented as well as it might be. This defect is not uncommon and could be easily exploited in claims for personal damages by the less scrupulous solicitors coming into the field."
"Yes, yes, yes, Neil. I see where you are coming from but your point of view is somewhat alarmist…."
"Not at all, Mrs. Warner," Grayling answered with velvet smoothness. "Prevention is better than cure, so they say. I have only the best interests of the prison service at heart."
Grayling grinned broadly, his mind ice cold and his thinking at his most acute. This worked better for him than getting angry and letting it cloud his thinking.
The man was infuriating, fumed Alison Warner. He has this India rubber quality which bounces back out of nowhere. She paced round in a circle until her temper could cool down, not the sort of hot-blooded temper of the natural woman but that suppressed authoritative temper that could not find an outlet.
"You can't run with the hares and hunt with the hounds, Neil. I'm sure that your old friends won't have found you to be the man of the people."
Alison Warner's thin malignant smile was that of someone who thought she had found a weak spot in her opponent and was determined to exploit it to the full.
"An unfortunate metaphor these days, Mrs. Warner," Grayling struck back. Then with lightning speed he sought to cover up where he was most vulnerable. "But yes, to a degree, you're right. Part of my role is to deliver some unpalatable messages, which is normally to refuse part or all of the funding bids, which I know that Larkhall, along with other prisons is desperately in need of. I'll not shrink from my duty and deal with phone calls from Karen Betts and other governors and explain personally the reasons behind the decisions. I know that she and others like her won't shrink from passing on the bad news to their wing governors. That's the way it goes. It is something that I can't do anything about. I'll be equally honest and if I'm asked to prepare a report on a sick absence policy as I see it from my research and from personal experience. I'll start with a blank sheet of paper with no preconceptions and you'll get the truth. Or is this not what you really wanted?"
Alison Warner cut the conversation short and beat a retreat. It wasn't her day but this infuriating man knew just how far to push and was always that wily one step ahead of her. There was something devious, underhand about him, which she should have spotted immediately.
A few hours later, Grayling glided out of the foyer of Cleland House and into the streets where his mind shook itself free of the number of projects that he was handling. He was homeward bound and bent on listening again to Haydn's "Creation" for yet another time. This was the life, he felt. On many occasions, he had watched concerts from afar and, yes, the first time he went out with Di Barker was watching a string quartet. He wasn't sure if the memory of those two events, one holy, the other profane, made him want to laugh or throw up. He had to sit down in an armchair and try and contemplate happier things and the soothing feelings gradually came to him.
He would have loved to be a professional classical singer and had thrown caution to the winds and not let that careful calculation of the steady monthly salary lure him away from that dream. As a singer, honest sweat brought forward his sense of oneness with the orchestra and that thrill of being out there before an audience. It was only from that first performance that he was aware of his divided self, which had consumed him. It was that lifelong compulsion in him to drive forward in his career onwards and upwards, whatever it took to advance him and whatever handy catch phrases which were the buzz words of the moment. Oh yes, he knew how to change, where to move on and what friends to cultivate. It had blinded him to everything else around him. He had to be ruthless, to play on the susceptibilities of those he came into contact with, yes, as if he were playing a violin so that he came out on top. He delighted in these desires but had never thought to ask himself where they came from in the same way as his wavering sexuality. Why else did he decide to marry, not once but twice. Yet he was haunted by rare unaccountable impulses for the good which broke through the surface. It was now that he could place himself, in his past and in his present. When his father had walked out the door and nobody explained why to him, he was consumed with anger. This was the only way that anger could be expressed and his career was his way of feeling better about himself, to prove himself to himself. All this enormous sweep of self-revelation and rebirth spanned the length of time that the birth of the world was played out in music.
In the quiet of his stark, functional living room, he recalled the sheer beauty of the moment when his voice had resonated powerfully against the swelling power of the orchestra. It was not that he felt that the musicians were merely his accompaniment, as that seemed quite improper. The separate but equal colouring of the disparate sounds was utterly entrancing. It was as if the hours of listening to the music from afar since his youth prepared him for the moment that he could sit at the same table as the gods without needing to be at the head of the table. It was the most perfect expression of himself, yet equal to those around him, modestly, without straining, and with that positive blessing from Joe Channing, that positive grandee and the rightful head of the heavenly orchestra For the first time in his life, he could play his part modestly yet of substance. Those words flowed down like honey on him and gave back to him what his broken home had cut short.
He smiled fondly when he thought of George. Her voice was utterly admirable, so perfect and playing Adam against George's Eve, was a sheer physical pleasure of their contrasting voices. He could appreciate the abstract purity of it all and her beauty like a Mona Lisa. Of course, it did not mean that he would ever want to live with such feminine beauty. It was meant to be admired, from a distance. What he did find intriguing was that totally authentic upper class woman with a strength of mind to go with it. He gave her full marks to her ability to stop herself short just before she was about to let slip their secrets. There was nothing likely to come between them, as they had no illusions about each other and their needs. There was understanding between them as to why George had not been at their best during the love duet and he thought there was a possible reason exactly why this should be the case.
It is funny, Grayling reflected, that while male beauty had long inhabited his dreams, one of his closest friendships lay with an extremely strong and sympathetic woman and that was Karen and not either of his ex-wives. George could easily turn out to be another. He propped his music on his own music stand, which was a prized possession of his and started to run over some of his lines. He was who he wanted to be right now.
Crash went the door to Sir Ian's inner sanctum making the man behind the desk jump out of his skin. All the more of a shock was that something or someone had slipped his way past the layers of minders, secretaries and such like that were there to cushion him further from reality than any old time rock star. His first thought was this was part of a plot of Al Quaeeda terrorists to launch a systematic raid on the seat of government but turning round, he saw the thoroughly respectable and besuited form of John Deed. He was not sure which scared him the more as they were equals in degrees of fanatical devotion to the cause.
"A word with you, Rochester," Came the softly spoken words but with an incredibly determined edge to them. His blue eyes were burning with white hot anger and pinned his wavering vision with sheer force of personality. What was more alarming was the choice of address, which, alone, meant trouble.
"I have a score to settle with you, one way or another, you and your contemptible lackey Lawrence James."
"I can't think what you're about, John," Stammered Sir Ian, knowing very well what had brought this hellhound in human form to track him down.
"Don't play games with me," Roared John, making the attractive chandelier above him vibrate and jangle. "You know very well that you and your fellow pathetic whimp have been found out. I know exactly what despicable words you and that other wretch wrote in that notepad. I've a good mind to sue you for liable and drag you both personally through the court."
"You wouldn't dare," Sir Ian sneered back in an unusually reckless mood. "You pretend to all and sundry that you are the knight in shining armour, standing up for injustice but you are very sure for all that, not to become the real martyr for the cause. You know very well which side your bread is buttered as you enjoy the luxury of your lifestyle and scorn only to be further elevated to the appellate Bench. As for your defence of helpless maidens, your act of chivalry is absurd. At least I am honest about who I am."
For several seconds, Sir Ian's physical welfare hung in the balance as John grasped Sir Ian by the tie, constricting his airwaves considerably and choking off his laugh with a gurgle. Murder looked out of John's eyes. It was a long time that John had voluntarily engaged in fisticuffs apart from one exchange of blows in court. It was that unsavoury hit man who the eldest brother of three siblings had hired who had killed their father. In one frightening flash, Sir Ian recalled that very same incident. Forces battled for supremacy in john's superheated emotions before, by a hairbreadth, that very secret sense of judgement held him back. So often, that had dared him steer closer to the edge of the precipice than his adversary of the moment and, at odd occasions, had stopped him from falling off it.
"You're not worth while having the satisfaction of doing what I intended to," John uttered in a very choked voice, his nerves and heartbeat hammering through his system. "Why indulge myself in one moment of selfish pleasure at my expense when I could spend the rest of my professional career haunting you."
That nightmare vision that John conjured up was a more extreme form of torture than receiving the full impact of John's fists. He laughed when he saw Sir Ian's reactions.
"Whether you like it or not, I am the leader of the orchestra and I will not have you, Ian, indulging in any petty spiteful behaviour that causes any friction in the running of the orchestra. You will play your part, yes and that toady, Lawrence James and I shall play mine. Do I make myself quite clear?"
Sir Ian's anger rose when he realised that his foolish actions had placed them in the utterly humiliating position of John being able to pull rank on them. He knew that they would get no sympathy from their normal court of appeal, Joe Channing as the performance and the run up to it cut across everything, including traditional loyalties.
"Yes John. Will you now leave as you are making me feel uncomfortable."
Sir Ian pulled at his tie to loosen it and his voice was very husky.
For the first time, John laughed, turned round and shut the door, leaving a swirl of air behind him.
As he calmed down, he made a mental note that arrangements should be made for that wretched firm of incompetents, Group 4 to step up their security. It was never the same since the faithful old retainers who once worked for him had been retired. They knew by instinct who should be admitted and who should be refused admittance, even someone as dangerously convincing as Deed.