Mr. Flood's Last Resort(67)
As she reaches for her sandwich, stretching her easy-care suit jacket to the limits, Biba’s genius becomes clear. Her wizened, miserly soul—a soul incapable of human kindness—is masked with the suggestion of generosity and abundance: from her wide face and well-proportioned bosom to her voluminous hair.
She is ballast. She keeps the agency afloat, commanding the biggest desk nearest the window. Her harrowed and careworn assistants scuttle backwards and forwards doing a real job of work, whilst Biba sits in state, in rotund magnificence. The office, like most offices, has the fake-cheerful feel of death row, with its jokey signs and personal possessions. This is a place that sucks up time and energy on pointless tasks and futile activities and leaves little to show for human endeavor but a growing collection of novelty mugs.
Not for the first time I count myself lucky that I am free-range in my enterprises and not imprisoned in some administrative battery farm, breathing air heavy with regret and thwarted dreams. In my work I make a simple and constructive difference to people: to eat or not to eat, to have a clean arse or not to have a clean arse.
Biba Morel puts down the receiver and turns to the papers on her desk, shuffles them, then begins to type rapidly on her keyboard.
“You wanted to see me, Biba?”
She looks at me with bored disgust, then opens a drawer, takes out a folder, and begins to flick through it. “Your employment with this agency has been suspended pending the investigation of a serious complaint against you.”
“What are you even talking about?”
“It has come to our attention, Maud, that you attempted to extract money from a relative of your client on the pretense that you were taking said client on a day trip to the seaside.”
I narrow my eyes. “That’s a damn dirty lie.”
“The complainant has also informed us that not only were you seeking money for this venture you were also planning on taking the client on this day trip without notifying the agency or undertaking the necessary risk assessments.”
“Gabriel Flood said that?”
Her face is smug. “I’m not at liberty to divulge the identity of the party who made the complaint, Maud.”
“But it was Gabriel Flood.” The bastard. A thousand curses go through my mind.
Biba takes a bite from the chicken torpedo then licks her fingers in a manner both grotesque and suggestive.
She pushes a pile of papers across the desk to me. “This outlines the agency’s disciplinary procedures and gives you the details of an ombudsman service should you have any complaints about your treatment.”
“I have a complaint: Gabriel Flood took me to a café and asked me to get his father out of the house for the day while he searched it. Then he offered me money.”
Biba shakes her head. “Maud, you know better than to fraternize with the family of your clients. You have overstepped all kinds of rules and regulations.”
“And you haven’t?”
“What do you mean by that?”
I lower my voice and look her dead in the eye. “I think you know full well, Nurse Ratched.”
Biba returns my gaze with an expression of suppurating hatred. “No matter, the job is finishing anyway. A place in a residential home has been found for Mr. Flood.”
I stare at her. “You told him that he could remain at his home if he toed the line, and he’s been toeing it. You promised him, that day you went visiting with your syringe.”
Biba shrugs. “Yeah, well, plans change. Dr. Flood is concerned about the deterioration in Mr. Flood’s mental acuity and I must say I agree.”
“There’s been no deterioration.”
“That’s not what I’ve heard.”
“Gabriel has changed his tune. What happened to the idea that his father should be supported in the home?”
Biba looks at me blankly; she really doesn’t give a shit.
“When do you propose moving Cathal?”
“Mr. Flood will be transferred to his new accommodation in three or four days at the most.” Her eyes light up a little, waiting for my reaction.
I take a deep breath and struggle to control my emotions. I think of Atticus Finch with the rabid dog in his sights. The corner of Biba’s lip twitches in a snarl. I need to keep a steady hand.
She forages in a folder and pulls out a form. “You still have a key to the property?”
Damn right I do. “Not with me.”
She tuts and puts the form away again. “You’ll need to drop it into the office directly.” Biba fixes me with a look. “I don’t have to remind you that pending an investigation you are not permitted to return to the house in any capacity. Nor are you allowed to contact the client or their relatives.” Her smile is malignant. “In any capacity, Maud; it would mean immediate dismissal, not to mention prosecution.”
I can’t bear it. “Who will help him pack? He’ll need someone there to support him during the move, to reassure him.”
“We have people.”
“But what about the house, all his things?”
“That is his son’s concern now.” Biba turns to her computer screen, pushing back her bountiful hair and sighing.
“Has anyone told Cathal any of this?”
Biba glances at me. “Dr. Flood thought it would be preferable not to worry his father about the move.”