Something to Declare by Cyclist

Chapter 29

The internal Governance people were due the next day, and I had been coached by Naomi for hours in how to answer them.

The interview would be on tape ,and I would be provided with a transcript afterwards. I was allowed a “companion” in the interview, whose role would be to act as a witness on my side and a general observer. Nigel was the man for that, as he had an encyclopaedic knowledge of the disciplinary codes.

Both Jan and Naomi were insistent that I be as feminine as possible, so I borrowed a skirt from Sue, and Jan spent quite a while doing my face and hair, which she plaited in an odd sort of backwards manner she called “French”; I really am not girly at all, but I am slowly getting there. I spent a serious length of time with the iron, and the morning of the interview I could have been the cover girl of “How to Wear Your Uniform”, the highly patronising (and usually seriously defaced) poster they had issued. White shirt, badges just so, neck loop, black skirt, low-heeled black court shoes and black tights. Naomi had given me a tiny woman’s watch to wear instead of my usual chunky diver’s affair, and the only times I could remember looking more femme had involved the Lavender Excess.

The morning of my ordeal, Naomi drove me in to avoid creasing or crumpling anything, and I grabbed a coffee with Nigel for a quick run through beforehand. He seemed oddly confidant.

“I’ve got the CCTV discs ready” he said, “and guess what? Jeans on, so tight I’m surprised he could breathe.”

That was a start. I had my notebook ready, with all the Officer Safety additional notes I had made at the time, with the impact factors (size, behavioural indicators, verbals and so on) stressed. That notebook would be my main protection in there, that and the fact that he was a lying bastard. In we went.

There were two of them. One was a classic Suit, all pink shirt with white collar and cuffs, and one of those cartoon-character ties that they think makes them a little bit edgy, dangerous, out there and individualistic, but merely makes them look just like every other corporate clone. The other was a woman, and I have never seen harder eyes in my life. She turned out to be Glaswegian, with a soft but very distinct accent. It’s a way of speaking that to my ear makes even an expression of kind affection sound like an invitation to a fight. Oh joy.

“Good morning, Mr Jones. I am Andrew Wilkinson, you will have received my e-mails. This is Anne McMaster, who will be sitting in on the interview. I see you have brought your own friend for the process. May I ask who you are?”

“My name is Nigel Rawlings, the PCS union representative, and may I ask why you are not addressing my colleague by her correct name?”

“According to staff records I am here to interview a Mister Steven Jones. I have seen no evidence to suggest anything otherwise.”

Oh you bastard. Where exactly do they breed you lot, in vats? Fortunately, Naomi had suspected they might go along that route, but I doubt even she could have guessed exactly how blunt the knife would be. I handed over a copy of the deed poll I had sworn to change my name.

“I think this will show that the staff records are a little out of date. I can also produce records to show that date that I submitted this to Headquarters. If you insist on addressing me in the manner you have just done I will be making my own formal complaint. Is that clear to all?”

We entered the room, a Spartan affair with seats fixed to the floor, two facing two across a small table. Wilkinson went through the ritual of unsealing three tapes, one to be sealed as a master copy ,one for me and one for him. Click-click-click the tapes were inserted, the machine made its noise, and he began.

“This is an interview of Mister Stephanie Bronwen Jones. We are in an interview room at Stanwick Airport. The date is April the third, the time is ten fourteen by my watch. I am Andrew Wilkinson, UKBA Internal Governance. Also present is…”

“Anne McMaster, Internal Governance”

“Nigel Rawlings, PCS union local steward”

“MISS Stephanie Bronwen Jones, UKBA”

He looked at me across the table. Flat, appraising eyes told me I needed to be very careful in this room, but I was buggered if I would let him do that to me. He continued after a bit of staring.

“You are not under arrest, nor are you under caution as this is a disciplinary interview and not a criminal one. Be aware, though, that the terms of your employment require you to take part in this process, and if you refuse you may be dismissed. Also, if evidence of criminality should emerge during the interview, the records may be passed to the CPS for consideration as to possible prosecution. Do you understand?”

“Yes, I understand”

And we were off. I was led through my notebook, with only occasional questions to make sure my account was as clear as possible, from my initial view of the punch up to my leaving the search room at Dave’s insistence.

“Why did you leave the search room, Mr Jones?”

Bastard.

“Because I am a woman, and a search requires officers of the same gender.”

“But you are not a woman, MISTER Jones. You have, no doubt, the word ‘boy’ on your birth certificate”

“Yes I do, but I am a transsexual, and as such am entitled to be referred to as a woman under the Department’s diversity policy”

“Have you yet received a certificate from your medical practitioner regarding your change in status? No? Then I will continue to refer to you as you really are.”

All through this, the other one, the poison dwarf, was staring at me. What the hell went on behind those dead eyes? I bit my tongue, and forced calm on myself. Don’t let him get to you, it’s what he wants. We moved on to more particulars, and I managed to get in the belt and trousers evidence. I also pointed out that he had made no complaint whatsoever until Alfie had been knocked off on Christmas Day, certainly not at the time of his arrest. Then he hit me with a question from nowhere.

“Does touching a man’s penis excite you, Mr Jones?”

Fuck you. “Yes, it does, but he isn’t the man in question”

“Explain?”

“My partner is the man in question”

“And you wouldn’t want to get a thrill by a quick feel of another man’s?”

I was white with rage, I could feel it in my face, and as Nigel put a hand on my knee as a hint to calm down, I snarled:

“No I wouldn’t, I love Geoff” I spotted a wedding ring, and asked “Do you grope other women when your wife isn’t around?”

“So you did not touch Mr Anstey’s penis?”

“I wouldn’t touch his, I know where it’s been”

“Explain, please”

“I’ve met his wife”

Was that a hint of a smile on the Dwarf? Wilkinson brought the interview to an end, the tapes were sealed, and the two Suits looked at each other. Wilkinson spoke, still amazingly calm.

“Some useful provable lies in there, Anne.”

Oh shit. The Dwarf looked down at her notes.

“Aye. I think we can stitch the dirty fat cunt up for this one.”

What the hell? She was looking at me, and there was a new hint of softness to her flinty stare.

“ Miss Jones, Steph isn’t it? We are not here to nail people for the sake of it .If we ever thought you were in the wrong, I would bring the spade for your burial myself. Andrew here is the same. We want you off balance, we want to see the real person, and I am pretty sure we did there”

They both started to chuckle, and Wilkinson snorted “I’ve met his wife! Classic!”

We finished off the paperwork, and Nigel said “I think I need to go and lie down”

Both Suits shook my hand on departure, wishing me well, and to my astonishment Wilkinson made a point of kissing my cheek.