back, the next address your next destination, and then, bam, you're lying on the damp road, conscious and in pain if you’re lucky, stone cold if you’re not. Even a minor injury can take weeks to heal well enough to go back to work. Some injuries won't heal in a lifetime.
“Keep your head still” I told Tony. I could hear an ambulance siren somewhere nearby.
“He jumped the light” Tony groaned.
Two ambulance men arrived. I gave one of them Tony’s details as the other fitted a neck collar on him. They put him on a stretcher and took him away. I saw the bright blue Securicor satchel on the ground in front of the bus. One of the ambulance crew had cut the strap. I carried it back to my bike as Tony’s bike was loaded into the back of a battered old Garda van.
The base was quiet when I pulled in five minutes later.
“Is he alright?” the controller asked.
“Probably not” I answered “here’s his bag”.
“You’re going to the IFSC, anything in there going that way?” he asked as he looked in the bag.
“Nothin’”.
Chapter Two
Stonewalled
Being involved in a road traffic accident was not a matter of if; it was a matter of when. I'd spilled a number of times but never suffered anything more than cuts and bruises. My luck couldn't hold out forever and I knew it. My number finally came up in November 1999. I was left with a herniated disk, soft tissue damage and a broken finger on my right hand. I was lucky. It was a slow speed impact and only one other vehicle was involved.
The worst way to come off a bike is to high side, that's when you and your machine part company with you sailing out over the handle bars. My bike was a write off and I was going to need some time to mend. The day after I was released from the Mater Hospital I telephoned my local Social Welfare Office. I had never claimed illness benefit before and I wanted to know how to go about it.
“You are not entitled to anything” the anonymous woman on the other end of the line told me.
“Why not?” I asked genuinely surprised. Without some kind of income I was going to be in deep shit.
“You haven't got enough stamps”.
“You're mistaken” I insisted.
“I've been working in the same job for two years, PRSI is ducted every week”.
“That may be” she agreed in a supercilious tone “but it’s not A rate”.
“Explain?” I asked.
“It's a Revenue matter” she sounded defensive.
“So what are you saying?”
“You'll have to contact the Revenue Commissioners, it's nothing to do with us”
“So let me get this straight” I said “the deduction of PRSI is nothing to do with the Department of Social Welfare”.
“In this instance, it is not” she repeated as firmly as she could muster.
“I don't believe you, you're feeding me a line to get rid of me”.
“That is not true” she insisted “PRSI is generally a Social Welfare issue but in the case of couriers it's a Revenue matter”.
“I'll be back to you” I said trying not to sound like Arnie.
“Of course” she said not believing me for an instant.
Revenue
I rang the Taxation Office on O'Connell Street and asked to be put through to the relevant section dealing with the taxation of couriers. A woman answered the phone.
“How can I help you?” she asked pleasantly.
I explained the situation to her and asked why A rate PRSI was not being deducted. I and no doubt that I was an employee and I told her that I was sure the company was screwing me and by implication the Revenue as well.
“It certainly sounds suspect” she agreed “can I check it out and call you back?”
“That would be great” I said before I gave her my telephone number and finished the call.
She did not ring me back. Two days later I called again. I was put through to a woman. I couldn't tell if it was the same person I and spoken to before but she did have some new information.
“All couriers are classified as self-employed” she explained.
“How can that be?” I asked.
“I'm not sure” she hesitated “can you hold for a second”.
She put me on hold without waiting for a reply. Moments later she returned.
“Yes” she confirmed “all couriers are classified as self-employed”.
“I'm not” I insisted “I'm an employee, your own records show that tax and PRSI are deducted at source and I work exclusively for the same company. I'm paid by cheque every Friday and I receive a pay advice slip. I am not now nor have I ever been self-employed. I had no idea you classified me as self-employed”.
“Hold please” she said again.
This time I could hear muffled voices on the other end of the line. I couldn't hear what was being said but I recognised the woman's voice and a male voice saying something.
“Securicor put forward a good argument that all couriers are self-employed” she told me.
“What?” I could smell a big pile of bullshit straight away “I work for Securicor, and if they're claiming that all the couriers who work for them are self-employed, then they're conning you”.
“The deduction of PRSI” she explained “and the rate at which it is deducted is a Social Welfare matter, I suggest that you contact them”.
“Funny thing” I said before I hung up “the Social Welfare said it was a matter for you”. I didn't wait for a reply.
I was up against it. They had no reasonable explanation and they did not want to know. I went back and forth between Social Welfare and Revenue for the rest of the week. Eventually I gave up. I was fucked and I knew it. My employer was screwing me and officialdom didn't give a shit even though they themselves were being screwed. I'd had no pay check that week. The mortgage was due and every day bills were mounting. I borrowed money from the credit union (thank god for the credit union) and bought a cheap bike. I modified the clutch so that I could use the lever with a broken finger and went back to work.
The rest of that winter was hell. Every bump sent fresh pain scorching through my back and arm. Driving rain and freezing temperatures didn't help.
Fran
“Fran's down on Mount Street” the controller told me “take whatever's there and bring it back here”.
I pulled my lid on as I exited the base. I could see where Fran was as soon as I turned the corner from Hollis Street to Mount Street. Two or three people stood on the pavement leaning over Fran. I put my bike on its stand. Someone had picked up Fran's bike and done likewise. Fran was writhing and groaning in obvious pain.
“You OK?” I asked as I knelt down.
Tears trickled form the corners of Fran's eyes. A few strands of her blonde hair were visible at the side of her helmet visor. Fran was in training to be a beautician. She was one of only a handful of women working as motorcycle couriers and she did it well. She was tall, blonde and attractive. Behind her looks or perhaps because of them, was a tough girl. Not rough, just tough in the determined sense. She gave as good as she got and had a well earned reputation