The immediate smell upon entering the CCB is of cedar wax and bleach. The two warring smells sat within the nose like a nest of brambles, prickling mercilessly. He knuckled one and sniffed, a deafeningly loud sound in an otherwise silent building. Someone shuffled in response, a paper rustled, and a secretary coughed politely behind the front desk. Above, the dinted metal fans whirred and clunked, a repetitive drone that rattled the nerves like a fly in the ear. The walls, a mossy shade of brown-green with all the appeal of congealing vomit pressed in with their over-cluttering of leaflets and notes. Paintings hung up at random between heavily worded flyers advertising insurance, CCB-approved minicabs and restaurants, and self-help lines.
The whole environment was stagnant.
Rocking in his chair, Quillan checked his watch for the third time that minute and sank a little more inwards. He was filthy, his stolen clothes grimy and ripped in places from his flight, his shoes ill-fitting and worn to non-existence in the heels. He was desperately aware of how badly he probably smelt, given the dearth of empty seats around himself and the full rows to the back. He checked his watch again; the hour had rolled over.
When he’d arrived, and that had been at around half past eleven in the morning, there’d already been a small collection of people already waiting to be seen, and since then (it was now quarter to one), only four people had had the pleasure of wandering through the oak door at the front of the room and into the caseworker offices. He’d only seen two of those people leave.
Above the door, a flickering rotary sign scrolled past for the hundredth time, its bright red lettering calling out for number 24. Quill licked his lips. His own ticket had read out #36 when he’d arrived, but since then the sweat from his fingertips and his constant handling of it had smudged it beyond legibility. He hoped to God they would still see him.
Across the room, an electronic bell chimed, and the rotary board blinked. NOW SEEING #25. The room shuffled as a whole, the collective glancing down to stare empty-eyed at tickets that might have been a hundred digits away. After a moment, a throaty voice called from the back:
“He left!” A pause, and then another cranking from the rotary board. NOW SEEING #26. Another shuffle, then a woman with frizzy red hair staggered up and walked herself and her overlarge brown duffel bag across the room and through the door. The room settled again.
Above, the fans chopped on monotonously, someone blew a bubble with their gum, popped it, and went back to chewing. Above, some small rodent pattered about in a vent, and in a far corner, beyond the door, Quillan could hear someone arguing with their caseworker. He closed his eyes, acutely aware of the sweat dripping down the back of his neck. He could feel a vein throbbing in his temple, could hear the wet, repetitive chomp of molars on bubblegum behind him. His face contorted, his brows furrowing deeply, his teeth grinding. The whole room vibrated with bored sound, and beneath his shirt, the four mostly healed bullet wounds throbbed in time.
He hadn’t been fully aware of himself, not when he staggered to his feet, and not when his chair went reeling back. Only the clatter it caused as it bounced across the linoleum brought him back, and by that point every eye in the building was on him. He faltered, struck immediately by morbid, nausea-inducing embarrassment, and hovered between the desire to carry on with his sudden bought of bravery, pick up his chair and sit down, or run out. Across the room, one of the secretaries lifted her head, and her stare fixed on him.
“ So – sorry..” He bent, fixed his chair, and sat. Two moments later he stood again, white as paste, and stumbled over to the desk. The secretary behind it eyed him from behind gaudy, horn-rimmed glasses. She was pretty in an imposing kind of way, with dark hair, a heavy tan, and a neck that was just a little too long.
“Yes, sir?” She had an accent the likes of which he’d never heard before. His palms itched.
“Hi, uh, yes, h – hi,” He leaned forward, pressing his hands down upon the counter to steady himself. “Look, I kn – know there’s n – n – numbers, b – but this – sss is imp – imp – p – p – portant!”
“Okay, sir,” She returned her eyes to her computer monitor and gives a thin, unconcerned smile. “Have you filled out the required forms–?”
“Y – yes! Yes, I h – have! No, th – this is—look, som – wuh – one t – t – tried t – to k – kill m – me!” He threw his hands up in frustration, and immediately noticed the sweat stains on the lino countertop. Withering, he dropped back into place and hurriedly tried to wipe away his shame.
“Okay, sir,” She chewed the end of her pen a moment, then procured another sheet of paper beneath her desk and made three separate marks upon it. “Then can you fill out this sheet as well? You can bring it along to your caseworker as well.”
“Mr Chevalier!” A woman’s voice, followed by a bang. The case door flew open, it’s handle cracked into the drywall behind and showered the floor with plaster flakes. Three men came bundling out in various states of disarray. The first, and the shortest, a man in a faded leather jacket and scuffed boots, came staggering out backwards, while two taller, much wider figures followed him out. Chevalier, his hair out of place and his black eyes wide, staggered and only just regained his balance before going over completely. The two others, dressed in the black CCB uniform, set themselves between him and the door and crossed their arms.
At a standstill, Chevalier took a step forwards, then a hasty three back. Something small and blue slipped out of his pocket and landed open behind him on the tiles. Quill, who’d quite forgotten who he was or what he’d been doing, glanced at the small document. A CCB issued passport, the open page bearing a large red stamp that read REJECTED.
“This is – This, Marty, man, c’mon, we’ve played poker together! You know me, I’m harmless!”
Marty, the man on the right, shrugged his heavy shoulders and tipped his head.
“Just doing my job, René.”
“C’mon, man! This is – this is racism!” He seemed to fixate on this idea, and leaning to the side, as if to spy whatever poor caseworker stood behind it, shouted:
“THIS IS RACISM!” He cupped his hands to his mouth as he said the word, embellishing it. “Why would you even give me a K6 licence if you’re just going to punish me for it? I do my checks, Cynthia!”
“Alright, c’mon René,” Marty had uncrossed his arms and was now advancing again. “You’re making a scene.”
“No, no,” René, putting both hands up, back-stepped again, reopening the distance between them. “No, it’s fine. I’m leaving. I’m going. I’m a good boy.” He circled the collection of chairs and made his way towards the exit. Marty and his associate watched, and after a moment, they rolled their eyes and turned away.
“Oh, and Marty?” Chevalier had re-entered, his hands stuffed into his pockets, a cigarette hanging off his lip. There was something deliberately 50’s about his look, as if he’d watched Grease one too many times and was attempting to imitate Travolta. All he was missing was the patch on his back.
Marty turned, a hard look creasing his face, but he listened as Chevalier said:
“Tell Cynthia she’s a racist for me?” A smile split across René’s face, and a devilish sort of light danced in those jet black eyes. Marty only scowled.
“Out, Chevalier. Now, before I throw you out. Understand?”
“Sure,” René rolled his cigarette from one corner of his mouth to the other, then tapped the end with his finger. “Just grabbing a re-application sheet. Two minutes.”
God. Uncomfortably aware of the man now standing at his back, Quill faced the woman at the desk again and drummed his fingers uncomfortably. The secretary, meanwhile, seemingly faced with either speaking with a nervous disaster or an asshole, gave Quillan a wide smile and said:
“I’m sorry, sir, as you were saying? They tried to kill you?”
“Yes! Y – yes, l – look, they sh – shot me, th – th – three t - times!” He grimaced, then waved a hand at his chest.
“And who were they, sir? These people who shot at you?”
“I don’t know!” Frustration bloomed in a rare moment of anger, and he slapped his palms down on the desk. “I d – didn’t stop to ask q – q – questions!”
The secretary nodded, chewed her pen cap once more, and then met his eyes with another smile.
“Okay, sir, in that case,” She routed around under her desk a moment, then came up with another sheet of paper. “This is an emergency report sheet, we process these within 15 working days—“
“Are y – you kidding m – me?” Quill grabbed at his hair and pulled on it, just as the rotary board above cranked up another number.
The woman nodded, as if she understood, and simpered a while as she clicked around her screen.
“I’m sorry, sir, but these are the policies under which we operate, if you would like, I could give you a copy of our complaints policy? Or maybe if you’re in a rush you could e-mail us over your query?”
Undone, Quill gaped at her, then screwed up his eyes, took one last deep breath of piney-bleach and walked away. He left the desk, passed the rows of seats, and tossed his ticket stub in the direction of the nearest bin. It missed by a mile.
He got as far as the parking lot before a hand dropped down on his shouder. Warm, firm, and halting, he half expected to see Marty standing behind him. Only it wasn’t, it was Chevalier. The man was looking at him with a curious expression upon his face, concern, amusement, both, something else? He couldn’t tell.
“Hey, are you okay?” His voice was surprisingly gentle. “I heard what you were trying to say in there, even if she didn’t. You look like you’ve been through hell.” He let Quill go and finally lit his cigarette. “You want to talk about it?”
