Janice Carter had an excellent success rate at getting people into work and was highly regarded among her peers for her professional persona and ability to encourage and support individuals re-entering employment. This had been honed by many years on the front line at the Jobcentre. She had advised hundreds of people from all walks of life and had met many characters. She knew a work-avoider when she saw one. Everyone knew that if you wanted to get into work, Janice was the one to go to. Along with her professional demeanour, she had a fierce, no-nonsense approach to anyone who played the system and had no intention of finding work.
The Jobcentre had given her the role of Community Job Adviser, which involved going to people’s houses to give advice, support, and a route back into work, without the pressure of attending the Jobcentre. Her first port of call on this particular day was a mile away from the town centre in the seaside town of Margate. Janice was feeling good about the day and was confident she could increase her success rate using her guile and knowledge.
She pulled up outside 44 Hodson Drive, a small one-bedroom bungalow. It had a strange, unsettling look, almost gothic, with blackened windows and smoke billowing from the chimney. Ivy covered the front wall, and a large door knocker shaped like a skull hung on the door. Janice used the knocker, but to her surprise, a bell rang instead, followed by a cynical laugh. She stepped back, confused and concerned.
“There’s someone at the fucking door, Mo. I’m on the bog!” came a call from inside.
The door was opened by a small, overweight woman with a roll-up cigarette in her mouth.
Janice stepped back but was surprised when the woman gestured with a faint smile.
“Come in, luv. Don’t listen to that old bastard in there,” she said, without even knowing who Janice was.
She felt awkward but stepped inside, narrowly avoiding a gaping hole in the floor. Mo Harris was the live-in partner of Harry Longfellow and had made him her pet project since moving in with him. She hoped to eventually fall in love with him but for now was happy to merely share beer and cigarettes with him.
“Hi, my name is Janice Carter, and I’ve come to help you find a training course with a view to getting both of you back to work.”
“Good luck with that. I can hardly walk to the end of the garden. These fags will be the death of me. I’m Mo, by the way. All my friends call me Mo.”
She had the air of being in control of the household, friendly but authoritative.
Janice looked puzzled.
“Sit down, luv. I’ll put the kettle on in a bit, but my hubby just used it for shaving. Just run it under the tap first.”
“It’s okay, I’m fine,” came the feeble reply.
Mo was gone.
Janice assessed the room, searching for the least dangerous place to sit among plates of old food and cigarette butts. In the corner of the room was a spider’s web with a mouse head entangled in it. The clock on the mantelpiece ticked backwards, and the air was musty and cold. Janice was startled out of her trance.
“Hello, darling. Don’t mind me, just been on the dumper.”
Janice looked around and fell backwards onto the sofa, landing in a plate of old macaroni and cheese. She looked up to see a one-legged man wearing a Star Trek T-shirt, white underpants over his jeans, and a pair of knickers on his head. He used an umbrella to balance himself before he too fell into a seat with a sigh. Seeing Janice’s predicament, he struggled up, grabbed an old cloth, stumbled across the room, and began attempting to wipe the cheese from her dress.
“Sorry, lady, but your dress looks unsightly.”
At that moment, Mo re-entered the room with a mug of tea.
“You randy old bugger, Harry,” she yelled. “Leave the poor woman alone!”
Harry stumbled back to his seat, umbrella wide open, licking the cheese between his fingers.
“Get the ketchup. This’ll do for breakfast,” he exclaimed.
A dishevelled Janice sat upright, greeted by a large cup of tea plonked in her hand.
“Get that down ya, luv.”
Janice looked at the floating contents, believing it to be squirty cream.
“Don’t mind that. It’s only a bit of shaving foam.”
Despite her discomfort, Janice continued professionally.
“Hi, my name is Janice Carter. I’m here to help you find work.”
Mo piped up, laughing: “Work? Him? Look at him! He can hardly walk and looks like a pygmy on speed. But I love him. He’s my teddy bear. Good luck finding him a job.”
Harry ignored this, lit a cigarette, and offered one to Janice, who declined, but Mo accepted one enthusiastically. Within seconds, Harry was lost in a cloud of smoke.
“I’ve looked at your records, and although you have a disability, there are plenty of opportunities for you,” Janice persisted.
Harry adjusted the knickers on his head and burst into laughter.
“Mo, stick the telly on. Supermarket Sweep is on.”
Janice, feeling slightly more confident, politely asked if Harry could take the knickers off his head and perhaps put on some proper trousers.
Mo replied while flicking on the television, “You’ll be lucky, luv. That’s his best clobber.”
Harry, meanwhile, used a spoon to dig wax from his ear.
“Mo, grab the bread. The lady needs feeding.”
“No, no, no, please, I’m fine,” Janice pleaded.
But Mo was already gone and returned with a loaf, butter, and jam, plonking them on Harry’s one leg. He buttered a slice, dropped a cigarette butt onto it, tried to brush it off, and said, “It’s okay. The jam will cover that up.”
Janice was horrified as Harry curled the edges of the bread and threw it at her like an aeroplane.
“This is your pilot. Jam sandwich landing,” he shouted as it hit Janice on the head.
While wiping jam from her hair, the smoke thickened around the room.
Suddenly, a voice crowed like a bird from the cupboard. Janice spun round in fright.
“Shall I open a window?” she cried.
“No, it’s fine. I don’t want to catch a cold. Maybe cancer, but not a cold,” came the muffled reply from Harry.
“I’ve seen a job going at the council in the diversity department. You’d get a badge and your own desk,” Janice suggested.
“I don’t want a fuckin’ badge. It might turn me posh,” Harry retorted. “Anyway, they give me anxiety.”
Mo started singing: “Next time you’re at the checkout and you hear the beep, think of the fun you could have on Supermarket Sweep.”
Harry whistled and slurped his tea to the TV show’s theme. Both burst into hysterical laughter and lit another cigarette to celebrate.
Janice, coughing, persevered: “Maybe a job in telephone sales?”
Harry now sang solo as Mo offered Janice some cake from an old tin.
“I’m an urban spaceman…”
“Oh fuck, fuck,” Harry bellowed, “I’m a spaceman on fire!”
Scrambling to pick up a dropped, lit cigarette from his lap, Harry knocked over his chair. As Janice tried waving away the smoke with her notepad, she gasped at the sight before her.
Harry was now just a torso, with a pair of knickers covering his face.
“Oh, that’s better,” Harry blurted out.
Frozen in her seat, Janice stared, while Mo jammed a tart into her face.
“You could work for, um… um…”
“A road sweeper! No, a footballer!” Harry cackled.
“But what happened? Where’s your good leg gone?” Janice gasped.
“I ate it,” Harry declared proudly.
Janice began shaking.
“I could find you work as a…”
But Harry, now just a torso, stared at her, completely unsettling her. She began to cry as a rat appeared in the corner of the room.
Mo stood up and belched, sending cake flying onto the TV screen.
“Wipe that off, luv,” Mo said cheerily.
Before Janice could answer, a broom thrust toward her face.
“Oops, sorry, that was meant for the telly. That cake looks unsightly.”
Using remarkable dexterity, Harry wiped off the cake and shouted, “Bingo!” before pulling the broom toward him and eating the crumbs.
Janice, feeling sick, mumbled job titles under her breath as Harry teetered on the chair.
“He’s gonna fall,” she said.
“It’s okay, luv,” Mo reassured her, tossing a pillow onto the floor by the chair.
Harry grabbed a clothes peg from under the cushion, clipped it to his nose, and jumped off the chair.
“Weeeee! Who needs water in a pool?” he cried, rolling out the door.
Janice, overwhelmed, grabbed a cigarette from the table and puffed frantically.
“I don’t think I can do anything for you,” she admitted.
Mo, now vomiting by the fireplace, blurted out, “Shut the door before you go, luv.”
As Janice hurried to her car, she heard a raucous chorus from the bedroom:
“Que sera sera, whatever will be, I’m gonna pee in my tea!”
A flock of black crows circled her car as she sped away, a plume of smoke trailing behind.
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