Next Step

Chapter 2

TWO

The training office manager, Sarah Holmes, acknowledged each staff member’s morning greeting with a smile, but made no comment to Emma, leaving her to ponder when, or if, an appointment had been made with an allocations officer for her to sign the mandatory confidentiality clause located in TDK346, Appendix 3. Forwarded to her computer the previous afternoon, at the conclusion of a brief interview with Allocations Officer Barry, the document provided a detailed job description for the position of trainee doorkeeper, or Administration Officer Grade 3, the classification that would appear on personal documentation such as pay files. AO Barry had made it clear that on no account must Emma use the term “doorkeeper” when mentioning her new job, except to PCB colleagues. As far as friends and family were concerned, her role was confined to processing the records of the unemployed, which involved matching them to suitable vacancies, and either putting their names forward for interview or advising them to apply without delay.

Emma had completed training module 2, which comprised more complex tasks than those she had completed the day before and was about to embark on number three, when a message from Sarah flashed on to her screen.

Your appointment to sign the Confidentiality Clause will take place in 10 minutes. I shall accompany you.

The text vanished soon after, which seemed odd, given that every trainee would have to pay a visit to an AO’s office before being assigned to a particular bureau within the state. Emma glanced at the numbers in the screen’s right-hand corner: 4.30pm, half an hour until what Cal referred to as “knocking-off time”, a phrase she couldn’t imagine using within the sombre atmosphere of the training office. Sarah Holmes might maintain she promoted a friendly workplace, but during working hours few words were exchanged between manager and staff. Any questions relating to the training modules had to be sent via e-message – no conferring with one’s neighbour – which suited Emma as her colleague, Harie, had the previous day accused her of sucking up to Sarah as they were leaving the building. That day, Emma had found the seating arrangement so resembled a school classroom – four rows of identical work-stations with 20 identical office chairs facing the manager’s much larger unit – she could have sworn time numerals had flipped back to 2040 and she was a 10-year-old schoolgirl struggling to master a well-worn keyboard.

Anxious not to be late for the appointment, Emma closed module 3 and discreetly stretched her limbs, taking care to avoid knocking into the adjacent wall. Painted an insipid pale grey and unrelieved by windows, the wall reminded her of AO Barry’s office, a bland space that reinforced the authority emanating from his solid torso, cloaked in a black, collarless shirt. His dull grey eyes matched the lacklustre walls, yet their intense scrutiny had threatened to unnerve her, until she fixed her attention on a darker patch behind his work-station, that suggested something had hung there in the past. A vibrant painting, perhaps, belonging to the previous incumbent, discarded because it could distract a lowly trainee sitting opposite an imposing allocations officer.

Emma recalled the single sheet of paper lying on his desktop and wondered if signing the confidentiality clause warranted the use of such a rare commodity. Nowadays, most legal documents were signed online, a single-use electronic stylus employed to ensure the authenticity of signatures. Unlike many younger citizens, who could only sign their names, Emma had learned to transcribe letters and numerals in the old-fashioned way, using a board that could be wiped clean, following a teacher’s scrutiny. She had also mastered touch-typing, an essential skill in the era before the development of voice control and more recently, Compu-eye, which lip-read the operator’s instructions. The ability to touch-type, although rusty after years of neglect, was proving advantageous in her unofficial role as secretary of Citizens’ Voice, an ancient laptop being used to type minutes and other documents, its keyboard worn, but still possessing all the keys.

Her eyes flicked to green numerals – six minutes remaining until her appointment. She rose slowly, smoothing her skirt with one hand, while pushing the chair towards the work-station with the other.

‘Everything all right?’ neighbour Harie whispered.

Emma inclined her head.

Sarah stood by the door, one foot tapping the polished concrete floor. ‘Fetch your handbag,’ she instructed, as Emma drew near. ‘Then you can go straight home after the interview.’

Anxious to flee curious colleagues, Emma kept her eyes fixed on the floor as she retraced her steps, ignoring Harie’s tug on her arm when she reached for her handbag.

The chief allocations officer sat behind a workstation that, apart from its legs, appeared to be constructed from a single slab of wood, reddish in colour and highly polished. In her 70 years, Emma had never seen such a beautiful piece of furniture and couldn’t envisage the size of the tree that had supplied the timber. As far as she knew, forest giants had vanished from the Australian mainland half a century before, felled by climate change and greedy timber companies, eager to salvage remaining stocks for their wealthy clients. The west coast of Tasmania still boasted several stands of so-called “wilderness”, closely guarded by security officers chosen for their ruthlessness in dealing with would-be plunderers. At least, that was the information fed to citizens via the occasional Federal Government documentary, broadcast on living-room screens throughout the country.

Seated behind solid, gleaming timber, the CAO – slight of build with washed-out blue eyes set in an angular, anaemic face – appeared insignificant, his fragility further emphasised by a massive leather chair that rose behind his head like a formidable sentinel. An insipid cream shirt hung loose on his narrow shoulders, a white handkerchief protruding from the pocket, along with the top of a silver pen. A pale hand gestured for Sarah and Emma to sit on the two moulded plastic chairs set side by side at a suitable distance from the work-station.

Sarah waited until Emma had settled before speaking. ‘Sir, may I present Emma Cartwright, our newest recruit.’

His bloodless lips parted. ‘Welcome to the bureau, Emma Cartwright.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Your diligence has been noted, hence the reward.’ A thin smile flitted across his lips, a smile directed at Sarah, or so Emma surmised from the slight turn of his head, and the glimmer of warmth suddenly visible in his eyes.

‘Reward, sir?’ Emma queried.

‘TDK346. I have no recollection of any other trainee receiving the document on their first day of duty.’

Emma lowered her head as if self-conscious. Reward wasn’t the word she would have employed for receipt of a job description that required the appointee to sign an ominous confidentiality clause. A baffling prerequisite when, for all its verbosity, TDK346 did not reveal anything that could be classed as contentious or affecting state security. The document began by clarifying the position title: A trainee doorkeeper is a member of staff appointed to determine the next step for those required to present themselves at the Productive Citizens Bureau. An innocuous statement.

Her snap decision to seek refuge at Cal’s farmhouse, rather than sign the confidentiality clause, had been made not because reading between the lines, she’d mentally substituted “prison” or “exile” for “next step” but because she feared her work environment would be intolerable. How could she face queues of anxious citizens, knowing their likelihood of future employment rested on her shoulders? Seated on a raised platform alongside others of her rank, she would present a menacing aspect, a solid line of black-clad officialdom to whom the unemployed were mere names and numbers to be classified.

So far, Emma remained ignorant of formal categories, but she assumed a list would be supplied in subsequent training modules. Negativity kicked in as she stared at her hands, one of which would be used to sign a document binding her to years of distressing work. Suitable for menial tasks only, she imagined adding to a citizen’s file or Needs constant supervision. Too old, too infirm, unemployable, the last three groups invoking consequences she couldn’t bear to contemplate, if Cal’s suspicions were to prove correct.

‘Shall we proceed to Appendix 3?’ the CAO asked, as though Emma were responsible for the interview’s progression.

She nodded, before lifting her head. ‘Of course, sir. I apologise for delaying matters.’

‘No apology necessary. Humility is a commendable trait.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘There’s no need to be nervous,’ Sarah cooed, reaching out to pat Emma’s right hand. ‘We both appreciate that this is a significant moment for you.’

‘Indeed, we do,’ the CAO agreed. A second thin smile wafted across his gleaming work-station, prompting a beaming Sarah to squeeze Emma’s hand.

The CAO and Sarah appeared to be working in tandem, deliberately creating a reassuring atmosphere to engender the desired result. Emma would not disappoint; compliance was a trait she had cultivated throughout her life until her recent awakening. ‘Ready when you are,’ she said, leaning forward to such an extent, Sarah was forced to relinquish her hold.

‘One moment.’ A graceful gesture and the CAO had retrieved a single sheet of brilliant white paper from somewhere beneath his work-station and was sliding it across the smooth surface. His free hand extracted the silver pen from his pocket and placed it on top of the paper. ‘As you will see, Appendix 3 appears above your name and the signature space.’

Emma picked up the pen, making a show of admiring its slim lines and the engraving bearing the owner’s name and rank: Colin Theobald, CAO, exquisite calligraphy on gleaming gold. At the same time, she scanned the printed text for amendments or appendages, an excellent memory and the ability to speed-read soon proving their worth. The addition of a final sentence more than validated the acute apprehension she’d experienced the previous afternoon, when AO Barry had warned her not to disclose details of her position to anyone outside the bureau.

In signing this Confidentiality Clause, I, Emma Cartwright, Citizen EC 1950, acknowledge that failure to adhere to the above regulations will result in not only immediate dismissal, but also punishment in the form of a prison sentence, or in the event of multiple breaches being discovered, the death penalty.

‘Is everything in order?’ Colin Theobald queried, his soft voice revealing a hint of anxiety.

‘As a former journalist, I’m a stickler for correct grammar,’ Emma explained, gripping the pen between her index finger and thumb as she had been taught at school. ‘But I observe no errors here.’

A small sigh escaped Sarah’s lips, but was swiftly covered by a cough.

Emma signed with a steady hand, buoyed by Cal’s confidence in her ability to obtain evidence of the government’s inhumane practices with regard to unproductive citizens. For the first time, Citizens’ Voice would have someone on the inside, who, given time and patience, could root out details of where and when and how.